Mightier Than the Sword Read online

  “Twenty-nine minutes,” shouted Cedric, trying to control his temper, as he lurched forward and grabbed the edge of his desk.

  Sloane didn’t move as the chairman pulled open a drawer and took out a small bottle of pills. He fumbled with the safety cap, but lost his grip and dropped the bottle on to his desk. They both watched as it rolled on to the floor. Cedric attempted to fill a glass with water, but he no longer had the strength to pick up the jug.

  “I need your help,” he slurred, looking up at Sloane, who just stood there, watching him carefully.

  Cedric stumbled, took a pace backward, and fell heavily on the floor, gasping for breath. Sloane walked slowly around the desk, his eyes never leaving the chairman as he lay on the floor fighting for his life. He picked up the bottle and unscrewed the cap. Cedric stared up at him as he shook the pills on to the floor, just out of his reach. He then wiped the empty bottle with a handkerchief from his top pocket and placed it in the chairman’s hand.

  Sloane leaned over and listened carefully, to find that the chairman was no longer breathing quite so heavily. Cedric tried to raise his head, but he could only watch helplessly as Sloane gathered up all the papers on his desk that he’d been working on for the past twenty-four hours. Sloane turned and walked slowly away, without once looking back, avoiding those eyes that were burning into him.

  He opened the door and looked out into the corridor. No one in sight. He closed the door quietly behind him and went in search of the chairman’s secretary. Her hat and coat were no longer on the stand, so he assumed she must have left for the weekend. He tried to remain calm as he walked down the corridor, but beads of sweat were pouring off his forehead and he could feel his heart pounding.

  He stood for a moment and listened, like a bloodhound sniffing for danger. He decided to throw the dice once again.

  “Anyone around?” he shouted.

  His voice echoed through the high-ceilinged corridor as if it were a concert hall, but there was no response. He checked the executive offices one by one, but they were all locked. No one on the top floor, other than Cedric, would still be in the office at six o’clock on a Friday evening. Sloane knew there would still be junior staff in the building who wouldn’t think of leaving before their bosses, but none of them would consider disturbing the chairman, and the cleaners wouldn’t be returning until five o’clock on Monday morning. That only left Stanley, the night porter, who would never budge from his comfortable chair at the front desk unless the building was on fire.

  Sloane took the lift to the ground floor and, as he crossed the lobby, he noticed that Stanley was dozing quietly. He didn’t disturb him.

  * * *

  “The Rijksmuseum,” said Sam as they entered the Dutch national gallery, “houses one of the finest collections on earth. The Rembrandts are showstoppers but the Vermeers, De Wittes, and Steens are also among the finest examples of the Dutch masters you’ll ever see.”

  Hand in hand they made their way slowly around the grand gallery, Sam often stopping to point out a character, or a feature of a particular work, without ever once referring to her guidebook. Whenever heads turned, and they often did, Seb wanted to shout, “And she’s bright, too!”

  At the far end of the gallery stood a small crowd, admiring a single work.

  “The Night Watch,” said Sam, “is a masterpiece, and probably Rembrandt’s best-known work. Although sadly we’ll never know what the original looked like because the city council later trimmed the painting to fit between two columns in the town hall.”

  “They should have knocked down the columns,” said Seb, unable to take his eyes off the group of figures surrounding a finely dressed man carrying a lantern.

  “Pity you weren’t on the town council,” said Sam as they walked into the next room. “And here’s a painting that will feature in my PhD thesis,” she continued as they stopped in front of a large canvas. “It’s hard to believe that Rubens completed the work in a weekend, because he had to attend the signing of a peace treaty between the English and Spanish on the following Monday. Most people are quite unaware that he was a diplomat as well as an artist,” she said before moving on.

  Seb felt he ought to be taking notes, but his mind was on other things.

  “This is one of my favorites,” said Sam, stopping in front of The Arnolfini Wedding.

  “I’ve seen that somewhere else,” said Seb.

  “Ah, so you do listen to me occasionally. You saw it when we visited the National Gallery last year.”

  “So what’s it doing here?”

  “It’s probably on loan,” said Sam. “But only for another month,” she added after taking a closer look at the label on the wall beside the portrait. “But more important, do you remember what I told you about it at the time?”

  “Yes, it’s the wedding of a wealthy merchant, and Van Eyck must have been commissioned to record the event.”

  “Not bad,” said Sam. “So really Van Eyck was just doing the job of a modern-day wedding photographer.”

  Seb was about to say something, but she added, “Look at the texture of the bride’s dress, and the fur on the lapels on the groom’s coat—you can almost feel it.”

  “The bride looks heavily pregnant to me.”

  “How observant of you, Seb. But any wealthy man at the time had to be sure that the woman he’d chosen to be his wife was capable of producing an heir to inherit his fortune.”

  “What a practical lot those Dutch were,” said Seb. “But what if you weren’t rich?”

  “The lower classes were expected to behave more properly.”

  Seb fell on one knee in front of the painting, looked up at Sam and said, “Samantha Ethel Sullivan, I adore you, and always will, and more than anything on earth I want you to be my wife.”

  Sam blushed and, bending down, whispered, “Get up, you idiot. Everyone’s staring at us.”

  “Not until you’ve answered my question.”

  A small group of visitors had stopped looking at the paintings and were waiting for her reply.

  “Of course I’ll marry you,” she said. “I’ve loved you since the day you got me arrested.” Several of the onlookers, looking rather puzzled, tried to translate her words.

  Seb stood up, took out a small red leather box from his jacket pocket, and presented it to her. When Sam opened the box and saw the exquisite blue sapphire surrounded by a cluster of little diamonds, she was for once lost for words.

  Seb took out the ring and placed it on the third finger of her left hand. When he leant forward to kiss his fiancée, he was greeted with a round of applause. As they walked away, hand in hand, Samantha glanced back at the painting and wondered if she ought to tell him.

  12

  “MAY I ASK what time you left the office on Friday evening, sir?”

  “It must have been around six o’clock, inspector,” said Sloane.

  “And what time was your appointment with Mr. Hardcastle?”

  “Five. We always met at five on the last Friday of the month, to go over my department’s figures.”

  “And when you left him, did he seem in good spirits?”

  “Never better,” said Sloane. “My monthly results were up by two point two percent, and I was able to tell him the details of a new project I’d been working on that he became very excited about.”

  “It’s just that the pathologist has put the time of death at around six o’clock on Friday evening, so you must have been the last person to see him alive.”

  “If that’s the case, I only wish our meeting had lasted a little longer,” said Sloane.

  “Quite so. Did Mr. Hardcastle take any pills while you were with him?”

  “No. And although we all knew Cedric had a heart problem, he made a point of not taking his medication in front of members of staff.”

  “It seems odd that his pills were scattered randomly over the floor of his office while the empty bottle was in his hand. Why wasn’t he able to get hold of at least one of the p