by Peter Watson
He turned again to face the Speaker. ‘However, I do recognize that, although this country has no written constitution, some procedures do have the force of tradition if not the force of written law. And there can be no getting away from the fact that, last night, I as Prime Minister, lost a censure motion. In the circumstances, therefore, and in the face of so many opposition calls for my resignation, I now announce that Parliament is to be dissolved. I am resigning as Prime Minister but I am not resigning as leader of my party. Quite the reverse, in fact. I intend to fight the general election, in three weeks’ time, with the same team as has just won through the difficult battle against the Apollo Brigade. The opposition and some members of my own party’ – he looked at George Keld – ‘wanted a fight. They shall have it!’
Epilogue
The mirror jigged up, down, up again, down. Edward’s tie remained untied. He cursed.
‘The taxi’s here!’
‘I’m nowhere near ready. Bloody houseboats! You never let on the river was so busy … All these waves, from the traffic –’
‘You think I’m ready? Look.’
He turned. Victoria stood in the doorway to the bedroom. She wore high-heeled shoes, a big floppy hat, and nothing else.
‘I’m not sure your aunt would have approved – but I do. You’re overdressed.’
‘And you’re oversexed. If it hadn’t been for you, we’d both’ve been ready.’
‘It’s only Buckingham Palace.’
‘And I’m only coming because you can show me the pictures.’
She disappeared back into the bedroom and Edward faced the mirror again. He felt nervous, thrilled – and more than a trifle embarrassed. Everything had moved so swiftly since … since the episode in the tunnel. Back in Britain, there had been endless meetings, debriefings with the Queen, with Mordaunt, with the security services – and of course with Lockwood. Lockwood had offered Edward a job. In fact, a choice of jobs. He’d invited him out to Chequers – all by himself – for lunch. There, Lockwood had said, ‘I’ve fixed Arran at the National Gallery, by the way – and that Ramsay chap. I’ve threatened them with the Official Secrets Act but I have also promised them more money to acquire pictures. They won’t talk – or ask questions.’
Edward nodded, relieved.
‘Now, you. You’re wasted in the art world, my boy. Come into politics. It’s more interesting, more important, more fun.’
‘And more dangerous.’
‘Of course! I want you to run a Number Ten research outfit. Think up new, imaginative ideas for the government.’
‘You’re convinced you’re going to win, then?’
‘Come on, Edward. You’re not a naïve academic any more. If you ever were. Have you not been reading the polls?’
Edward had. Lockwood’s coup, a week before election day, had been to put the Elgin Marbles back on display at the British Museum. ‘The Elgin Marbles’ was the term used by everyone now. The queues at the museum were immense, reaching to Southampton Row and creating traffic jams as far afield as Great Ormond Street Hospital.
‘Well, if you won’t come and work for me, what job do you want?’
‘I … I’m not sure I’m old enough – experienced enough – for the job I really want. I haven’t published enough –’
‘Bah! Academics! You’ve got to take your chances in this life, Edward. Look around you. You’re never again going to get a Prime Minister’s invitation to lunch, one to one. No other Prime Minister is going to offer you such enormous patronage. Don’t be such a bloody fool … In your wildest dreams, before this whole … Apollo Brigade business blew up … what was the job you coveted above everything else?’
Edward hadn’t replied straight away. He knew that Lockwood spoke sense but he was embarrassed all the same.
‘Come on! What is it? The National Gallery? The Tate?’
Another pause. ‘The British Museum, sir.’
‘Perfect. Perfect,’ purred Lockwood. ‘Ogilvy nearly jumped ship in the middle. Now he can walk the plank.’
‘Could you be … discreet about it, sir?’
‘All right, if that’s how you want it. I’ll kick him upstairs somewhere. Some arts commission maybe.’ He had beamed. ‘So that’s settled.’
Mordaunt had been relieved by the news. ‘Hillier is a bit miffed at missing all the excitement,’ he had said over a glass of sherry in his office. ‘It’s probably for the best that you are leaving.’
‘What about the three pictures?’ Edward had asked. ‘The Raphael, the Canaletto and the Poussin.’
‘What pictures?’ Mordaunt’s cold stare had put in another appearance.
Edward had finished his sherry quickly, glad now that he was leaving the Palace.
His feelings about Nancy were quite under control now. Discreet enquiries by the security services seemed to confirm that her interest in sculpture had led her to Greece and given her a sympathy for Greek culture. That had been fanned into a political involvement after she had met Zakros. She had been steered to him by Kolettis, whom she met naturally through academic circles. Zakros was the link to Blunt. He had been an art dealer who had arranged introductions for the art historian on the Greek homosexual network. The security services had been able to find out little else in concrete terms, but Zakros and Kofas had always known each other well – the dealer had sold the businessman paintings and antiquities – and were on the same staunchly monarchist circuit, which included minor Greek royals among its number.
So presumably Zakros, or Kofas, was privy to the rumours about Blunt’s pictures in Switzerland – and had finally been able to put the whole thing together after his death and thanks to the traitor’s cunning co-operation, as Mordaunt had always suspected. It all dovetailed together, as elegantly and as coldly as the equerry’s attire.
‘You’re going to be so important,’ Victoria had said, when he told her about the British Museum job.
Edward had smiled. ‘I’ll lose my flat, of course. Leaving the Palace job.’
She had slipped her hand in his. ‘Could you bear living on the river?’
It hadn’t been mentioned directly again. They both knew they were taking a risk, moving too fast perhaps. But, at the same time, they were both ready. Though they had been invited to Hatfield’s election night party, at 12 Downing Street, they had spent the time moving Edward’s belongings from Kensington Palace to Chelsea Embankment. Victoria had solved the problem of Edward’s untidy piles of paper by simply throwing them away. He hadn’t missed them. His pictures had fitted well with the silver objects and the treen, and in any case, he told himself, his life was going to be a whole lot tidier from now on: the Director of the British Museum had three secretaries.
By five in the evening on election day, it had become clear from the exit polls that Lockwood’s majority would be nearer seventy-five than thirty-five in the new Parliament. He had been photographed the next day on the steps of Number Ten with his wife and grandson, Tommy.
Edward finally had his tie knotted. He put on a black morning jacket and stood again in front of the mirror.
‘Sir Edward Andover, unless I’m much mistaken.’
He turned. Victoria had left her hat and shoes where they were but between them had wrapped a black and white silk dress around her body. She looked very sexy. Edward gave a mock bow. ‘As you said, this is the chic-est houseboat in history.’
Edward locked the door and they walked up the gangway. It was amazing how easily he had taken to living with someone. He had always looked upon himself as a solitary soul. Not lonely – far from it – but someone who enjoyed his own company. He had even believed that his disposition helped if you were a scholar. But all that had gone by the board after he had moved in with Victoria. Both had their jobs, their engrossing jobs, but Edward now found it easier to switch off when Victoria was around. Marriage had not been discussed, except by Samantha, who said she would only forgive Edward for his non-appearance for the concert if she could be a brides
maid.
On the Embankment, the taxi – a white Mercedes almost identical to the one that had crashed in the tunnel – was waiting. Edward held the door open for Victoria as she got in. He went around to the other side and slipped in alongside her. ‘Buckingham Palace,’ he said to the driver.
The driver looked at him in the rear-view mirror. He had a dark complexion – Greek maybe.
‘Buckingham Palace,’ Edward repeated, and the driver grinned.
‘Great,’ he said. ‘It’s the first time I’ve ever been.’
Edward looked at Victoria and smiled. ‘And it’s probably my last.’
Author’s Note
In the spring of 1945,
in the immediate aftermath of
the Second World War,
Anthony Blunt – then Surveyor of
the King’s Pictures –
was dispatched to Hesse in Germany
on secret business
on behalf of King George VI.
In 1979 in the House of Commons
Prime Minister Margaret Thatcher revealed
that Blunt was a self-confessed
Soviet spy, and that
MIS had known of his spying since 1964.
So much is fact – but this is a novel.
The action takes place in 1996.
All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 1991 by Peter Watson
Cover design by Drew Padrutt
ISBN: 978-1-5040-4687-9
This 2017 edition published by MysteriousPress.com/Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.
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