The House of Cards Complete Trilogy (61 page)

“Wouldn’t press my own case, but for the wife. I’d work hard at the job, wouldn’t skive off like so many of the others.”

“Ultimately, of course, it’s up to Francis. He’ll have a tough job deciding between the various claims.”

“I voted for Francis.” That was a lie. “I’d be loyal.”

“Would you?” Stamper threw over his shoulder. “Francis does value loyalty above everything.”

“Absolutely. Anything the two of you want, rely on me!”

The hand drier suddenly ceased its raucous huffing and in a moment the atmosphere had grown hushed, almost confessional. Stamper turned to stare at Colthorpe from only a few inches away.

“Can we really rely on you, Jeremy? Loyalty first?”

Colthorpe was nodding.

“Even as far as the King is concerned?”

“The King…?” Confusion crept in.

“Yes, Jeremy, the King. You’ve already seen how he’s rocked the boat. And Francis fears it’s going to get worse. The Palace needs reminding, very firmly, who’s in charge.”

“But I’m not sure…”

“Loyalty, Jeremy. That’s what will make the difference between those who get what they want out of this Government, and those who don’t. It’s an unpleasant business, this thing with the Palace, but somebody has to stand up and defend the important constitutional principles at stake. Francis can’t, you see, not formally and publicly as Prime Minister. That would create a constitutional crisis, which he absolutely does not want. The only way to avoid that may be to get someone other than a Minister, someone with great seniority and authority—someone like you, Jeremy—to remind the Palace and the public what’s at stake. It’s the least Francis has a right to expect from his loyal supporters.”

“Yes, but…Get into the House of Lords by attacking the King?”

“Not attacking. Reminding him of the highest constitutional principles.”

“But it’s the King who creates new peers—”

“Solely and exclusively on the advice of the Prime Minister. The King cannot refuse his recommendations.”

“It’s a little like
Alice
in
Wonderland
—”

“So’s a lot of what the Palace has been saying.”

“I’d like to think about it a little.”

“You need to think about loyalty?” Stamper’s tone was harsh, accusatory. His lip curled in contempt and there was fire in the sepulchral eyes. Without a further word the Party Chairman turned on his heel and made his way toward the door. His hand was already on the shiny brass doorknob, and Colthorpe realized his ambitions were ruined if the door closed on this conversation.

“I’ll do it!” he squealed. “Tim, I know where my loyalties lie. I’ll do it.” He was breathing heavily with the tension and confusion, trying to regain his self-control, wiping his hands on his trousers. “You can rely on me, old chap.”

Stamper held his stare, spreading his lips in the coldest of smiles. Then he closed the door behind him.

Twenty-Seven

It’s said that Guy Fawkes was the only man ever to enter the Parliament building with an honest intent. I think that’s a little unfair on the archbishops. Some of them, at least.

The lunch had started excellently. Both Mickey Quillington and his first cousin, Lord Chesholm of Kinsale, appreciated a good claret, and the cellar of the House of Lords dining room had a large number from which to choose. They had chosen to drink Château Léoville-Barton but were unable to decide between the ’82 and ’85 vintage. So they had ordered a bottle of both and slipped gently into midafternoon in the warm embrace of the elegant mahogany paneling and attentive staff. Chesholm was a good twenty years older than Quillington and substantially more wealthy, and the impecunious younger peer had hoped to use the lunch for the launch of an appeal to family solidarity that would involve his relative in leasing several hundred of Quillington’s Oxfordshire acres at a generous rate, but sadly his tactics had gone awry. The claret proved too much for the elderly peer to manage and he couldn’t concentrate, repeatedly exclaiming that he didn’t live in Oxfordshire. The bill, although heavily subsidized, still reflected the exceptional nature of the wine and Quillington felt bruised. Maybe the old bugger would regain his wits by teatime.

They were attending the House to voice objection to a Bill that sought a total ban on foxhunting, and the debate was well under way by the time they took their places on the deep-red morocco benches in the Gothic chamber. Within minutes Chesholm was asleep while Quillington slouched with his knees tucked beneath his chin as he listened with growing resentment to a former polytechnic lecturer, recently elevated to the life peerage for his diligence in the study of trade union matters, expounding his belief in the decay and corruption of those who still believed they owned the countryside as if by divine right. Debates in the Lords are conducted in far less pompous and vitriolic style than in the Lower Chamber, as befits its aristocratic and almost familial atmosphere, but the lack of outright rudeness did not prevent the peer from putting across his point of view forcefully and effectively. From around the Chamber, uncharacteristically packed for the occasion by hereditary peers and noble backwoodsmen from distant rural parts, came a growl of wounded pride, like a stuck boar at bay. Such displays of emotion are not commonplace in the Upper Chamber, but such a concentration of hereditary peers was also unusual outside the circumstance of state funeral or Royal wedding. It may not have been the Lords at their norm, nor even at their best, but it was certainly their Lordships at their most decorous.

Quillington cleared his throat; the debate was threatening to spoil the warm glow left by the claret. The poly-peer had broadened his attack from foxhunting itself to those who hunted, and Quillington took great exception. He was not the type of person who rode roughshod over others’ rights—he’d never forced any farm laborer out of a tied cottage, and any damage inadvertently caused while hunting was always paid for. Blast the man, the Quillingtons had been dedicated custodians. It had cost them their fortune and his father’s health and had left his mother with little but years of tearful widowhood. Yet here was an oaf who had spent all his working life in some overheated lecture room living off an inflation-proofed salary, accusing him of being no better than a scrounger. It was too much, really too bloody much. This sort of wheedling and insolent insinuation had gone on for too long, harking back to a style of class warfare that was fifty years out of date.

“’Bout time we put them in their place, don’t you think, Chesy?” Almost before he realized it, Quillington was on his feet.

“This debate is only nominally about foxhunting; that is merely the excuse. Behind it lies an insidious attack on the traditions and values that have not only held our countryside together, not only held this House together, but have also held the whole of society together. There are wreckers in the land, some maybe even among our number here”—he deliberately avoided looking at the previous speaker, so that everyone would know precisely whom he meant—“who in the name of democracy would force their own narrow, militant opinions upon the rest, the silent majority which is the true and glorious backbone of Britain.”

He licked his lips. There was a flush in his cheeks, a mixture of Château Léoville-Barton and real emotion that succeeded in engulfing the unease he customarily felt in public, which on more than one occasion had left him tongue-tied and floundering at the opening of the annual village fête. “They want revolution, no less. They would abandon our traditions, abolish this Chamber, stamp on our rights.” Quillington waved a finger at the canopied Throne that dominated one end of the hall and stood empty and forlorn. “They even seek to reduce to silence and insignificance our own Royal Family.”

Several of Their Lordships raised a collective eyebrow. The rules about discussion of the Royal Family were very restrictive, particularly in a debate on blood sports. “To the point, my Lord,” one growled in warning.

“But, noble Lords, this
is
the point,” protested Quillington. “We are not here to rubber-stamp what comes from the Lower House. We are here to offer counsel, advice, warning. And we do so, just as the Monarch does, because we represent the true long-term interests of this country. We represent the values that have made our nation great over previous centuries and that will continue to guide her well into the next century. We are not here to be swayed by every passing fashion and fad. We do not suffer from the corruption of having to get ourselves elected, of having to pretend that we are all things to all men, of making promises we know we cannot keep. We are here to represent what is immutable and constant in society.”

Mutters of “Hear, hear” could be heard from the crowded benches around Quillington. The Lord Chancellor drummed his fingers as he concentrated in bewigged and ermined splendor from his seat on the Woolsack; the speech was most unusual, but really rather a splendid entertainment.

“It may seem a long way from the plottings of hunt-saboteurs to assaults on Buckingham Palace, but what we have seen of both recently should encourage us to stand firm in our beliefs, not to run for the cover of undergrowth like terrified vermin.” His long, thin arms were extended theatrically away from his body, as if trying to haul in their sympathy. He needn’t have bothered, peers were beginning to nod and tap their knees to indicate support. “Both this House and the Royal Family are here to defend those timeless aspects of the national interest, unfettered by the selfishness of The Other Place. There is no need for this House to kowtow to the muscle and money of commercial interests!” The poly-peer was sitting upright, ready to try and intervene. He was sure Quillington was about to go too far. “Not for us the temptations of bribing the public with their own money, we are here to defend the public against shortsightedness and falsehood. And at no time is that duty more pressing upon us than when we have a new Cabinet and a Prime Minister who have not even been elected by the people. Let him go to the country promising to castrate the Monarch and abolish the House of Lords if he dare, but until he has won that right and power at an election, let us not allow him to do quietly and privately what he has not yet been able to do publicly.”

The poly-peer had had enough. He was not quite sure what transgression Quillington was making, but the emotional temperature in the Chamber had soared, shouts of support for Quillington were coming from all sides, and the poly-peer suddenly felt the Chamber close in around him like a courtroom dock. “Order! The noble Lord must restrain himself,” he interjected.

“Why…?” “No, let him go on…” “Allow him to finish…” On all sides Quillington was being offered advice and encouragement, while the poly-peer sprang to his feet, shouting across the Chamber and wagging his finger in vain. Quillington had won, and knew it.

“I have finished, my Lords. Do not forget your duty, nor your allegiance to the King, nor the sacrifices that you and your forefathers accepted in order to make this nation great. Use this wretched Bill to remind others that you have not forgotten, and let the lion roar once more!”

He sat down as peers took their Order Papers and rapped them sharply on the leather benches in front of them to show their approbation.

As Order Papers beat down either side of his head, the elderly Chesholm woke with a start. “What? What was that? Did I miss something, Mickey?”

***

“On a Point of Order, Madam Speaker.”

“Point of Order, Mr. Jeremy Colthorpe.”

Madam Speaker’s shrill voice cut through the din of the House of Commons as MPs milled around preparing to vote after an Opposition debate on substandard housing, which had just wound its way through three turbid hours. Normally Madam Speaker was caustic about points of order raised dining divisions and, indeed, the ancient rules of the House made such interruptions problematic by requiring the MP to have his head covered—in order better to be seen amid the confusion, so said the rule book; to deflect idle time wasters, according to common sense. But Colthorpe was a Member of long standing and not a renowned troublemaker; he stood defiantly if somewhat absurdly attired in a collapsible opera hat kept in the Chamber for the purpose. Points of order often had an element of comedy to them, and the bustle in the Chamber subsided as MPs strained to hear what was upsetting the old man.

“Madam Speaker, on rare occasions a question of such importance and urgency arises that it is of overriding importance to the business of the House, and you decide it is necessary for the appropriate Minister to be summoned before us to answer for it. I believe this matter is just that.” It was more than that. News of Quillington’s speech had drifted through the tea rooms and bars of the House of Commons even as Colthorpe was still chiding himself for making such a nonsense of his exchange with Stamper; he didn’t have much practice in groveling to estate agents, he told himself, and he knew he’d made a hash of it. He had listened to reports of the peer’s words like a drowning man greets the sound of an approaching rescue ship, and had bustled off to find Stamper, terrified that someone else would find him first. Within forty minutes he was back in the Chamber, and on his feet.

“Earlier this afternoon, in Another Place, a noble Lord accused this House of political corruption, of seeking to deprive both their Lordships and His Majesty the King of their constitutional rights, and claiming that His Majesty had been improperly silenced. Such a challenge to the actions of this House and to the office of the Prime Minister is such as to—”

“Hold on a minute!” Madam Speaker enjoined Colthorpe to silence in a broad Lancashire accent. “I’ve heard nothing about this. Most improper. You know it’s against the rules of this House to discuss personal matters relating to the King.”

“This is not a personal matter but a constitutional matter of the highest importance, Madam Speaker. The rights of this House are enshrined in custom and established over the course of many years. When they are challenged, they must be defended.”