The Ravenscar Dynasty (17 page)

‘Then have it done. At once,' ordered Neville and without any hesitation.

‘Would anyone guess
we
had stolen those records? I can't help wondering that.' Edward looked pointedly at Amos.

Amos answered swiftly, ‘No, no, they
wouldn't
, because his incarcerations have been secret, or, more accurately, it's been passed around that he was in religious retreats. Correct?'

Edward nodded. ‘True.'

‘So nobody's going to point a finger at you,' Amos continued. ‘Anyway, someone might have
brought
those documents to you…as a good deed let's say. Someone who wanted the record set straight for the good of the company.'

‘How soon can you get them? Because I do agree with my cousin that you should go after them,' Ned said, staring at Amos.

‘How soon? Not sure. It'll take a bit of working out, getting the proper crew together. Can't afford mistakes.'

Alfredo went back to his empty chair. Turning to Edward, he said, ‘We can't have any scruples at this moment in time. Very simply, we can't
afford
scruples. There's a great deal at stake here, and not only justice for you, Mr Edward, and you, too, Mr Watkins, because of the deaths of your kin. There's also a huge company at stake. Its very survival, actually. A company that employs thousands of people all over the world. We must think about them, too, they should have a fair shake.'

It was Neville who spoke first. He answered quietly, ‘Yes, you're correct, Oliveri, it would be criminal to let Deravenels go down the drain after eight hundred years of trading. Besides, it belongs to Mr Edward, at least the top job belongs to him. It's his inheritance, and I aim to make sure he gets his inheritance and that Deravenels not only survives the thieving Grants, but goes on to become bigger and better than ever under our management.'

Edward pondered for a moment, then addressed Neville. ‘Stealing the records to prove Henry Grant is insane is only one step. Surely we need much more to wrest the company from their hands? They could easily put Margot Grant in, to take Henry's place, to run the company until their son Edouard came of age.'

‘They wouldn't dare,' Alfredo exclaimed, shaking his head most vehemently. ‘Trust me on that. Yes, she manages to insinuate herself these days, but she does not have a role, a position or a title.'

‘I have it on good authority that she is extremely unpopular,' Amos told them. ‘Disliked by most of the people working there. Only Summers, Cliff and Beaufield are her true adherents, her closest friends. Oh, and by the way, there's a rumour surfacing—people are saying that her son is the half-brother of John Summers, that it was his father who impregnated Margot, not pious old Henry at all.'

‘Old? He's only thirty-nine,' Edward muttered.

Neville glanced at him, and said, ‘Too old to beat you.' Then turning to Amos, Neville continued, ‘So, that old story has sprung up again, has it?' He began to laugh uproariously, and then clearing his throat he
said, with another glance at Amos, ‘It might be a good idea to get some of those chaps of yours onto it. Blacken the name of the Grants, that's all par for the course.'

Harrison hovered in the doorway. ‘Luncheon is served, sir,' he announced.

Nan Watkins sat alone in the conservatory, sipping a tall glass of mint tea and nibbling on a small smoked salmon tea sandwich. She was happy to take her lunch alone here in this sunny glass room filled with potted palms, exotic rubber plants and her prized white orchids. It was a tranquil, peaceful spot in their busy household.

The girls were having lunch upstairs on the nursery floor with Nanny, and Neville was entertaining his guests in the dining room. She herself had planned the menu with Cook, and she hoped they were enjoying her choices.

She had selected Neville's favourites, as usual wanting to please him. The first course was a light vegetable soup, something similar to minestrone, which she knew Alfredo Oliveri would enjoy; the second was grilled plaice, served with parsley sauce, croquette potatoes and peas. For dessert she had asked Cook to make her famous bread pudding, with extra creamy custard and raisins, which was everyone's favourite. She had left the wine selection to her husband.

Her husband. Neville Watkins
. A man she had fallen in love with at first sight, when he had come to her family home in Gloucestershire. He had had business with her father, and had ended up marrying her. She
had never quite recovered from the shock. That this most handsome and extraordinary man had even deigned to look at her never ceased to amaze her.

In this Nan did herself an injustice, and she knew it. But she still always thought of herself as thin and pale, and not at all enticing. In reality she was fragile and very pretty, with shining, golden-brown hair, huge soulful grey eyes that were flirtatious and beguiling to most men. Apart from an incomparable complexion, she had a perfect, white skin, shapely breasts and lovely long legs. But it was her femininity and fragility that appealed to the opposite sex. Instantly they wanted to protect her, as indeed did Neville Watkins. He not only considered her to be beautiful but had soon discovered she was a very sexual woman as well, a partner who desired him, craved him and showed it in ways no other woman ever had.

Nan knew this because he had confided in her; he had also told her how sexually exciting she was to him. She smiled to herself now, as she thought about their lovemaking earlier that morning. Having complained the night before that he had taken Saturday away from her, a day which belonged to them, he had awakened her very early with intimate kisses and a clamouring sexual desire for her. Their passion had been enormous, their longing slaked, and he had eventually whispered against her neck that perhaps they had made a child together this very day. And this she prayed for, prayed for a son, so that he would have an heir. A baby conceived now would do wonders for him, help to assuage the pain and grief he felt at the loss of his father, and his brother, Thomas.

Nan stared into the room absently, thinking of young Tom. How Neville had grieved in the last few weeks. But she had helped him as best she could, and so had his brother John…Johnny they all called him, such a kind and gentle young man.

She would never dare say a wrong word about Johnny to Neville, but she knew deep in her heart that it was Ned who held his loyalty and love. She also knew that Edward Deravenel knew this, and sometimes it disturbed her.

Instinct, she thought. I have instinctive feelings about such things, instincts I cannot and must not fault. I'm right more often than I am wrong, aren't I?

It was the same with young Richard. There were times when Neville treated him like the son he had not yet had but hoped one day to have; Richard was the stand-in perhaps, yes, in a sense it
was
that. But Richard's absolute and total loyalty was to his brother Edward first.

Then there was George, the middle Deravenel brother. He had no loyalty to anyone but himself, of that she was utterly certain. One day it will all explode, go up in smoke, Nan said to herself, and then wondered why she had had such an irrational and silly thought.

The two clans of Watkins and Deravenel were intertwined forever. An unbreakable bond. That was what they all said. She just hoped it was true…

The four men who were seated at the table in Neville's handsomely-furnished dining room were quite different in style and personality, for the most part as disparate as any men could be.

Seated at the head of the table was the host. A patrician of undoubted aristocratic stock, slender, dark-haired, with those mesmerizing turquoise eyes in his lean, good-looking face, he was elegance personified.

Neville's superbly-cut, dark-grey worsted suit was from the best tailor in London. It looked it. His white shirt, made of the finest blend of Egyptian cotton, was enhanced by a deep-purple silk cravat, elaborately tied in a fancy knot and finished with a discreet diamond pin. He wore a crested signet ring; heavy gold cufflinks fastened his French cuffs; his handmade shoes shone like glass. Neville had dressed with flair and style, and today he more than lived up to his reputation as a dandy, the Beau Brummell of his time.

At the other end of the table sat his cousin Edward Deravenel. Ned dominated the scene because of his height and physique, his handsome face, startling blue
eyes and red-gold hair. Edward also wore a well-tailored Savile Row suit, although one not quite as expensive as that of his cousin. Dark blue in colour, it had the popular flared frock coat and narrowed trousers; his shirt was white, his jewellery simple—his father's gold pocket watch and cufflinks. The pearl stick pin which he now treasured so much was fastened in his dark blue cravat.

Edward's overwhelming presence, his aura of raw masculinity and sex appeal was balanced by his charm and amiability, his friendly smile and his genuine interest in other people. Although a man of exceptional personal appeal to women, he was, nonetheless, well liked by other men.

Facing each other across the long mahogany table were Alfredo Oliveri and Amos Finnister. They appeared to be comfortable and at ease with each other, as well as with the patrician cousins and their luxurious surroundings.

Despite having had an Italian father, Alfredo appeared very English in his plain, dark grey suit, with his carrot top red hair, pale skin and freckles. Of medium height, he was slight of build and looked much younger than his forty-one years. A product of the lower middle class, he was a clever man with a good brain who had been well educated, and he was a hard worker. His refined manner and pleasant demeanour attracted people to him, and gave them confidence in him.

Amos Finnister was in his mid-forties, tall and thin with a slight stoop. His jet black hair was touched with strands of grey, but his pencil-thin moustache was as black as his coal-dark eyes. He, too, was from the lower
middle class. Intelligent, worldly wise, he was a man with strong instincts about people; it was this psychological insight into people which made him such an excellent private investigator.

Amos had started his professional life as a policeman on the beat, before turning to private investigating. His years with the police force had served him well, and he had continued to nurture most of his contacts long after he had left the force. Contacts who were as diverse as Scotland Yard detectives and coroners, thugs, thieves and underworld characters, with information to deal or information to sell.

Conservatively dressed in a black suit this afternoon, he was always unremarkable in his appearance; Amos could move through the diversely different worlds he travelled without causing a single ripple, or drawing attention to himself. He liked to boast that he was invisible, and this was true.

Despite their differences, the four men were, conversely, very similar. They all had integrity, a deeply ingrained sense of duty and of what was right and wrong. They also now shared the same motive, which was to put Edward Deravenel in the seat of power at Deravenels. They believed, indeed were convinced, that as Richard Deravenel's son he was the true and rightful heir to the company, knew without a trace of doubt that they were righting a terrible wrong committed over sixty years ago.

Each of them had vowed to stop at nothing in order to achieve their goal, fulfil their purpose. And because they were so certain they were fighting a deadly enemy there were no holds barred.

For the last hour over lunch they had touched on
many subjects which interested them, but had not mentioned the business at hand. Neville had made it clear, as they had walked across the hall to the dining room, that it would be wiser to wait until they were alone again before discussing their imminent plans.

Now, as they sipped their coffee and nursed their balloons of Calvados, Neville spoke about their current business.

He said quietly, ‘So, let us now review things.' Turning to Amos, he went on, ‘You have given us the best ammunition so far, the knowledge that Grant is most probably insane. And you
will
get us the medical records as soon as you can?'

Amos nodded. ‘Consider it done. And my people will take any other records pertaining to Grant. We'll make a good job of it, have no fear, sir.'

‘Excellent, and I think now would be a good time to fill us in about John Summers and his crew. You did say you had information.'

Amos shifted slightly in the chair, and cleared his throat. ‘That's right, Mr Watkins, I do. However, about Summers himself, there's nothing, nothing at all. He's as clean as a whistle. And so is Margot Grant, by the way, except for the resurfacing of that old rumour about her son's legitimacy. But some of the others, well, they're tarnished, sir, and in my opinion that plays in our favour.'

His three companions leaned forward, looked at him eagerly, alertly.

Amos smiled thinly, as he explained, ‘They are so tarnished, in fact, they have left themselves wide open to blackmail.'

‘Have they now?' Neville exclaimed, his eyes narrowing. But he was not at all surprised, having a low opinion of the Grant faction. ‘Please do fill us in, Amos.'

‘James Cliff is finding himself in an extremely difficult situation. He has rather foolishly antagonized both his wife and his mistress. He's caught in a vice between the two of them, who are both tough, hard-bitten and cold-hearted females. Each is demanding more of his time, his constant presence. There's a strong rumour that his mistress is pregnant, which would really throw a spanner in the works if it were true, since his wife is the one with the money.' He began to chuckle.

Everyone laughed with Amos, and Neville said disparagingly, ‘Yet another fool about to take a fall.'

Amos continued, ‘Then there's Philip Dever, a secret homosexual with a hot young buck for his lover. No one knows this, of course, including his wife. And then there is Jack Beaufield, whom, I have discovered, has extremely sticky fingers. Financial problems and complications in his last position at another company. Not too careful, our Jack, when it comes to other people's money. And that's all I have at the moment, but there'll be more, I'm quite sure of that, sir. My operatives are still digging.'

‘Well done, very well done indeed,' Neville said, and took a long swallow of the brandy.

‘I'm wondering about Aubrey Masters,' Edward began, and his eyes met Oliveri's. Ned went on, ‘Finnister, did you manage to get anything at all on the head of the mining division?'

‘Not a lot, Mr Edward,' Amos replied. ‘Masters is
considered to be a little weird, in fact, by the other employees. He's a vegetarian, and obviously there's nothing amiss in that, except that he does follow a strange diet, consuming roots, seeds, pods, flowers, grains and all manner of rather unusual things, and he's attempted to get others to join him. With no success, I might add. He has a wife but no children, as you no doubt know. The wife stays in the background, a bit of a recluse, seemingly. He's considered to be an indifferent manager by some of his staff, dismissed by many as ineffectual and boring, and he's definitely not popular. Seemingly, he doesn't like to travel, which his staff have taken umbrage to because he is the head of the mining division.'

‘That's absolutely true about the travelling,' Alfredo said. ‘And that was one of the complaints Mr Richard had about him. Masters has long ignored our mining interests abroad, has never gone to India, South Africa or South America, and he's only once been to Carrara. Somehow, Masters has always managed to shove those field trips onto his underlings. I've long doubted his ability, and most people are at odds with him. As for the peculiar diet, I don't know anything about that, and I don't think it really matters.' Shaking his head, Alfredo finished, ‘Everyone believes as I do, that he's in that job because he's the cousin of Henry Grant.'

‘My father said the same,' Edward murmured, and glanced at Neville, laughed hollowly. ‘It's a pity Aubrey Masters is in such good health.'

‘Isn't it just,' Neville responded, with a cold smile. ‘But please, don't bring up that famous old phrase…
who will rid me of this turbulent priest?
Or whatever
it was. We don't need murder in the cathedral at this moment.'

‘Too true, Cousin. Let us not turn Masters into a martyr like Thomas à Becket.'

Alfredo changed the subject. ‘Earlier you asked me how long I would be in London, Mr Edward. I have another week of working at the head office, but I can stretch it to two weeks if you wish. I have a great deal to do on the situation in Carrara, and there are decisions to be made, so it could take longer.'

‘Do you think Masters will agree to your suggestion of purchasing new quarries?'

‘It's a decision for the board. However, I believe they will listen to me. The old quarries are almost depleted. We must buy new ones to stay in business. What I think—'

Neville interrupted when he exclaimed, ‘I think you must try and stay here as long as you can, Oliveri. We need you to gather as much information as possible, since you're our only inside man with access to everyone. You're invaluable, you know, having been so long at Deravenels, and because you are so well trusted. And there is another reason…it allows me to breathe easier, knowing you are with Edward on a constant basis.'

Nodding, Alfredo answered, ‘I know, and I will do my best to extend my visit. I'm as anxious as you to know what they're planning, and I agree, it's good for me to be able to keep an eye on Mr Edward.'

Focusing on Neville, Amos said in a firm voice, ‘Mr Watkins, I know you worry about your cousin, but in my opinion I think Mr Deravenel is perfectly safe, sir. I doubt that John Summers will do anything to hurt
him, or have him hurt by others. There's been excessive gossip about the fire in Italy and the family losses. After all, your father and Mr Richard Deravenel were well-known figures in the business world. Summers is far too canny, too astute to do anything rash, he wouldn't want to attract attention to himself or to the Grants. Not after the fire in Carrara. Nor would he want to stir up old animosities…The Grants are not particularly popular in the City. Some old hands haven't forgotten about Henry Grant's marauding grandfather.'

Something struck Edward, and he murmured, ‘That's another thing, why not get some propaganda going about
that
old story? It won't do us any harm to paint the Grants black, you know. Actually, it would gain us even more sympathy if we remind people about those events, don't you think, Finnister?'

‘I do indeed, sir. I'll get my chaps on to it at once.'

For the next hour the four men remained seated at the dining table, discussing their plans. And as the afternoon drew on they became confident of their success and of their ultimate triumph over their enemies.