The Ravenscar Dynasty by Barbara Taylor Bradford
Obviously, his father had never done what he’d vowed to do. But he would. By God, he would.
Edward continued to read the diary for another hour, finding a lot more information that would be useful to them. But as far as he was concerned he had already found the most important.
Later that evening, Edward and his mother discussed his father’s diary. They were both in agreement that he had some potent weapons in his hands now.
She promised to find the old documents amongst which were the company rules; he told her all about Amos Finnister and his discoveries.
They made their plans.
NINETEEN
Edward Deravenel knew he would always remember how he felt this morning as he mounted one side of the great double staircase that rose up from the central lobby of Deravenels.
He felt different, felt like a new man.
He was filled with pride; he was happy; his self-assurance was at its height. As he glanced around he felt reassured by this gargantuan building which in a sense was his, and where he now knew he would spend the rest of his life. He was secure in the knowledge that he would win…not only a battle or two, either. He would win the war. And he would rule Deravenels. It was his destiny.
His parents had raised him to fully understand who he was, what he was all about, and where he came from. Naturally he had grown up to be self-confident. He was proud of his heritage but there was not one ounce of snobbery in him; he was at ease with himself and with everyone else, whatever walk of life they came from.
When he had started working here last week he had felt slightly inhibited, and certainly he had been totally on guard. Everyone was suspect, as far as he was concerned; and he was still wary of the men who were employed here, especially Henry Grant’s cronies, but he had a better understanding of the various echelons now, thanks to Alfredo Oliveri who had told him much.
He truly understood about his heritage, his right to be head of this ancient company. He was the rightful heir. Because of that he would never permit the progeny of usurpers to mismanage it, as Henry Grant was doing; and certainly he would oust the ‘stand-ins’, the affinity surrounding Grant, along with Grant himself.
Only a Deravenel by birth could be managing director or chairman, and, other than Grant, he was the only one available.
As he strode along the corridor to his father’s office which was now his, he thought of the diary. It had hardly been out of his mind since last night when his mother passed it on to him. It was invaluable; there was so much in it; so many guidelines from his father. It was going to be his Bible, and he would live by it. Every word was meaningful, and what possession of it had done was make him feel entitled.
He had only just taken off his overcoat and hung it up, when Alfredo came barrelling into the office, his arms full of books and papers. ‘Good morning, Mr Edward.’ Alfredo gave him a cheery grin from behind the books.
‘Good morning, Oliveri. Here, let me help you with all this stuff. And what is it, anyway?’
‘Homework, sort of. Yours, to be exact.’
‘Mine?’ Edward gave him a questioning look as he lifted some of the books and papers off the top of the pile. ‘Are you serious?’
‘Indeed I am.’ Oliveri deposited everything he was carrying on the desk, as did Edward, glancing at the titles as he did so. ‘Aha! Books on mining I see! And wine. And the making of Egyptian cotton. You want me to study these so I know something about the various divisions, what we trade in? Am I right?’
‘Yes. You said you have a good memory. Is that true?’
‘Absolutely. I wouldn’t lie to you. But why do you ask?’
‘Because you can’t just merely read, you’ve got to memorize some of this material, and there’s lots of it. Once you’re chairman of the company you will be in charge, and therefore you must know certain things, be able to hold your own with the heads of the various divisions, who are obviously knowledgeable. You’re going to be boss, you’ll be IT. I must make sure you’re fully prepared.’
Edward knew that Oliveri was deadly serious, meant every word he was saying, and he was touched that Oliveri had gone to all this trouble for him. ‘Thank you for doing this, for bringing all of these books and the material to me. Really, Oliveri, this is decent of you, very decent, and I appreciate it.’
Edward sat down behind the desk, and Alfredo pulled a chair closer, drew up to the desk. ‘Now shall we begin? I’d like to start with the Mining Division, because I am involved with that particular division, and you told me the other day you’re interested in diamonds, in the mining of them and—’
‘Listen to me for a moment,’ Edward cut in. ‘I have something quite extraordinary to tell you. My mother found the notebook.’
Alfredo’s eyes were startled as he gaped at Edward, and for a moment he was speechless.
‘Here it is,’ Edward said, taking the notebook out of his pocket and handing it to him. ‘See if you can make head or tail of it.’
Alone in his own office, Alfredo started at the beginning of the notebook, concentrating on every page, trying to understand the numbers, to decipher them. But they meant nothing to him. He could not fathom what Richard Deravenel had been getting at, nor could he hazard a guess about the person Richard referred to as compadre. Certainly Mr Richard had never called him that, nor had he ever discussed numbers.
He thought back to the last time they had seen each other…in Carrara, just before Mr Richard had been killed. The older man had complained bitterly about Grant in a most confiding way, and he had said he was alarmed about the spiralling problems in the company, Grant’s colleagues, and the problems with the Carrara marble quarries. But that was it. Alfredo had told Mr Edward everything he knew, although Edward Deravenel had somehow seemed to expect more. There was nothing more.
After an hour of studying the notebook, growing frustrated, Alfredo got up, put it in his pocket and went back to Edward’s office down the corridor.
Knocking, walking in, Alfredo exclaimed, ‘I’m sorry, I’m as baffled as you. Bloody annoying it is. The notebook is gibberish.’
Edward was standing in front of the enormous map of the world, which hung on the wall behind the huge Georgian partner’s desk. He swung around at the sound of Alfredo’s voice. There was a peculiar look on his face as he said slowly, in a low voice, ‘Come here, look at this.’
Staring at Edward, he asked, ‘But what is it? What’s wrong? You have a strange look on your face.’
‘Just come over here. Please.’
Alfredo did as he was asked, stood next to Edward in front of the map, remained uncomprehending.
Edward put his middle finger on his tongue, dampened it and touched a small number on the map. The ink ran, bled out. ‘Now look closely, see how the ink runs. That’s because the number’s been written on this map, not printed. And written by my father, of that I am sure. See, it’s the number two, and it sits up there at the top of India, just between Delhi and the Punjab. See it?’
‘Oh yes, indeed I do.’
‘Now look over here, at South Africa, that portion of the map. And you’ll see the number eleven. Let your eyes sweep over to South America, the number thirty-nine is written there?’ Stepping back slightly, looking closely at Oliveri, Edward asked, ‘So you tell me…what do those three numbers have in common?’
It was obvious that Alfredo was excited. ‘The numbers are written on the countries where Deravenels have mines…diamond mines in India, gold mines in South Africa, and emerald mines in South America.’
‘Correct!’ Edward grinned at him.
‘My God, how did you discover the numbers?’ Glancing at the map, again, Alfredo added, ‘They’re barely visible, you almost need a magnifying glass to find them.’
Pointing to the books open on his desk, Edward explained swiftly, ‘I was reading about diamond mines in India, especially the famous Golconda mines. I knew ours were somewhere nearby, in that vicinity, so I got up to look at the map. I noticed the number the
Oliveri was nodding his head slowly, enlightenment spreading across his pale face. ‘Listen, your father gave each country a number, and then used the number in the notebook instead of a name. It was a coding system. I think he didn’t want anyone to know which countries he was targeting for some reason. Anyone picking the notebook up would be baffled, but not at all baffled if he had written out the names of the countries.’
‘But why didn’t he want anyone to know which countries he was referring to?’
‘I think he stumbled onto something. In Carrara he told me he was not only worried about the quarries there, which were dwindling, but lots of the other mines as well. I asked him if they, too, were dwindling down and he said no, there were other difficulties. But he didn’t go any further than that.’
Alfredo took the notebook out of his pocket and passed it to Ned, then went and sat down in the chair. ‘You’d better have that. I’d hate to lose it.’
Sitting down himself, Edward confided, ‘I think I know who he meant by compadre. My uncle, Rick Watkins.’
Alfredo frowned. ‘Why Rick?’
‘Because they were the best of friends, true compadres, and had been close for donkey’s years. Rick was my mother’s brother, and therefore family, and obviously someone he trusted absolutely. Then there’s yet another thing, Rick Watkins was probably one of the greatest magnates in this country, in fact, there was no other tycoon like him. Therefore, my father could rely on his judgement, any advice he gave. It just made sense to me as I was staring at the map. Rick came into my mind, and I knew I was right.
‘I agree. Who better than Rick Watkins to advise your father? Unless it is his son.’
‘True. However, I’m sure my father was much closer to Neville’s father.’
Sitting back in his chair, staring out into space for a moment or two, Edward seemed lost, drifting into another world, a world only he could envision. Then he sat up abruptly, and looked at Alfredo intently. Lowering his voice, he said, ‘That’s why Rick and Thomas were killed. They were murdered on purpose. Not because they just happened to be there in Carrara. The Grant faction was afraid of Rick Watkins, his power, his wealth, his brilliance as a businessman. They knew if push came to shove Rick Watkins would throw everything he had at them, to support my father and his claim for the top job at Deravenels. My brother was murdered because he was a Deravenel, a contender for the top job if anything happened to me.’
Pale as he was, Alfredo appeared to grow paler. He did not speak for a moment, sat mulling over the things Edward Deravenel had just said. Finally, after a few minutes, he murmured, ‘I can’t argue with you, Mr Edward, I really can’t. I think you are right. And—’
The door of the office burst open, swinging back violently on its hinges. ‘So here you are,’ a woman’s shrill voice exclaimed, and as she strode into the room Edward knew at once that this was Margot Grant.
He had met her several times, but long ago when he was much younger, and he had forgotten how very beautiful she was. Her skin was devoid of colour, absolutely white and flawless, her hair raven black and luxuriant, glossy, upswept into the latest style. Large, luminous black eyes stared out from under perfectly arched black brows. Her incomparable and rather dramatic beauty was matched by her slender, willowy figure and her clothes, which were the height of current fashion and expensively chic.
Coming fully into the room, she closed the door behind her and gave Edward a cursory look, then turned her attention on Alfredo Oliveri furiously.
‘I’ve been looking all over for you!’ she cried in perfect English only slightly accented. ‘How dare you hold these meetings about the Carrara quarries without my presence!’
Alfredo took a deep breath, obviously striving to control his temper. ‘The matter is urgent, and you were not here last week, Mrs Grant. Because of the urgency I held my meetings with Aubrey Masters and other executives involved in the mining division. But you know all this. And there is nothing wrong with my doing that, you know.’
‘I represent my husband at this moment in time. I run this company, and I will not tolerate insubordination.’
‘There wasn’t any,’ Alfredo shot back. ‘And I won’t have you suggesting that there was.’
‘You must not speak to me in that tone—’
‘Hey, hold on a minute,’ Edward cut in peremptorily. ‘Let me just point out one thing to you, madame. You do not run this company!’
‘Oh but I do,’ she exclaimed. ‘And why are you here in the first place? You have no right to be here, no right to occupy this office. Pack your possessions and get out.’
‘Oh but I do have every right. You had better go and look at the company rules, Mrs Grant. You will quickly discover that I have every right to be here at Deravenels, to occupy my father’s office, to be a director of this company, and to work here. For one very simple and undeniable reason. I am a Deravenel. You are not a Deravenel by birth, and therefore you cannot run this company. Actually you shouldn’t even be here at all. Because in those company rules you will find a clause which says only a woman who is a born Deravenel can work in the company and hold a directorship. Other women may work here as secretaries and receptionists, but not hold a position as an executive.’
‘Ah, c’est pas possible!’ she cried, reverting to her native French.
‘Oh but it is possible!’ Edward responded. He moved forward, was suddenly standing in front of her, looking down at her.
Staring up at him, Margot Grant saw the handsomeness of this man, became aware of his raw sex appeal, and she took a step back, glaring. But she was silent for once, unnerved by him, taken aback by his charismatic presence. He overwhelmed her.
Edward continued. ‘I will not get out, and don’t you ever dare suggest that to me again. You are the one who is a trespasser here, not I, madame.’
At a loss for words, feeling unexpectedly humiliated, Margot Grant swung around and left Edward’s office without another word.
Once the door had closed behind her, Alfredo grinned at Edward and said, ‘That was telling her where to get off.’
‘She’s one of the most beautiful women I’ve ever seen,’ Edward said almost wonderingly.
‘But she’s also a bitch, and evil,’ Alfredo pointed out in a low, almost inaudible voice. ‘Don’t ever forget that. Not ever.’
Neville Watkins met Edward and Oliveri for lunch at Rules later that morning. The wonderful restaurant just off the Strand was a favourite of his, and after Edward’s urgent telephone call he had made a reservation for one o’clock and been accommodated immediately.
The three men sat at the best table in the house, studying their menus as they waited for Amos Finnister to arrive.
They had just selected their food and were relaxing with apéritifs when Amos Finnister hurried in.
‘So sorry to be late,’ he explained, ‘but I got caught up with—some of my operatives.’ As he took a seat opposite Neville, he added, with a small, satisfied smile, ‘I have set things in motion, sir. Regarding those…er…er records.’
Neville smiled warmly, holding Amos Finnister in great esteem. ‘I have no qualms about you. I know how dedicated and efficient you are. Now, have a look at the menu and let’s order lunch. In the meantime, would you like to join us in a glass of sherry?’
‘Thank you kindly, Mr Watkins, but I won’t, if you don’t mind. I’ve got my hands full today. And I’d better be sober.’
Laughing, Neville nodded. ‘As you wish, Amos, although I don’t think one drink would do any harm.’
Again Amos declined, picked up the menu and studied it. Within a few minutes the four men had ordered, and leaning cl
Keeping his voice low, Edward told Neville and Amos about the discovery of the numbers on the map, and what he believed they meant. He also confided that he thought it was Neville’s father Rick who had been the person Richard referred to as compadre.
‘To tell you the truth, my boy, that had occurred to me, too. Who else would your father trust so implicitly but my father? Now, to the discovery of the numbers on the map, and the meaning of them, let me ask you something. Why did your father keep listing those particular mines in the notebook? Not just because they were mines, surely? There’s another reason.’
‘I think there is probably something wrong with the mines,’ Alfredo volunteered. ‘What this is I can’t hazard a guess. But there’s something amiss, I feel positive. Mr Richard was troubled when he was in Carrara, and as I’ve told you before, the reason he came to Italy instead of Aubrey Masters was because he wanted to get to the bottom of the problem there. Which is the dwindling of the marble in the quarries we own. As for the mines in those other countries, maybe they have the same problem.’
‘I doubt it,’ Neville answered. ‘I think my uncle would have told my father, and certainly my father would have mentioned it to me. It’s something else.’
‘But what?’ Edward asked worriedly. ‘What could it be?’