“Plus all the legal expenses,” said Wolstenholme.
“Plus all the legal expenses,” repeated Benson. “I won’t keep you any longer, Mr. Wolstenholme.” He put the phone down.
Wolstenholme left the White Rose Room and headed down in the lift, confident that if Keith’s lawyer had a money draft for the full amount, he could still have everything settled before Mr. Shuttleworth arrived. There was only one problem: he had no idea who he was looking for.
Benson asked the switchboard operator to connect him to a number in Leeds. When the call was answered, he asked to be put through to room 217.
“Well done, Benson,” said Armstrong after he had confirmed the figure of £120,000. “Now book out of the hotel, pay the bill in cash and take the rest of the day off.”
Armstrong left room 217 and took the lift down to the ground floor. As he stepped out into the foyer he saw Hallet talking to the man he had seen at the Savoy. He went straight over to them. “Good morning,” he said. “My name is Richard Armstrong, and this is the company lawyer. I think you’re expecting us.”
Wolstenholme stared at Armstrong. He could have sworn he’d seen him somewhere before. “Yes. I’ve booked us into the White Rose Room so we won’t be disturbed.”
The two men nodded and followed him. “Sad news about Keith’s mother,” said Wolstenholme as they stepped into the lift.
“Yes, wasn’t it?” said Armstrong, careful not to add anything that might later incriminate him.
Once they had taken their places round the boardroom table in the White Rose Room, Armstrong and Hallet checked over the details of the contract line by line, while Wolstenholme sat in the corner drinking coffee. He was surprised that they were going over the final draft so thoroughly when Keith had already given it his blessing, but he accepted that he would have done the same in their position. From time to time Hallet came up with a question which was invariably followed by a whispered exchange with Armstrong. An hour later they passed the contract back to Wolstenholme and confirmed that everything was in order.
Wolstenholme was about to ask some questions of his own, when a middle-aged man shuffled in, dressed in a prewar suit that hadn’t yet come back into fashion. Wolstenholme introduced John Shuttleworth, who smiled shyly. After they had shaken hands Armstrong said, “Nothing left for us to do except sign the contract.”
John Shuttleworth nodded his agreement, and Armstrong removed a pen from inside his jacket and bent down to sign where Stephen’s trembling finger was poised. He passed the pen over to Shuttleworth, who signed between the penciled crosses without uttering a word. Stephen then handed over a draft for £120,000 to Wolstenholme. The lawyer nodded when Armstrong reminded him that as it was a draft for cash, it would perhaps be wise to bank it immediately.
“I’ll just pop across to the nearest Midland while they’re setting up for lunch,” said Wolstenholme. “I shouldn’t be more than a few minutes.”
When Wolstenholme returned, he found Shuttleworth seated at the lunch table on his own. “Where are the other two?” he asked.
“They were most apologetic, but said they couldn’t wait for lunch—had to get back to London.” Wolstenholme looked perplexed. There were still several questions he wanted to ask—and he didn’t know where to send his bill. Shuttleworth poured him a glass of champagne and said, “Congratulations, Henry. You couldn’t have done a more professional job. I must say your friend Townsend is obviously a man of action.”
“Not much doubt about that,” said Wolstenholme.
“And generous, too,” said Shuttleworth.
“Generous?”
“Yes—they may have left without saying goodbye, but they threw in a couple of bottles of champagne.”
* * *
When Wolstenholme arrived home that night, the phone was ringing. He picked it up to find Townsend on the other end of the line.
“I was so sorry to hear about your mother,” were Henry’s opening words.
“There’s nothing wrong with my mother,” said Townsend sharply.
“What?” said Henry. “But…”
“I’m returning on the next available flight. I’ll be in Leeds by tomorrow evening.”
“No need to do that, old chap,” said Henry, slightly bemused. “Shuttleworth has already signed.”
“But the contract still needs my signature,” said Townsend.
“No it doesn’t. Your representative signed everything on your behalf,” said Henry, “and I can assure you that all the paperwork was in order.”
“My representative?” said Townsend.
“Yes, a Mr. Richard Armstrong. I banked his draft for £120,000 just before lunch. There’s really no need for you to come all the way back. WRG now belongs to you.”