LITMIR.BIZ

      After Will Hasling had gone home, Edward hurried up to his father’s study on the next floor. He went in, snapped on the electric light, and recoiled slightly. The room had a faint lingering odour of the cigars his father had enjoyed, mingled with the scent of the bay rum aftershave lotion he had always favoured.

      In his mind’s eye, Edward saw his father sitting behind the large Georgian desk at the far end of the room, smiling across at him, and a lump came into his throat as a sudden rush of intense emotion swamped him. He had loved his father, admired him, and he would miss him inordinately, as would his brothers and sisters.

      For a moment he thought of walking out, going up to his bedroom, and then changed his mind. He would have to become accustomed to these flashes of overwhelming feeling, the vivid memories, and face them squarely, not run from them. His father was dead, just as Edmund was, and nothing would bring them back. However, the remembered past and their lives existed inside him, were deep in his heart, and so there was really no death in his lexicon. These two men lived on in his heart, and for as long as he was alive then they would be alive, too, and part of him forever.

      He walked over to the desk, went around its bulk and sat down in the comfortable black leather chair. He knew at once that he would find nothing of any importance here because all of the drawers had keys in the locks.

      Nothing to hide, nothing to find, Edward thought, as he opened the top middle drawer. It contained only a few items, none of any importance, and as he went through each drawer, he discovered the same thing. Basically there was nothing of interest to him, and certainly nothing alluding to the Grants.

      Closing the last drawer, Edward sat back in the chair, sighing to himself. He wondered what he had been looking for…he had no idea really, but he had thought that perhaps somewhere there might be a piece of damning or revealing evidence about Henry Grant and his cohorts, the men who surrounded him, or his French wife.

      Glancing around the room, Ned suddenly saw it more objectively than ever before. He had always liked its warmth and handsome overtones; the deep red-flocked wallpaper, the large, comfortable sofa covered in a matching red velvet fabric, the worn black leather armchairs near the fireplace, the wall of leather-bound books. Despite the general prevalence in most homes of that tabletop clutter of the recent Victorian era, there was a paucity of it here. His father had never cared for lots of bric-a-brac, but then neither had his mother. As in his father’s private abode at Ravenscar, there were numerous silver-framed photographs of himself, his siblings, plus several of his mother. And that was the extent of it, except for a silver cigarette box and, over on the long side table, a humidor for his father’s favourite Cuban cigars.

      It was his room now. At least it was his if he wished to make use of it, courtesy of his mother. The townhouse belonged to her; it had never been his father’s property, but had come to his mother from her father, Philip Watkins, the industrialist. Until his grandfather’s death they had lived in a much, much smaller house in Chelsea, one which had been passed down from his other grandfather, Charles Deravenel, to his father. It was a nice house, and relatively comfortable, but extremely modest in comparison to this one. And, of course, it was his mother’s inheritance that paid for its upkeep and for the maintenance of Ravenscar as well. He wasn’t sure why his father had always been short of money, always endeavouring to make ends meet, and obviously embarrassed by the impecunious situation he found himself in. But no doubt he would find out soon enough, now that he was going to be working at the Deravenel Company.

      On the train to London, Neville had suggested they both go there tomorrow to question Aubrey Masters, and to have a look around in general. ‘It won’t do any harm,’ Neville had said to him. ‘And it’s only natural that we would want to go over there together, since our fathers and brothers died together.’

      Ned had immediately seen the sense in this, and Neville had offered to pick him up at ten o’clock the next day. The Deravenel Company had large offices in the Strand, ‘Which,’ Neville had pointed out, ‘is the place you’ll have to occupy for the rest of your life. But at the top of the heap, if I have anything to do with it.’

      Edward knew that Neville was a brilliant strategist, an incomparable businessman, one with money to burn, if needs be. Whatever else happened, he was secure in the knowledge that Neville Watkins, cousin, friend and mentor, would get to the bottom of the tragedy which had taken place in Italy. But he had no idea how Neville proposed to put him at the top of the heap in the Deravenel Company. That would take a miracle, wouldn’t it?