expression and held up his hands in capitulation. "All right, I won't
insist. What time tomorrow? I have a meeting with my lawyers at ten, but
we should be finished by noon. Why don't you and I have a working lunch
here? I was supposed to be shooting at Ganton in the afternoon, but I
will cancel that. That way I will have the afternoon and evening clear
for you."
Nicholas's meeting with the lawyers took place the next morning in the
library of Quenton Park. It was not an easy nor a pleasant session, but
then he never expected it to be. This had been the year in which his
world began to fall to pieces around his head. He gritted his teeth as
he remembered how the year had opened with that fatal moment of fatigue
and inattention at midnight on the icy motorway, and the blinding
headlights of the truck bearing down on them.
He had not recovered from that before the next brutal blow had fallen.
This was the financial report of the Lloyd's insurance syndicate on
which Nicholas, like his father and grandfather before him, was a
"Name'. For half a century the family had enjoyed a regular and
substantial income from their share of the syndicate profits. Of
course,'Nicholas had been aware that liability for his share of any
losses that the syndicate suffered was unlimited. The enormity of that
responsibility had weighed lightly; for there had never been serious
losses to account for, not for fifty years, not until this year.
With the California earthquake and environmental pollution claims
awarded against one of the multinational chemical companies, the
syndicate's losses had amounted to over twenty-six million pounds
sterling. Nicholas's share of that loss was two and a half million
pounds - some of which had been settled, but the rest was due for
payment in a little over eight months' time - together with whatever
nasty surprises next year might hold.
Almost immediately after that the Quenton Park estate's crop of sugar
beet, almost a thousand acres in total, had been hit by rhizomania, the
mad root disease. They had lost the lot.
"We will need to find at least two and a half million," said one of the
lawyers. "That should be no problem - the Hall is filled with valuable
items, and what about the museum? What could we reasonably expect from
the sale of some of the exhibits?"
Nicholas winced at the thought of selling the Ramesses statue, the
bronzes, the Hammurabi frieze or any item of his cherished collection at
the Hall or the museum. He acknowledged that their sale would cover his
debts, but he doubted that he could live without them. Almost anything
was preferable to parting with them.
"Hell, no," Nicholas cut in, and the lawyer looked across at him coldly.
"Well, let's see what else we've got," he continued remorselessly.
"There's the dairy herd."
"That will bring in a hundred thousand, if we are lucky," Nicholas
grunted. "Leaves only two point four million to find."
"And your racing stud," the accountant came into the conversation.
"I have only six horses in training. Another two hundred grand."
Nicholas smiled without humour, "Brings us down to two point two. We are
getting there slowly."
"The yacht," suggested the youngest lawyer.
"It's older than I am," Nicholas shook his head, "belonged to my father,
for heaven's sake. You probably wouldn't be able to give it away.
Sentimental is the only value it has. My shotguns would be worth more."
Both lawyers bent their heads over their lists, "Ah, yes!
We have those. A pair of Purdey sidelock ejectors in good condition.
Estimate forty thousand."
"I also have some secondhand socks and underpants," Nicholas admitted.
'%why don't you list those also?"
They ignored the jibe. "men there is the London house," the elder lawyer
went on unperturbed, inured to human suffering. "Good address. Value one
point five million."
"Not in this financial climate, Nicholas contradicted him. "A million is
more realistic." The lawyer made a note in the margin of his document
before going on, "Of course we want to avoid, if at all possible,
putting the entire estate up for sale."
It was a hard and difficult meeting which ended with nothing definitely
decided, and Nicholas feeling angry and frustrated.
He saw the lawyers off, and then went up to the family quarters to take
a quick shower and change his shirt. As an afterthought, and for no
good'reason, he shaved and splashed aftershave on his cheeks.
He drove across the park and left the Range Rover in the museum car
park. The snow had turned to sleet, and I his bare head was sprinkled
with cold droplets by the time he had crossed the car park.
Royan was waiting in Mrs. Street's office. The two of them seemed to be
getting along well together. He stopped outside the door to listen to
her laughter. It made him feel a little better.
The cook had sent across a hot lunch from the main house. She seemed to
believe that a substantial meal would keep this foul weather at bay.
There was a tureen of thick, rich minestrone and a Lancashire hotpot,
with a half bottle of red Burgundy for him and a jug of freshly squeezed
orange juice for her. They ate in front of the fire, while the rain
whipped against the windowpanes.
While they ate he asked her to give him the details of Duraid's murder.
She left out nothing, including her own injuries and drew back her
sleeve to show him the dressing over the knife wound. He listened
intently as she told him of the second attempt on her life in the
streets of Cairo.
"Any suspicions?" he asked, when she had finished.
"Anybody you can think of who might be responsible?" But she shook her
head.
"There was no warning of any kind, she said.
They finished the meal in silence, each of them thinking their own
thoughts. Over the coffee he suggested, "All right, then. -What about
our agreement?"
They argued back and forth for nearly an hour.
"It's difficult to agree on your share of the booty, until I know just
what your contribution is going to be,'Nicholas protested as he topped
up their coffee cups. "After all, I am going to be called on to finance
and conduct the expedition-'
"You will just have to trust that my contribution will be worthwhile,
otherwise there will simply be no booty, as you call it. Anyway you can
be certain I am not going to tell you one thing more until we have -an
agreement, and have shaken hands on it."
"A bit harsh?" he asked, and she gave him a wicked smile.
"If you don't like my terms, there are three other names on Duraid's
list of possible sponsors," she threatened.
"All right," he cut in with a contrived look of martyrdom, "I agree to
your proposal, But how do we calculate equal shares?"
"I shall choose the first item of any archaeological artefacts we are
able to retrieve, and you the next, and so on, turn about."
"How about I choose first?" He raised an eyebrow at her.
"Let's spin for it," she suggested, and he fished a pound coin from his
pocket.
"Call!" He flipped the coin, and while it was in the air she called,
"Heads."
"Damn!" he exclaimed, as he retrieved the coin and shoved it back into
his pocket. "So, you get first choice of the booty, if there ever is
any." He held out his hand across the lunch table. "It will be yours to
do exactly what you want to do with it. You can even donate it to the
Cairo museum, if that is still your particular aberration. Deal?" he
asked, and. she took his hand.
"Deal," she agreed, and then added, Partner."