House of Cards (55 page)

Sir Humphrey was enjoying his little moment of history. He was in the twilight of his career, long since past his parliamentary heyday, and even the little misunderstanding over his holiday in the West Indies had helped bring him greater recognition and attention around the Westminster circuit than he had enjoyed for many years. Who knows, if he handled this correctly, his secret longing for a seat in the House of Lords might yet be fulfilled. He sat on the raised dais of the Committee Room, flanked by his lieutenants, and called the meeting to order.

'Since there has been such
an
unprecedentedly large number of names on the ballot paper, I propose to read the results out in alphabetical order
’

This was unwelcome news for David Adams, the former Leader of the House who had been banished to discontented exile on the backbenches by Coilingridge's first reshuffle. Having spent the last two years criticising all the major economic decisions which he had supported whilst in Government, he had hoped for a good showing in order to establish his claim for a return to Cabinet. He stood there stoically, hiding his grief as Newlands announced he had received only twelve votes. He was left to wonder what had happened to all those firm promises of support he had received while Sir Humphrey continued with his roll call. None of the next four names, including McKenzie's, could muster the support of more than twenty of their colleagues with Paul Goddard, the maverick Catholic who had stood on the single issue of banning all forms of legalised abortion, receiving only three. He shook his head defiantly; his rewards were not to be of the earthly kind.

Sir Humphrey had only three more names to announce
-
Samuel, Urquhart and Woolton
- and a total of 281 votes to distribute. The level of tension soared as those present recalled that a minimum of 169 votes was required for success on the first ballot. A couple of huge side bets were instantly concluded in one comer as two Honourable Members wagered that there would, after all, be a result on the first round.

The Right Honourable Michael Samuel
’
intoned the chairman, '99 votes
’

In the dead silence of the Committee Room, the sound of a tug blowing its klaxon three times as it passed on its way up the Thames could be clearly heard. A ripple of amusement covered the tension, and Samuel muttered that it was a pity tug masters didn't have a vote. He was clearly disappointed to be such a long way from the necessary winning total, particularly after Earle's withdrawal.

The Right Honourable Francis Urquhart - 91 votes.'

Two of the gamblers in the comer looked crestfallen as they calculated the final figure.

The Right Honourable Patrick Woolton - 91 votes
’

There was general commotion as the tension ebbed, congratulations and condolences were exchanged, and one Member leaned around the door to give the highlights to the anxious press.

'Accordingly
’
Sir Humphrey continued, 'no candidate has been elected and there-will be a second round of balloting a week today. I would remind everyone that those wishing to offer themselves as candidates for the second ballot must resubmit their nominations to me by Thursday. I declare this meeting closed!'

Urquhart was giving some celebratory drinks to colleagues in his room. It was one of the finest offices available to a Member, located on the premises rather than in one of the various annexes spotted around the periphery of the Palace of Westminster, large and airy with a gracious bow window offering a fine view across the river to the Archbishop of Canterbury's ancient Gothic home at Lambeth Palace. The room was now crowded with several dozen Members, all offering their best wishes for the Chief Whip's success. Wryly he noted that it was the first time during the campaign that he had seen some of these faces, but he did not mind. Votes were votes, wherever they came from.

'Quite splendid, Francis. Absolutely excellent result. Do you think you can go on to win?' enquired one of his senior parliamentary colleagues.

‘I
believe so,' Urquhart responded with quiet confidence.
‘
I
suspect I have as good a chance as anyone.'

‘I
think you're right, you know,' his colleague said. 'Young Samuel may be ahead, but his campaign is going backwards. It's between the experienced heads of you and Patrick now. And, Francis, I want you to know that you have my wholehearted support.'

Which, of course, you will want me to remember when I have my hands on all that Prime Ministerial patronage, he thought to himself while he offered his gratitude and a fresh drink to his guest.

New faces were still pouring into the room as word spread that the Chief Whip was entertaining. Urquhart's secretary was pouring a large whisky for Stephen Dunway, the most ambitious of the new intake of MPs who had already that evening made brief but prominent appearances at both Samuel's and Woolton's receptions on the basis that you can never be too sure. The secretary excused herself to answer the telephone, which had been ringing all evening with calls of congratulations and press enquiries.

It's for you
’
she whispered gently into Urquhart's ear. 'Roger O'Neill.'

Tell him I'm busy and that I will call him later
’
he instructed.

He called earlier and sounds very anxious. Asked me to tell you it was "very bloody hot", to quote his exact words,' she said primly.

With an impatient curse he withdrew from his guests and sought shelter in the comer of the bay window from the noise of celebration.

'Roger
’
he spoke sharply into the phone. Is this really necessary? I've got a room full of people.'

'She's on to us, Francis. That bloody bitch - she knows, I'm sure. She knows it's me and shell be on to you next, the cow. I haven't told her a thing but she's got hold of it and God knows how but
...'

'Roger! Pull yourself together!' snapped Urquhart. O'Neill was gabbling and the conversation was
running
away like a driverless express. It was clear he had been unable to stick to Urquhart's orders, and was not fully in control.

There was a moment of silence and Urquhart tried to re-establish his authority. Tell me slowly and clearly what all this is about.'

Immediately the gabbling began again, and Urquhart was forced to listen, trying to make some sort of sense of the garbled mixture of words, splutters and sneezes.

'She came over to see me, the cow from the press lobby. I don't know how, Francis, it's not me and I told her nothing. I fobbed her off- think she went away happy. But somehow she had got onto it. Everything, Francis. The Paddington address; the computer,- she even suspects that someone from headquarters leaked the opinion poll I put under her door. And that bastard Kendrick must have told her about the hospital campaign you told me to concoct. Jesus,

Francis. I mean, what if she doesn't believe me and decides to print something?'

'Hold your tongue for a second
’
he seethed down the phone, anxious that none of h
is guests should overhear him. j
ust tell me this. Who came to see you from the lobby?'

'Storin. Mattie Storin. And she said
...'

‘D
id she have any firm evidence?' Urquhart interrupted. 'Or is she just guessing?'

O'Neill paused for the briefest of moments to consider the question.

'Nothing firm, I think. Just guesswork. Except
...'

'Except what?'

'She's been told I opened the Paddington address.'

'How on earth did she find that out?' Urquhart's fury poured like molten lava down the phone.

'My secretary told her, but there is no need to worry because she thinks I did it for Collingridge.'

'Your secretary knew?'

‘I
...
took her with me. I thought she would be more inconspicuous and she's utterly trustworthy. You know that.'

'Roger I could happily
...'

‘L
ook, it's me who's done all your dirty jobs for you, taken all the risks. You've got nothing to worry about while I'm in it up to my neck if this breaks. I need help, Francis. I'm scared! I've done too many things for you which I shouldn't have touched, but I didn't ask questions and just did what you said. You've got to get me out of this, I can't take much more and I
won't
take much more. You've got to protect me, Francis. Do you hear? You've got to help me!' O'Neill broke down into uncontrollable sobbing.

'Roger, calm yourself,' he said quietly into the receiver. , 'She has ab
solutely no proof an
d you have nothing to fear. We are in this
together,
you understand? And we shall get through it together, to Downing Street. I shan't let you
down. Look, I want you to do two things. I want you to keep remembering that knighthood. It's just a few days away now, Roger.'

A stumbling expression of gratitude came spluttering down the phone.

'And in the meantime, Roger - for God's sake keep well away from Mattie Storin!'

After he had put the phone down Urquhart sat there for a moment, letting his emotions wash over him. From behind him came the hubbub of the powerful men who would project him into 10 Downing Street, fulfilling the dream which had burned inside him all these years. To the front he gazed across the centuries old view of the river which had inspired generations of great national leaders whose ranks he was now surely to join. And he had just put the phone down on the only man who could ruin it all for him.

Trying to sort out the implications of the leadership ballot had left Mattie feeling drained. She needed to assess opinions as they were being formed and while the excitement of the race still gripped the participants, rather than waiting until the morning by which time they would simply be reiterating the noncommittal party line. Even the powerful elder statesmen of the Party would be caught up with the passion of the moment and find themselves offering delphic but expressive signs. Around Westminster a raised eyebrow or a knowing wink can speak as loudly to some ears as a sentence of political death, and it was vital that she knew in which direction the tumbrils were headed.

There was also the complicated election procedure to fathom. The Party's balloting rules made sense to nobody other than those who had devised them; they prescribed that the first ballot should now be set aside and new nominations made. It was even permissible, although not likely, that individuals who had not even stood in the original ballot could now enter the race for the first time. If from the confusion no victor emerged with more than half the votes, a third and final round of voting would be held between the leading three candidates, with the winner being selected by a system of proportional representation which the Government would rather die than allow to be used at a general election. It was clearly a case of one rule for the Party, an entirely different rule for the public. It was all enough to make for furrowed brows and wearied pens amongst the parliamentary correspondents that evening.

She had called Krajewski. It had been more than a week since they had seen or talked to each other, and in spite of herself she felt an inner desire to be with him. She seemed to be surrounded on all sides by doubts and unresolved questions, and she was finding it difficult on her own to pierce through the confusion. She hated to admit it, but she needed to share.

Krajewski was unsure how to respond to the call. He had spent the week debating whether she was important to him or simply using him, or both. When she had asked to see him he had offered a lavish dinner at the Ritz, which he instantly knew was a mistake. She wasn't in a mood for romance, with or without violins. Instead they had settled for a drink at the Reform Club in Pall Mall, where Johnnie was a member. She had walked the half mile from the press gallery in the House of Commons, only to discover that he was exercising the privileges of a deputy editor and was late. Or was this simply his way of expressing frustration with her? She waited in the club's vaulted reception area with its magnificent columns and smoke-laden atmosphere. It was a time capsule, which Gladstone could have re-entered to find scarcely a single significant change since he had enjoyed its hospitality a century earlier. She always felt it was ironic that this great bastion of Liberalism and Reform had taken 150 years to accept women and she had often twisted the noses of its members about their sexual chauvinism until one had reminded her that there never had been a female editor of the
Telegraph.

When Johnnie arrived they took their drinks and sat amongst the shadows of the upper gallery in the deep, cracked leather chairs which were so easy to relax in and so difficult to leave. As Mattie drank in the cloistered atmosphere and thick veneer of generations long departed, she desperately wanted to give herself over to the tired will of the flesh and float gently into oblivion. In those chairs, she felt as if she could sleep for a year and wake to find herself transported back several lifetimes. Yet the nagging in her head allowed her no relief.

'What is it?' he asked, although he didn't need to. One glance had been enough to reveal that she was tired, anxious, quite lacking in her usual spark.