“What about the funeral?” asked Dennis Arnold. “What are we going to do?”
“I suggest we hold to our original plan,” said the Home Secretary. “A simple, tasteful, but extremely low-key affair.”
“But, I thought Tom just said —”
“I know what I said,” Waring broke in. “But I will not be forced into splashing out on a costly public spectacle for that fat bastard — it goes against everything I believe in. I won’t do it.” He glanced around the table at his five chief advisors.
“On the other hand, we wouldn’t want to appear to be unreasonable about this,” Arnold suggested. “The people expect a certain amount of decorum at least. If we’re seen to be doing Teddy boy down, that could cause a sympathetic backlash. The last thing we want is to have everyone feeling sorry for the old rascal.”
Waring bristled, but he knew solid advice when he heard it. He paused, tapping the tips of his fingers together. “All right,” he said at last, leaning forward to deliver his decision. “This is how it will be: we stick to the original plan, but allow a few modifications — heaven forbid we should seem unreasonable. The cremation goes ahead, but he can lie in state at Buckingham Palace. There will be a small family ceremony — at the crematorium, not at Westminster or St. Paul’s. Nothing public, got it? Say the family wants it that way, and we’re only respecting their wishes.”
The Prime Minister stood up abruptly. “Meeting adjourned. Reconvene lunchtime tomorrow. Thank you, ladies and gentlemen; you are dismissed.”
As the first of the inner circle of advisors filed out of the office, Leonard DeVries, the PM’s private secretary, put his head around the corner of the door to announce, “Chief Whip is here to see you, sir. Is this a good time?”
“Perfect,” Waring replied. “Send him in.” To Hutchens and the Deputy Prime Minister, he said, “Both of you stay. I want you to hear this. It’ll save repeating it later.”
Nigel Sforza, Chief Whip of the British Republic Party, was a somber man with a pockmarked face and long hands that had a tendency to flap when he became agitated. “I hope I am not intruding, Prime Minister, You did ask me to make my report a first priority.”
“Yes, yes, of course, Nigel. Come right in — we’re finished here. Hutch and Angela will sit in on this in case they have any questions.”
“By all means,” said the Chief Whip, taking the seat Waring offered. Placing his briefcase on the floor, he bent to open it and withdrew a handful of papers.
While he rifled through them, Waring explained, “I asked Nigel for a head count so we would know where we stand.”
“Right,” said Nigel, laying the papers on the table in front of him. “I’d ask you to remember that this was done off the record. If it came to a fight the numbers would probably change — depending on the particular issue in question.”
“Point taken,” said Waring impatiently. “How does it look?”
Sforza extended his index finger and ran it down the page before him. “We currently have a solid payroll vote of two hundred and ninety, which leaves sixty-one floaters.”
Hutchens loosed a low, astonished whistle. “Sixty-one potential renegades.”
Sforza glanced up at him. “Depending on the issue,” he intoned coolly. “It is highly unlikely we would ever face the desertion of all sixty-one. Highly unlikely.”
“But our majority is down to six,” Angela pointed out. “It wouldn’t take all sixty-one. Only six have to side with the opposition, and we’re sunk.”
“It won’t come to that,” said Waring firmly. It irritated him when people pointed out the weakness of their majority. They had come to power twelve years earlier with a comfortable margin of parliamentary seats. The years and bloody battles they had fought as a party had taken their toll, but he nursed fond hopes of building their margin back to its original fighting strength.
“The point is,” suggested Hutchens, “it’s one thing to abolish the monarchy, but quite another to endorse a full presidential republic. That might be a bridge too far for some of our renegades and fence-sitters. We don’t really know how big the potential defection factor might be.”
“There won’t be any defections,” Waring declared firmly.
“Fine. Great.” Hutch shrugged. “Fiddle away, Nero. Personally, I smell smoke. This could be the thing the Opposition has been looking for to unite their own wayward ranks. If they were able to get to some of our renegades, we could lose the presidency vote.”
He was only stating what Waring had told himself a thousand times since he’d learned of Teddy’s suicide. The King’s death could not have come at a worse time. It was, in many ways, the worst thing that could have happened to his government. He would have preferred the monarchy to have been dissolved as planned, thus clearing the way for the Act of Presidency. Everyone knew that, as the leader of the party in power, he fancied himself in the role of Britain’s first chief executive.
Parliament as a whole was much more doubtful about the benefits of a presidential system than they were about dissolving the monarchy. Even the most ardent republicans disagreed; after all, why throw over one king just to elect another?
The vote on the necessary presidential legislation would be close, and Waring knew he would need every single one of his majority seats to carry the day. For, despite their impressive show of unity and power, the British Republic Party had been running on reputation for some time. Savvy insiders knew already, and the media were beginning to suspect, that their rhetorical bark was far worse than their political bite.
The Prime Minister’s great fear was that the occasion of a State funeral would revive the latent royalist sympathy within his party — to say nothing of the nation as a whole — and he would lose even more ground to an increasingly powerful Opposition. Six seats was as slender a majority as he ever cared to see. Years ago, the old Tory party had limped along for a while with a two-seat majority, but they had crashed and burned in the very next general election; and, after a few years in opposition, they had disintegrated completely, ridding the political landscape of their unsightly presence.
Waring had no intention of repeating their mistakes. If necessary, he would lobby every one of the fence-sitters and renegades and promise them whatever it took to secure their loyalty. He ardently hoped it would not come to that.
The Chief Whip put aside his paper and took up the next one. “When questioned about the funeral,” he said, “thirty of the floaters were in favor of a full State funeral.”
Waring frowned. If half the floaters wanted a slap-up funeral for the old bugger, how many of the rest felt that way, too? Was it worth risking a royalist backlash to appease his wayward backbenchers?
“Poll the payroll,” he ordered, making up his mind. “I want the results as soon as possible.”
He thanked Sforza then, and dismissed him. When the Chief Whip had gone, the PM turned to his second in command, and said, “It looks like we might have to toss the press a few fish.” He drummed his fingers on the table for a moment. “Right. We’ll arrange to meet the coffin, and let the newshounds cover it — limousines and a police escort, that sort of thing. I want it tasteful, but low-key — ultra-low-key, in fact. This thing will have to be stage-managed to keep it from getting out of hand. Understood?”
“Absolutely.”
“Get on it, Angela. Make like it was our intention all along.”
“I’ll brief Pat and Dennis and we’ll pull some options together, and” — she glanced at her slender gold watch — “I should be able to give you a call after dinner.”
“Do that.”
When the Deputy Prime Minister had gone, Waring turned to Hutchens. “Get the media sorted. A few papers and only one camera crew from each of the major channels. I won’t have a circus — got it?”
“Got it.”
“Good,” Waring said, turning his attention to the leather notebook before him. “Get busy.” When his aide made no move, he glanced up. “What?”
; “Nothing.” The press secretary hesitated. “It’s just… well, there is one last niggling detail.”
“For God’s sake, spill it, Martin. I don’t have all day.”
“This Teresa Vierta,” said Hutchens, watching the PM’s eyes. “Teddy’s floozy.”
“What about her?”
“I have to know if there is any way she can be traced to us.”
The Prime Minister stared at his press secretary for a moment. “I shouldn’t think so.”
“In other words: yes.”
“All right, have it your way. Yes — but only in a most peripheral way.”
“Did money change hands?”
Waring glanced away. “Yes.”
“Jesus H. Christ!” The young man leaped up. “Why didn’t I know about this?”
“You didn’t need to know,” the Prime Minister told him.
“How much?”
“How much what?”
“How much money did you give her?”
“Not much. Eight, maybe ten thousand — something like that. It was in the way of a one-time payment, ostensibly so she could buy the proper clothes and a better apartment. What does it matter how much?”
“And what was she supposed to do for this? Become his love slave?”
Waring frowned. “Nothing like that. I only wanted information. I had to know if the old sot was going to do the right thing or cause trouble.”
“So you set him up with a hooker,” Hutch said. “I don’t believe this.”
“She isn’t a prostitute,” Waring corrected mildly, unmoved by his aide’s dramatics. “She’s a socialite.”
“I can’t believe you gave her money. It’s so amateurish. If she goes public with that, it could blow us out of the water big time. No way could I control that.”
“Relax, Martin. It’s already under control,” the Prime Minister said casually.
“Let me tell you, these things have a way of —”
“She won’t breathe a word to anyone. Trust me.” When he saw that his assurances were failing to persuade his press secretary, Waring added, “Instead of worrying about things that don’t concern you, why not try coming up with a way to sideline those Save Our Monarchy demonstrators for a change? They’re beginning to get on my nerves.”
Hutchens regarded his boss, silently shaking his head.
Waring stood. “That is all, Mr. Hutchens.”
“Are you sure there aren’t any more hand grenades you care to lob my way?”
“As always, you’ll be the first to know.” Waring flicked his hand at him. “I’ll expect a preliminary report in the morning.”
The press secretary made a sour face and departed. Waring sat down and leaned back in his chair for a moment to review the various aspects of the meeting just concluded. When he was satisfied he had covered all the details, he rose and opened the door to the outer office. “Leo,” he said to his private secretary, “I’m going upstairs.”
“Very good, sir. Good night, Prime Minister.”
Waring walked back through the empty meeting room and left by a side door, which opened onto a private lift. Once upstairs, he took off his suit jacket, poured himself a drink from the crystal decanter, picked up the remote control, and settled back to watch the news.
Seven
Caroline arrived with Donald’s pudding, one for herself, and a second helping of chocolate torte for Cal. “Isobel insisted,” she told him, sliding the plate before him.
Donald, eager to share news of his small victory, remained undeterred by the arrival of his dessert. “I’ll tell you what it was, shall I?”
“Please do,” James invited.
“The Prime Minister declared in the House of Commons that Britain was still a monarchy.” Donald picked up his spoon in triumph. “Didn’t you think that was significant?”
“I guess not. Is it?”
“Most certainly, it is — highly significant,” Donald remarked, sliding his plate closer. “When the most rabidly antiroyalist Prime Minister ever to occupy Number Ten swears to the House and the nation that he answers to king and crown, I call that significant. Why, for the last eighteen months the devolutionists have had their goons combing the countryside, systematically terrorizing some of Britain’s oldest and most respected families, and a host of other decent citizens, coercing everyone into signing away their nobility. Anyone who refused was strong-armed into —”
“Donald,” Caroline chided, “don’t lecture our guests, dear. Let them eat their pudding in peace.”
“Yes, of course,” he said, and dug into the thick slab of chocolate with his spoon.
“We don’t mind,” Cal said, speaking up. “We rarely get to discuss politics with a real, live Member of Parliament.”
Donald smiled, spooning up some of the cherry sauce. “Actually, it’s rather a new rôle for me — I was one of the so-called ‘Horde of Lords’ who migrated to the other House when our own club was shut down.” Regret flitted across his face, vanishing at once. “Much of the rigmarole is similar, of course. The canteen is worse. The big difference is constituency work, which I enjoy immensely — a happy discovery, that. Didn’t think I would. The plum appointments are all committee related, and I’ve yet to get my oar in.” He licked his spoon happily. “Still, it’s very satisfying to have one’s say in the House and ruffle a few feathers if possible.”
“Like today,” James pointed out.
“Indeed.” Donald chewed thoughtfully for a moment, then resumed, adopting a more philosophical tone. “The King’s funeral is important. It is, I believe, fundamental to who we are as Brits. We shouldn’t allow ourselves to be robbed of our valuable heritage.”
“Is that what they’re trying to do?” Cal inquired.
“I’m sure Waring and his minions would like nothing more than for the whole miserable thing to sink quietly out of sight. But we’ve got our teeth into this one, and we’ll give ’em a run for their money they won’t forget.” It seemed to James that Donald had shifted gears and was now talking about something different. “One has to appreciate the irony of it, really. I mean, the thing that signals the end of the monarchy may be the very thing that will save it.”
“Donald,” interrupted Caroline, “tell me you’re not going to go into all that again. It’s just too tedious.” She looked across the table. “Calum, how are you coming with that pudding? Ready for another?”
“This’ll do for me,” Cal replied, manfully tucking into the torte, which was even bigger than the first slice. “Thanks all the same.”
Lord Rothes took another big bite of his dessert, and then pushed the plate away. “Good pudd,” he said, with a slight smack of his lips. “Forgive me, but I can’t seem to think or talk about anything else. These are momentous events — absolutely earthshaking. Look at it! We are less than three months away from an Act of Parliament that will bring down the curtain on the world’s last genuine monarchy, and what does the world’s last genuine monarchy do to mark the occasion? He puts a gun to his head and blows his bloody brains —”
“Donald…” cautioned his wife, “table talk.”
“Let us say that, unable to face the ignominy of being known for all time as the King who presided over the abolition of the monarchy, Edward chose another way out of a particularly unhappy dilemma.”
“Suicide, then. Is that certain?” Cal asked.
“No question whatever,” Donald affirmed. “Waring only presents the other options — murder and misadventure — because he’s afraid some of the blood might spatter on his lily-white hands.”
“I never like Edward,” Caroline confided, “but I wouldn’t have wished this on him. I wouldn’t wish that sort of desperation on anyone.”
“Rubbish,” Donald scolded. “First manly thing he ever did in his life. Teddy knew, as well as everyone else, he’d failed. Had he been a better man he might have made something of his life — be might have made something of his Crown.”
“And pigs might fly,” Cal ob
served dryly. “The royals were always a randy bunch of skirt-chasing ne’er-do-wells and adulterers, if you ask me. Self-seeking, self-serving, and self-indulgent stinkers to a man, mean-spirited and stingy as the day is long. Reprobates, rakes, and rascals — you can have the lot of them.” He glanced from the ring of faces around the table to his glass and, feeling perhaps he had gone a little over the top, added, “That’s only my humble opinion, of course.”
“Quite,” Donald affirmed. “The final irony” — again, James noticed, he used that word — “is that if he hadn’t been the kind of man he was, poor Teddy would never have ended it the way he did and we wouldn’t have the chance now to —”
He checked himself abruptly, leaving the distinct impression he realized he had been speaking out of turn. “Well” — he smiled weakly — “let’s just say all is not lost. Not by a long chalk.”
Lady Rothes changed the subject smoothly. “The coffee must be ready, I expect. Donald, why don’t you be a dear and go help Isobel carry in the tray?”
It was Cal who responded to her suggestion. “I’d be happy to go,” he said, rising eagerly to his feet. “Donald can finish his dessert.”
“I wouldn’t hear of it,” Lord Rothes protested.
“I’m halfway there already,” said Cal, stepping away from the table.
“I expect he wanted to ask about her recipe,” James suggested when he had gone.
“He wouldn’t be the first,” Caroline replied knowingly.
“It’s true,” Lord Donald observed, placidly spooning cherry sauce from his plate. “That girl is an inspired cook. She could have a job in any of London’s top restaurants just like that.”
“You’re lucky to have her,” James said, making conversation. “How long has she been with you?”
“Forever,” replied Donald. “She’s our daughter.”
“Then you’re doubly lucky,” James told him. “She’s a lovely young woman.”
“And absolutely indispensable to my work. The average citizen has no idea just how much government goes on behind the scenes. Why, a Member of Parliament is always entertaining someone or other. Isobel takes all the fuss and bother out of it, and allows me to get on with the business at hand. Don’t know what I’d do without her.”
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