Mightier Than the Sword (44 page)

“I told you that in the strictest confidence,” said Giles.

“And I told all sixteen members of the executive committee in the strictest confidence,” replied Griff.

Giles smiled. “And my chances of winning back the seat?”

“A poodle wearing a red rosette would win the by-election if all Ted Heath can come up with is to call a state of emergency every time there’s a strike.”

“Then perhaps it’s time to tell you my other news.”

Griff raised an eyebrow.

“I’m going to ask Karin to marry me.”

“Could it possibly be after the by-election,” begged Griff.

42

F
OR EVERYONE
involved in the libel trial, it turned out to be a long weekend.

Following a short consultation with Mr. Trelford immediately after the court had been adjourned for the day, Giles drove Emma down to Gloucestershire.

“Would you prefer to stay at the hall over the weekend? Marsden will take care of you.”

“It’s kind of you to offer,” said Emma, “but I ought to be at home just in case Harry calls.”

“I think that’s unlikely,” said Giles quietly.

“Why?” demanded Emma.

“I visited Sir Alan at Number Ten before the court resumed yesterday morning, and he told me Harry had booked himself onto a BOAC flight last Friday evening, but never boarded the plane.”

“Then they must have arrested him.”

“I fear so.”

“Why didn’t you tell me immediately?”

“Moments before you went into the witness box? I don’t think that would have been helpful.”

“Did Sir Alan have any other news?”

“He told me that if we haven’t heard from Harry by Monday morning, the foreign secretary will call in the Russian ambassador and demand an explanation.”

“What good will that do?”

“He’ll realize that Harry will be on the front page of every paper around the world the next day if they don’t release him, which is the last thing the Russians will want.”

“Then why arrest him in the first place?” demanded Emma.

“They’re up to something, but even Sir Alan can’t work out what it is.”

Giles didn’t tell Emma about his recent experience when he’d tried to enter East Berlin, not least because he’d assumed that Harry was unlikely to get beyond passport control and would have been frogmarched back on to the next plane to Heathrow. It made no sense that they would detain the president of English PEN without good reason. Even the Soviets don’t like bad publicity if they can possibly avoid it. Like Sir Alan, he couldn’t work out what they were up to.

*   *   *

During a sleepless weekend, Emma occupied herself answering letters, reading, even polishing some of the family silver, but she was never more than a few paces away from the phone.

Sebastian rang on Saturday morning and when she heard his voice she thought for a moment, just a moment, that it was Harry.

*   *   *

“It’s ours to lose,” was the expression Sir Edward used during the consultation with Lady Virginia in his chambers on the Friday evening. He advised her to spend a quiet weekend, no late nights, and not to drink too much. She had to be rested, calm, and ready to do battle with Trelford when she stepped into the witness box on Monday morning.

“Just confirm that you always allowed Major Fisher, your professional advisor, to handle anything to do with Barrington’s. ‘At arm’s length,’” was the phrase he kept repeating. “You’ve never heard of Mr. Benny Driscoll, and it came as a great shock when you discovered that Cedric Hardcastle had been dumping all his shares on the market the weekend before the AGM. You simply felt, as a stockholder, that Mrs. Clifton should tell you the truth and not fob you off with a self-serving platitude. And whatever you do, don’t rise to Trelford’s bait, because he’ll try to tickle you under the chin like a trout. Swim in the deep water and don’t be tempted to come up to the surface because, if you do, he’ll hook you and slowly reel you in. And finally, just because things have gone well for us so far, that doesn’t mean you should become overconfident. I’ve seen far too many cases lost on the last day of the trial by a client who thought they’d already won. Remember,” he repeated, “it’s ours to lose.”

*   *   *

Sebastian spent most of his weekend at the bank, trying to catch up with a backlog of unanswered correspondence and dozens of “urgent” queries that Rachel had left in his in-tray. It took all of Saturday morning just to tackle the first pile.

Mr. Bishara’s inspired choice as the new chairman of Farthings had been greeted in the City with acclamation, which made Seb’s life much easier. A few customers closed their accounts when Sloane departed, but many more returned when they discovered his successor would be Ross Buchanan: an experienced, shrewd operator, with bottom, was how the
Sunday Times
described him.

Sebastian called his mother just before lunch on Saturday and tried to reassure her that there was nothing for her to worry about.

“He probably can’t get through. Can you imagine what the Russian telephone service must be like?”

But he wasn’t convinced by his own words. His father had expressly told him he would be back in time for the trial, and he couldn’t help remembering one of his papa’s favorite maxims, “There’s only one excuse to be late for a lady: death.”

Seb grabbed a quick lunch with Vic Kaufman, who was worried about his own father, but for a different reason. It was the first time he’d mentioned Alzheimer’s.

“I’m becoming painfully aware that Dad is a one-man band. He beats the big drum while the rest of us are occasionally allowed to bang the cymbals. Perhaps the time has come for Farthings and Kaufman’s to consider a merger.”

Seb couldn’t pretend that the idea hadn’t crossed his mind since he’d become deputy chairman, but Vic’s suggestion couldn’t have come at a worse time, while he had so many other things on his mind.

“Let’s talk about it as soon as the trial is over. And by the way,” Seb added, “be sure to keep a close eye on Sloane because rumor in the City is that he’s also showing a keen interest in your father’s health.”

Seb was back behind his desk just after two o’clock and went on attacking the pile of unopened mail for the rest of the day. He didn’t get home until after midnight.

A security man let him into the bank on Sunday morning, but it wasn’t until late on Sunday afternoon that he came across a cream envelope marked
PRIVATE & CONFIDENTIAL
, with six George Washington stamps in the top right-hand corner. He ripped it open and read a letter from Rosemary Wolfe. How could he possibly take time off to go to America now? How could he possibly not?

*   *   *

Giles did as he was told. He spent Saturday morning walking up and down Broadmead carrying a large, empty Marks and Spencer shopping bag. He shook hands with anyone who stopped to talk to him about the dreadful Conservative government, and that awful Ted Heath. If anyone raised the subject of Major Fisher, he remained diplomatic.

“I wish you were still our MP.”

“If only I’d known, I would never have voted for him.”

“It’s a scandal. The damn man ought to resign,” to which Giles responded with a well-prepared reply: “That’s a decision for Major Fisher and his constituency party to make, so we’ll just have to wait and see.”

Later, he sat at the bar of a packed, noisy pub and had a ploughman’s lunch with Griff, washed down with a pint of Somerset cider.

“If Fisher resigns and a by-election is called,” said Griff, “I’ve already told the
Bristol Evening News
that the local Labour party won’t be interviewing anyone other than the former member.”

“Cheers,” said Giles, raising his glass. “How did you manage that?”

“Twisted a few arms, made the odd threat, offered the occasional bribe, and promised the chairman an MBE.”

“Nothing new then?”

“Except that I did remind the committee that if the Tories are going to have a new name on the ballot paper, perhaps we should stick with one the voters are familiar with.”

“What are you doing about the increased aircraft noise what’s comin’ out of Filton? It’s a bloody disgrace!”

“I’m no longer your MP,” Giles reminded the man politely as he headed toward the door.

“I didn’t know that. When did that happen?”

Even Griff had the grace to laugh. After they had left the pub they both donned their blue and white scarves and along with six thousand other supporters watched Bristol Rovers beat Chesterfield 3–2.

In the evening, Emma came to Barrington Hall for dinner, but she wasn’t very good company. She left long before Marsden served coffee.

Giles settled down in his grandfather’s favorite chair in the drawing room, a brandy in one hand, a cigar in the other. He was thinking about Karin when the phone rang. He grabbed it, hoping to hear Harry’s voice on the other end of the line, but it was Griff. Who else would call him at that time of night? When Griff told him the news about Fisher, Giles felt sorry for the man for the first time in his life.

*   *   *

Mr. Trelford spent his weekend preparing for Lady Virginia’s cross-examination. But it wasn’t proving easy. She would have learned from Fisher’s mistake, and he could hear Eddie Makepeace advising her to remain calm at all times and not to let him goad her. However hard he tried, he couldn’t come up with a ploy to break through her defense.

The wastepaper basket was full, and the A4 pad in front of him was blank. How could he demonstrate to the jury that Emma’s mother had been right when she compared Virginia to her Siamese cat, Cleopatra?
They are both beautiful, well-groomed, vain, cunning, manipulative predators, who assume that everyone else was put on earth to serve them
.

It was two o’clock in the morning and he was going over some old Barrington’s boardroom minutes when he came up with a new line of questioning.

*   *   *

Major Fisher had driven out of the Commons car park soon after the House had risen on Friday afternoon. One or two colleagues had wished him luck, but they didn’t sound convincing. As he drove down to the West Country, he thought about the letter he would have to write if his local executive committee didn’t support him.

He remained in his flat all the next day, not turning the front page of the morning papers, not bothering with breakfast or lunch as the lonely hours ticked by. Long before the sun was over the yardarm he began opening bottles and draining them. During the evening, he sat by the phone and waited impatiently to hear how the committee had voted on the No Confidence motion. He returned to the kitchen, opened a tin of pilchards, but left them on the table, untouched. He sat down in the drawing room to watch an episode of
Dad’s Army,
but didn’t laugh. Finally, he picked up a copy of Friday’s
Bristol Evening Post,
and looked again at the front-page headline:

LOCAL CONSERVATIVES TO DECIDE FATE OF MP. SEE LEADER, PAGE ELEVEN.

He turned to page eleven. He and the editor had always been on good terms, so he had rather hoped … but he didn’t get beyond the headline.

DO THE HONORABLE THING, MAJOR.

He tossed the paper aside and didn’t turn on the light as the sun disappeared behind the highest building.

The phone rang at twelve minutes past ten. He grabbed the receiver, and immediately recognized the voice of the local party chairman. “Good evening, Peter.”

“Good evening, major. I won’t beat about the bush. I’m sorry to say that the committee didn’t support you.”

“Was it close?”

“I’m afraid not,” said Maynard. “It was unanimous. So it might be wise for you to write a letter offering your resignation rather than waiting for the executive committee to formally deselect you. So much more civilized that way, don’t you think? I am sorry, Alex.”

No sooner had he put the phone down than it rang again. It was a reporter from the
Post
asking him if he wanted to comment on the unanimous decision to call for his resignation. He didn’t even bother to say “No comment” before slamming the phone back down.

In an alcoholic blur, he walked unsteadily through to his study, sat down and placed his head in his hands while he thought about the wording of the letter. He took a sheet of House of Commons paper from the letter rack and began to write. When he’d finished, he waited for the ink to dry before he folded it, sealed it in an envelope, and placed it on his desk.

He leaned down and opened the bottom drawer of his desk, took out his service revolver, put the muzzle in his mouth, and pulled the trigger.

43

T
HE COURTROOM
was packed, the two combatants ready. All that was needed was for the bell to ring so the first punch could be landed.

On one side of the ring sat Mr. Trelford, who was going over the order of his questions for the last time. Giles, Emma, and Seb sat behind him, talking quietly, making sure they didn’t disturb him.

Giles looked up as a police constable entered the courtroom, walked across to counsel’s bench and handed Mr. Trelford an envelope. The word
URGENT
was written below his name. Trelford opened it, extracted a letter, and read it slowly. Giles learned nothing from the expression on the barrister’s face, but he recognized the familiar green portcullis crest at the head of the paper.

Sir Edward sat alone with his client on the other side of the ring, delivering his final instructions. “Be calm, take your time before answering each question,” he whispered. “You’re not in a hurry. Face the jury, and never forget that they are the only people in the room who matter.”

The crowd fell silent, and everyone rose when the bell rang for the first round and the referee entered the ring. If Mrs. Justice Lane was surprised to find the press and public galleries of her courtroom packed on a Monday morning, she didn’t show it. She bowed, and everyone in the well of the court returned the compliment. Once they’d all settled back into their seats, with only Sir Edward still standing, she invited the eminent silk to call his first witness.

Virginia walked slowly up to the witness box, and when she took the oath, she could barely be heard. She wore a black tailored suit that emphasized her slim figure, a black pillbox hat, no jewelery, and little makeup, clearly wanting to remind all those present of Major Fisher’s untimely death. Had the jury retired there and then to deliver their verdict, the result would have been unanimous, and Sir Edward would happily have settled for that.