A Lover Too Many

by Roy Lewis

It was the dawn chorus that woke him. He was lying on the settee, fully clothed but for his jacket and shoes. Light filtered dimly through closed curtains. His head felt like a football, solidly kicked on numerous occasions. He remembered. Whisky, no lunch, headache powders and more, a lot more, whisky. He swore.

  On the chair he saw Shirley’s dress. The shoulder was torn. He must have caught at it as he fell. He rose painfully, and began to make his way towards the bedroom. He stopped. Things were better as they were. There was nothing more to be said.

  When he left the bungalow he closed the door behind him, softly. The light click carried an air of finality.

  CHAPTER 2

  A hot shower, a shave, a complete change of clothes and several strong cups of coffee made Peter a new man. It was a clear sunny morning and his spirits lifted somewhat: thoughts of Jeannette receded, and while he still felt pangs of conscience for his behaviour towards Shirley the previous evening, these too he stifled. He had other things to worry about. By seven o’clock he was hard at work on the Noble and Harris file.

  He arrived at Greygables punctually at ten.

  The house was a pretentious one, but he liked it for all that. The long curving drive was flanked by mountain ash, laurel and rhododendron, above which the grey gables, for which the house was named, loomed stolidly and unemotionally. The Gothic nature of the house appealed to him, in spite of its flamboyance and the accretions, hideous in their nonconformity, which had been built at one side to furnish living accommodation for the cars that the Gaines family possessed.

  One of them was in the drive now — the Jaguar. Its offside wing was almost torn off.

  Beside it stood the slight, grey-haired form of Mrs Gaines, leather gloved, planting trowel in one hand. When he drew up short of the Jaguar she turned, shading her old eyes against the morning sun.

  It was an affectation. Mrs Gaines had eyes that were far from weak: they had the ability to pierce through humbug and prevarication. It was always best to tell the truth to Mrs Gaines.

  ‘Good morning, Mr Marlin.’

  He had been her solicitor since he had come to Martin and Sainsby and she had known him as a boy, earlier. Sometimes she treated him as though he were still the scruffy child she had known. Perhaps she had a right to do so, for Peter’s father had once worked for her, on the farm across the meadows.

  ‘Good morning, Mrs Gaines. You’re looking well.’

  ‘The Jaguar isn’t. Samuel’s doing. It’s always my hope that one of these days he will learn the value of property — and of money. It’s a good thing—’

  She checked herself, and he was aware of her hesitation. One does not discuss one’s hopes with the hired help — even if he happens to be a solicitor and trustee to the holdings from which a large part of one’s income is derived.

  ‘You’ll be driving with him to the meeting, I imagine.’

  Peter nodded assent.

  ‘Mr Marlin, tell me — what is going to happen there this morning?’

  ‘I think that Amalgamated Industries Ltd. will acquire a controlling interest in Noble and Harris Ltd.’

  ‘With the support of our vote,’ said Mrs Gaines, watching him keenly.

  ‘Yes.’

  She turned away, casually.

  ‘And what do we hope to get out of it, Mr Marlin?’

  ‘A great deal of money, Mrs Gaines, possibly even in the short term.’

  ‘I’m delighted to hear it. Might help pay for that offside wing.’

  It was Sam Gaines. He slammed the door behind him as he came out of the house and down the steps. There was a wide grin on his tanned features, and the fair hair that flopped forward across his forehead gave him a boyish look. He was thirty-three, and emotionally immature.

  ‘Never fear, Mother,’ he smiled, taking the trowel from her hand and touching her fingers slightly with his lips. ‘I will look after the inheritance. The vast battalions of commerce shall be vanquished before the swift erudition of my mind. At least, if Peter will explain it all to me beforehand in monosyllabic terms.’

  ‘It’s nice,’ commented Mrs Gaines dryly, ‘to know that the family fortunes are in such capable hands. It’s a pity that those hands don’t drive more capably.’

  It was curious. Mrs Gaines had a formidable reputation in the neighbourhood. She was not a person to cross. She was quick, intelligent and forceful; her assessment of individuals was merciless, her using of them even more so. As a businesswoman she had many years ago shown her mettle when her husband died — but with Sam she was different. Or perhaps it wasn’t so curious. He was an only child, and his father had died thirty years ago.

  It would take them twenty minutes to get to the meeting, so they should make it for a 10.45 start quite easily. But it wasn’t a twenty minutes that Peter was looking forward to. Sam was usually easy company, but the questions that Peter was expecting were not long in coming.

  ‘Well, respected lawyer friend and succour of the thick, tell me all about it, without prevarication, or words as long as the lawyer’s arm. First thing we do, Dick the Butcher had said, let’s kill all the lawyers, but Shakespeare was a cynic and I don’t feel that way, dear boy. The meeting, what, why, wherefore? Tell me all. In particular, why do we support the takeover?’

  ‘I’d better start from the beginning,’ said Peter slowly.

  ‘Do, dear boy, do!’ Sam rolled down the window and a stream of cold air hit Peter in the back of the neck.

  ‘Your father’s estate included eight thousand shares in Noble and Harris—’

  ‘The famous textile firm,’ yelped Sam to the wind.

  ‘—which are held in trust, the beneficiaries being your mother for life in the first place, and then you after her death.’

  ‘And the trustees for which are now you, me and the senile Mr Byrne of Byrne, McMaster and Byrne, Accountants Extraordinary! I’m with you so far, Peter, with you absolutely all the way!’

  Peter grunted. Sometimes Sam Gaines was a little too much to take. His high spirits were wearing, particularly since there was much to Sam apart from tomfoolery. There was little to support the suspicion, but Peter felt he was right in the estimate.

  ‘As the holders of eight thousand shares you classify — or the trust does, at least — as minority shareholders. Noble and Harris have an issued capital of thirty thousand £1 shares.’

  ‘Major, minor, who cares while the money rolls in?’

  ‘You’d care, since it’s unlikely to continue to roll in, the way things are going,’ snapped Peter. ‘You’ll remember two years ago I told you and Byrne that I was unhappy about the firm. To say that it was going through a lean time was euphemistic.’

  ‘Steady, Peter, watch your language!’

  ‘You’ll remember,’ continued Peter doggedly, ‘that we all went to see the board, and told them that the trust was far from satisfied with the return yielded by the shares. We expressed that dissatisfaction at the annual general meeting.’

  ‘And the attitude of the board was — ah — hostile. I remember, I do indeed.’

  ‘I talked things over with your mother, and suggested that we buy all the outstanding shares in the company in the hope that we could improve the position. We couldn’t agree, and you supported your mother’s point of view.’

  ‘Peter, you don’t know what you’re saying! How could I resist a dear, old, grey-haired lady?’

  ‘Well, things haven’t improved. And now, Amalgamated Industries are stepping in.’

  ‘But why should we support, and vote for, the takeover?’

  Some of the banter had gone.

  ‘If we had bought the shares for the trust we could have exercised control over the company activities and — well, we didn’t, so that is that. Amalgamated Industries want to take over. This means one of two things. Either they intend to pump more capital into the firm, and expand it, diversify, make it a going concern, or they intend to reorganise it and capitalise upon some of the fixed assets. A sale of the premises in Swindon, for
instance, could bring in a quick return, and there’s also the whole question of the subsidiary in New Zealand . . .’

  ‘You’re losing me, lad.’

  ‘Either way, the trust is bound to benefit. Amalgamated Industries will be doing for the trust what the trustees weren’t prepared to do for themselves. That’s why I have recommended that the takeover be supported.’

  For a while there was only the sound of the wind whipping through the open window, above the muted roar of the engine. Peter felt Sam’s grey eyes watching him carefully.

  ‘You’re pretty keen on the whole thing, you’re sold, aren’t you, Peter?’

  ‘I’m sold on it,’ agreed Peter simply. ‘The trust will benefit.’

  ‘But what do you get out of it, Peter?’ Peter went cold. Stiffly, he asked, ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Well, here you are, working up a sweat over this takeover — I mean you’ve done a hell of a lot of work on it, I know. I was talking to Joan Shaw the other day and she told me the files you have on Noble and Harris are nobody’s business—’

  Peter shot him a quick glance.

  ‘Joan had no right to discuss office affairs outside the—’

  ‘Peter,’ soothed Gaines, ‘it’s all trust holding stuff. Isn’t it?’

  ‘It is,’ replied Peter grimly. His hands were tight on the wheel.

  ‘There you are, then.’ Sam Gaines smiled expansively. ‘What was the harm? But as I was saying, you’ve sweated blood over all this — but I don’t understand. After all, what do you get out of it?’

  ‘The first duty of a trustee,’ snapped Peter, ‘is to direct his best efforts towards the trust. As a professional trustee it’s my professional duty to do that, and use all the skill and knowledge at my command to—’

  ‘Okay, okay,’ yelped Gaines in a falsetto, ‘I’m convinced! Put on the handcuffs — I’ll go quietly.’

  ‘For God’s sake, don’t you ever stop clowning?’

  ‘Sometimes,’ smiled Gaines. ‘Sometimes, when it’s necessary, Peter. But then, who’s to know when I’m clowning?’

  Precisely, thought Peter grimly, as he swung the car into the reserved parking space in front of the factory and offices of Noble and Harris (Textiles) Ltd.

  There were fifteen people in the boardroom: eight comprised the board of directors, with Charles Shaw-Lefevre in the chair. Apart from Peter and Sam Gaines, representing the trust holding, there were four other shareholders.

  The fifteenth man present was sitting quietly down at the end of the table. His face was thin and intelligent, his hairline high and thinning; long sensitive fingers sat silently on the table, lightly resting on a thick file.

  To Sam’s inquiry, Peter answered, ‘Paul Jackson.’

  ‘I thought you didn’t know him?’ Peter met Sam’s gaze carefully.

  ‘We know everyone else in the room,’ he commented quietly. ‘Who else could he be?’ Sam grinned widely, and took his seat. Shaw-Lefevre was pompous and socially something of a buffoon but he was an efficient chairman. He announced the calling of an extraordinary general meeting and read the notice convening the meeting. Briefly he explained the purpose of the meeting — to consider the offer made by Amalgamated Industries Ltd. for the purchase of the shares in Noble and Harris Ltd.

  ‘Your agenda contains all the details required by the Companies Act. I will simply add and emphasise that if you decide to accept the offer the choice is open to you to accept a cash payment for your shares, or to accept in payment shares in Amalgamated Industries Ltd. We recommend that the offer be accepted, and will issue a written recommendation which will also disclose our holdings, state our intention, as directors, to accept, and state all other relevant interests and information required by the Acts. Before I put the resolution to the meeting I would ask if there are any questions or points arising.’

  ‘Bejabers,’ muttered Sam from the corner of his mouth, ‘they’re railroading this through.’ He leaned forward. Peter waited apprehensively. ‘Mr Chairman. I note the presence among us of a stranger — to wit, the gentleman there, whom I presume to be Mr Jackson. I would like some information upon where he fits into the picture, if at all.’

  Shaw-Lefevre frowned.

  ‘It’s all in the papers, Mr Gaines.’

  ‘Nevertheless . . .’ prompted Sam with a smile.

  ‘Hrrumph. Yes. Well, if the offer is accepted by the shareholders — who are all present — Mr Jackson will be a member of a reconstituted board, this being one of the terms of the takeover.’

  ‘And the board will consist of . . . ?’ inquired Sam sweetly.

  ‘That is not — if I may, Mr Chairman—’ interrupted Paul Jackson smoothly — ‘that is not yet decided, of course, but Mr Shaw-Lefevre will be a member of the new board and I can assure you that Noble and Harris will not be entirely swallowed up — indeed, they will remain a distinct entity quite apart from my firm, Amalgamated Industries Ltd. And I can also assure you that all those shareholders who take shares in my firm by way of payment will be more than adequately improving their shareholding properties.’

  ‘And just who,’ asked Gaines carefully, ‘is Amalgamated Industries Ltd.?’

  There was a short silence. Jackson raised a thin, affected eyebrow.

  ‘I beg your pardon? I’m sorry, Mr Chairman . . .’

  ‘Mr Gaines,’ commented Shaw-Lefevre heavily, ‘is perhaps unacquainted with the Companies Register. Details may be discovered therein. Are there any other questions?’

  ‘Just one.’ Sam jumped in unabashed. ‘How does Mr Jackson hope to improve our holdings?’

  Shaw-Lefevre looked somewhat uncomfortable, but glanced towards Jackson. The file lay open under Jackson’s long fingers.

  ‘If you wish to accept a cash payment for your shares, Mr Gaines,’ remarked Jackson quietly, ‘you will receive £4 10s per share. From the figures that I have that is probably about four times the price at which they were acquired by your trust holding. Even allowing for depreciation in the value of money, you will be well compensated there. You may feel, however, that you would do better to take our shares instead. That is your decision. I would perhaps also agree with you if you were to suggest that the price of £4 10s which we are offering is a high one. However, my board feels that there is probably quite a lot of asset value in Noble and Harris. We feel that, if you will forgive me, Mr Chairman, we may well be able, by better management or by liquidation, to make the shares worth a great deal more than this quoted price. We feel, for instance, that present conditions in New Zealand are such that a sale of the interest there could be effected at considerable profit — and perhaps some of the English holdings could yet produce a higher profit. I cannot, and will not, enter any commitment, of course, but I can assure you that the price is more than fair, and the prospects are more than favourable.’

  ‘And I and my board,’ added Shaw-Lefevre with emphasis, ‘are persuaded by Mr Jackson’s arguments and intend to accept the offer. May I now move the formal resolution?’

  ‘By all means,’ waved Sam airily. Someone down the table glowered, and Sam added cheerily to him, ‘For my part at least, old boy.’

  He turned to Peter. ‘I don’t like Jackson,’ he whispered with a smile. ‘He hath a villain’s cheek. There is something here which smells.’

  ‘Sam, listen. I’ve gone over his figures closely. I agree with what Jackson has in mind. I reckon that this time next year will see a distribution of a capital bonus amounting to £3 a share. I think we should accept the offer.’

  The appeal to Gaines’s cupidity was not wasted, as Peter suspected it would not be. ‘I’m relying on your advice, dear friend,’ muttered Sam. ‘I’ll go along.’

  The votes were necessary. Although the trust holding was a minority holding and voted with the board, the four other shareholders voted against the resolution. They were unsuccessful in their opposition.

  As Peter made his way out at the conclusion of the meeting, Sam caught at his shoulder.

&nb
sp; ‘I didn’t realise it was going to be so close. Why did those four vote against? If we had voted that way too the motion would have been lost. What did they know that we didn’t?’

  ‘Nothing,’ said Peter emphatically. ‘They’re all members of the Noble family. They don’t possess an ounce of business acumen. They believe in tradition.’

  ‘And you don’t.’

  ‘Only if it pays dividends.’

  They emerged into the sunlight. Sam stopped at the top of the steps above the car park.

  ‘I need a drag.’

  As he stood there lighting his cigarette Peter strolled on down the stairs ahead of him casually. At the bottom of the steps he turned to look back. Paul Jackson was hurrying down the steps past Sam, briefcase in his hand. As he drew level with Peter his eyes flickered up: they carried a glint of triumph.

  When Peter drove from the car park he was acutely aware that Sam could have noted the glance which had passed between them.

  * * *

  Through the frosted glass panel of the door to Joan’s office Peter could make out two figures. He opened the door and Bill Daly swung around to him. His thick bull neck was red and there was anger in his handsome face. Joan’s colour was heightened also, and Peter could see that they had been arguing about something. They fell silent as he entered.

  ‘You waiting to see me, Bill?’

  ‘Er . . . no, Mr Marlin, I . . . er . . . I just brought the Larkway conveyance in to Joan and she . . .’

  ‘Did old Larkway finally get round to completion, then?’

  ‘He did,’ commented Daly eagerly, as though glad of the opportunity to justify his presence in Joan’s office. ‘I thought that he was going to back out again at the last moment, but—’

  ‘Fine,’ interrupted Peter. ‘Anything for me, Joan?’

  ‘Yes, Mr Marlin, I’ll bring it in, in just a moment.’

  As Peter closed the door of his own office behind him he smiled to himself. The tone in Joan’s voice clearly illustrated that her argument with Bill, whatever it was over, was concluded as far as she was concerned.

  He wondered briefly just what it was about. Probably some matter of office routine, or crossed lines of responsibility. And yet . . . he allowed his mind to dwell briefly on the picture they had presented as he came in to the office. Bill had been leaning with his hands on Joan’s desk, arguing. She had been sitting bolt upright, with anger and embarrassment chasing across her face. She looked even prettier when she was angry . . .