Be Careful What You Wish For (The Clifton Chronicles)

by Jeffrey Archer

  “What seems to be the problem, sir?”

  “I don’t want to make a fuss, old chap,” said Alex, “but I bought this jar of Bingham’s Fish Paste the other day—my favorite,” he added, “—and when I got home, I discovered some pieces of glass in it.”

  The manager looked shocked when Alex unscrewed the lid and invited him to examine the contents. He was even more horrified when he dipped his finger into the paste and drew blood.

  “I’m not the complaining type,” said Alex, “but perhaps it might be wise to check the rest of your stock and inform the supplier.”

  “I’ll do that straight away, sir.” He hesitated. “Do you wish to make an official complaint?” he asked nervously.

  “No, no,” said Alex. “I’m sure this is just a one-off, and I wouldn’t want to get you into any trouble.”

  He shook hands with a grateful manager, and was about to leave when the man said, “The least we can do, sir, is give you a refund.”

  Alex didn’t want to hang around, fearing that someone might remember him, but he realized that if he left without collecting the refund the manager might become suspicious. He turned back as the manager, opened the till, took out a shilling and handed it to his customer.

  “Thank you,” said Alex, pocketing the money and heading toward the door.

  “I’m sorry to bother you again, sir, but would you be kind enough to sign a receipt?”

  Alex reluctantly turned back a second time, scribbled “Samuel Oakshott” on the dotted line, the first name that came into his head, then left quickly. Once he had escaped, he took a more circuitous route than he had originally planned to the Angel Hotel. When he arrived, he looked back to make sure no one had followed him. Satisfied, he entered the hotel, went straight to one of the public phone booths and placed twenty one-shilling pieces on the shelf. He took a sheet of paper out of his back pocket and dialed the first number on the list.

  “Daily Mail,” said a voice. “News or advertising?”

  “News,” said Alex, who was asked to wait while he was put through to a reporter on the news desk.

  He spoke to the lady for several minutes about the unfortunate incident he’d experienced with Bingham’s Fish Paste, his favorite brand.

  “Will you be suing them?” she asked.

  “I haven’t decided yet,” said Alex, “but I’ll certainly be consulting my solicitor.”

  “And what did you say your name was, sir?”

  “Samuel Oakshott,” he repeated, smiling at the thought of how much his late headmaster would have disapproved of what he was up to.

  Alex then rang the Daily Express, News Chronicle, Daily Telegraph, The Times and, for good measure, the Bath Echo. His final call before returning to Bristol was to Lady Virginia, who said, “I knew I could rely on you, major. We really must get together some time. It’s always such fun seeing you.”

  He placed the two remaining shillings in his pocket, walked out of the hotel and returned to the car park. On the drive back to Bristol he decided that it might be wise not to visit Bath again in the near future.

  * * *

  Virginia sent out for all the papers the following morning, except the Daily Worker.

  She was delighted with the coverage given to the Bingham’s Fish Paste Scandal (Daily Mail). Mr. Robert Bingham, chairman of the company, has issued a statement confirming that all stocks of Bingham’s Fish Paste have been removed from the shelves and will not be replaced until a full inquiry has been carried out (The Times).

  A junior minister at the Ministry of Agriculture, Fisheries and Food has assured the public that an inspection of the Bingham’s factory in Grimsby will be conducted by health and safety officials in the near future (Daily Express). Bingham’s shares fall five shillings in early trading (Financial Times).

  When Virginia had finished reading all the papers, she only hoped that Robert Bingham might guess who had masterminded the whole operation. How much she would have enjoyed having breakfast at Mablethorpe Hall that morning and hearing Priscilla’s views on the unfortunate incident. She checked her watch and, confident that Robert would have left for the factory, picked up the phone and dialed a Lincolnshire number.

  “Dearest Priscilla,” she gushed, “I was just calling to say how dreadfully sorry I was to read about that unpleasant business in Bath. Such bad luck.”

  “How kind of you to call, darling,” said Priscilla. “One realizes who one’s friends are at a time like this.”

  “Well, you can rest assured that I’m always on the other end of the line should you ever need me, and do please pass on my sympathy and best wishes to Robert. I hope he won’t be too disappointed about no longer being in line for a knighthood.”

  28

  EVERYONE STOOD AS Emma took her place at the head of the boardroom table. She had been looking forward to this moment for some time.

  “Gentlemen, allow me to open the meeting by reporting to the board that, yesterday, the company’s share price returned to its high watermark, and our shareholders will be receiving a dividend for the first time in three years.”

  Murmurs of “Hear, hear,” accompanied by smiles on the faces of all the directors except one.

  “Now that we have put the past behind us, let us move on to the future. Yesterday, I received the Department of Transport’s preliminary report on the Buckingham’s seaworthy status. Subject to a few minor modifications, and following the completion of the navigational trials, the department should be able to grant us a full maritime certificate by the end of the month. Once we are in possession of that certificate, the ship will leave Belfast and sail for Avonmouth. It is my intention, gentlemen, to hold the next board meeting on the bridge of the Buckingham, so that we can all be given a tour of the ship, and see at firsthand what we have spent our shareholders’ money on.

  “I know the board will be equally delighted to learn that the company secretary received a call from Clarence House earlier in the week, to say that Her Majesty, Queen Elizabeth the Queen Mother has agreed to conduct the naming ceremony on September twenty-first. It would not be an exaggeration to suggest, gentlemen, that the next three months will be among the most demanding in the company’s history because, although the first booking period has been a resounding success, with only a few cabins still available for the maiden voyage, it’s the long term that will decide the company’s future. And on that subject I am happy to answer any questions. Admiral?”

  “Chairman, may I be the first to congratulate you, to say, and although there is still some way to go before we reach calm waters, today is certainly the most satisfying I can remember in the twenty-two years I have served on this board. But allow me to move quickly on to what we used to call in the Navy the points of sail. Have you selected a captain from the shortlist of three candidates approved by the board?”

  “Yes, admiral, we have. Our final choice is Captain Nicholas Turnbull RN, who until recently was the first officer on the Queen Mary. We are very lucky to have secured the services of such an experienced officer, and it might have helped that he was born and bred in Bristol. We also have a full complement of officers, many of whom served under Captain Turnbull either in the Royal Navy or, more recently, with Cunard.”

  “What about the rest of the crew?” asked Anscott. “After all, this is a cruise ship, not a battle cruiser.”

  “Fair point, Mr. Anscott. I think you will find that we are well represented, from the engine room to the grill room. There are still a few posts left to fill, but as we are receiving at least ten applications for every position, we are able to be extremely selective.”

  “What is the ratio of passengers to crew?” asked Dobbs.

  For the first time Emma had to refer to a file of notes in front of her. “The breakdown of the crew is twenty-five officers, two hundred and fifty ratings, three hundred stewards and catering staff, plus the ship’s doctor and his nurse. The ship is divided into three classes: first, cabin and tourist. There is accommodation for one
hundred and two first-class passengers, with cabin prices ranging from forty-five pounds to sixty pounds for the penthouse on the maiden New York crossing; two hundred and forty-two in cabin class, who will pay around thirty pounds each, and three hundred and sixty in tourist at ten pounds each, three to a cabin. If you need more details, Mr. Dobbs, you will find everything in section two of your blue folder.”

  “As there’s bound to be a lot of press interest around the naming ceremony on September twenty-first,” said Fisher, “and for the maiden voyage to New York the following month, who will be handling our press and public relations?”

  “We have appointed J. Walter Thompson, who gave by far the best presentation,” said Emma. “They have already arranged for a BBC film crew to be on board the ship for one of its sea trials, and for Captain Turnbull to be profiled in the Sunday Times.”

  “Never did that sort of thing in my day,” snorted the admiral.

  “With good reason. We didn’t want the enemy to know where you were, whereas we want our passengers not only to know where we are, but also to feel they couldn’t be in safer hands.”

  “What percentage of cabin occupation will we need to break even?” asked Cedric Hardcastle, clearly not that interested in public relations but, as always, in the bottom line.

  “Sixty percent, only taking running costs into account. But if we are to pay back our capital investment within the ten years as envisaged by Ross Buchanan when he was chairman, we will need an eighty-six percent occupancy rate during that period. So there’s no room for complacency, Mr. Hardcastle.”

  Alex took notes of any dates or figures he felt would be of interest to Don Pedro, although he still had no idea why they were so important, or what Don Pedro had meant by “when the balloon goes up.”

  Emma continued to answer questions for another hour, and it pained Alex to have to admit, although he would never have mentioned it in front of Don Pedro, that she was unquestionably on top of her brief.

  After she closed the meeting with the words, “See you all on August twenty-fourth at the AGM,” Alex quickly left the boardroom and made his way out of the building. Emma watched from the top-floor window as he drove out of the compound, only reminding her that she could never afford to lower her guard.

  Alex parked outside the Lord Nelson and walked across to the phone box, four pennies ready. “The ship will be named by the Queen Mother on September twenty-first, and the maiden voyage to New York is still planned for October twenty-ninth.”

  “I’ll see you in my office at ten tomorrow morning,” was all Don Pedro said before the line went dead.

  Alex would like to have told him, just once, “Sorry, old boy, can’t make it. I’ve got a far more important appointment at that time,” but he knew he would be standing outside 44 Eaton Square at one minute to ten the following morning.

  * * *

  24 Arcadia Mansions

  Bridge Street

  Bristol

  Dear Mrs. Clifton,

  It is with considerable regret that I have to tender my resignation as a non-executive director of the board of Barrington’s Shipping. At the time when my fellow directors voted to go ahead with the building of the Buckingham, you were firmly opposed to the idea, and indeed voted against it. I can now see, admittedly with hindsight, that your judgment was sound. As you pointed out at the time, to risk such a large percentage of the company’s reserves on a single venture could well turn out to be a decision we will all live to regret.

  Since, after several setbacks, Ross Buchanan felt he had to resign—rightly so in my opinion—and you took his place, I must admit you have battled manfully to ensure that the company remains solvent. However, when you informed the board last week that unless the take-up for cabin sales was at 86 percent for the next ten years, there would be no chance of us returning our original investment, I realized that the project was doomed, and, I fear, the company along with it.

  Naturally I hope to be proved wrong, as it would sadden me to see such a fine old company as Barrington’s collapse, and even, heaven forbid, face bankruptcy. But as I believe that is a strong possibility, my first responsibility must be to the shareholders, and I have therefore been left with no choice but to resign.

  Yours sincerely,

  Alex Fisher (Major Rtd.)

  “And you expect me to send this letter to Mrs. Clifton on August the twenty-first, just three days before the company’s AGM?”

  “Yes, that’s exactly what I expect you to do,” said Martinez.

  “But if I were to do that, the share price would collapse. It might even bring the company down.”

  “You’re catching on fast, major.”

  “But you have over two million pounds invested in Barrington’s. You’d stand to lose a fortune.”

  “Not if I sell all my shares a few days before you release that letter to the press.” Alex was speechless. “Ah,” said Martinez, “the penny has dropped. Now I can see that at a personal level, major, this isn’t good news, as not only will you lose your only source of income, but, at your age, you might not find it so easy to get another job.”

  “That’s putting it mildly,” said Alex. “After sending this,” he added, waving the letter in front of Don Pedro, “no company would ever consider asking me to join their board, and I couldn’t blame them.”

  “So I felt it was only fair,” continued Don Pedro, ignoring his outburst, “that you should be properly compensated for your loyalty, especially after you went through such an expensive divorce. With that in mind, major, I intend to pay you five thousand pounds in cash that neither your wife nor the taxman need ever know about.”

  “That’s most generous,” said Alex.

  “I agree. However, it’s dependent on you handing that letter to the chairman on the Friday before the AGM, as I’m advised that the Saturday and Sunday papers will be keen to follow up the story. You must also be available to be interviewed on the Friday so you can express your anxiety about the future of Barrington’s, so that when Mrs. Clifton opens the AGM on Monday morning, there will be only one question on every journalist’s lips.”

  “How long can the company hope to survive?” said Alex. “But given the circumstances, Don Pedro, I wonder if you’d be prepared to let me have a couple of thousand in advance, and pay the balance after I’ve sent the letter and dealt with the press interviews?”

  “Not a chance, major. You still owe me a thousand for your wife’s vote.”

  * * *

  “You do realize, Mr. Martinez, the damage this will do to Barrington Shipping?”

  “I don’t pay you to offer me advice, Mr. Ledbury, just to carry out my instructions. If you can’t manage to do that, I’ll have to find someone who can.”

  “But there’s a strong possibility that were I to carry out these instructions to the letter, you would lose a great deal of money.”

  “It’s my money to lose, and in any case, Barrington’s shares are currently trading above the price I originally paid for them, so I’m confident of getting most of my money back. At worst, I might lose a few pounds.”

  “But if you were to allow me to dispose of the shares over a longer period, say six weeks, even a couple of months, I’d feel more confident that I could claw back your original investment, possibly even make you a small profit.”

  “I’ll spend my money in any way I please.”

  “But it is my fiduciary duty to protect the bank’s position, especially remembering you are currently overdrawn by one million, seven hundred and thirty-five thousand pounds.”

  “That is covered by the value of the shares, which at their present price would return me more than two million.”

  “Then at least allow me to approach the Barrington family and ask if they—”

  “Under no circumstances will you contact any member of the Barrington or Clifton families!” shouted Don Pedro. “You will place all my shares on the open market the moment the Stock Exchange opens on Monday, August seventeenth, and
accept whatever price is offered at that time. My instructions could not be clearer.”

  “Where will you be on that day, Mr. Martinez, in case I need to get in touch with you?”

  “Exactly where you would expect to find any gentleman: grouse-shooting in Scotland. There will be no way of contacting me, and that’s the reason I chose the place. It’s so isolated they don’t even deliver the morning newspapers.”

  “If those are your instructions, Mr. Martinez, I shall draw up a letter to that effect, so that there can be no misunderstanding at a later date. I’ll send it around to Eaton Square by messenger this afternoon for your signature.”

  “I’ll be happy to sign it.”

  “And once this transaction has been completed, Mr. Martinez, perhaps you might consider moving your account to another bank.”

  “If you’ve still got your job, Mr. Ledbury, I will.”

  29

  SUSAN PARKED THE car in a side street and waited. She knew the invitation for the regimental dinner was 7:30 for 8 p.m. and, as the guest of honor was a field marshal, she felt confident Alex wouldn’t be late.

  A taxi drew up outside her former marital home at 7:10 p.m. Alex appeared a few moments later. He was wearing a dinner jacket boasting three campaign medals. Susan noticed that his bow tie was askew, one of his dress-shirt studs was missing, and she couldn’t help laughing when she saw the pair of slip-ons that certainly wouldn’t last a lifetime. Alex climbed into the back of the taxi, which headed off in the direction of Wellington Road.

  Susan waited for a few minutes before she drove the car across the road, got out and opened the garage door. She then parked the Jaguar Mark II inside. Part of the divorce settlement had been that she would return his pride and joy, but she’d refused until he was up to date with his monthly maintenance payments. Susan had cleared his latest check that morning, only wondering where the money could possibly have come from. Alex’s solicitor had suggested she should return the car while he was at the regimental dinner. One of the few things both sides were able to agree on.