'Well, let's see what else we've got,' he continued remorselessly.
'There's the dairy herd.'
'That will bring in a hundred thousand, if we are lucky,' Nicholas
grunted. 'Leaves only two point four million to find.'
'And your racing stud,' the accountant came into the conversation.
'I have only six horses in training. Another two hundred grand.'
Nicholas smiled without humour, 'Brings us down to two point two. We are
getting there slowly.'
'The yacht,' suggested the youngest lawyer.
'It's older than I am,' Nicholas shook his head, 'belonged to my father,
for heaven's sake. You probably wouldn't be able to give it away.
Sentimental is the only value it has. My shotguns would be worth more.'
Both lawyers bent their heads over their lists, 'Ah, yes!
We have those. A pair of Purdey sidelock ejectors in good condition.
Estimate forty thousand.'
'I also have some secondhand socks and underpants,' Nicholas admitted.
'%why don't you list those also?'
They ignored the jibe. 'men there is the London house,' the elder lawyer
went on unperturbed, inured to human suffering. 'Good address. Value one
point five million.'
'Not in this financial climate, Nicholas contradicted him. 'A million is
more realistic.' The lawyer made a note in the margin of his document
before going on, 'Of course we want to avoid, if at all possible,
putting the entire estate up for sale.'
It was a hard and difficult meeting which ended with nothing definitely
decided, and Nicholas feeling angry and frustrated.
He saw the lawyers off, and then went up to the family quarters to take
a quick shower and change his shirt. As an afterthought, and for no
good'reason, he shaved and splashed aftershave on his cheeks.
He drove across the park and left the Range Rover in the museum car
park. The snow had turned to sleet, and I his bare head was sprinkled
with cold droplets by the time he had crossed the car park.
Royan was waiting in Mrs. Street's office. The two of them seemed to be
getting along well together. He stopped outside the door to listen to
her laughter. It made him feel a little better.
The cook had sent across a hot lunch from the main house. She seemed to
believe that a substantial meal would keep this foul weather at bay.
There was a tureen of thick, rich minestrone and a Lancashire hotpot,
with a half bottle of red Burgundy for him and a jug of freshly squeezed
orange juice for her. They ate in front of the fire, while the rain
whipped against the windowpanes.
While they ate he asked her to give him the details of Duraid's murder.
She left out nothing, including her own injuries and drew back her
sleeve to show him the dressing over the knife wound. He listened
intently as she told him of the second attempt on her life in the
streets of Cairo.
'Any suspicions?' he asked, when she had finished.
'Anybody you can think of who might be responsible?' But she shook her
head.
