The senior partner then turned to what looked to Virginia like the last page of the will.
“And finally,” he said, “I leave the five-hundred-acre estate that lies west of the Carley Falls, and includes the Glen Fenwick Distillery—” he couldn’t resist pausing to cough—“to my only grandson, the Hon. Frederick Archibald Iain Bruce Fenwick.” An audible gasp went up in the room, but Ferguson ignored it. “And I ask my eldest son, Archibald, to be responsible for the running of the distillery until Frederick acquires the age of twenty-five.”
The tenth earl looked just as surprised as everyone else in the room, as his father had never mentioned his plans for the distillery. But if that was what the old man wanted, he would make sure his wishes were carried out in keeping with the family motto, “Without fear or favor.”
Virginia was about to storm out of the room, but it was clear that Mr. Ferguson hadn’t finished. A few murmurings could be heard as he refilled his glass with water before returning to his task.
“And last and certainly least,” he said, which created the silence he had intended, “I come to my only daughter, Virginia. To her I bequeath one bottle of Maker’s Mark whisky, in the hope that it will teach her a lesson, although I have my doubts.”
* * *
Karin’s stepfather opened the front door and welcomed her with an unusually warm smile.
“I have some good news to share with you,” he said as she stepped into the house, “but it will have to wait until later.”
Could it just be possible, thought Karin, that this nightmare was finally coming to an end? Then she saw a copy of the Times lying on the kitchen table, open at the obituaries page. She stared at the familiar photograph of Baroness Forbes-Watson and wondered if it was just a coincidence, or if he had left it open simply to provoke her.
Over coffee, they talked of nothing consequential, but Karin could hardly miss the three suitcases standing by the door, which appeared to herald imminent departure. Even so, she became more anxious by the minute, as Pengelly remained far too relaxed and friendly for her liking. What was the old army expression, “demobhappy”?
“Time for us to talk about more serious matters,” he said, placing a finger to his lips. He went out to the hallway and removed his heavy overcoat from a peg by the door. Karin thought about making a run for it, but if she did, and all he was going to tell her was that he was returning to Moscow, her cover would be blown. He helped her on with her coat and accompanied her outside.
Karin was taken by surprise when he gripped her arm firmly and almost marched her down the deserted street. Usually she linked her arm in his so that any passing stranger would assume they were father and daughter out for a walk, but not today. She decided that if they came across anyone, even the old colonel, she would stop and talk to him, because she knew Pengelly wouldn’t dare risk their cover being blown if there was a witness present.
Pengelly continued his jovial banter. This was so out of character Karin became even more apprehensive, her eyes darting warily in every direction, but no one appeared to be taking a constitutional on that bleak, gray day.
Once they reached the edge of the woods, Pengelly looked around, as he always did, to see if anyone was following them. If there was, they would retrace their steps and head back to the cottage. But not this afternoon.
Although it was barely four o’clock, the light was already beginning to fade and it was becoming darker by the minute. He gripped her arm more firmly as they stepped off the road and onto the path that led into the woods. His voice changed to match the cold night air.
“I know you’ll be pleased to hear, Karin”—he never called her Karin—“that I’ve been promoted and will soon be returning to Moscow.”
“Congratulations, comrade. Well deserved.”
He didn’t loosen his grip. “So this will be our last meeting,” he continued. Could she possibly hope that … “But Marshal Koshevoi has entrusted me with one final assignment.” Pengelly didn’t elaborate, almost as if he wanted her to take her time thinking about it. As they walked deeper into the woods, it was becoming so dark that Karin could hardly see a yard in front of her. Pengelly, however, seemed to know exactly where he was going, as if every pace had been rehearsed.
“The head of countersurveillance,” he said calmly, “has finally uncovered the traitor in our ranks, the person who has for years been betraying the motherland. I have been chosen to carry out the appropriate retribution.”
His firm grip finally relaxed and he released her. Her first instinct was to run, but he had chosen the spot well. A clump of trees behind her, to her right the disused tin mine, to her left a narrow path she could barely make out in the darkness, and towering above her, Pengelly, who couldn’t have looked calmer or more alert.
He slowly removed a pistol from the pocket of his overcoat, and held it menacingly by his side. Was he hoping she would make a run for it, so it would take more than a single bullet to kill her? But she remained rooted to the spot.
“You’re a traitor,” said Pengelly, “who has done more damage to our cause than any agent in the past. So you must die a traitor’s death.” He glanced in the direction of the mine shaft. “I’ll be back in Moscow long before they discover your body, if they ever do.”
He raised the gun slowly until it was level with Karin’s eyes. Her last thought before he pulled the trigger was of Giles.
The sound of a single shot echoed through the woods, and a flock of starlings flew high into the air as her body slumped to the ground.
For further details visit JeffreyArcherBooks.com.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
JEFFREY ARCHER was educated at Oxford University. He has served five years in Britain’s House of Commons and twenty-two in the House of Lords. All of his novels and short story collections—including Mightier Than the Sword, Be Careful What You Wish For, Best Kept Secret, The Sins of the Father, and Only Time Will Tell—have been international bestselling books. Archer is married with two sons and lives in London and Cambridge.
www.JeffreyArcher.com
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ALSO BY JEFFREY ARCHER
THE CLIFTON CHRONICLES
Only Time Will Tell
The Sins of the Father
Best Kept Secret
Be Careful What You Wish For
Mightier Than the Sword
NOVELS
Not a Penny More, Not a Penny Less
Shall We Tell the President?
Kane & Abel
The Prodigal Daughter
First Among Equals
A Matter of Honor
As the Crow Flies
Honor Among Thieves
The Fourth Estate
The Eleventh Commandment
Sons of Fortune
False Impression
The Gospel According to Judas
(with the assistance of Professor Francis J. Moloney)
A Prisoner of Birth
Paths of Glory
SHORT STORIES
A Quiver Full of Arrows
A Twist in the Tale
Twelve Red Herrings
The Collected Short Stories
To Cut a Long Story Short
Cat O’ Nine Tails
And Thereby Hangs a Tale
PLAYS
Beyond Reasonable Doubt
Exclusive
The Accused
PRISON DIARIES
Volume One—Belmarsh: Hell
Volume Two—Wayland: Purgatory
Volume Three—North Sea Camp: Heaven
SCREENPLAYS
Mallory: Walking Off the Map
False Impression
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CONTENTS
Title Page
Copyright Notice
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Family Tree
Prologue
Harry and Emma Clifton: 1970–1971
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Giles Barrington: 1971
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Lady Virginia Fenwick: 1971
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Sebastian Clifton: 1971
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Lady Virginia Fenwick: 1972
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Maisie Clifton: 1972
Chapter 25
Emma Clifton: 1972–1975
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Sebastian Clifton: 1975
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Hakim Bishara: 1975
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Giles Barrington: 1976–1977
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Harry and Emma Clifton: 1978
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Epilogue: 1978
About the Author
Also by Jeffrey Archer
Copyright
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
COMETH THE HOUR. Copyright © 2016 by Jeffrey Archer. All rights reserved. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.
www.stmartins.com
Cover design by Michael Storrings
Cover photographs: Big Ben clock tower © PacosRulz/Getty Images; bridge © Gillian McBain/EyeEm/Getty Images; silhouttes © Macie J. Noskowski/Getty Images; Taj Mahal © Holger Mette/Getty Images; Empire State Building © Gert-Jan Mes/Getty Images; woman © Pandorabox/Shutterstock; man © freya-photographer/Shutterstock
The Library of Congress has cataloged the print edition as follows:
Names: Archer, Jeffrey, 1940– author.
Title: Cometh the hour / Jeffrey Archer.
Description: First Edition. | New York: St. Martin’s Press, 2016. | Series: Clifton Chronicles; 6
Identifiers: LCCN 2015040993 | ISBN 9781250061621 (hardback) | ISBN 9781466867505 (e-book)
Subjects: LCSH: Families—England—History—20th century—Fiction. | Social classes—England—Fiction. | Domestic fiction. | BISAC: FICTION / Suspense. | FICTION / Sagas. | GSAFD: Historical fiction.
Classification: LCC PR6051.R285 C66 2016 | DDC 823/.914—dc23
LC record available at http://lccn.loc.gov/2015040993
e-ISBN 9781466867505
Our e-books may be purchased in bulk for promotional, educational, or business use. Please contact the Macmillan Corporate and Premium Sales Department at (800) 221-7945, extension 5442, or by e-mail at [email protected].
Originally published in Great Britain by Macmillan, an imprint of Pan Macmillan, a division of Macmillan Publishers Limited
First Edition: February 2016
Cometh the Hour Page 39