Текст книги "The Seventh Scroll"

Автор книги: Wilbur Smith

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At the moment that the leading hen bird reached a point in the sky sixty

degrees  ut ahead of him he moved for the first time. With casual grace

he swung the shotgun up in a sweeping arc. At the instant that the butt

touched I I his cheek and shoulder he fired, but the gun never stopped

moving and went on to describe the rest of the arc.

The distance delayed the sound of the shot reaching I Royan. She saw the

barrels kick with the recoil, and a pale spurt of blue smoke from the

muzzle. Then Nicholas lowered the gun as the hen suddenly threw back her

head and closed her wings. There was no burst of feathers from her body,

for she had been hit cleanly in the head and killed instantly. As she

began the long plummet to earth Royan heard the thud of the shot.

By then the cock was high over Nicholas's head. This time as he mounted

the gun in that casual sweeping gesture he arched his back to point

upwards, his long frame bending from the waist like a drawn bow. Once

again at the apex of the swing the weapon kicked in his grasp.

"He has missed!" Royan thought with a mixture of satisfaction and

disappointment, as the cock sailed on seemingly unscathed. Part of her

wanted the beautiful bird to escape, while part of her wanted the man to

succeed.

Gradually the profile of the high cock altered as the wings folded back

and it rolled over in flight. Royan had no way of knowing that his heart

had been struck through, until seconds later he died in mid-air and the

locked wings lost their rigid set.

As the cock tumbled to earth, a spontaneous chorus of  heers ran down

the line of beaters, faint but enthusiastic on the icy north wind. Even

the other guns added their voices with cries of, "Oh, good shot, sir!'

Royan did not join in the cheering, but for the moment her fatigue and

cold were forgotten. She could only vaguely appreciate the skill that

those two shots had called for, but she was impressed, even a little

awed. Her very first glimpse of the man had fulfilled all the

expectations that Duraid's stories about him had raised in her.

By the time the last drive ended it was almost dark.

An old army truck came mbling down the track through ru the forest along

which the tired beaters and their dogs waited. As it slowed they

scrambled up into the back.

Georgina gave Royan a boost from behind before she and Magic followed

her up. They settled thankfully on one of the long hard benches, and

Georgina lit a cigarette as she joined, in the chat and banter of the

under-keepers and beaters around her.

Royan sat silently at the end of the bench, enjoying the sense of

achievement at having come through such a strenuous day. She felt tired

and relaxed, and strangely contented. For one whole day she had not

thought either of the theft of the scroll or of Duraid's murder and the

unknown and unseen enemy who threatened her with aviolent death.

The truck ground down the hill and slowed as it reached the bottom,

pulling in to the verge to let a green Range Rover pass. As the two

vehicles drew level, Royan turned her head and looked down into the open

driver's window of the expensive estate car, and into the eyes of

Nicholas Quenton Harper at the wheel.

This was the first time she had been close enough to him to see his

features. She was surprised at how young he was. She had expected him to

be a man of Duraid's age.

She saw now that he was no older than forty, for there were only the

first strands of silver in the wings of his thick, rumpled hair. His

features were tanned and weatherbeaten, those of an outdoors man. His

eyes were green and penetrating under dark, beetling brows. His mouth

was wide and expressive, and he was smiling now at some witticism that

the driver of the truck called to him in a thick Yorkshire accent, but

there was a sense of sadness and tragedy in the eyes. Royan remembered

what the Prof had told her of his recent bereavement, and she felt her

heart go out to him. She was not alone in her loss and her mourning.

He looked directly into her eyes and she saw his expression change. She

was an attractive woman, and she could tell when a man recognized that.

She had made an impression on him, but she did not enjoy the fact. Her

sorrow for Duraid was still too raw and painful. She looked away and the

Range Rover drove on.

Her lecture at the university went off extremely well. Royan was a good

speaker and she knew her subject intimately. She held them fascinated

with her account of the opening of the tomb_of Queen Lostris and of the

subsequent discovery of the scrolls. Many of her audience had read the

book, and during question time they pestered her to know how much of it

was the truth. She had to tread very carefully here, so as not to deal

too harshly with the author.

Afterwards Prof Dixon took Royan and Georgina to dinner. He was

delighted with her success, and ordered the most expensive bottle of

claret on the wine list to celebrate.

He was only mildly disconcerted when she refused a glass of it.

"Oh, dear me, I forgot that you were a Moslem," he apologized.

"A Copt," she corrected him, "and it's not on religious grounds. I just

don't like the taste."

"Don't worry," Georgina counselled him, "I don't have the same odd

compulsion to masochism as my daughter.

She must get it from her father's side. I'll give you a hand to finish

the good stuff."

Under the benign influence of the claret the Prof became expansive, and

entertained them with the accounts of the archaeological digs he had

been on over the decades.

It was only over the coffee that he turned to Royan.

"Goodness me, I almost forgot to tell you. I have arranged for you to

visit the museum at Quenton Park any afternoon this week. just ring Mrs.

Street the day before, and she will be waiting to let you in. She is

Nicholas's PA."

Ryan remembered the way to Quenton Park  when Georgina had driven them

to the shoot, but now she was alone in the Land Rover. The massive main

gates to the estate were made of ornate cast iron. A little further on,

the road divided and a cluster of road signs pointed the way to the

various destinations: "Quenton Hall, Private', "Estate Office' and

"Museum'.

The road to the museum curved through the deer park where herds of

fallow deer grazed under the winter'bare oaks. Through the misty

landscape she had glimpses of the big house. According to the guidebook

that the Prof had given her, Sir Christopher Wren had designed the house

in 1693, and the master landscapist, Capability Brown, had created the

gardens sixty years later. The results were perfection.

The museum was set in a grove of copper beech trees half a mile beyond

the house. It was a sprawling building that had obviously been added to

more than once over the years. Mrs. Street was waiting for her at the

side door, and introduced herself as she let Royan in. She was middle

aged, grey-haired and self-assured. "I was at your lecture on Monday

evening. Fascinating! I have a guidebook for you, but you will find the

exhibits well catalogued and described.

I have spent almost twenty years at the job. There are no other visitors

today. You will have the place to yourself.

You must just wander around and please yourself. I shall not leave until

five this evening, so you have all afternoon.

If I can help you in any way my office is at the end of the passage.

Please don't hesitate."

From the first moment that Royan walked into the display of African

mammals she was enthralled. The primate room housed a complete

collection of every single species of ape and monkey from that

continent: from the great ilver-backed male gorilla to the delicate

colobus in his long flowing mantle of black and white fur, they were all

represented.

Although some of the exhibits were over a hundred years old, they were

beautifully preserved and presented, set in painted dioramas of their

natural habitat. It was obvious that the museum must employ a staff of

skilled artists and taxidermists. She could guess what this must have

cost. Wryly she decided that the five million'dollars from the sale of

the plundered treasure had been well spent.

She went through to the antelope room and stared around her in wonder at

the magnificent beasts preserved here. She stopped before a diorama of a

family group of the giant sable antelope of the now extinct Angolan

variety, Hippotragus niger variant. While she admired the jet black and

snowy-chested bull with his long, back-swept horns, she mourned his

death at the hand of one of the Quenton, Harper family. Then she checked

herself. Without the strange dedication and passion of the

hunter-collector who had killed him, future generations might never have

been able to look upon this regal presence.

She passed on into the next hall which was given over to displays of the

African elephant, and paused in the centre of the room before a pair of

ivory tusks so large that she could not believe they had ever been

carried by a living animal. They seemed more like the marble columns of

some Hellenic temple to Diana, the goddess of the chase.

She stooped to read the printed catalogue card:

Tusks of the African Elephant, Loxodonta africana.

Shot in the Lado Enclave in 1899 by Sir Jonathan Quenton-Harper. Left

tusk 289 lb. Right tusk 301 lb. Length of larger tusk 11' 4'. Girth 32".

The largest pair of tusks ever taken by a European hunter.

They stood twice as high as she was tall, and they were half as thick

again as her waist. As she passed on into the Egyptian room

she-marvelled at the size and strength of the creature that had carried

them.

She came up short as her eyes fell upon the figure in the centre of the

room. It was a fifteen-foot-high figure of Rarnesses 11, depicted as the

god Osiris in polished red granite. The god-emperor strode out on

muscular legs, wearing only sandals on his feet and a short kilt. In his

left hand he carried the remains of a warlbow, with both the upper and

lower limbs of the weapon broken off. This was the only damage that the

statue had suffered in all those thousands of years. The rest of it was

perfect – the plinth even bore the marks of the mason's chisel. In his

right fist Pharaoh carried a seal embossed with his royal cartouche.

Upon his majestic head he wore the tall double crown of the upper and

lower kingdoms. His expression was calm and enigmatic.

Royan recognized the statue instantly, for its twin i stood in the grand

hall of the Cairo museum. She passed it every day on her way to her

office.

She felt anger rising in her. This was one of the major treasures of her

very Egypt. It had been plundered and stolen from one of her country's

sacred sites. It did not belong here. It belonged on the banks of the

great river Nile. She felt herself shaking with the strength of her

emotion as she went forward to examine the statue more closely and to

read the hieroglyphic inscription on the base.

The royal cartouche stood out in the centre of the arrogant warning: "I

am the divine Ramesses, master of ten thousand chariots – Fear me, of ye

enemies of Egypt."

Royan had not read the translation aloud; it was a soft, deep voice

close behind her that spoke, startling her. She had not heard anyone

approaching. She spun round to find him standing close enough to touch.

His hands were thrust into the pockets of a shapeless blue cardigan.

There was a hole in one elbow. He wore faded denim jeans over well'worn

but monogrammed velvet carpet slippers – the type of genteel shabbiness

that certain Englishmen often cultivate, for it would never do to seem

too concerned with one's appearance.

"Sorry. Didn't mean to startle you," He smiled eazy.

'le of apology, and his teeth were very white but slightly "t smi

crooked. Suddenly his expression changed as he recognized her.

"Oh, it's you." She should have been flattered that he remembered her

from so fleeting a contact, but there was that flash of something in his

eyes again that offended her.

Nevertheless, she could not refuse the hand he offered her.

"Nick Quenton-Harper," he introduced himself. "You must be Percival

Dixon's old student. I think I saw you at the shoot last Thursday.

Weren't you beating for us?"

His manner was friendly and forthright, so she felt her hackles

subsiding as she responded, "Yes. I am Royan Al Simma. I think you knew

my husband, Duraid Al Simma."

"Duraid! Of course, I know him. Grand old fellow. We spent a lot of time

in the desert together. One of the very best. How is he?"

"He's dead." She had not meant it to sound so bald and heartless, but

then there was no other reply she could think of.

"I am so terribly sorry. I didn't know. When and how did it happen?"

"Very recently, three weeks ago. He was murdered.

"Oh, my God." She saw the sympathy in his eyes, and she remembered that

he also had suffered. "I telephoned him in Cairo not more than four

months ago. He was his old charming self Have they found the person who

did it?"

She shook her head and looked around the hall to avoid having to -face

him and let him see that her eyes were wet. "You have an extraordinary

collection here."

He accepted the change of subject at once. Thanks mostly to my

grandfather. He was on the staff of Evelyn Baring – Over Bearing, as his

numerous enemies called him. He was the British man in . Cairo during-'

She cut him short. "Yes, I have heard of Evelyn Baring, the first Earl

of Cromer, British Consul-General of Egypt from 1883 to 1907. With his

plenipotentiary powers he was the unchallenged dictator of my country

for all that period. Numerous enemies, as you say."

Nicholas's eyes narrowed slightly. "Percival warned me you were one of

his best students. He didn't, however, warn me of your strong

nationalistic feelings. It is clear that you didn't need me to translate

the Ramesses inscription for you."

"My own father was on the staff of Gama! Abdel Nasser," she murmured.

Nasser was the man who had toppled the puppet King Farouk and finally

broken the British power in Egypt. As president he had nationalized the

Suez Canal in the face of British outrage.

"HaV he chuckled. "Different sides of the track. But things have

changed. I hope we don't have to be enemies?"

"Not at all," she agreed. "Duraid held you in the highest esteem."

"As I did him." He changed the subject again. "We ar very proud of our

collection of royal ushabd Examples from the tomb of every pharaoh from

the old Kingdom onwards, right up to the last of the Ptolemys. Please

let me show it to you." She followed him to the huge display case that

occupied one complete wall of the hall. It was lined with shelf after

shelf of the doll-like figures which had been placed in the tombs to act

as servants and slaves for the dead kings in the shadow world.

With his own key Nicholas opened the glazed doors of the case and

reached up to bring down the most interesting of the exhibits. "This is

the ushabd of Maya who served under three pharaohs, Tutankhamen, Ay and

Horemheb.

It is from the -tomb of Ay who died in 1343 Bc."

He handed the doll to her and she read aloud the three thousand-year-old

hieroglyphics as easily as though they had been the headlines of that

morning's newspaper.

"I am Maya, Treasurer of the two Kingdoms. I will answer for the divine

Pharaoh Ay. May he live for ever!" She spoke in Arabic to test him, and

his reply in the same language was fluent and colloquial, "It seems that

Percival Dixon told me the truth. You must have been an exceptional

student."

Engrossed now in their common interest, speaking alternately Arabic and

English, the initial sharp prickles.of antagonism between them were

dulled. They moved slowly round the hall, lingering before each display

case to handle and examine minutely each object that it contained.

It was as though they were transported back over the millennia. Hours

and days seemed of no consequence in the face of such antiquity, and so

it startled both of them when Mrs. Street returned to interrupt them, "I

am off now, Sir Nicholas. Can I leave it to you to lock up and set the

alarm? The security guards are on duty already."

"What time is it?"Nicholas answered his own question by glancing at the

stainless steel Rolex Submariner on his wrist. "Five-forty already, what

on earth happened to the day?" He sighed theatrically. "Off you go, Mrs.

Street. Sorry we kept you so long."

"Don't forget to set the alarm," she warned him, and then to Royan, "He

can be so absent-minded when he is off on one of his hobby-horses." Her

fondness towards her employer was obviously that of an indulgent aunt.

"You've given me enough orders for one day. Off you go," Nicholas

grinned, as he turned back to Royan. "Can't let you go without showing

you something that Duraid."was in on with me. Can you stay for a few

minutes longer?" She nodded and he reached out as if to take her arm,

and then dropped his hand. In the Arab world it is insulting to touch a

woman, even in such a casual manner. She was aware of the courtesy, and

she warmed to his good manners and easy style a little more.

He led her out of the exhibition halls through a door marked "Private.

Staff Only', and down a long corridor to the room at the end.

The inner sanctum." He ushered her in. "Excuse the mess'. I must really

get around to tidying up in here one of these years. My wife used to-'

He broke off abruptly, and he glanced at the silver-framed photograph of

a family group on his desk. Nicholas and a beautiful dark-haired woman

sat on a picnic rug under the spreading branches of an oak. There were

two little girls with them and the family resemblance to the mother was

strong in both of them. The youngest child sat on Nicholas's lap while

the elder girl stood behind them, holding the reins of her Shetland

pony. Royan glanced sideways at him and saw the devastating sorrow in

his eyes.

So as not to embarrass him she looked around the rest of the room, which

was obviously his study and workshop.

It was spacious and comfortable, a man's room, but it illustrated the

contradictions of his character – the bookish scholar set against the

man of action. Amongst the muddle of books and museum specimens lay

fishing reels and a Hardy split cane salmon rod. On a row of wall hooks

hung a Barbour jacket, a canvas shotgun slip and a leather cartridge bag

embossed with the initials ..-.

She recognized some of the framed pictures on the walls. They were

original nineteenth-century watercolours by the Scottish traveller David

Roberts, and others by Vivant Denon who had accompanied Napoleon's

L'armie de I'Orient to Egypt. They were fascinating views of the

monuments drawn before the excavations and restorations of more modern

times.

Nicholas went to the fireplace and threw a log on the fading coals. He

kicked it until it flared up brightly and then beckoned her to stand in

front of the floor-to-ceiling curtains that covered half of one wall.

With a conjuror's flourish he pulled the tasselled cord that opened the

curtains and exclaimed with satisfaction, "

"What do you make of that, then?"

She studied the magnificent has-relief frieze that was mounted on the

wall. The detail was beautiful and the rendition magnificent, but she

did not let her admiration show. Instead she gave her opinion in offhand

tones.

"Sixth King of the Amorite dynasty, Hammurabi, about 1780 Bc," she said,

pretending to study the finely chiselled features of the ancient monarch

before she went on, "Yes, probably from his palace site south-west of

the ziggurat at Ashur. There should have been a pair of these friezes.

They are worth in the region of five million US dollars each. My guess

is that they were stolen from the saintly ruler of modern Mesopotamia,

Saddam Hussein, by two unprincipled rogues. I hear that the other one of

the pair is at present in the collection of a certain Mr Peter Walsh in

Texas."

He stared at her in astonishment, and then burst out laughing. "Damn it!

I swore'Duraid to secrecy but he must have told you about our naughty

little escapade." It was the first time she had heard him laugh. It

seemed to come naturally to his lips and she -liked the sound of it,

hearty and unaffected.

"You are right about the present owner of the second frieze," he told

her, still laughing. "But the price was six million, not five."

"Duraid also told me about your visit to the Tibesti Massif in Chad and

southern Libya," she remarked, and he shook his head in mock contrition.

'it seems I have no secrets from you." He went to a tall armoire against

the opposite wall. It was a magnificent piece of marquetry furniture,

probably seventeenth-century French. He opened the double doors and

said, "This is what Duraid and I brought back from Libya, without the

consent of Colonel Muammar al Gadaffi."He took down one of the exquisite

little bronzes and handed it to her. It was the figure of a mother

nursing her infant, and it had a green patina of age.

"Hannibal, son of Hamilcar Barca," he said, "about 203 BC. These were

found by a band of Tuareg at one of his old camps on the Bagradas river

in North Africa.

Hannibal must have cached them there before his defeat by the Roman

general Scipio. There were over two hundred bronzes in the hoard, and I

still have fifty of the best of them."

"You sold the rest of them?" she asked, as she admired the statuette.

There was disapproval in her tone as she went on, "How could you bear to

part with something so beautiful?"

He sighed unhappily, "Had to, I am afraid. Very sad, but the expedition

to retrieve them cost me a fortune. Had to cover expenses by selling

some of the booty."

He went to his desk and brought out a bottle of Laphroaig malt whisky

from the bottom drawer. He placed the bottle on the desk top and set two

glasses beside it.

"Can I tempt you?" he asked, but she shook her head.

"Don't blame you. Even the Scots themselves admit that this brew should

only be drunk in sub-zeiro weather on The Hill, in a forty-knot gale,

after stalking and shooting a ten-point stag. May I offer you something

a little more ladylike?"

Do you have a Coke?" she suggested.

Yes, but that is really bad for you, even worse than Laphroaig. It's all

that sugar. Absolute poison."

She took the glass he brought to her and returned his toast with it.

"To life!" she agreed, and then she went on, "You are right. Duraid did

tell me about these." She replaced the Punic bronze in the armoire, then

came to face him at the desk. "It was also Duraid who sent me to see

you. It was his dying instruction to me."

"Aha! So none of this is coincidence then. It seems I am the unwitting

pawn in some deep and nefarious plot." He pointed to the chair facing

his desk. "Sit!" he ordered "Tell!'

He perched above her on the corner of the desk, with the whisky glass in

his right hand and with one long, denim-clad leg swinging lazily as the

tail of a resting leopard. Though he was smiling quizzically, he watched

her face with a penetrating green gaze. She thought that it would be

difficult to lie to this man.

She took a deep breath, "Have you heard of an ancient Egyptian queen

called Lostris, of the second intermediate period, coexistent with the

first Hyksos invasions?"

He laughed a little derisively and stood up, "Oh! Now we are talking

about the book River God, are we?" He went to the bookcase and brought

down a copy. Although well thumbed, it was still in its dust-jacket, and

the cover illustration was a dreamy surrealistic view in pastel shades

of green and rose purple of the pyramids seen over water.

He dropped it on the desk in front of her.

"Have you read it?" she asked.

"Yes," he nodded. "I read most of Wilbur Smith's stuff.

He amuses me. He has shot here at Quenton Park a couple of times."

"You like lots of sex and violence in your reading, obviously?" She

pulled a face. "What did you think of this particular book?"

"I must admit that he had me fooled. Whilst I was reading it, I sort of

wished that it might be based on fact.

That was why I phoned Duraid." Nicholas picked up the book again and

flipped to the end of it. "The author's note was convincing, but what I

couldn't get out of my mind was the last sentence." He read it aloud.

"'Sanwwhere in the Abyssinian mountains near the source of the Blue

Nile, the mummy of Tenus still lies in the unviolated tomb of Pharaoh

Mamose.

Almost angrily Nicholas threw the book down on the desk. "My God! You

will never know how much I wanted it to be true. You will never know how

much I wanted a shot at Pharaoh Mamose's tomb. I had to speak to Duraid.

When he assured me it was all a load of bunkum, I felt cheated. I had

built up my expectations so high that I was bitterly disappointed."

"It's not bunkum," she contradicted him, and then corrected herself

quickly, "well, at least not all of it."

"I see. Duraid was lying to me, was he?"

"Not lying," she defended him hotly. "Just delaying the truth a little.

He wasn't ready to tell you the whole story then. He didn't have the

answers to all the questions that he knew you would ask. He was going to

come to you when he was ready. Your name was at the top of the list of

potential sponsors that he had drawn up."

"Duraid did not have the answers, but I suppose you do?" He was smiling

sceptically.  was caught once. I am not likely to fall for the same cock

and bull a second time."

"The scrolls exist. Nine of them are still in the, vaults at the Cairo

museum. I was the one who discovered them in the tomb of Queen Lostris."

Royan opened her leather sling bag and rummaged around in it until she

brought out a thin sheaf of glossy 6  4 colour photographs. She selected

one and passed it to him. That is a shot of the rear wall of the tomb.

You can just make out the alabaster jars in the niche. That was taken

before we removed them."

"Nice picture, but it could have been taken anywhere." She ignored the

remark and passed him another photograph. The ten scrolls in Duraid's

workroom at the museum. You recognize the two men standing behind the

bench?"

He nodded. "Duraid and Wilbur Smith." His sceptical expression had

turned to one of doubt and bemusement.

"What the hell are you trying to tell me?"

"What the hell I am trying to tell you is that, apart from a wide poetic

licence that the author took unto himself, all that he– wrote in the

book has at least some foundation in the truth. However, the scroll that

most concerns us is the seventh, the one that was stolen by the men who

murdered my husband."

Nicholas stood up and went to the fireplace. He threw on another log and

bashed it viciously with the poker, as if to give release to his

emotions. He spoke without "turning "What was the significance of that

particular scroll around, as opposed to the other nine?"

"It was the one that contained the account of Pharaoh Mamose's burial

and, we believe, directions that might enable us to find the site of the

tomb."

"You believe, but you aren't certain?" He swung around to face her with

the poker gripped like a weapon. In this mood he was frightening. His

mouth was set in a tight hard line and his eyes glittered.

"Large parts of the seventh scroll are written in some sort of code, a

series of cryptic verses. Duraid and I were in the process of

deciphering these when-' she broke off and drew a long breath, "when he

was murdered."

"You must have a copy of something so valuable?" He glared at her, so

that she felt intimidated. She shook her head.

"All the microfilm, all our notes, all of it was stolen along with the

original scroll. Then whoever killed Duraid went back to our flat in

Cairo and destroyed my PC on to which I had transposed all our

research."

He threw the poker into the coal scuttle with a clatter, and came back

to the desk. "So you have no evidence at all? Nothing to prove that any

of this is true?"

"Nothing," she agreed, "except what I have here." With a long slim

forefinger she tapped her forehead. "I have a good memory."

He frowned and ran his fingers through his thick curling hair. "And so

why did you come to me?"

"I have come to give you a shot at the tomb of Pharaoh Mamose, she told

him simply. "Do you want it?"

Suddenly his mood changed. He grinned like a naughty schoolboy. "At this

moment I cannot think of anything I want more."

Then you and I will have to draw up some sort of working agreement," she

told him, and she leaned forward in a businesslike manner. "First, let

me tell you what I want, and then you can do the same."

It was hard bargaining, and it was one in the morning when Royan

admitted her exhaustion. "I can't think straight any more. Can we start

again tomorrow morning?" They still had not reached an agreement.

"It's tomorrow morning already," he told her. "But you are right.

Thoughtless of me. You can sleep here. After all, we do have

twenty-seven bedrooms here."

"No, thanks." She stood up. "I'll go on home."

"The road will be icy," he warned her. Then he saw her determined

expression and held up his hands in capitulation. "All right, I won't

insist. What time tomorrow? I have a meeting with my lawyers at ten, but

we should be finished by noon. Why don't you and I have a working lunch

here? I was supposed to be shooting at Ganton in the afternoon, but I

will cancel that. That way I will have the afternoon and evening clear

for you."

Nicholas's meeting with the lawyers took place the next morning in the

library of Quenton Park. It was not an easy nor a pleasant session, but

then he never expected it to be. This had been the year in which his

world began to fall to pieces around his head. He gritted his teeth as

he remembered how the year had opened with that fatal moment of fatigue

and inattention at midnight on the icy motorway, and the blinding

headlights of the truck bearing down on them.

He had not recovered from that before the next brutal blow had fallen.

This was the financial report of the Lloyd's insurance syndicate on

which Nicholas, like his father and grandfather before him, was a

"Name'. For half a century the family had enjoyed a regular and

substantial income from their share of the syndicate profits. Of

course,'Nicholas had been aware that liability for his share of any