Free The Affinity Bridge by George Mann Page A

and enquire as to whether Mr. Chapman is available. May I offer him your name?”
    “Sir Maurice Newbury.”
    “Please take a seat, Sir Maurice. I will only be a moment.”
    Newbury watched as the clerk scuttled out from behind his desk and crossed the office, glancing once behind him to see if Newbury was watching. He climbed the stairs and disappeared from view, Veronica lowered herself into one of the chairs, smiling to herself. Newbury paced the office, obviously impatient.
    A moment or two later the clerk appeared at the top of the stairs. He climbed down, his hands clasped behind his back, and approached Newbury tentatively, as one might approach a lion, “Mr., Chapman is in his office and would be only too delighted to make your acquaintance, Sir Maurice. I will show you up now.” He beckoned for them to follow. Newbury remembered to reclaim his hat before helping Veronica to her feet.
    At the top of the stairs, three doors led into what Newbury supposed were private offices. The clerk hesitated before the middle one, clearing his throat. He rapped politely, three times, and then opened the door with a flourish, stepping to one side to allow them to enter.
    “Your visitors, sir,”
    Newbury followed Veronica into the room, his hat tucked carefully under his arm.
    It was a large office, and ostentatiously furnished, cluttered with artwork and fine goods from all corners of the globe. Newbury glanced around, trying to get a measure of the place. An enormous marble fireplace dominated one wall, whilst above it, a portrait of the Queen looked mournfully down upon the visitors. A display case in one corner held relics from as far afield as Constantinople, Baghdad, Greece and Delhi; souvenirs,
    Newbury supposed, from journeys undertaken in pursuit of business in those far-flung nations.
    Chapman himself lounged in a large Chesterfield, smoking a cigarette. His hair was blonde and cut long around his shoulders, and he was dressed in his shirtsleeves and a black waistcoat. Newbury thought he had the look of a cat about him, languorously warming himself before the fire. He stood as Newbury entered the room and moved quickly to shake his hand. “Sir Maurice Newbury, I presume?”
    “Indeed.” Newbury took his hand and shook it firmly. He stepped to one side. “Allow me to introduce my assistant, Miss Veronica Hobbes.”
    Chapman smiled and took her hand, holding it for just a moment longer than was necessary, before inclining his head politely. “Delighted, I’m sure.” He gestured at the clerk, who was still standing in the doorway. “Now, can my man Soames fetch you any refreshments? A brandy, perhaps?” He glanced at the grandfather clock in the corner. “Not too early for that, are we?” He looked baffled, as if he’d only just realised the time.
    Newbury shook his head. “A pot of tea would be fine. Earl Grey, if you have it?”
    Chapman nodded briskly and Soames disappeared again, clicking the door shut behind him. They heard his footsteps on the stairs as he made his way down to the office below.
    Chapman beckoned for them to take a seat, folding himself back into his chair. He reclaimed his cigarette from the ashtray on the table and took a long, luxurious draw. It was clear to Newbury that the man didn’t give much thought to convention: his entire manner was at odds with his station, and his appearance marked him as something of a fop. Nevertheless, he couldn’t help feeling drawn to the man’s bohemian charm. He could see immediately that there was a cool intelligence lurking behind the darting, ice-blue eyes, and whilst he didn’t put much stock in the man’s taste in furnishings, he had to admit the fellow had an acute nose for business. Either that or he was spending his inheritance at a rate that would soon see him bankrupt or destitute. Chapman tapped his cigarette in the ashtray and regarded Newbury with a wistful smile. “So, Sir Maurice, I presume you are here regarding that terrible