‘Not your car, Mr Spenser?’ she enquired.
‘No, a taxi.’
Half an hour later he was being driven away from Dockland. In the cab the driver leant back and told him of the Prime Minister’s resignation and they listened on the radio to the reports, and the commentary on the retirement of the old and the identity of the new Prime Minister. The cab finally drew up outside a handsome office block in Battersea Bridge Road. At the desk inside the portico a secretary met Spenser and escorted him to a first-floor office.
He was greeted warmly. ‘Come in, my dear fellow,’ said Ogilvy Grant. ‘Welcome to the Telegram.’
When, therefore, Mordecai Ledbury reported to Price at the Savoy the result of his negotiation with Patrick Foxley, Digby Price did not have the assistance of his right-hand man of business. No one knew where Mr Spenser was. He had departed from the News Universal building in a cab; he was not at his home, he had left no message as to his whereabouts. He could not be located. Price also still could not get in touch with Helena in Paris. So when it came to the moment of decision he had to make it alone and on being presented by Mordecai with Tancred’s final demand he brusquely agreed. Angry and humiliated, accompanied by a silent Wilson, he left the hotel for Luton airport to board his private jet for Paris.
When they arrived at the rue Casimir Perrier at seven o’clock that evening Helena had still not returned. The maid, Matilde, told Price that Madame had left the apartment in the morning to go to the hairdresser – not her regular hairdresser but another to whom she’d been recommended. She had not taken the car. Price bawled at the maid, reducing her to tears. She did not know the name of the hairdresser. Late as it was, he made Wilson telephone every salon in Paris. He himself called their few acquaintances but no one could tell him anything. Still angry and by now anxious, he paced around the apartment. He went to her wardrobe, but as far as he could tell her clothes were all there. It was only when he chanced to notice that the jewel case on the dressing table was empty that he went to the wall safe and found the money and the jewellery had gone. Wilson, in the outer room, heard his howl of anguish and fury.
After the court had emptied, Anna joined Patrick at his chambers and the two of them took a taxi to Kensington Gardens. By then it was six o‘clock; the evening was warm and they walked from the carriage road across the grass in the direction of the Speke memorial. Then they wandered down to the Serpentine and sat on a bench by the Peter Pan statue. ‘I used to come here as a child,’ he said.
When Anna had parted with a jubilant Emerald and Sylvia at the entrance to the Law Courts, both had been eager to know how much Digby Price had been obliged to pay and they tried to make Anna promise she would find out from Patrick. However, on hearing from the attendant the news of the resignation of the Prime Minister and the probable appointment of the Chancellor of the Exchequer as his successor, they had both bustled off. The Chancellor was due for luncheon on the following Sunday at The Waves. It was imperative that Emerald knew whether his new pre-eminence would prevent his visit; or translate the occasion into the first social occasion attended by the new First Minister. Sylvia, on the other hand, telephoned No. 10 to say that if the former Prime Minister had nowhere to stay in London when he left Downing Street, rather than go to an hotel, he was most welcome at Eaton Square.
On the bench in the park, Anna took Patrick’s hand. ‘Are you glad it’s over?’ she asked.
‘I am,’ he replied. ‘But it was an anticlimax for me. I didn’t play much of a part.’
‘But you won.’
‘I didn’t. Tancred won. And Mordecai slid out of the fiasco pretty skilfully. His reputation won’t be damaged.’
‘Did you want it to be?’
‘No, but I wanted to beat him fair and square and to be seen to have beaten him. But I didn’t. Tancred did.’
‘Did you know what was going to be Tancred’s explanation of the payments by Sleaven?’
‘No. That’s what made the case so hard for us, his counsel. When we knew that News had got hold of his bank statements and copies were disclosed to us, as they had to be, I told Tancred that he had to settle unless he had a very, very convincing explanation. He said he had, but he wouldn’t tell me what it was. He said he’d reveal it in the witness box and that he’d have the witnesses in London to back it up if that was necessary. It was a high-risk strategy and I had no alternative but to acquiesce. But News was too scared to go on after the jury had heard Tancred. And they were right.’
‘How much did Price have to pay?’
‘It’s confidential, part of the terms of the agreement. But I’ll tell you. Seven hundred and fifty thousand pounds general and punitive damages, and Price has to pay all our costs – apart from his own, which are enormous. He has had teams of investigators working for months. He even targeted Cranley Burrows, our solicitor. But all the time Tancred seemed to know what they were doing. He had someone who was informing him. Throughout the months of preparation for trial he was masterminding everything. He planned every move from the very first moment when he came to see me. It was as if he’d planned it all even from before the diary was published.’
‘How could he have done that?’
‘I don’t know. But he seemed to have anticipated every move they made. He gave me the impression he wanted to provoke Price to go on.’
‘Why did Price go on?’
‘Because he thought he’d win, especially when he got the bank statements that proved Tancred was getting money from Sleaven.’
‘Who could have sent those statements to Price’s lawyers?’
‘I don’t know. At the time it seemed a devastating blow, and of course the discovery of the bank accounts made Price certain the payments proved that Tancred was corrupt. He couldn’t imagine there was any other reason for the mysterious meetings and the money. And Price wanted to believe it. He was determined to destroy Tancred. There was something between them, I guessed that.’
‘Tancred said in court it was something that happened in Africa.’
‘Yes, but what it was I don’t know and I didn’t enquire.’
‘What about Helena Cheung in Paris. What part did she play?’
‘I suspect a substantial one. She certainly encouraged Price to go on. There was a lot I didn’t know, that I wasn’t allowed to know. All Tancred wanted from me was to front the exercise in court.’
‘And you did it very well.’
‘It wasn’t very difficult and it wasn’t the battle with Mordecai that I hoped it would be. Some day perhaps that will come. Anyhow, it’s all over now and what didn’t make doing that case very easy was that all the time I have had other things, more important things, on my mind.’ He took her hand and leant across and kissed her. ‘I’m in love with you,’ he said. ‘You must know that.’
‘You haven’t known me very long.’
‘Long enough.’ He was still holding her hand and he raised it to his lips and kissed it. ‘I don’t believe in not committing oneself as so many do today,’ he said.
‘What does that mean?’
‘Partners! How I loathe that expression.’ He put both his hands round hers but still didn’t look at her. ‘I love you, Anna. I love making love to you. I want to make love to you all the time. I want to live with you. Which means, for me, that I want to marry you. Which means I’m asking you to take on what my clerk tells me that Mr Justice Traynor, the judge at the trial, calls a roody prima donna.’
She laughed. ‘Is that what you are? What about me? A not very talented artist who comes from another very faraway country – a country which, mind you, she’d want to return to every now and then.’
‘But not for long. I couldn’t be separated for long.’
‘No, not for long, not at any one time. But I haven’t said yes yet.’
‘You must,’ he said. ‘You mustn’t say no.’
‘I don’t think I shall,’ she said and this time she kissed him.
Chapter Eight
‘
At Gladstone’s last Cabinet, when he told his colleagues he was to retire, many wept openly. Thereafter he always called it the “blubbering Cabinet”. I cannot say the same of this morning. My colleagues remained remarkably dry-eyed.’ The Prime Minister, for he was still the Prime Minister – he was not to go to the Palace until just after three o‘clock – was in the Cabinet Room, seated in his usual place facing the windows. Alan Prentice was at his elbow. It was just before one o’clock.
‘Gladstone’s colleagues were Victorians, Prime Minister. They wept a lot.’
‘Did you notice the expression on the face of the Foreign Secretary when I announced that I was going and that I was recommending the Sovereign to send for the Chancellor of the Exchequer?’
‘I did, Prime Minister.’
‘I would describe it as a face of thunder. I have always liked that expression. In my early days as PM I thought it would be helpful if from time to time I were able to assume a face of thunder. But I never was.’
You are far too devious for that, thought Alan. Even in the manner of your going you will not show your true face to the world.
‘When I go to the Palace this afternoon,’ the Prime Minister went on, ‘I shall not, of course, return. Find out if it would inconvenience Lady Sylvia if I were to beg a bed off her for tonight. I shall say farewell to my constituents tomorrow on my way to Somerset.’
When Alan Price had gone the Prime Minister sat in silence. Then he rose and walked round the Cabinet table and looked out at the garden.
Alan Prentice returned. ‘Lady Sylvia is not there but the manservant said he was sure she would be delighted. Lady Sylvia is apparently at the trial.’
‘Ah, yes the trial.’
‘You’ll be pleased to learn’, Prentice went on, ‘that counsel are negotiating. It seems that the former Minister has won a great victory. It is now merely a question of how much Mr Price has to pay.’
‘I hope it is a very great deal.’
‘Above all, Prime Minister, it means that your administration will not be tainted with the suggestion of corruption. That would have been a sad end to your distinguished term of office.’
‘Thank you, my dear fellow. It is kind of you to say so. Yes, I should like to go with some measure of public respect. I cannot expect honour. Politicians are not awarded much honour nowadays, not even the honour among thieves.’
It was, in fact, not until four o’clock – the difference in time was caused by the delayed return from a royal engagement – that he was driven to the Palace around Parliament Square and up Birdcage Walk, following the route taken by many of his predecessors, some as they went feeling relief and release; others bitterness and resentment at the perfidy of either electorate or colleagues. This Prime Minister fell into the relieved category – except when he remembered Digby Price and the diary that still hung like a sword of Damocles above his head. Defeat would make Price very bitter. There was no knowing what the fellow might not now do.
While the audience was being held, Downing Street telephoned the Queen’s Private Secretary and confirmed that Lady Sylvia Benedict would be delighted to entertain the former Prime Minister for the night before he journeyed to his home in the country. So he passed an agreeable evening with Sylvia who had managed at the last minute to get the American Ambassador and one of the former Prime Minister’s old friends, a Fellow of All Souls who had been at Balliol with him, an historian who dined much in society and wrote racy reviews for the Spectator. The former Prime Minister was in excellent form, reflecting upon political life in the country houses of the Edwardian era, speaking of the code whereby the wives left outside their bedroom doors the plate of sandwiches provided in those days to sustain the guests through the long hours of darkness, even after a gargantuan dinner of half a dozen courses. If the plate was empty that was the signal to their lover that the coast was clear and the husband safely in the dressing room. If the plate was full, it was to warn that the husband was in situ. And he told of the contretemps when a greedy guest ate the sandwiches and, seeing the empty plate, the lover entered, to find the husband in full enjoyment of his conjugal rights. Sylvia was amused; the American Ambassador, a New Englander with the features of an eagle and a Puritan heart, was not. The old friend had heard it all before. So the former Prime Minister passed this agreeable evening, scorning to watch the news and the coverage of his resignation before ambling off to bed.
But the morning was not so jolly. There was, of course, the political news of his resignation, and the identity and character of his successor, and the story about the settlement of the Tancred case, accompanied by speculation over the dramatic fall in the share price of News Universal and whether the empire of Digby Price would survive. But the item that made the ex-Prime Minister’s morning not so jolly was carried in the Telegram’s Diary column, a feature widely read in Westminster and Whitehall. It referred to a recently retired minister who, despite his age and his public posture as a champion of family standards, had for many years enjoyed a secret love affair. The diarist wondered if now that the former minister was free from office, he would be tempted to regularise the irregular but agreeable union.
As a result Sylvia’s guest remained in his bedroom until one o’clock and then, declining the offer of luncheon, departed in the official car to which, as a former Prime Minister, he was entitled. He did not go to the constituency office but to the home of his agent, Aidan Wills, where he was greeted affectionately by Penny. She led him through the french windows of the sitting room to the two deckchairs on the stone-flagged terrace overlooking the narrow strip of lawn that led the few yards down to the fence, a lawn bordered by lines of red, white and orange-yellow flowers – salvias, white daisies and—. To his annoyance the name of the orange flowers, always prominent in the displays at the Town Hall on the occasion of the mayor’s annual reception, escaped him. He disliked them intensely and contemplated with distaste the mixture of hideous colours in the garden. Penny appeared with a jug of lemonade and a large cream cake for her visitor. She cut him a generous slice, poured him a glass and, lowering her ample frame on to a stool she had drawn up beside him, encouraged him to eat and drink. But he only sipped the lemonade and, despite her protestation that she’d made the cake herself, he declined to eat.
After a sip or two he put down his glass and laid his hand on her bright, shining face. ‘You understand, my dear, what this means – my retirement from the House of Commons and therefore from the constituency?’
She nodded, took his hand and held it firm against her cheek before taking it to her lips.
‘I shall not in future be seeing you the way I have in the past,’ he added.
‘I know,’ she said. ‘But sometimes, surely sometimes I can see you?’
‘It will not be easy.’
There was a copy of the Telegram on the other deck-chair. ‘Bring me that,’ he said. He turned the pages and pointed to the Diary column. ‘See?’
‘I have seen it.’
‘Has Aidan?’
She brushed this aside. ‘I expect he has. It doesn’t matter. All I want is to be able to see you now and again.’
‘I shall try,’ he promised.
She took the newspaper from him. ‘How could they have got hold of it, after all these years?’ she asked.
‘News Universal got it from a man whose diary they published. How it got to the Telegram I have no idea. They know no details. But once they get a scent, the hounds will follow it.’
‘What will you do?’
‘Go home. Ignore it. They won’t find out more. Unless …‘He stopped.
She snatched her hand away from his. ‘You know I never would,’ she said fiercely.
‘They have so much money.’
‘Don’t say that. I haven’t in the past and I won‘t in the future. It’s our secret.’
‘They might have followed me here.’
‘All you are doing is saying goodbye to your constituency. ’
‘To more than tha
t,’ he replied looking into her eyes. ‘To much, much more than that.’
They heard the car draw up at the front of the small house. Aidan Wills came through the sitting room. ‘The officers are assembled at the constituency office, waiting to say goodbye, Prime Minister,’ he announced.
‘No longer Prime Minister,’ he said as he rose from the chair.
‘You’ll always be Prime Minister to us,’ said Penny.
He took her hand. ‘Thank you for the cake and the lemonade. Thank you – for everything.’
Aidan turned away as he kissed her on the cheek.
Two hours later he arrived home, to the handsome red-brick manor house at the end of a lane, with views of the Mendip Hills and the wooded Somerset farmland.
Joan came in from the garden, a pair of secateurs in her gloved hands, earth from her gardening shoes leaving a trail behind her. ‘Tea?’ she asked breezily.
‘No, thank you. I’m a little tired. I think I shall have a whisky and soda.’
‘A bit early, isn’t it? Still, I suppose it’s a day for celebration.’ She went back to the garden.
Glass in hand, he wandered around the silent house. From a window he could just make out her trousered rear prominent among the flowers in the herbaceous border. She was hard at work with her trowel. No audience now, he reflected. No once-upon-a-time mistress. The autobiography was all that lay ahead. The discreet, necessarily untruthful autobiography.
In London, ministers had been asked to remain at their posts. The only appointment the incoming Prime Minister had to make was a new Chancellor of the Exchequer. In the evening it was announced that the Right Honourable Peregrine McClaren had been chosen.
The Richmond Diary Page 25