34
Saturday
IT WAS TO BE a night of firsts.
Sebastian took Sam to a Chinese restaurant in Soho, and paid the bill. After dinner they walked down to Leicester Square and joined a queue for the cinema. Samantha loved the film Sebastian had chosen, and as they left the Odeon, she confessed that until she came to England, she’d never heard of Ian Fleming, Sean Connery or even James Bond.
‘Where have you been all your life?’ mocked Sebastian.
‘In America, with Katharine Hepburn, Jimmy Stewart, and a young actor who’s taking Hollywood by storm, called Steve McQueen.’
‘Never heard of him,’ said Sebastian as he took her hand. ‘Do we have anything in common?’
‘Jessica,’ she said gently.
Sebastian smiled as they walked back to her Pimlico flat hand in hand, chatting.
‘Have you heard of The Beatles?’
‘Yes, of course. John, Paul, George and Ringo.’
‘The Goons?’
‘No.’
‘So you’ve never come across Bluebottle or Moriarty?’
‘I thought Moriarty was Sherlock Holmes’s nemesis?’
‘No, he’s Bluebottle’s foil.’
‘But have you heard of Little Richard?’ she asked.
‘No, but I’ve heard of Cliff Richard.’
Occasionally they stopped to share a kiss, and when they eventually arrived outside Sam’s apartment block, she took out her key and kissed him gently again; a goodnight kiss.
Sebastian would have liked to be invited in for a coffee, but all she said was, ‘See you tomorrow.’ For the first time in his life, Seb wasn’t in a hurry.
Don Pedro and Luis were out on the moor shooting by the time Diego arrived at Glenleven Lodge. He didn’t notice an elderly gentleman in a kilt seated in a high-back leather chair reading The Scotsman and looking as if he might have been part of the furniture.
An hour later, after he’d unpacked, taken a bath and changed, Diego came back downstairs dressed in plus-fours, brown leather boots and a deerstalker, clearly trying to look more English than the English. A Land Rover was waiting to whisk him up into the hills so he could join his father and his brother for the day’s shoot. As he left the lodge, Ross was still sitting in the high-backed chair. If Diego had been a little more observant, he would have noticed that he was still reading the same page of the same newspaper.
‘What was the price of Barrington’s when the Stock Exchange closed?’ was the first thing Don Pedro asked as his son stepped out of the car to join them.
‘Two pounds and eight shillings.’
‘Up a shilling. So you could have come up yesterday after all.’
‘Shares don’t usually rise on a Friday,’ was all Diego said before his loader handed him a gun.
Emma spent most of Saturday morning writing the first draft of a speech she still hoped to deliver at the AGM in nine days’ time. She had to leave several blank spaces that could only be filled in as the week progressed, and in one or two cases just hours before the meeting was called to order.
She was grateful for everything Cedric was doing, but she didn’t enjoy not being able to play a more hands-on role in the drama that was unfolding in London and Scotland.
Harry was out plotting that morning. While other men spent their Saturdays watching football in the winter and cricket in the summer, he went for long walks around the estate and plotted, so that by Monday morning, when he picked up his pen again, he would have worked out just how William Warwick could solve the crime. Harry and Emma had supper at the Manor House that evening, and went to bed soon after watching Dr Finlay’s Casebook. Emma was still rehearsing her speech when she finally fell asleep.
Giles conducted his weekly surgery on Saturday morning, and listened to the complaints of eighteen of his constituents, which included matters ranging from the council’s failure to empty a dustbin, to the question of how an Old Etonian toff like Sir Alec Douglas-Home could possibly begin to understand the problems of the working man.
After the last constituent had departed, Giles’s agent took him to the Nova Scotia, this week’s pub, to share a pint of ale and a Cornish pasty, and to be seen by the voters. At least another twenty constituents felt it their bounden duty to air their views to the local member on a myriad different issues, before he and Griff were allowed to depart for Ashton Gate to watch a pre-season friendly between Bristol City and Bristol Rovers, which ended in a nil–nil draw, and wasn’t all that friendly.
Over six thousand supporters watched the match, and when the referee blew the final whistle, those leaving the ground weren’t in any doubt which team Sir Giles supported, as he was wearing his red-and-white striped woollen scarf for all to see, but then, Griff regularly reminded him that 90 per cent of his constituents supported Bristol City.
As they headed out of the ground, more opinions, not always complimentary, were shouted at him, before Griff said, ‘See you later.’
Giles drove back to Barrington Hall and joined Gwyneth, who was now heavily pregnant, for supper. Neither of them discussed politics. Giles didn’t want to leave her, but just after nine, he heard a car coming down the drive. He kissed her, and went to the front door to find his agent standing on the doorstep.
Griff whisked him off to the dockers’ club, where he played a couple of frames of snooker – one-all – and a round of darts, which he lost. He stood the lads several rounds of drinks, but as the date of the next general election had not yet been announced he couldn’t be accused of bribery.
When Griff finally drove the member back to Barrington Hall that night, he reminded him that he had three church services to attend the following morning, at which he would sit among constituents who hadn’t attended the morning surgery, watched the local derby or been at the dockers’ club. He climbed into bed just before midnight, to find Gwyneth was fast asleep.
Grace spent her Saturday reading essays written by undergraduates, some of whom had finally woken up to the fact that they would be facing the examiners in less than a year. One of her brightest students, Emily Gallier, who’d done just about enough to get by, was now panicking. She was hoping to cover the three-year syllabus in three terms. Grace had no sympathy for her. She moved on to an essay by Elizabeth Rutledge, another clever girl, who hadn’t stopped working from the day she’d arrived at Cambridge. Elizabeth was also in a panic, because she was anxious that she wouldn’t get the first-class honours degree that everyone expected. Grace had a great deal of sympathy for her. After all, she’d had the same misgivings during her final year.
Grace climbed into bed soon after one, having marked the last essay. She slept soundly.
Cedric had been at his desk for over an hour when the phone rang. He picked it up, not surprised to find Abe Cohen on the other end of the line, as clocks all around the City began to chime eight times.
‘I managed to offload 186,000 shares in New York and Los Angeles, and the price has fallen from two pounds and eight shillings to one pound and eighteen shillings.’
‘Not a bad start, Mr Cohen.’
‘Two down and two to go, Mr Hardcastle. I’ll give you a call around eight on Monday morning to let you know how many the Australians picked up.’
Cedric left his office just after midnight, and when he arrived home, he didn’t even make his nightly call to Beryl as she would already be asleep. She had accepted long ago that her husband’s only mistress was Miss Farthings Bank. He lay awake tossing and turning as he thought about the next thirty-six hours, and realized why, for the previous forty years, he’d never taken risks.
Ross and Jean Buchanan went on a long walk in the Highlands after lunch.
They returned around five, when Ross once again reported for ‘guard duty’. The only difference being that this time he was reading an old copy of Country Life. He didn’t move from his spot until he’d seen Don Pedro and his two sons return. Two of them looked rather pleased with themselves, but Diego appeared to be brooding. They all went up to their father’s suite, and were not seen again that evening.
Ross and Jean had supper in the dining room, before climbing the one flight of stairs to their bedroom at around 9.40 p.m., when, as they always did, they both read for half an hour: she, Georgette Heyer, he, Alistair MacLean. When he finally turned out the light with the usual, ‘Goodnight, my dear,’ Ross fell into a deep sleep. After all, he had nothing more to do than make sure that the Martinez family didn’t leave for London before Monday morning.
When Don Pedro and his sons sat down for dinner in their suite that evening, Diego was singularly uncommunicative.
‘Are you sulking because you shot fewer birds than I did?’ taunted his father.
‘Something’s wrong,’ he said, ‘but I can’t put my finger on it.’
‘Well, let’s hope you’ve worked it out by the morning, so we can all enjoy a good day’s shooting.’
Once dinner had been cleared away just after nine thirty, Diego left them, and retired to his room. He lay on the bed, and tried to replay his arrival at King’s Cross, frame by frame as if it was a black-and-white film. But he was so exhausted that he soon fell into a deep sleep.
He woke with a start at 6.25 a.m., a single frame in his mind.