Read Online Bacchus and Sanderson (Deceased) by Simon Speight - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Simon Speight
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that his admission of failure would have infuriated her. The smallest thing could cause her to erupt. Finally Felicity spoke having regained a semblance of calm.
“I am going to Waterloo station. I will find Bacchus, talk to him, bribe him, or seduce him. If necessary, I will bludgeon him to death but I will see the contents of that package. I need to know what Sanderson put into that package, what he knew. You are fired. You are incompetent, untrustworthy and stupid. Clear your desk.” She paused for a moment; all he could hear was her ragged breathing echoing down the mobile connection.
“No. I need to know what was in that letter, why he had to destroy it before he had even left your office. If you want to keep your job, exorbitant salary, perks, and regain my goodwill; piece it together. Put that letter into a form that can be read. I hope you enjoy puzzles. Call me in the morning with good news.”
Gerald Thrasher sat staring at the reproduction of ‘The Hay Wain’ by Constable above the fireplace and listening to the dial tone of a finished phone call. Putting the phone onto its stand, he slumped back into his chair staring at the ceiling. Taking a deep breath, he pressed the intercom to his assistant Siobhan.
“Siobhan. I hope we have a lot of fucking cello tape.”
Chapter 7
William sat on the ornate chaise lounge in the guest room in the South Canonry, which had been the Bishop of Salisbury’s residence since 1947. It had been decided that the Bishops Palace was too large to use as a family home and had been given over to the Dean and Chapter of the Cathedral School. He had spent many days and nights here over the years enjoying the splendour of the house and the generosity of his hosts; attending meetings with Freddie, his bishop, invited to formal events, family events and small family dinners. Here he had been groomed for his bishopric, as Freddie’s successor, Bishop of Salisbury.
William picked up the large padded manila envelope he had been carrying since leaving Thrashers office earlier that afternoon and sat staring at it wondering what he should do. His commitment to Ernest Sanderson was at this moment minimal. Opening the envelope, acknowledging the responsibility, would set him on a path that passed control of his life to a dead man he had never met.
The train Journey from Waterloo to Salisbury had given him time to consider Ernest Sanderson’s bequest. What did a wealthy businessman need an unassuming middle aged vicar for? William’s range of skills where essentially cerebral and, since his heart attack, exclusively so. If Ernest needed an Indiana Jones style adventuring vicar, his requirements would be delayed for some months until recuperation, diet and exercise had reshaped his generous figure.
Using a letter opener he had taken from the bureau, he slit the wax seal and tipped the contents onto the coffee table. The envelope contained a set of deeds for the book shop in Sherborne, a key with an ornate, monogrammed top and an expensive handmade paper envelope. William opened the envelope with the letter opener and removed five sheets of double spaced typing on expensive handmade paper. Smoothing the sheets of paper, he began to read.
‘Dear William,
If you are reading this letter then I am dead and you have already met with Gerald Thrasher. I hope you trusted my advice and have severed any connection with him. I will offer substantive evidence of his duplicity later in another letter I have written to you and in the documents that I have amassed to assist you.
However, first things first. I am certain you are both confused and if you are at all like me, a little annoyed at my presumptuousness. I apologise, but as you will see over time, I had little choice. I am sure you are wondering why you are the beneficiary to my estate
“I am going to Waterloo station. I will find Bacchus, talk to him, bribe him, or seduce him. If necessary, I will bludgeon him to death but I will see the contents of that package. I need to know what Sanderson put into that package, what he knew. You are fired. You are incompetent, untrustworthy and stupid. Clear your desk.” She paused for a moment; all he could hear was her ragged breathing echoing down the mobile connection.
“No. I need to know what was in that letter, why he had to destroy it before he had even left your office. If you want to keep your job, exorbitant salary, perks, and regain my goodwill; piece it together. Put that letter into a form that can be read. I hope you enjoy puzzles. Call me in the morning with good news.”
Gerald Thrasher sat staring at the reproduction of ‘The Hay Wain’ by Constable above the fireplace and listening to the dial tone of a finished phone call. Putting the phone onto its stand, he slumped back into his chair staring at the ceiling. Taking a deep breath, he pressed the intercom to his assistant Siobhan.
“Siobhan. I hope we have a lot of fucking cello tape.”
Chapter 7
William sat on the ornate chaise lounge in the guest room in the South Canonry, which had been the Bishop of Salisbury’s residence since 1947. It had been decided that the Bishops Palace was too large to use as a family home and had been given over to the Dean and Chapter of the Cathedral School. He had spent many days and nights here over the years enjoying the splendour of the house and the generosity of his hosts; attending meetings with Freddie, his bishop, invited to formal events, family events and small family dinners. Here he had been groomed for his bishopric, as Freddie’s successor, Bishop of Salisbury.
William picked up the large padded manila envelope he had been carrying since leaving Thrashers office earlier that afternoon and sat staring at it wondering what he should do. His commitment to Ernest Sanderson was at this moment minimal. Opening the envelope, acknowledging the responsibility, would set him on a path that passed control of his life to a dead man he had never met.
The train Journey from Waterloo to Salisbury had given him time to consider Ernest Sanderson’s bequest. What did a wealthy businessman need an unassuming middle aged vicar for? William’s range of skills where essentially cerebral and, since his heart attack, exclusively so. If Ernest needed an Indiana Jones style adventuring vicar, his requirements would be delayed for some months until recuperation, diet and exercise had reshaped his generous figure.
Using a letter opener he had taken from the bureau, he slit the wax seal and tipped the contents onto the coffee table. The envelope contained a set of deeds for the book shop in Sherborne, a key with an ornate, monogrammed top and an expensive handmade paper envelope. William opened the envelope with the letter opener and removed five sheets of double spaced typing on expensive handmade paper. Smoothing the sheets of paper, he began to read.
‘Dear William,
If you are reading this letter then I am dead and you have already met with Gerald Thrasher. I hope you trusted my advice and have severed any connection with him. I will offer substantive evidence of his duplicity later in another letter I have written to you and in the documents that I have amassed to assist you.
However, first things first. I am certain you are both confused and if you are at all like me, a little annoyed at my presumptuousness. I apologise, but as you will see over time, I had little choice. I am sure you are wondering why you are the beneficiary to my estate
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