Mightier Than the Sword Read online

  “So who are you going to call?”

  “Major Alex Fisher MP.”

  “But won’t he be a defense witness?”

  “Mr. Trelford doesn’t think so. Fisher could well be as much of a liability for them as you might be for us.”

  “Then perhaps the other side will call me?” said Giles, sounding hopeful.

  “Let’s hope not.”

  “I’d pay good money to see Fisher in the witness box,” said Giles, ignoring his sister’s barb. “Remind Mr. Trelford that he’s got a very short fuse, especially if he’s not treated with the respect he feels he deserves, and that was true even before he became an MP.”

  “The same can be said of Virginia,” said Harry. “She won’t be able to resist reminding everyone that she’s the daughter of an earl. And there won’t be too many of those on the jury.”

  “However,” said Giles, “it would be equally foolish to underestimate Sir Edward. If I may quote Trollope when describing another advocate, he is ‘as bright as a diamond, and as cutting, and also as unimpressionable.’”

  “And I may need those same qualities at next month’s board meeting when I climb into the ring with Mellor.”

  “I have a feeling that Mellor and Virginia must be working together,” said Giles. “The timing’s just a little too convenient.”

  “Not to mention Fisher,” added Harry.

  “Have you decided yet if you’re going to stand against him at the next election?” asked Emma.

  “Perhaps it’s time to tell you that Harold Wilson has offered me a seat in the Lords.”

  “Congratulations!” said Emma, leaping up from her chair and throwing her arms around her brother. “Some good news at last.”

  “And I turned him down.”

  “You did what?”

  “I turned him down. I told him I wanted one more crack at Bristol Docklands.”

  “And one more crack at Fisher, no doubt,” said Harry.

  “That would be part of the reason,” admitted Giles. “But if he beats me again, I’ll call it a day.”

  “I think you’re out of your mind,” said Emma.

  “Which is exactly what you said when I first told you twenty-five years ago that I was going to stand for Parliament.”

  “As a socialist,” Emma reminded him.

  “If it makes you feel any better,” said Giles, “Sebastian agrees with you.”

  “Does that mean you’ve seen him since he got back from New York?” asked Harry.

  “Yes, and before you ask, he clammed up the moment I raised the subject.”

  “A pity,” said Harry. “Such a remarkable girl.”

  “But what I can tell you is that when I dropped into his office before taking him out to lunch, I spotted a child’s painting on the wall behind his desk that I’d never seen before. It was called My Mom, and I could have sworn it was Jessica’s hand.”

  “A painting of me?” asked Emma.

  “No, that’s the strange thing,” said Giles. “It was of Samantha.”

  * * *

  “Sloane offered you ten pounds a share?” said Ross Buchanan. “But that doesn’t make any sense. Farthings are trading at two pounds eight shillings this morning.”

  “He was simply trying to find out what my limit was,” said Seb. “Once he realized I wasn’t interested, he threw in the towel and lost his temper.”

  “That shouldn’t have come as a surprise. But why’s he so desperate to get his hands on your six percent?”

  “And where do Mellor and Fisher fit in?”

  “An unholy alliance that’s up to no good, that’s for sure.”

  “There was another name in the visitors’ book that just might provide the answer. Have you ever come across someone called Hakim Bishara?”

  “I’ve never met him,” said Ross. “But I attended a lecture he gave at the London School of Economics, and I was mightily impressed. He’s Turkish, but was educated in Beirut. He came top in the entrance exam for Oxford, but they didn’t offer him a place.”

  “Why?”

  “It was assumed he must have cheated. After all, how could a boy called Hakim Bishara, the son of a Turkish carpet trader and a Syrian prostitute, possibly beat the cream of the English public school system? So he went to Yale instead, and after he’d graduated he won a scholarship to Harvard Business School, where he’s now a visiting professor.”

  “So he’s an academic?”

  “Far from it. Bishara practices what he preaches. When he was twenty-nine he mounted an audacious coup to take over the Beirut Commerce and Trading Bank. It’s now one of the most respected financial institutions in the Middle East.”

  “So what’s he doing in England?”

  “For some time now he’s been trying to get the Bank of England to grant him a licence to open a branch of BC and T in London, but so far they’ve always turned him down.”

  “Why?”

  “The Bank of England doesn’t have to give a reason, and don’t forget, its committee is made up of the same breed of chinless wonders who prevented Bishara from going to Oxford. But he’s not a man who gives up easily. I recently read in the Questor column of the Telegraph that he now intends to bypass the committee and take over an English bank. And what bank could be riper for takeover than Farthings?”

  “It was staring me in the face, and I didn’t spot it,” said Seb.

  “When you put two and two together, they usually make four,” said Ross. “But it still doesn’t make a lot of sense to me, because Bishara is happily married, a devout Muslim, who’s spent years building a reputation for scrupulous honesty and straight dealing, not unlike Cedric. So why would he be willing to deal with Sloane, who’s built a reputation for being unscrupulous and dishonest, and deals from the bottom of the pile?”

  “There’s only one way I’m going to find out,” said Seb, “and that’s to meet him. Any ideas?”

  “Not unless you’re a world-class backgammon player, because that’s his hobby.”

  “I know what to do with a six and a one on the opening throw, but not much more.”

  “Well, whenever he’s in London he plays regularly at the Clermont Club. He’s part of the ‘Clermont set’—Goldsmith, Aspinall, Lucan. Loners, like him, who don’t fit easily into London society. But don’t take him on, Seb, unless you want to lose the shirt off your back. Frankly, where Bishara’s concerned you don’t have a lot going for you.”

  “I’ve got one thing going for me,” said Seb. “We have something in common.”

  * * *

  “If I were a betting man, Mrs. Clifton, the answer to your question would be even money, but the one imponderable in any trial is how people perform once they’re in the witness box.”

  “Perform? But shouldn’t one just be oneself, and tell the truth?”

  “Yes, of course,” said Mr. Trelford. “However, I don’t want the jury to feel they are members of a committee that’s being chaired by you.”

  “But that’s what I do,” said Emma.

  “Not while you’re in the witness box you don’t. I want all the men on the jury to fall in love with you, and, if possible, the judge as well.”

  “And the women?”

  “They must feel you had to struggle to achieve your amazing success.”

  “Well, at least that’s true. Do you think Sir Edward will be giving Virginia the same advice?”

  “Undoubtedly. He’ll want to portray her as a damsel in distress, lost in the cruel world of commerce and finance, and trodden on by a bully who’s used to having her own way.”

  “But that couldn’t be further from the truth.”

  “I think we’ll have to leave the twelve jurors to decide what the truth is, Mrs. Clifton. But for now, let’s look at the facts in the cold light of day. The first part of your response to Lady Virginia’s question at a well-attended public meeting, and as recorded in the company’s minutes, we will plead as justification. We will point out that Major Fisher was not only