The Ravenscar Dynasty (23 page)

Neville had just finished explaining everything in detail to Will, and asked him to join his staff, when Dr Robertson entered the room. He was accompanied by a uniformed policeman and a detective.

Once they had all been introduced, the plainclothes policeman stepped forward, and asked, ‘Would you mind telling us exactly what happened to you, Mr Deravenel, please? We do have a police report from the local constable on the beat in Belsize Park, but that's about it. Nothing much at all, sir.'

‘Of course, Inspector Laidlaw, I'm glad to do so,' Ned answered. ‘I'd been visiting a friend in Belsize Park Gardens, in the late afternoon. I did stay for supper, and I was therefore longer than I'd planned. I left about nine o'clock, and walked up to the main road, seeking transportation. The problem was there were no hansom cabs around. I was surprised. However, there was nothing much I could do about it, and I decided to walk. I was heading for Primrose Hill, where I thought I would probably find a hansom. I was stopped at one point by a pedestrian, who asked me directions to Hampstead. It was when I was speaking with him that I was struck from behind. First across the shoulders and then on my head. I fell forward. And passed out. That's all I know, Inspector. Until I woke up here today.'

Inspector Laidlaw compressed his lips together. ‘Not
much to go on, sir, I'm afraid, but it's the truth, nevertheless. The pedestrian who asked directions, can you describe him?'

‘Medium height, light eyes, ordinary face. Wearing a cloth cap, a muffler, oh, and a worn looking overcoat. Nondescript sort of chap, actually. I thought at the time that he looked…a bit down on his luck.'

‘What about his accent? Can you pinpoint it?'

‘Oh yes, certainly. A Londoner. Born and bred.'

Nodding his head, the inspector put away his notebook. ‘I understand your wallet was taken, Mr Deravenel, but nothing else. Not even your gold pocket watch or your gold cufflinks. So, my question to you, sir, is this…was it really a robbery? Or was the attack on you…well, let's say, a
personal attack?
'

‘Good Lord, Inspector, how on earth would I know!' Ned exclaimed, looking properly askance.

‘Any enemies, Mr Deravenel?'

‘None, as far as I know.'

‘I understand, sir. Well, it looks as if we've hit a brick wall, so to speak. If you do recall anything, anything at all, please get in touch with me, sir.'

‘I certainly will, Inspector.'

John Summers, usually a patient and self-contained man, was agitated. He paced up and down the floor of his office at Deravenels, filled with a mixture of frustration and anger. Unable to sleep the night before, he had risen at dawn and come here earlier than usual. None of his colleagues had yet arrived, therefore he could not question them or confront them. Hence his frustration.

Last evening, just before dinner, he had been informed that Edward Deravenel had been physically attacked and was in hospital, badly injured. His seething anger sprang from this unwelcome news.

He did not need problems at this moment, and an injured Deravenel was indeed a problem. If any of his people were involved they would pay heavily for it.

Finally, he stopped pacing, and walked across to the windows, looked down into the Strand. Even though it was not yet nine o'clock the traffic was heavy…horse-drawn carriages, horse-drawn omnibuses, hansom cabs, a few handcarts being pushed, and lots of pedestrians hurrying along, all jostling together, a mass of humanity on the move on this sunny March morning.

Turning away, John Summers went over to his desk and sat down. Steepling his fingers, he gazed out into the large and handsomely furnished room, thinking about the consequences of the attack on Deravenel. The prospect of retaliation alarmed him.

At twenty-eight, John Summers was an attractive man with a pleasant, clean-cut face. Very English in looks, he had a fair complexion, brown hair and light-grey eyes. Slender, almost wiry, and athletic, he was just above average height. John dressed well, but in a most conservative manner which reflected, in a sense, his conservative outlook on life.

He was Henry Grant's man, always had been, as was his father before him. In fact, the Summers family had been allied to the Deravenel Grants of Lancashire for over two hundred years. And now John Summers ran Deravenels. There was no one else to take on the burdens of this vast global company. Henry Grant was a bewildered, absent-minded man these days, pious and harmless, yet far too involved with monks and priests for his own good. Certainly he understood nothing about business now, even though he had in the past.

Henry's French wife, Margot, liked to think she was in charge, but this was a figment of her imagination. She was not shy in coming forward with advice and ideas, many of them ridiculous; John allowed her to rant on, but he paid very little attention to her ravings and edicts, yet was clever enough not to let her know this.

Margot Grant. Beautiful, even beguiling to most men, and dangerous. He sat up straighter in the chair. Could
she
be behind the attack on Edward Deravenel? Was she? He sincerely hoped not.

John did not like Deravenel. He was too fleshily handsome, far too glamorous, oozing charisma and friendly bonhomie. But he was not stupid or soft. Summers knew instinctively that Deravenel had steel in his bones, unlike most other people at Deravenels who thought of him as lazy and a playboy. Not Ned, oh no. He liked women, the good life. But he was driven, ambitious, and strong, a man who was determined to win, no matter what.

That was why Summers was afraid of him. And even more afraid of Deravenel's cousin.
Neville Watkins
. A great magnate, a man of wealth. Cold, hard and ruthless when it came to business. They made a matchless team, in John's opinion, and he loathed the idea that they were ranged against him. Warriors, the two of them, and hellbent on winning. He had to stop them in their tracks, and very soon.

Restlessly, John rose and went out of his office, wandered along the corridor, heading for the reception room at the far end. When he went in a few seconds later, he switched on the crystal chandeliers and glanced around. Hanging on the walls were a collection of portraits of the men who had steered this company over the centuries. Mostly they were Deravenels from Yorkshire; only two Grants hung there—Henry's father and grandfather. Until sixty years ago the Deravenels of Ravenscar had dominated this company. And that was what Edward Deravenel wanted again. As did Neville Watkins.

Leaving the reception room, John flung open the door of the elegant dining room, his eyes scanning the handsome antiques and priceless paintings which hung on the
red brocade-covered walls. So many magnificent luncheons and dinners had been given here for important clients, politicians and foreign guests over the years. But not lately…it was not possible to put Henry Grant on parade because of his mental instability. And, ostensibly at least, it
was
Henry who was head of the company…to the outside world.

Retracing his steps down the long corridor, John now considered going to the first floor where many of the heads of the various divisions had their offices. Perhaps Aubrey Masters was already here; he could question Masters, find out what
he
knew, if anything. A reliable ally.

Instantly John changed his mind. Taking out his pocket watch he glanced at it, nodded to himself. In a short while his secretary would arrive, along with the women telephonists and typists, the clerks and other members of the general staff. And certainly by ten o'clock the key executives would be behind their desks.

Although he had managed to calm himself, John felt a sudden flare of apprehension. He did not need problems like the Edward Deravenel matter…there were already too many problems in the company to deal with as it was. Trouble loomed. And yet he had to investigate the attack on Deravenel, get to the bottom of it. He must put a stop to this sudden…
violence
.

‘What in God's name is wrong with you?' John Summers demanded, looking from James Cliff to Jack Beaufield, and then more pointedly at Andrew Trotter. ‘You're all
laughing about the attack on Edward Deravenel, enjoying this…
catastrophe
! For that is indeed what it is! When what you
should
be doing is steeling yourself for a powerful retaliation. Are you such fools that you don't understand what's going to happen?'

‘Nothing, nothing at all,' Andrew Trotter answered, a grin still lingering on his long, saturnine face. ‘That arrogant young pup got a whipping and so what! Hopefully it will teach the little bugger a lesson. Teach him a few manners.'

At this moment there was a knock on the door, and Aubrey Masters hurried in, looking both harried and apologetic at the same time. ‘So sorry I'm late, the Strand is jammed with traffic this morning, worse than ever.'

‘That's perfectly all right, Masters, do come in and sit down.'

Aubrey Masters took a seat, and then glanced around at his colleagues. Instantly he detected the tension in the room. ‘What's wrong, gentlemen?' he asked, frowning.

Summers told him about the Deravenel incident, and then finished, ‘I want to know
who
amongst you is behind the attack. And I will find out, whatever it takes.' Now John's eyes settled on James Cliff. ‘You're not saying anything at all this morning. So unlike you. Please tell me what you know?'

‘Oddly enough, I don't know a damned thing,' Cliff answered in a mild voice. ‘I truly don't.'

‘
Really
,' John answered swiftly, giving him a cold look. ‘Usually you're not squeamish…about
anything
, just so long as it serves your purpose.'

‘For this company, not my
own
purpose,' Cliff shot back,
and smiled a trifle smugly. ‘You know very well I am absolutely devoted to Deravenels, and work for its success. And there's no reason to drip acid on me today, I'm not involved in this bit of…
violence
.' Swinging his head, Cliff looked at Jack Beaufield. ‘Come on, do confess. You and the lady have been rather cosy lately, wouldn't you say?'

Jack Beaufield's face tightened at this act of treachery, and a small vein started throbbing on the side of his temple. He said, in an icy voice, ‘I had nothing to do with the attack on Ned Deravenel. In fact, no one in this room did. However, Cliff is right in that I have been…sequestered, shall we say, with the lady of the house, this house, and more than usual. She
is
behind it, Summers. She asked me to hire someone to teach Deravenel a lesson. But I refused. It is my belief she managed it all on her own. It is not so difficult to hire thugs.'

John Summers sat back in his chair and let his eyes roam over the men sitting across the desk from him. Finally his glance settled on Aubrey. He said slowly, ‘Now, Masters, you know everything that goes on here, because everyone confides in you. Can you throw any light on the matter?'

‘Actually, no, I can't. But I do believe Margot Grant has it in for Deravenel. They had some sort of…
run
-
in
, I suppose one could call it. I think she was determined to clip his ears. Well, that was the expression I heard around the office.'

‘Since several fingers have been pointed in that particular direction I shall have to have a word with the lady when she comes in today, if she does come in, that is.'

‘She's already here,' Aubrey announced. ‘I just saw her, going into her office. Well, into Henry's office.'

John Summers jumped up. ‘Let us adjourn, gentlemen. Please excuse me.' Without waiting to hear another thing, Summers hurried out of his office and strode down the corridor.

When he came to the chairman's office he went in without knocking, and immediately stopped short. Margot Grant was sitting behind the giant-sized Georgian partner's desk, whilst her husband Henry lay stretched out on a sofa near the window.

Taken by surprise at the sight of Henry Grant looking somewhat dishevelled, and certainly unwell, John nonetheless recovered himself at once. Always the gentleman, he said pleasantly, ‘Good morning, Margot.' And then hurrying over to the sofa, he went on, ‘And good morning to you, sir. How're you feeling?'

‘Not too badly off, John,' Henry answered in a somewhat feeble voice. ‘How're you? And how is your father?'

‘I am well, sir, thank you,' John answered, and ignored the question about his late father.

Margot stood up and walked around the desk, came towards John Summers, a wide smile playing on her face. ‘Have you heard the news about Deravenel?' she asked, and began to chortle, her merriment reflected in her eyes.

John chose not to respond. Instead he turned to Henry Grant and murmured, ‘Would you excuse me, sir? I need to take Margot back to my office. I wish to go over several business matters with her, rather urgently.'

A faint smile glanced across Henry Grant's vacant face, and he waved his hand in a dismissive gesture. ‘Go along, my boy, go along.'

Opening the door and standing back, John looked at Margot and said in a low voice, ‘After you, please.'

He was silent as he walked with her down the corridor to his office, and it was only when they were inside and he had closed the door that he turned on her, his anger rising. ‘I know you are probably responsible for the attack on Deravenel, so please don't deny it. I think you hired thugs to beat him up.'

She looked at him intently, her dark eyes holding his, and then leaning closer, she said softly, ‘Why are you so angry, my dear? Apparently he got a whipping. Someone taught him a lesson, and that makes me happy. And that's the end of it. The end of Ned Deravenel. He will not be a problem anymore. Someone did us a favour.' She was jubilant.

Grasping her arm tightly, leaning into her, his face filled with fury, John Summers said in a harsh but controlled voice, ‘You foolish, foolish woman. This is not the end of anything. It is the beginning of a war. You have just unleashed a terrible force.'

‘Oh John, do not be so silly…so
melodramatic
—'

‘There's going to be a catastrophe,' he hissed, glaring at her with sudden animosity. ‘They will retaliate. I have no doubt about that.'

Margot Grant looked genuinely puzzled. ‘I do not understand—'

‘No, you don't,' he snapped. ‘And there is another matter we must clarify. It is this. Please do not bring Henry to the office until he is in better health. And if that
should
happen, and you do choose to bring him, please make sure he is properly dressed, and not so dishevelled.'

‘John, please, let us not quarrel, not you and I. You know I do not wish to upset you. I am your friend, your ally—' Remembering his manners he nodded, and said in a less angry tone, ‘I know you mean well, Margot. Now, if you will excuse me, I have work to do.'

She stared at him, still nonplussed by his anger of a moment ago. And without another word she turned sharply on her heels and left.

Once he was alone John Summers gazed at the door, and snapped his eyes shut for a moment. When he opened them he shook his head as he went to his desk.

Why in God's name had he ever succumbed to that woman's charms? But he had, and he had no one else to blame but himself. Thank God, he had never been intimate with her. Their relationship was still only a flirtation, which must now end.