Five other men were selected to take part in the lineup. All of them were roughly the same age as Sloane, and all wore similar City suits, white shirts and striped ties. As Mr. Weatherill pointed out to the investigating officer, if his client really had visited the King’s Arms on several occasions to exchange real notes for counterfeit ones, it shouldn’t be difficult for Mr. Boyle to pick out his accomplice in an identity parade.
An hour later, Sloane was released, all the charges against him dropped. Boyle, who had no desire to return to Ford and face Mellor, turned Queen’s evidence, confessed to the setup and was shipped off to HMP Belmarsh to await trial on charges of forgery, giving false evidence and perverting the course of justice.
A month later, Desmond Mellor came up in front of the parole board, with an application to have his sentence halved on the grounds of good behavior. He was turned down and told that he would not only serve his full sentence, but that further charges against him were being prepared by the DPP.
When Sloane was next interviewed by the police, he was only too happy to supply further evidence to incriminate Mellor.
“Do you wish to add anything else to your statement?” asked the investigating officer.
“Only one thing,” said Sloane. “You should look into the role Lady Virginia Fenwick played in this whole operation. I have a feeling Mr. Boyle might be able to assist you.”
*
“Mr. Mellor is on line three,” said Rachel.
“Tell him to go to hell,” replied Sebastian.
“He said he’s only allowed three minutes.”
“All right, put him through,” said Seb reluctantly, curious to know what the damn man could possibly want.
“Good morning, Mr. Clifton. Decent of you to take my call, all things considered. I don’t have a lot of time, so I’ll get straight to the point. Would you be willing to visit me at Ford on Sunday? There’s something I’d like to discuss with you that could be of mutual benefit.”
“What could I possibly want to discuss with you?” said Sebastian, barely able to control his temper. He was just about to slam the phone down, when Mellor said, “Adrian Sloane.”
Sebastian hesitated for a moment, then opened his diary. “This Sunday isn’t possible as it’s my daughter’s birthday. But I’m free the following Sunday.”
“It will be too late by then,” said Mellor, without explanation.
Seb hesitated again. “What time are visiting hours?” he eventually managed, but the line had gone dead.
*
“How many years have you worked for the company, Frank?” asked Emma.
“Nigh on forty, ma’am. Served your father, and your grandfather before him.”
“So you’ll have heard the story of the Maple Leaf?”
“Before my time, ma’am, but everyone in the yard is familiar with the tale, though few ever speak of it.”
“I have a favor to ask, Frank. Could you put together a small gang of men who can be trusted?”
“I’ve two brothers and a cousin who’ve never worked for anyone else but Barrington’s.”
“They’ll need to come in on a Sunday, when the yard is closed. I’ll pay them double time, in cash, and there will be an incentive bonus of the same amount in twelve months’ time, but only if I’ve heard nothing of the work they carried out that day.”
“Very generous, ma’am,” said Frank, touching the peak of his cap.
“When will they be able to start?”
“Next Sunday afternoon. The yard will be closed until Tuesday, Monday being a bank holiday.”
“You do realize you haven’t asked me what it is I want you to do?”
“No need to, ma’am. And if we should find what you’re lookin’ for in the double bottom, what then?”
“I ask no more than that the remains of Arthur Clifton should be given a Christian burial.”
“And if we find nothing?”
“Then it will be a secret the five of us take to our graves.”
*
Archibald Douglas James Iain Fenwick, the tenth earl of Fenwick, was among the last to arrive.
When he entered the room, everyone rose, acknowledging that the title had been passed on to the next generation. He joined his two younger brothers, Fraser and Campbell, in the front row, where one chair remained unoccupied.
At that moment Virginia was just leaving the Caledonian Hotel, having enjoyed her breakfast with the chief executive of Teacher’s Scotch whisky. A price had been agreed, and all that remained was for the lawyers to draw up a contract.
She decided to walk the short distance to Bute Street, confident that she still had a few minutes to spare. When she arrived outside the offices of Ferguson, Ferguson and Laurie, she found the front door open. She stepped inside to be greeted by an articled clerk, who was glancing at his watch.
“Good morning, my lady. Would you please make your way up to the first floor, as the reading of the will is about to begin.”