Mightier Than the Sword (The Clifton Chronicles 5)

“Victor Kaufman.”

“Vic, it’s Seb.”

“Seb, hi. You sound as if you’re phoning from the other side of the world.”

“Not quite. I’m at Huddersfield station. I’ve just been to Cedric Hardcastle’s funeral.”

“I read his obituary in today’s FT. That was one hell of a man you were working for.”

“You don’t know the half of it. Which is why I’m calling. I need to see your father urgently.”

“Just give his secretary a call, and I’ll make

sure she fixes an appointment.”

“What I want to discuss can’t wait. I need to see him this evening, tomorrow morning at the latest.”

“Am I sensing a big deal?”

“The biggest ever to cross my desk.”

“Then I’ll speak to him immediately. When will you be back in London?”

“My train’s due to arrive at Euston at ten past four.”

“Give me a call from the station and I’ll—”

A shrill whistle blew and Seb turned to see a green flag waving. He dropped the phone, ran out on to the platform, and jumped onto the moving train.

He took a seat at the rear of the carriage and, once he’d got his breath back, he thought about how he’d first met Vic at St. Bede’s, when he’d shared a study with him and Bruno Martinez, and they had become his two closest friends; one the son of an immigrant Jew, and the other the son of an Argentinian arms dealer. Over the years they’d become inseparable. That friendship grew even closer when Seb had ended up with a black eye for defending his Jewish friend, not that he had been altogether sure what a Jew was. Like a blind man, unaware of race or religion, he quickly discovered that prejudice was often taught at the breakfast table.

He turned his attention to the sage advice his mother had given him just before she and Dad had driven back to Bristol after the funeral. He knew she was right.

Seb took his time writing a first draft, then a second. By the time the train pulled into Euston, he’d completed a final draft which he hoped would meet with both his mother’s and Cedric’s approval.

* * *

Sloane immediately recognized the handwriting. He tore open the envelope and pulled out a letter, becoming angrier with each word he read.

Dear Mr. Sloane,

I cannot believe that even you could stoop so low as to hold a board meeting on the day of Cedric Hardcastle’s funeral, with the sole purpose of appointing yourself chairman. Unlike me, Cedric would probably not have been surprised by your duplicity.

You may think you’ve got away with it, but I can assure you, you haven’t, because I will not rest until you are exposed for the fraud you are, as we both know you are the last person Cedric would have wanted to succeed him.

After reading this letter, you won’t be surprised to learn that I no longer want to work for an amoral charlatan like you.

S. Clifton

Sloane leapt out of his chair, unable to control his temper. He charged into his secretary’s office and shouted, “Is he still in the building?”

“Who?” asked Rachel innocently.

“Clifton, who else?”

“I haven’t seen him since he handed me a letter and asked me to put it on your desk.”

Sloane marched out of his office and down the corridor, still hoping to find Clifton at his desk so he could publicly sack him.