The Satan Sampler Read online

  On the death of his elder brother, Richard Seyton inherits the Seyton estate, which had been in the family since the fourteenth century. But the great Seyton Hall—showpiece of the estate—has been leased to an international charitable organization, the Felbeck Foundation for the Preservation of the Christian Heritage, which is not all that it seems to be. Determined to find a way to break the lease, Seyton is slowly enmeshed in a dangerous web of intrigue and underground politics, especially when the sinister intelligence organization known as Birdcage intrudes upon his affairs.

  The Satan Sampler

  VICTOR CANNING

  Copyright © 1979 by Victor Canning

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or utilized in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the Publisher.

  Library of Congress Cataloging in Publication Data

  Canning, Victor.

  The Satan sampler.

  I. Title.

  PZ3.C1636Sat 1980 [PR6005.A486] 823’.912 79-27310

  ISBN 0-688-03612-0

  The Satan Sampler

  CHAPTER ONE

  RICHARD SEYTON CAME out of Customs and looked along the top hall to the spot where Manard, his chauffeur, always waited for him. There was no sign of Manard and he frowned, more from surprise than irritation, at the breakdown of a familiar routine. For a moment or two he contemplated calling his office, then rejected the idea and decided to go outside and get a cab.

  From thirty yards away, shielded by the moving crowd, Kerslake watched him. He had never seen him before except in photographs—and that only very recently—but there was no mistaking the man; tall, slim-built with broad shoulders, dark-haired, sun-tanned, self-contained, expensive light-weight suit, hatless and a well-worn leather brief-case in one hand, severe good looks, and still a few years to run before he hit forty. Fairly easy-going, he guessed, unless you pushed him unwarrantably. Only a guess, though, this last. But in his, Kerslake’s, world guessing was a fine art in which he did not often indulge. From himself the Department wanted only facts. The guessing, if there had to be any, was done at a higher level.

  Ignorant of the fact that he was being watched, Seyton was about to turn away to go out and find himself a cab when someone touched his right elbow from behind and said, “Hullo, Richard.”

  He turned, recognizing the voice, and smiled.

  “Nancy. Now I get it. What have you done with Manard?”

  “Nice, warm loving greeting. Just what I expected.”

  He grinned, then brushed her cheek with his lips, and said, “Nancy, I am pleased to see you. You’re looking marvellous.”

  “That’s better. And to answer you—I phoned your office and said that you’d called me from New York and said that Manard needn’t meet you—I was doing that.”

  “How did you know that I was in New York?”

  “You had dinner there with Max Beaton. He phoned me and told me your Concorde flight.”

  “And why would he do that?”

  She shook her head in brief exasperation and taking his arm began to lead him away. He caught the breath of a scent new to him and the pressure of her hand on his arm waked briefly a stir in his nerves which surprised him as she said solemnly, “Because of Punch and your not being able to be here for the funeral—and generally the whole rotten business. Oh, Richard . . . I’m so sorry about it all. Not making a big thing of it. You know that. Or capital—you know that, too. We know where we stand. But I thought. . . well, that it might be the time for a little mild cherishing.”

  He put his hand on hers. From her he had always had and welcomed cherishing. Neither of them had ever called it love openly—maybe it was not. “I’m glad you came. Punch would have approved. Oh, it’s all right. I’m long over the bad part—and the muck-up which stopped me from coming for the funeral. Now—what do you propose to do with me? You’ve something in mind I’m sure.”

  “Oh, just the usual coddling and fussing. No arguments. You’re not going to your hotel suite. Until tomorrow morning you’re in my hands. Have you much luggage? I’ve only got the Mini Clubman.”

  “No luggage. Just this.” He indicated the brief-case. “All my London stuff is at the hotel.”

  “Not all. I got your office to pack a case for you and bring it round to my place. Miss Figgins was short about it—so I got short with her. A battle of the Amazons. I can’t think why you keep the woman.”

  “Because she’s efficient and has a heart of gold. I’d be lost without her.”

  “There’s no woman you’d be lost without—or if there is she’s a long time turning up. And when she does I’ll retire to a nunnery. What are you going to do about the Hall?”

  He said casually, “I’ll work something out. I’m seeing Bellamy tomorrow. But that’s tomorrow and can wait until then.”

  They were outside now and, as he took her arm and they began to work their ways through the crowd and the traffic to the car park, she was undeceived. By now he would have long known what he was going to do. Punch, his elder brother, was over three weeks dead. He would by now have it all settled in his mind. Quick and solid decisions had put him where he was. She knew the Seyton feeling about the Hall. He would know and have already accepted that his brother’s death, so unexpected, demanded one thing only from him. But, whatever he had decided, she knew that there would be no place for her . . . no real, permanent place. She was just Nancy. Nancy Hope. Always around. Always hopeful. Always would be.

  * * * *

  Kerslake called Quint from an outside Heathrow telephone booth. He had no idea of the reasons for the interest in Richard Seyton. That was far from unusual. Sometimes you could spend months marking a man so that you knew things about him that not even his wife or girl friend suspected—and still have no idea why they at Birdcage Walk were interested. Odd, too. Just give it time and more often than not you ended up with some intangible bond between you. Give it enough time and it would happen with this one as with others. This was the first time he had seen him in the flesh and some things stood out at once. Just as an experienced trainer could run his eye over a new horse and read more than would ever be apparent to the uninitiated, so he, too, was adroit at assessing human blood stock. Seyton had breeding, arrogance, and charm when he chose to display it. Watching from a distance as he had met Nancy Hope all these had manifested themselves like cloud shadow and sunlight over his face. Curiosity about Quint’s interest he kept submerged. It was not his business unless and until Quint made it so.

  At the other end of the line Quint said in a near asthmatic voice, “Well, young Kerslake?”

  He said, “He travelled hatless, coatless and carrying a well-stuffed tan brief-case—old-fashioned sort. He was met—to his surprise, I think—by a tallish, very good looking blonde, early thirties. Old flame. No guess, it’s on file. Embers still hot though. There’s a photo of her on page three of the file. Nancy Hope. They drove off in a Mini Clubman. Hers. Registration number on file.”

  Following a little rasping cough, Quint said, “Embers still hot? How do you know?”

  “Something in their manner.”

  “Stick to facts. When I want your intuitions I’ll ask for them.”

  “Yes, sir.” He heard Quint chuckle at the other end of the line. Now that he had been baptized and had proved Quint’s unholy faith and confidence in him he had slowly been granted occasional liberties. One dark, proving act had given him, too, the right of an occasional mild levity. He added, “But I’d bet on it. She lives in Cadogan Place. Do you want me to check there?”

  “No. I don’t care where or with whom he sleeps. Your time’s your own unti
l tomorrow morning.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  In a front office overlooking Birdcage Walk and St James’s Park—to which he had only recently been moved from dingier and darker quarters in the rear of the building—Quint turned to page three of the Her Majesty’s Stationery Office file and studied the photograph, head and shoulders, in colour, of Miss Nancy Hope, the youngest daughter of Captain Phillip Hope, Royal Navy—retired—of Fardsley in the County of Worcester and Herefordshire. Good looking woman. High cheek bones. Blue eyes. No vapid looking blue-eyed blonde. Unmarried. Why? Why not? Plenty of time. At a guess—bad habit—her sights had probably long been set on Richard Seyton who was still shy of going into the starting stall.

  He closed the file and made a wry mouth as he looked at the cover which was plain except for the name—Richard Seyton. No official index number. Well, a lot started like that but only a few stayed like it for good. He lit a cigarette and coughed gently as he played a tattoo on the file cover. Tall, dark hair greying, worn, he was suddenly conscious of feeling far more than his forty and few years. Something about this he did not like. Funny how you got the feeling. He sat brooding. Outside it started to rain. A pigeon flew on to the window sill, ruffled itself to free its plumage of rain, and then methodically began to preen in its meagre shelter. Uncharacteristically, out of his present mood, Quint picked up a paper clip and flicked it at the window. The pigeon turned and stared at him like an offended duchess over its heavy grey-white wattles. From a sudden irritation which had nothing to do with the bird Quint waved his arm at it crossly and watched it move out over the park and its lake and then through the fine rain squalls turn south and disappear from view towards the river and the Houses of Parliament. If there was one thing he did not like it was undocketed files. And neither did Warboys, his immediate superior.

  He picked up the telephone and rang Warboys on the floor above. He said, “Kerslake just called. Your Richard Seyton came in some time ago. Was met by Nancy Hope and could well be staying the night with her in Cadogan Place.”

  Warboys, always elegant in his phrasing, always sounding as though he had just awakened from a refreshing and pleasant sleep in the best of humours, said, “Not my Richard Seyton. But I hope he had a good flight, and how nice to be met and cherished by a constant, I understand, flame.”

  “Do you want me to follow up on him?”

  “I don’t think so. Leave him in comfort. Eros undenied. And——” the pause was filled with a gentle chuckle, “——to give you a happy night as well, dear Quint—I’ll be a little indiscreet and say that I am as curious as you are.”

  “That’s companionable. Thank you.”

  “And to anticipate your next question—I don’t want the file indexed or numbered. Keep it in your private safe. I think we’ve both been here before a few times, haven’t we?”

  “Of course. But I’ve never liked it. A remark I would only make to you, naturally.”

  “I should hope so. But to comfort you I’ll be equally indiscreet and say that I’ve never liked it either. So with that happy interchange of sentiments I wish you a pleasant evening whatever you are going to do.”

  As Warboys hung up Quint smiled. Warboys hated it and he hated it. Thank God it did not happen often, but once or twice when it had there had been real trouble—and heads had rolled. As for his pleasant evening he was going home to his bachelor flat in Dolphin Square, cook his own dinner out of choice not necessity, then go to bed with Jane Austen and forget his dislike of unmarked files in his milder dislike of Miss Emma Woodhouse.

  * * * *

  Seyton awoke to hear some nearby church clock strike three. The curtains had been partly drawn back from the windows. Nancy must have done that while he slept after they had made love. The March sky was frost clear. At his side she slept now with her back to him. The first time they had slept together had been in her father’s house after a hunt ball, both in their twenties. Everyone had marked them down for marriage, but with so many years waiting ahead they had been in no hurry—and then Ruth had come along, and that had been that. Ruth had gone when Roger was only three, and that was when he had taken off. The Hall and the estate would never be his anyway, he had thought. Punch was always in love with someone and it was only a matter of time before he settled, married and had children. Ruth’s death had changed everything. From country boy to whizz-kid. That’s what they had called him. New York and the South Americas. Instinct or luck had gone with him. Over eight years had passed with the memory of Ruth fading gently and Roger growing up, living with Punch—and Punch still somehow not marrying. Plenty of time, old boy. But time was a factor no man could depend on. All it had needed was a frosty evening, a touch of rain to turn at once to black ice, a deer coming across the road to make Punch go heavy on the brakes of the old estate car, a skid and Punch going right through the windscreen to break his neck. And old Shipley beside him sitting untouched through it all. And then himself away on a shooting trip in Brazil after three weeks’ hard dealing and no one able to get in touch with him until it was all over. Maybe luck was running out for the Seytons . . . just as it eventually had done for that far off Owen Glendower in the fourteenth century from whom they claimed bastard descent. First Ruth, then Punch taken from him. Punch after a good market day, with a few, but not too many he was sure, drinks inside him, laughing and joking right up to the last minute probably. And Ruth, out hunting, taking a fence she had taken a hundred times before, catching the top rail, only the smallest mark on her forehead where she had hit one of the few stones lining the far ditch, and gone before he could get to her.

  At his side Nancy stirred slightly and in a voice which was too fresh to have just come from sleep, said, “I can listen or talk—whichever you like. Or neither.”

  He put out a hand and let it rest on the top of her bare arm. “I don’t know. This is the time of bloody night when things get to you.”

  “Will you see Roger on the way down?”

  “Yes. I’ve already arranged to have him out.”

  She was silent for a while, and then said, “Did I do the wrong thing?”

  “In what way?”

  “Coming out and snatching you. Bringing you here.”

  “No. I’m glad you did.”

  “Pushy Nancy.”

  He gave a little laugh and put his arm around her. “There’s nothing wrong with that except . . . well, I wish I could be really co-operative.”

  “The last thing I want is any make believe. And, anyway, I’m grateful for——”

  “I don’t want to hear anything like that from you. But you wouldn’t want me to be less than honest, would you?”

  “No. Make believe is fine. Just for now and again—but not for good.” She moved her head and kissed his hand on her shoulder, but she was thinking that it wasn’t true, of course. She would settle any day for make believe with him. Plenty of people did—and found it quite satisfactory. But he wouldn’t. For all his hard, stubborn nature, he was an idealist. No, perhaps romantic. Hard to believe because when he wanted something he could be quite ruthless and push the limits of truth and desire wider than most. Her father had once said ‘They carry the Glendower blood. Robber barons. Sword in one hand and the priest in the palm of the other. They’ve only one true love. Their land, their broad acres. They live in the twentieth century—and are still fighting the battles that began in the fourteenth.’

  He said, “You’ll come down for the memorial service?”

  “Of course. And after that—what will you do?”

  He was silent for a while and then said calmly, “Do what I offered to make possible for Punch, only the stubborn bastard wouldn’t take it. Move into the Hall. Make it what it was.”

  “But what about the people there?”

  “I’ll get rid of them. Buy them out. Kick them out. It’s our place, not theirs.”

  Ours, not mine. The Seytons. Not any particular Seyton, but the Seytons stretching right back to the first who had come ridin
g down the river valley with a sword in one hand and a land grant in the other. She held down a sigh. How could he be like that? Punch had had a lot of it, but nothing like the measure of his arrogant dreaming . . . and the difference in them had, she knew, caused a breach between them which had been slow to heal. The one and only time they had really truly differed. And that, too, not because Punch didn’t share his feelings but because his Seyton pride forbade him to take help from his younger brother. It suddenly struck her for the first time that there was a fanaticism in him which would take him without a qualm into devices and deeds as arbitrary and violent as any that had marked the life of that far distant Glendower—if the need arose. Fleetingly but forcefully she felt in that moment that if he did ever ask her to marry him she would be hard put to know her answer . . . No, no, that wasn’t true—she’d go into it gladly and with her eyes wide open.

  He said, “Tell me about the last time you saw Roger.”

  “Yes . . . well, I drove him back after the funeral. He was fussed and embarrassed because he had a black eye. Some dormitory fight. I think he felt Punch might have been upset.”

  “Not likely. Suitable mourning colour. Nice to think Punch might have known about it. What’s he crazy about this time?”

  “Motor scooters. He had a pocket full of brochures. Things with strange Japanese names. He reckons that though he’s under age he could drive one around the estate.”

  “Well, I was doing it with an old bull-nosed Morris at his age. Punch wrecked it eventually trying to jump the ha-ha for a bet.”

  She laughed. “You were a wild pair.”

  Later, after they had breakfasted and he had gone she went up to her bedroom to find a parcel marked with her name on the dressing table. In it was a small brooch set with a cluster of Brazilian topazes, and a note which said—I didn’t know you would be waiting, but I was bringing this for you anyway. Love—Richard.

  * * * *