At the Commons the next morning he and every other SDP and Liberal member had to run the gauntlet of journalists and photographers on the way to a closely guarded committee room on the third floor. The Whip had deliberately selected one of the less accessible rooms and had asked the Serjeant-at-Arms to be certain the recording machines were disconnected.
Andrew opened the meeting by congratulating his colleagues on their election to the House of Commons. “But it is important to remember,” he continued, “that the nation will never forgive us if we are irresponsible with our new power. We cannot afford to say we will support one party, then change our minds after only a few weeks, causing another general election. We must be seen to be responsible. Or you can be sure that when the next election comes every one of us will forfeit our seats.”
He went on to describe in detail how both the major party leaders had accepted the general direction in which he felt the new Government should be moving. He reported that they had both accepted that two members of the Alliance should have seats in the Cabinet. Both had also agreed to back a motion in the Commons for a referendum on proportional representation. For three hours the SDP/Liberal members gave their views, but by the end of that time Andrew was still unable to steer them to a consensus and had to call for a ballot. Andrew did not vote himself and left the SDP Liberal and Chief Whips to count the votes and announce the result.
Twenty-three votes each was the decision of his members.
The Chief Whip informed the parliamentary party that they would have to allow their elected leader to make the final decision. He, after all, was the biggest single reason they had been returned to the House in such relatively large numbers. After twenty-seven years in the Commons he must have the clearest view of which man and which party was most capable of governing the country.
When the Chief Whip sat down, the word “Agreed” came over clearly from the lips of the members sitting round the long table, and the meeting broke up.
Andrew returned to Pelham Crescent and told Louise which man he had decided to support. She seemed surprised. Later that night he left for a quiet dinner at the Atheneum with the sovereign’s private secretary. The equerry returned to Buckingham Palace a little after eleven o’clock and briefed the monarch on the salient points of their discussion.
“Mr. Fraser,” the private secretary said, “is not in favor of another quick election and has made it quite clear which party the Social Democrats are willing to support in the Commons.”
The monarch nodded thoughtfully, thanked his private secretary, and retired to bed.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
KING CHARLES III made the final decision.
As Big Ben struck ten o’clock on that Saturday morning, a private secretary to the Royal household phoned the Right Honorable Simon Kerslake and asked if he would be kind enough to attend His Majesty at the palace.
Simon stepped out of the Conservative party headquarters on the corner of Smith Square and into the clear morning sunlight to be greeted by crowds of well-wishers, television cameras, and journalists. He only smiled and waved as this was not the occasion to make a statement. He slipped quickly through the police cordon and into the back of his black Rover. Motorcycle outriders guided the chauffeur-driven car through the dense crowds slowly past Transport House. Simon wondered what would be going through Raymond Gould’s mind at that moment as he considered the decision Andrew Fraser must have made.
The chauffeur drove on to Millbank past the House of Commons, round Parliament Square, and left into Birdcage Walk before reaching the Mall.
Scotland Yard had been briefed as to which party leader had been called to see the King and the car never stopped once on its journey to the palace.
The chauffeur then swung into the Mall and Buckingham Palace loomed in front of Simon’s eyes. At every junction a policeman held up the traffic and then saluted. Suddenly it was all worthwhile: Simon went back over the years and then considered the future. His first thoughts were of Elizabeth and the children. How he wished they could be with him now. He recalled his selection at Coventry, the loss ol his seat, and the continual rejections before Pucklebridge. The financial crisis, the resignation letter that Archie Millburn had promised to return the day he became Prime Minister. The Irish Charter, Broadsword, and his final battle with Charles Seymour.
The Rover reached the end of the Mall and circled the statue of Queen Victoria before arriving at the vast wrought-iron gates outside Buckingham Palace. A sentry in the scarlet uniform of the Grenadier Guards presented arms. The huge crowds that had been waiting round the gates from the early hours craned their necks in an effort to see who had been chosen to lead them. Simon smiled and waved. In response some of them waved back and cheered more loudly while others looked sulky and downcast.
The Rover continued on its way past the sentry and across the courtyard through the archway and into the quadrangle before coming to a halt on the gravel by a side entrance. Simon stepped out of the car to be met by the King’s private secretary. The silent equerry led Simon up a semicircular staircase, past the Alan Ramsey portrait of George III, and down a long corridor before entering the audience chamber. He bowed and left Simon alone with his new sovereign.
Simon could feel his pulse quicken as he took three paces forward, bowed, and waited for the King to speak.
The forty-three-year-old monarch showed no sign of nervousness in carrying out his first official duty, despite its unusual delicacy.
“Mr. Kerslake,” he began, “I wanted to see you first as I thought it would be courteous to explain to you in detail why I shall be inviting Mr. Raymond Gould to be my first Prime Minister.”
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False Impressions
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As the Crow Flies
Honor Among Thieves
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
FIRST AMONG EQUALS
Copyright © 1984 by Jeffrey Archer.
Political cartoons by Charles Griffin.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. For information address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, NY 10010.
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1
“MY NAME IS Harry Clifton.”
“Sure, and I’m Babe Ruth,” said Detective Kolowski as he lit a cigarette.
“No,” said Harry, “you don’t understand, there’s been a terrible mistake. I’m Harry Clifton, an Englishman from Bristol. I served on the same ship as Tom Bradshaw.”
“Save it for your lawyer,” said the detective, exhaling deeply and filling the small cell with a cloud of smoke.
“I don’t have a lawyer,” protested Harry.
“If I was in the trouble you’re in, kid, I’d consider having Sefton Jelks on my side to be about my only hope.”
“Who’s Sefton Jelks?”
“You may not have heard of the sharpest lawyer in New York,” said the detective as he blew out another plume of smoke, “but he has an appointment to see you at nine o’clock tomorrow morning, and Jelks don’t leave his office unless his bill has been paid in advance.”
“But—” began Harry, as Kolowski banged the palm of his hand on the cell door.
“So when Jelks turns up tomorrow morning,” Kolowski continued, ignoring Harry’s interruption, “you’d better come up with a more convincing story than we’ve arrested the wrong man. You told the immigration officer that you were Tom Bradshaw, and if it was good enough for him, it’s going to be good enough for the judge.”
The cell door swung open, but not before the detective had exhaled another plume of smoke that made Harry cough. Kolowski stepped out into the corridor without another word and slammed the door behind him. Harry collapsed on to a bunk that was attached to the wall and rested his head on a brickhard pillow. He looked up at the ceiling and began to think about how he’d ended up in a police cell on the other side of the world on a murder charge.
The door opened long before the morning light could creep through the bars of the window and into the cell. Despite the early hour, Harry was wide awake.
A warder strolled in carrying a tray of food that the Salvation Army wouldn’t have considered offering a penniless hobo. Once he’d placed the tray on the little wooden table, he left without a word.
Harry took one look at the food before beginning to pace up and down. With each step, he grew more confident that once he explained to Mr. Jelks the reason he’d exchanged his name with Tom Bradshaw, the matter would quickly be sorted out. Surely the worst punishment they could exact would be to deport him, and as he’d always intended to return to England and join the navy, it all fitted in with his original plan.
At 8:55 a.m., Harry was sitting on the end of the bunk, impatient for Mr. Jelks to appear. The massive iron door didn’t swing open until twelve minutes past nine. Harry leaped up as a prison guard stood to one side and allowed a tall, elegant man with silver gray hair to enter. Harry thought he must have been about the same age as Grandpa. Mr. Jelks wore a dark blue pinstripe, double-breasted suit, a white shirt and a striped tie. The weary look on his face suggested that little would surprise him.
“Good morning,” he said, giving Harry a faint smile. “My name is Sefton Jelks. I am the se nior partner of Jelks, Myers and Abernathy, and my clients, Mr. and Mrs. Bradshaw, have asked me to represent you in your upcoming trial.”
Harry offered Jelks the only chair in his cell, as if he was an old friend who had dropped in to his study at Oxford for a cup of tea. He perched on the bunk and watched the lawyer as he opened his briefcase, extracted a yellow pad and placed it on the table.
Jelks took a pen from an inside pocket and said, “Perhaps you might begin by telling me who you are, as we both know you’re not Lieutenant Bradshaw.”
If the lawyer was surprised by Harry’s story he showed no sign of it. Head bowed, he wrote copious notes on his yellow pad while Harry explained how he’d ended up spending the night in jail. Once he’d finished, Harry assumed his problems must surely be over, as he had such a senior lawyer on his side—that was, until he heard Jelks’s first question.
“You say that you wrote a letter to your mother while you were on board the Kansas Star, explaining why you had assumed Tom Bradshaw’s identity?”
“That’s correct, sir. I didn’t want my mother to suffer unnecessarily, but at the same time I needed her to understand why I’d made such a drastic decision.”
“Yes, I can understand why you might have considered that changing your identity would solve all your immediate problems, while not appreciating that it could involve you in a series of even more complicated ones,” said Jelks. His next question surprised Harry even more. “Do you recall the contents of that letter?”
“Of course. I wrote and rewrote it so many times I could reproduce it almo
st verbatim.”
“Then allow me to test your memory,” Jelks said and, without another word, tore off a sheet from his yellow pad and handed it and his fountain pen to Harry.
Harry spent some time recalling the exact words, before he set about rewriting the letter.
My dearest mother,
I have done everything in my power to make sure you receive this letter before anyone can tell you that I died at sea. As the date on this letter shows, I did not perish when the Devonian was sunk on September 4th. In fact, I was plucked out of the sea by a sailor from an American ship and thanks to him, I’m still very much alive. However, an unexpected opportunity arose for me to assume another man’s identity, and I did so willingly, in the hope it would release Emma from the many problems I seem to have unwittingly caused her and her family over the years.
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