The Ravenscar Dynasty (19 page)

‘I have absolutely no idea, Ned. I wondered when I read the sentence yesterday if it might be Oliveri he was referring to as his compadre.'

‘Perhaps. But it could be anybody, you know. However, do I have your permission to show the notebook to Oliveri?'

‘Of course. And as I said, I think you will find the
second book much more fascinating, and it is going to help you achieve your goals.'

Edward jumped up restlessly, began to move away from the desk, obviously excited about the find, and anxious to delve into the pages. At the door, he swung around. ‘Thank you for bringing the books to London, Mother, and so promptly.'

‘It seemed the safest way to get them to you.'

Edward took the stairs two at a time, rushing to his room. Once inside he locked the door, not wishing to have any intrusions from his younger brothers. They had been so excited to see him, so happy, he half anticipated a visit from one of them, or both. He was glad they were here in London, being so attached to them, but at this moment he wanted total privacy, peace and quiet to read the notebook and the slightly larger book, which looked like a diary to him. From the way his mother had spoken, he believed the diary contained information about Deravenels, Henry Grant and his cronies. And Margot Grant. The look on his mother's face, the intonations in her voice, had indicated this to him. He knew how much she hated the Lancashire faction,
the usurpers
, as she referred to them with great bitterness.

Settling himself in front of the fire, Edward put the diary on the floor, and looked at the notebook first, quickly flipping the pages.

Lines and lines of numbers, page after page; an occasional written comment that was meaningless, although
he did realize that the comment usually referred to a number. The numbers two, eleven, thirty-one, and twenty-nine recurred a lot. Unable to decipher the notebook, not understanding what the numbers referred to, Edward impatiently put it on a side table and bent down to retrieve the diary.

After scanning the many pages swiftly, he sat back and turned to page one, the beginning of his father's jottings.

There was no date at the top of the page, so he had no idea when his father had started to write this, except that the condition of the diary told its own story, in a sense. The ink was black, unfaded, the white page crisp, new looking, certainly.

Edward began to read, filled with eagerness and not a little trepidation.

‘I am at my
wit's
end. I do not know what to do
about Margot Grant. She is worse than ever, and I
worry about Harry. My cousin is not a bad man, nor
is he evil, like his wife. Actually, Henry is just a poor
soul, out of his depth. We were such good friends when
we were younger, spent much time together, and I was
not only loyal to him, but a devoted cousin, his close
friend, just as he was mine
.

The trouble with Henry is that he has always been
the most pious of men, entangled with priests, full of
devotion, wanting only to mingle with the clergy, and
he made them his companions, listened to them, took
their advice. And he loved to go to church, to study
the Bible. His thoughts were always on God, not business,
and it is still that way. Deravenels never really
meant anything special to him. Nor does it now. Oh
yes, he was, and is, proud to be the chairman, sitting
in the seat once occupied by his magnificent father, and
his grandfather before that. But he did not want to run
the company, cannot run it, and he knows that now.
He is not capable of it. This is the reason I call him
the absentee landlord
.

He is a vague, distracted, lazy man; contemplating
God is his favourite pastime, and so he lets the
Frenchwoman do his job, at least he permits her to give
orders to John Summers and James Cliff. They are
devoted to her, but they do not follow her guidelines.
They dismiss her orders. They are far too clever and
smart for that, oh yes. Especially Summers. He takes
after his late father—like him he is a handsome man,
personable, intelligent. And ambitious. He means to
take more and more power, I know that
.

I worry about Henry because he's no match for her,
or for them. He's daft in the head, I believe. It has come
back, the dementia, the illness which so incapacitated
him seven years ago. For one year he was like a zombie;
he was wandering around, as if in catatonic shock, or
in a trance. Until they put him in an asylum for the
insane. For treatment. But they lied to all of us in the
company, said he was in a religious retreat
.

Long before his marriage to the Frenchwoman he
made me his heir, because he knew full well I was the
true heir, and the board asked me to take charge when
he was put away. Put in a padded cell. And I did. I
executed my duties well. Then, suddenly, he was back.
He had made a remarkable recovery. And I stepped
aside, which was only right
.

Within days she gave birth to her son, Edouard. Her
heir. But was he
Harry's
heir? Was he really his son? I
doubt it; many doubt it. Henry Grant has always been
a monk, lived like a monk. In every way. And the dates
were doubtful. Everyone said so
.

I was never her enemy, not in the beginning. But she
has always treated me as one, and over the years she
has been foul, vicious to me and mine. And she has
succeeded in turning me into her enemy. What a fool
she is
.

And I fear for Henry, fear for his welfare. She has
such dynastic ambitions. For her son. For herself. For
John Summers
.

I have no proof, but I do believe he warms her bed
at night, as his late father did before him. And surely
her son is his half-brother. So Edouard does not have
a drop of Deravenel blood in him. Does he?
'

Edward sat back, holding the book on his knee, staring into the flames, his thoughts racing.

First of all, his father had confirmed Amos Finnister's story that Henry Grant had been in and out of insane asylums. Well, at least
once
, according to this diary. But wasn't his father also saying that his cousin had always been as mad as a hatter…
daft in the head
, those were his father's words.

Turning the page, Edward began to read once more, and then he realized that his father was now only writing about Ravenscar, and his great love for his ancestral home.

He scanned the pages swiftly, genuinely wanting to know what his father had to say, yet anxious and impatient to move on to more important entries.

There it was, a new entry on a new page, and the
date was written very clearly:
September the first 1902
. Almost a year and a half ago.

Holding the book tightly, Edward read his father's words rapidly; from the very first line he felt an unexpected tingle of anticipation and excitement.

‘
I have made my mind up. I am going to do something
at last. I shall no longer procrastinate. I shall
gather all of my notes together, notes made over the
years, and I shall prepare my case. And I do have a
case to present to the board of directors. Long, long
ago, my ancestors made a new rule—that any director
of Deravenels, whether a board member or a junior
director, could present a case to them if he had a serious
grievance against the company. I do. I have a complaint
against Henry Grant. He is allowing Deravenels, one
of the greatest trading companies in the world, to be
run into the ground. By himself, a man who is daft in
the head. I have the proof. I shall use it. I will assert
myself. I will take what is mine to take. They cannot
refuse to hear me. It is my right as a director, and as
a Deravenel, which is even more important. I am going
to fight them. I hope I shall win. I think I shall win.
The board must remain neutral, and they know this; I
believe there is enough neutrality among them to permit
justice and fair play to prevail. I must find my copy of
the company rules; all of those old documents are important.
For back-up. The board won't deny my petition
to speak, but it is always a good idea to be prepared
.'

There was not a single doubt in Edward's mind that his father had given him powerful weapons to fight the Grants; first, he had confirmed that Henry Grant was a damaged man, mentally deficient and unable to properly
run the company. Edward knew enough about the company rules to know that Deravenels could not under any circumstances be run by ‘stand-ins', as his mother usually called Grant's cronies. There was
that
fact, to begin with; now there was the old company rule that gave a director the right to present a case to the board.

Obviously, his father had never done what he'd vowed to do. But
he
would. By God, he would.

Edward continued to read the diary for another hour, finding a lot more information that would be useful to them. But as far as he was concerned he had already found the most important.

Later that evening, Edward and his mother discussed his father's diary. They were both in agreement that he had some potent weapons in his hands now.

She promised to find the old documents amongst which were the company rules; he told her all about Amos Finnister and his discoveries.

They made their plans.

Edward Deravenel knew he would always remember how he felt this morning as he mounted one side of the great double staircase that rose up from the central lobby of Deravenels.

He felt different, felt like a new man.

He was filled with pride; he was happy; his self-assurance was at its height. As he glanced around he felt reassured by this gargantuan building which in a sense was his, and where he now knew he would spend the rest of his life. He was secure in the knowledge that he would win…not only a battle or two, either. He would win the war. And he would rule Deravenels. It was his destiny.

His parents had raised him to fully understand who he was, what he was all about, and where he came from. Naturally he had grown up to be self-confident. He was proud of his heritage but there was not one ounce of snobbery in him; he was at ease with himself and with everyone else, whatever walk of life they came from.

When he had started working here last week he
had felt slightly inhibited, and certainly he had been totally on guard. Everyone was suspect, as far as he was concerned; and he was still wary of the men who were employed here, especially Henry Grant's cronies, but he had a better understanding of the various echelons now, thanks to Alfredo Oliveri who had told him much.

He truly understood about his heritage, his right to be head of this ancient company.
He was the rightful
heir
. Because of that he would never permit the progeny of usurpers to mismanage it, as Henry Grant was doing; and certainly he would oust the ‘stand-ins', the affinity surrounding Grant, along with Grant himself.

Only a Deravenel by birth could be managing director or chairman, and, other than Grant, he was the only one available.

As he strode along the corridor to his father's office which was now his, he thought of the diary. It had hardly been out of his mind since last night when his mother passed it on to him. It was invaluable; there was so much in it; so many guidelines from his father. It was going to be his Bible, and he would live by it. Every word was meaningful, and what possession of it had done was make him feel
entitled
.

He had only just taken off his overcoat and hung it up, when Alfredo came barrelling into the office, his arms full of books and papers. ‘Good morning, Mr Edward.' Alfredo gave him a cheery grin from behind the books.

‘Good morning, Oliveri. Here, let me help you with all this stuff. And what is it, anyway?'

‘Homework, sort of. Yours, to be exact.'

‘
Mine?
' Edward gave him a questioning look as he lifted some of the books and papers off the top of the pile. ‘Are you serious?'

‘Indeed I am.' Oliveri deposited everything he was carrying on the desk, as did Edward, glancing at the titles as he did so. ‘Aha! Books on mining I see! And
wine
. And the making of Egyptian
cotton
. You want me to study these so I know something about the various divisions, what we trade in? Am I right?'

‘Yes. You said you have a good memory. Is that true?'

‘Absolutely. I wouldn't lie to you. But why do you ask?'

‘Because you can't just merely read, you've got to memorize some of this material, and there's lots of it. Once you're chairman of the company you will be in charge, and therefore you must know certain things, be able to hold your own with the heads of the various divisions, who are obviously knowledgeable. You're going to be boss, you'll be
IT
. I must make sure you're fully prepared.'

Edward knew that Oliveri was deadly serious, meant every word he was saying, and he was touched that Oliveri had gone to all this trouble for him. ‘Thank you for doing this, for bringing all of these books and the material to me. Really, Oliveri, this is decent of you, very decent, and I appreciate it.'

Edward sat down behind the desk, and Alfredo pulled a chair closer, drew up to the desk. ‘Now shall we begin? I'd like to start with the Mining Division, because I am involved with that particular division, and you told me the other day you're interested in diamonds, in the mining of them and—'

‘Listen to me for a moment,' Edward cut in. ‘I have something quite extraordinary to tell you. My mother found the notebook.'

Alfredo's eyes were startled as he gaped at Edward, and for a moment he was speechless.

‘Here it is,' Edward said, taking the notebook out of his pocket and handing it to him. ‘See if you can make head or tail of it.'

Alone in his own office, Alfredo started at the beginning of the notebook, concentrating on every page, trying to understand the numbers, to decipher them. But they meant nothing to him. He could not fathom what Richard Deravenel had been getting at, nor could he hazard a guess about the person Richard referred to as compadre. Certainly Mr Richard had never called
him
that, nor had he ever discussed numbers.

He thought back to the last time they had seen each other…in Carrara, just before Mr Richard had been killed. The older man had complained bitterly about Grant in a most confiding way, and he had said he was alarmed about the spiralling problems in the company, Grant's colleagues, and the problems with the Carrara marble quarries. But that was it. Alfredo had told Mr Edward everything he knew, although Edward Deravenel had somehow seemed to expect
more
. There was nothing more.

After an hour of studying the notebook, growing frustrated, Alfredo got up, put it in his pocket and went back to Edward's office down the corridor.

Knocking, walking in, Alfredo exclaimed, ‘I'm sorry, I'm as baffled as you. Bloody annoying it is. The notebook is gibberish.'

Edward was standing in front of the enormous map of the world, which hung on the wall behind the huge Georgian partner's desk. He swung around at the sound of Alfredo's voice. There was a peculiar look on his face as he said slowly, in a low voice, ‘Come here, look at this.'

Staring at Edward, he asked, ‘But what is it? What's wrong? You have a strange look on your face.'

‘Just come over here. Please.'

Alfredo did as he was asked, stood next to Edward in front of the map, remained uncomprehending.

Edward put his middle finger on his tongue, dampened it and touched a small number on the map. The ink ran, bled out. ‘Now look closely, see how the ink runs. That's because the number's been written on this map, not printed. And written by my father, of that I am sure. See, it's the number
two
, and it sits up there at the top of India, just between Delhi and the Punjab. See it?'

‘Oh yes, indeed I do.'

‘Now look over here, at South Africa, that portion of the map. And you'll see the number eleven. Let your eyes sweep over to South America, the number thirty-nine is written there?' Stepping back slightly, looking closely at Oliveri, Edward asked, ‘So you tell me…what do those three numbers have in common?'

It was obvious that Alfredo was excited. ‘The numbers are written on the countries where Deravenels have mines…diamond mines in India, gold mines in South Africa, and emerald mines in South America.'

‘Correct!' Edward grinned at him.

‘My God, how did you discover the numbers?' Glancing at the map, again, Alfredo added, ‘They're barely visible, you almost need a magnifying glass to find them.'

Pointing to the books open on his desk, Edward explained swiftly, ‘I was reading about diamond mines in India, especially the famous Golconda mines. I knew ours were somewhere nearby, in that vicinity, so I got up to look at the map. I noticed the number there all of a sudden, almost by accident, just below the Punjab, and I realized it hadn't been printed on the map, but
written
by hand. My eyes roved over the entire map, I was so intrigued, and I kept finding numbers…' He broke off, shook his head. ‘It hit me then! The countries which were numbered were those which were repeated so often in my father's notebook.'

Oliveri was nodding his head slowly, enlightenment spreading across his pale face. ‘Listen, your father gave each country a number, and then used the number in the notebook instead of a name. It was a coding system. I think he didn't want anyone to know which countries he was targeting for some reason. Anyone picking the notebook up would be baffled, but not at all baffled if he had written out the names of the countries.'

‘But why didn't he want anyone to know which countries he was referring to?'

‘I think he stumbled onto something. In Carrara he told me he was not only worried about the quarries there, which were dwindling, but lots of the other mines as well. I asked him if they, too, were dwindling down
and he said no, there were other difficulties. But he didn't go any further than that.'

Alfredo took the notebook out of his pocket and passed it to Ned, then went and sat down in the chair. ‘You'd better have that. I'd hate to lose it.'

Sitting down himself, Edward confided, ‘I think I know who he meant by compadre. My uncle, Rick Watkins.'

Alfredo frowned. ‘Why Rick?'

‘Because they
were
the best of friends, true compadres, and had been close for donkey's years. Rick was my mother's brother, and therefore family, and obviously someone he trusted absolutely. Then there's yet another thing, Rick Watkins was probably one of the greatest magnates in this country, in fact, there was no other tycoon like him. Therefore, my father could rely on his judgement, any advice he gave. It just made sense to me as I was staring at the map. Rick came into my mind, and I knew I was right.

‘I agree. Who better than Rick Watkins to advise your father? Unless it is his son.'

‘True. However, I'm sure my father was much closer to Neville's father.'

Sitting back in his chair, staring out into space for a moment or two, Edward seemed lost, drifting into another world, a world only he could envision. Then he sat up abruptly, and looked at Alfredo intently. Lowering his voice, he said, ‘That's why Rick and Thomas were killed. They were murdered on purpose. Not because they just happened to be there in Carrara. The Grant faction was afraid of Rick Watkins, his power, his wealth, his brilliance as a businessman. They
knew if push came to shove Rick Watkins would throw everything he had at them, to support my father and his claim for the top job at Deravenels. My brother was murdered
because
he was a Deravenel, a contender for the top job if anything happened to me.'

Pale as he was, Alfredo appeared to grow paler. He did not speak for a moment, sat mulling over the things Edward Deravenel had just said. Finally, after a few minutes, he murmured, ‘I can't argue with you, Mr Edward, I really can't. I think you are right. And—'

The door of the office burst open, swinging back violently on its hinges. ‘So here you are,' a woman's shrill voice exclaimed, and as she strode into the room Edward knew at once that this was Margot Grant.

He had met her several times, but long ago when he was much younger, and he had forgotten how very beautiful she was. Her skin was devoid of colour, absolutely white and flawless, her hair raven black and luxuriant, glossy, upswept into the latest style. Large, luminous black eyes stared out from under perfectly arched black brows. Her incomparable and rather dramatic beauty was matched by her slender, willowy figure and her clothes, which were the height of current fashion and expensively chic.

Coming fully into the room, she closed the door behind her and gave Edward a cursory look, then turned her attention on Alfredo Oliveri furiously.

‘I've been looking all over for
you
!' she cried in perfect English only slightly accented. ‘How dare you hold these meetings about the Carrara quarries without my presence!'

Alfredo took a deep breath, obviously striving to
control his temper. ‘The matter is urgent, and you were not here last week, Mrs Grant. Because of the urgency I held my meetings with Aubrey Masters and other executives involved in the mining division. But you know all this. And there is nothing wrong with my doing that, you know.'

‘I represent my husband at this moment in time. I run this company, and I will not tolerate insubordination.'

‘There wasn't any,' Alfredo shot back. ‘And I won't have you suggesting that there was.'

‘You must not speak to me in that tone—'

‘Hey, hold on a minute,' Edward cut in peremptorily. ‘Let me just point out one thing to you,
madame
. You do not run this company!'

‘Oh but I do,' she exclaimed. ‘And why are
you
here in the first place?
You
have no right to be here, no right to occupy this office. Pack your possessions and get out.'

‘Oh but I do have every right. You had better go and look at the company rules, Mrs Grant. You will quickly discover that I have every right to be here at Deravenels, to occupy my father's office, to be a director of this company, and to work here. For one very simple and undeniable reason.
I am a Deravenel
. You are not a Deravenel by birth, and therefore you cannot run this company. Actually you shouldn't even be here at all. Because in those company rules you will find a clause which says only a woman who is a
born Deravenel
can work in the company and hold a directorship. Other women may work here as secretaries and receptionists, but not hold a position as an executive.'