Cometh the Hour Read online

  “Except for the distillery,” Virginia reminded them, “which he promised he’d leave to me.”

  “And as you’re the only one of us who’s produced a son, I expect you can look forward to a whole lot more than just the distillery.”

  “Does Glen Fenwick still make a profit?” asked Virginia, innocently.

  “Just over ninety thousand pounds last year,” said Archie. “But I’ve always felt it could do much better. Pa dug his heels in whenever I suggested he should replace Jock Lamont with someone younger. But Jock retires in September and I think I’ve found the ideal person to take his place—Sandy Macpherson has been in the business for fifteen years and is full of bright ideas about how to improve the turnover. I was rather hoping you might find the time to meet Sandy while you’re in Scotland, Virginia.”

  “Of course,” said Virginia, as one of the dogs brought a stick back to her, tail wagging hopefully. “I’d like to get the future of Glen Fenwick sorted out before I return to London.”

  “Good. Then I’ll call Sandy later and invite him over for a drink.”

  “I look forward to meeting him,” said Virginia. She didn’t feel this was the moment to tell her brothers that she’d been approached by the chairman of Johnnie Walker, and would be having breakfast with the chief executive of Teacher’s tomorrow morning. The figure of a million had already been bandied about, and she was speculating over how much more she could coax out of them.

  “What time are we leaving for Edinburgh?” she asked as they crossed the moat and strolled back into the courtyard.

  * * *

  Adrian Sloane joined the queue at the ticket booth. He didn’t notice the two men who had slipped in behind him. When he reached the window, he asked for a first-class return to Bristol Temple Meads and handed over three five-pound notes. The clerk gave him a ticket and two pounds and seventy pence change. Sloane turned to find two men blocking his path.

  “Mr. Sloane,” said the older of them, “I am arresting you for being in possession of counterfeit money, and trading the same while being aware that it was not legal tender.”

  The junior officer quickly thrust Sloane’s arms behind his back and handcuffed him. They then marched the prisoner out of the station and bundled him into the back of a waiting police car.

  * * *

  Emma always took a second look at any vessel that flew the Canadian flag from its stern. She would then check the name on the hull before her heartbeat would return to normal.

  When she looked this time, her heartbeat almost doubled and her legs nearly buckled under her. She double-checked; not a name she was ever likely to forget. She stood and watched the two little tugs steaming up the estuary, black smoke billowing from their funnels as they piloted the rusting old cargo ship toward its final destination.

  She changed direction, but as she made her way to the breakers’ yard, she couldn’t help wondering about the possible consequences of trying to find out the truth after all these years. Surely it would be more sensible just to go back to her office rather than rake over the past … the distant past.

  But she didn’t turn back, and when she reached the yard Emma headed straight for the chief ganger’s office, as if she were simply carrying out her usual morning rounds. She stepped into the railway carriage and was relieved to find that Frank wasn’t there, just a secretary typing away. She stood the moment she saw the chairman.

  “I’m afraid Mr. Gibson isn’t here, Mrs. Clifton. Shall I go and look for him?”

  “No, that won’t be necessary,” said Emma. She glanced at the large booking chart on the wall, only to have her worst fears confirmed. The SS Maple Leaf had been scheduled for breaking up and work was to begin on Tuesday week. At least that gave her a little time to decide whether to alert Harry or, like Nelson, turn a blind eye. But if Harry found out the Maple Leaf had returned to its graveyard and asked her if she’d known about it, she wouldn’t be able to lie to him.

  “I’m sure Mr. Gibson will be back in a few minutes, Mrs. Clifton.”

  “Don’t worry, it’s not important. But would you ask him to drop in and see me when he’s next passing my office?”

  “Can I tell him what it’s about?”

  * * *

  Karin looked out of the window at the countryside rushing by as the train continued on its journey to Truro. But her thoughts were elsewhere as she tried to come to terms with the baroness’s death.

  She hadn’t been in touch with Cynthia for several months, and MI6 had made no attempt to replace her as Karin’s handler. Had they lost interest in her? Cynthia had given her nothing of any significance to pass on to Pengelly for some time, and their tearoom meetings had become less and less frequent.

  Pengelly had hinted that it wouldn’t be long before he expected to return to Moscow. It couldn’t be soon enough for her. She was sick of deceiving Giles, the only man she’d ever loved, and was tired of traveling down to Cornwall on the pretence of visiting her father. Pengelly wasn’t her father but her stepfather. She loathed him, and had only ever intended to use him to help her escape a regime she despised, so she could be with the man she’d fallen in love with. The man who had become her lover, her husband and her closest friend.

  Karin hated not being able to tell Giles the real reason she had tea at the House of Lords with the baroness so often. Now that Cynthia was dead, she would no longer have to live a lie. But when Giles discovered the truth, would he believe she’d escaped the tyranny of East Berlin only because she wanted to be with him? Had she lied once too often?

  As the train pulled into Truro, she prayed it was for the last time.

  * * *

  “So as I understand it,” said Sloane’s solicitor, “your defense is that you had no idea the money was counterfeit. You found it in the company’s safe at Mellor Travel’s head office in Bristol and naturally assumed it was legal tender.”

  “That, Mr. Weatherill, is not only my defense, it also happens to be the truth.”

  Weatherill looked down at the charge sheet. “Is it also correct that earlier in the morning on which you were arrested, you purchased three shirts from Hilditch and Key in Jermyn Street, at a cost of eighteen pounds, and paid for them with four five-pound notes, all of which were counterfeit? You then took a taxi to Paddington, another forged five-pound note, where you purchased a first-class return ticket to Bristol, with three more forged five-pound notes.”

  “They all came from the same package,” said Sloane. “The one I found in the company safe in Mellor’s office.”

  “The second charge,” continued Weatherill calmly, “concerns the illegal possession of a further £7,320 found in a safe in your flat in Mayfair, which you also knew to be counterfeit.”

  “That’s ridiculous,” said Sloane. “I had no idea the money was counterfeit when I came across it in Mellor’s safe.”

  “It’s just unfortunate that you transfered the money from Mellor’s office in Bristol to your flat in London.”

  “I only moved the money there for safekeeping. I can’t be expected to travel down to Bristol every time I need some petty cash to carry out Mellor’s business.”

  “And then there’s the problem of the two written statements obtained by the police,” said Weatherill. “One from a Miss Angela Castle, and the other from Mr. Mellor himself.”

  “A convicted criminal.”

  “Then let’s begin with his statement. He says there was never more than a thousand pounds in cash in his Bristol safe.”

  “He’s a liar.”

  “According to Miss Castle’s statement, Mellor withdrew one thousand pounds in cash from the company account every quarter, for his personal use.”

  “She’s obviously covering for him.”

  “Mellor’s bank, the Nat West in Queen Street, Bristol,” continued Weatherill, “has supplied the police with copies of all his business and personal accounts over the past five years. They confirm that neither he nor the company ever withdrew more than a thousand poun