Babylon South by Jon Cleary Page A

payable within the usual thirty days. The corporation will then become a private one, though certain of you will be invited to join our board.” That was a carrot thrown in front of the horse drawing the tumbril and everyone recognized it as such.
    Especially Emma. “Very generous. Do you expect us to respond to that sort of bribery?”
    â€œNot you, Aunt. I wouldn’t expect it of you,” said Justine coolly. Oh, I’m proud of you, thought Venetia and sat silent. “We are just hoping you will take the money and run.”
    â€œI’ve never run away from anything in my life,” said Emma, peeling off her gloves, which were not kid but suggested chainmail. “We real Springfellows never do.”
    Beside her Edwin tried to look like a man who wasn’t already bending to the starting-blocks. Seemingly there was less fight in him than in his sister; it was as if he knew the battle was already lost and he wanted to retire, if not run, with dignity. In his secret heart, which he never opened, even to his wife, he knew that Venetia had taken over the Springfellow empire at least five years ago; indeed, almost from the day, long before that, when she had legally inherited Walter’s estate. Also in his secret heart he had hoped that Walter might some day reappear and save them all. But tomorrow that hope would be buried for ever with Walter’s bones.
    â€œI am not selling,” said Emma, gloves now off, “no matter what you may offer. Nor is my brother.” She did not even look at Edwin; he was leaving all the fight to her. They were fighting, he knew that, but he had lost all heart for it. “We have the capital to buy up a major block of shares in Springfellow and Company and we are doing that at the moment.”
    Justine looked up the table at her mother; Venetia looked at Michael Broad. He spread his hands in an almost Jewish gesture. “Unless it’s happened in the last hour . . .”
    â€œIt has,” said Emma, bare-knuckled. “You should have kept track of the stock exchange board.”
    As if on cue but a trifle late, like a wounded messenger from another part of the battlefield, there was a knock on the door and one of Venetia’s secretaries came in and put a sheet of paper in front of her. Venetia looked at it, then sat up straight. Justine sat down at once, recognizing she had just lost her status. Her mother was not the sort of general who stayed in the background when the tide of battle went against her.
    â€œSeven dollars a share is being offered for Springfellow and Company. Four million shares have been bought in the last half-hour—” She looked at the sheet of paper. “I don’t know who the sellers are—”
    â€œWe are,” said one of the Intercapital directors. He was a man named Safire, in his fifties and an advertisement for creature comforts; if ever he were reduced to the breadline, he would ask for croissants. He had a voice full of rich plums, a vocal orchard of over-ripe fruit. Venetia had never liked him, nor he her. “We arranged the sale this morning, but didn’t let the market know till half an hour ago. When this meeting was timed to start.”
    â€œThank you, Erwin. I hope Intercapital’s policy holders are treated better than you’ve treated me. Do you cut their throats as their policies mature?”
    â€œI think that’s uncalled for,” said the other Intercapital director, a thin under-nourished man named Newstead, seemingly chosen to contrast with Safire’s sleek corpulence. “Business is business, Venetia. We are in business to do our best for our clients.”
    â€œMy sister-in-law must have an awful lot of insurance with you. Is the sale of shares finalized? I’ll give you seven-fifty.”
    Safire and Newstead looked at each other like men who suddenly realized they had jumped before ascertaining the depth of the pool. Emma said,