by Peter Watson
There was another burst of movement along the benches of the Commons. It began to dawn on people that the game they had come to watch had changed. The Prime Minister, who should have been out cold by this stage, still had plenty of life left in him.
‘The Queen’s “influenza” was in fact a public sign to the kidnappers that we – the British government – were willing to negotiate with them.’ Lockwood stared intently at Page. ‘I need hardly add that the demands of this Apollo Brigade were . . . the return to Athens of the so-called Elgin Marbles. So began a very dangerous time. Days and weeks in which only I and a few very trusted aides knew the complete picture. Days and weeks in which the Queen was most anxious for the safety of her sister.’ Lockwood looked up at Mordaunt again. The Princess Margaret idea had been the Queen’s own – one of the two things she had broached at lunch. ‘Days and weeks in which it appeared, as I was told several times in this House yesterday, that I was behaving in an unconstitutional and authoritarian way. Days and weeks during which it appeared that the government was losing its grip – “shilly-shallying” as it was described.’ Lockwood beamed. ‘None of that was true, of course. But I – we – could not tell the House any of what we knew. It was a condition of the kidnappers that nothing was made public. They had their own plans for announcing their end of the “deal” when the Marbles reached Greece.
‘Naturally, the government did not sit idly by as these demands were made. The House will not expect me to go into details which might compromise our security forces in future operations. Likewise, I am sure the House will expect me to convey its good wishes to Her Royal Highness now that she has come through this ordeal successfully. As I say, the amount I can disclose publicly about this issue is limited, for the moment anyway, by security. However, I can say that we established fairly quickly that the Brigade, as it called itself, was composed of six Greeks and one American. One of the Brigade was a Greek based in Switzerland and the others all lived in Greece.’ Lockwood had decided to leave out any reference to Shelby – it was safer for the Queen not to have it known that the conservator was on Fleet Street’s doorstep. ‘I say “was” and “were” because I can report to the House that the operation was brought to a successful conclusion at around noon today. Princess Margaret, as I have said, is safe – though all members of the Apollo Brigade are dead. A fuller statement will be issued from Downing Street later today, after the security services have examined what happened in detail and they have vetted the details that can be released without jeopardizing future operations of a similar nature. What I can tell the House is that HMS Anglesey, which was carrying the Elgin Marbles to Greece, has now changed course and is returning to Britain –’
A cheer erupted from the public gallery as Lockwood said this, soon taken up on the government benches. On the opposition’s side of the House, members sat as if stunned. Lockwood waited for the noise to die down before even attempting to go on. He knew the House was hanging on his every word, that it was a complete reversal of the day before, and he did not intend to throw this moment away.
Eventually he felt able to make himself heard. ‘I hope honourable members will concede that this news I bring casts a different light on the events of the past weeks –’
Cheering again now from the government benches.
‘Far from being a “shilly-shallying” government, this has been one which has handled an unprecedented situation with determination, intelligence, tact – and has emerged successful. I need hardly add that both Her Majesty and Princess Margaret have been through a very difficult time. As honourable members may know, I have just returned from Buckingham Palace, where I had the good fortune to lunch with the Queen in her private apartments. She is naturally very relieved, but the Queen was also anxious to show her gratitude to the government. She has therefore told me she intends to honour it by bestowing personal knighthoods on Mr Bernard Midwinter, Press Secretary at Downing Street, on Mr Jocelyn Hatfield, Chief Whip, on Mr Tom Lessor, Home Secretary, and on Mr Eric Slocombe, my personal political adviser. I, too, am to receive a similar honour. I need hardly remind members that this honour enables a Commoner to still remain a member of this House.’ Lockwood beamed at Page, now cowering on the opposition front bench. The knighthoods had been the second of the Queen’s own ideas.
He turned again to face the Speaker. ‘However, I 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 bridesmaid.
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.’
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