Mightier Than the Sword (20 page)

“I have a feeling her ladyship won’t be all that surprised,” said Clive.

“When did you suddenly become so wise?” asked Bob.

“When you left me with no choice but to stand on my own two feet.”

*   *   *

“There’s a Mr. Bingham on the phone for you,” said the switchboard operator.

“Bob, are you still in London?” asked Seb. “There’s something I need to discuss with you.”

“No, I’m back in Grimsby, reemploying most of my staff. They seem to have enjoyed their extended holiday about as much as I did.”

“I see the share price is up a couple of pence.”

“Yes, but it will be some time before everything’s up and running smoothly again. Perhaps you ought to buy a few shares while the price is so low.”

“I’ve been buying them for the past month,” said Seb. “I now own about four percent of Bingham’s Fish Paste.”

“If I had a board,” said Bob, “I’d put you on it. However, I’m still in your debt, not least for your role as matchmaker. So why don’t you send me a hefty bill for your professional services.”

“Now that we’ve vanquished Lady Virginia, I’d rather seek your advice on another problem I’m facing.”

“Virginia Fenwick won’t be vanquished until she’s six foot under. But how can I help?”

“I want to take over Farthings Bank and remove Adrian Sloane once and for all. But I can’t hope to pull it off without your help.”

*   *   *

“You can’t win them all,” said Lady Virginia, “but as Wellington reminded us after Waterloo, it’s only the final battle that really matters.”

“And who’s playing Napoleon on this particular battlefield?”

“None other than Emma Clifton.”

“And what will my role be?” asked Fisher.

“I need you to find out what really happened on the first night of the
Buckingham
’s maiden voyage because clearly the Home Fleet story was nothing more than a smoke screen. Priscilla Bingham overheard one of the directors telling her husband that if the truth ever got out, Emma Clifton would have to resign and the company might even go bankrupt. Nothing would suit me better because that would leave our precious chairman with no choice but to settle the action and pay my costs.”

Fisher remained silent for some time, before he said, “There are a couple of directors on the board who’ve recently had a run-in with Mrs. Clifton, and one of them has a tendency to drink a little too much, especially when he’s not paying. Do we have anything to offer him in return, should he decide to resign?”

“A place on the board of Farthings Bank.”

“That would swing it, but what makes you think you can pull it off?”

“The chairman, Adrian Sloane, has every reason to loathe Sebastian Clifton, and will do anything to bring him down.”

“How do you know that?”

“It’s amazing what you can pick up at dinner parties, especially when your host thinks women couldn’t possibly begin to understand what goes on in the City.”

GILES BARRINGTON

1970

17

G
ILES HADN’T GIVEN
a moment’s thought to how he wanted to spend his fiftieth birthday, but Gwyneth had.

Whenever Giles thought about his marriage—and he thought about it a great deal—he still couldn’t pinpoint when things had begun to go wrong. The tragic death of their son Walter at the age of three, and the realization that Gwyneth couldn’t have another child, had turned her from a bright spirit who lit up everyone’s lives, to a melancholy shadow, lost in her own world. Instead of the tragedy drawing them closer together, Giles found they were slowly drifting apart, not helped by a Member of Parliament’s unsocial hours and then a minister’s demanding schedule.

Giles had hoped that time would prove a healer, but in truth they began to live separate lives almost as if they weren’t a couple, and he couldn’t remember the last time they had made love. Despite this, he was determined to remain loyal to Gwyneth, as he didn’t want a second divorce and still hoped they might be reconciled.

Whenever they were together in public, they attempted to hide the truth, hoping Giles’s constituents, his colleagues, and even their family wouldn’t realize their marriage was a sham. But whenever Giles saw Harry and Emma together, he envied them.

Giles had rather assumed that on his birthday he’d be on his way to, or on his way back from, representing Her Majesty’s government in some foreign field. Gwyneth, however, was insisting that the milestone should be properly celebrated.

“What do you have in mind?” asked Giles.

“A dinner, just the family and a few close friends?”

“And where would it be held?”

“The House of Commons. We could book one of the private dining rooms.”

“That’s the last place I want to be reminded that I’m fifty.”

“Do try and remember, Giles, for most of us who don’t go to the Palace of Westminster every day, it’s still something rather special.”

Giles knew when he was beaten, so invitations were sent out the following day, and when he looked around the dining room table three weeks later, it was clear that Gwyneth had been right because everyone seemed to be enjoying themselves.

Emma, who was seated on his right, and their sister Grace, on his left, were chatting to their respective neighbors. Giles used the time to think about his speech, jotting down a note or two on the back of his menu.

“I know we shouldn’t talk business on an occasion like this,” said Emma to Ross Buchanan, “but you know how much I value your advice.”

“And an old man,” said Ross, “is always flattered by a young woman seeking his advice.”

“I’ll be fifty next year,” Emma reminded him, “and you are an old flatterer.”

“Who will be seventy next year,” said Ross. “Perhaps by then it will be time to put me out to grass, so while I’m still sixty-nine, how can I help?”

“I’m having trouble with Desmond Mellor.”

“I never understood why you put him on the board in the first place.”

“Force majeure,” whispered Emma. “But now he’s pushing for deputy chairman.”

“Avoid it at all costs. He’ll see it as nothing more than a stepping stone to the job he really wants.”

“All the more reason to hold on until I think Sebastian is ready to take my place.”

“Seb thinks he’s ready to take your place right now,” said Ross. “But if Mellor were to become your deputy, you’d spend your life looking over your shoulder. It’s a golden rule for any chairman only ever to appoint a deputy who, one, isn’t after your job, or two, has unquestionably been overpromoted, or three, is too old to take over from you.”

“Good thinking,” said Emma, “but there’s not a lot I can do to stop him if he can convince a majority of the board to back him. To make matters worse, Seb thinks Mellor may have been in touch with Giles’s first wife.”

“Lady Virginia Fenwick?” said Ross, spitting out the words.

“And possibly Alex Fisher as well.”

“Then you’d better start looking over both shoulders.”

*   *   *

“Now tell me, revered aunt,” said Seb, “are you chancellor of the university yet?”

“The Duke of Edinburgh is our chancellor, as you well know,” said Grace.

“Then what about vice-chancellor?”

“Not everyone is quite as ambitious as you, Seb. For some of us, doing a worthwhile job, however humble, is reward enough in itself.”

“Then have you thought about principal of your college? After all, no one is more admired by their colleagues.”

“It’s kind of you to say so, Sebastian, and I will tell you in confidence that when Dame Elizabeth retired from the post recently, I was approached by one or two people. However, I made it clear that I wasn’t born to be an administrator but a teacher, and am happy with my lot.”

“I can’t argue with that,” said Seb.

“But tell me, Seb, as you’re on your own tonight, should I assume there’s still no one special in your life?”

“There hasn’t been anyone special, Aunt Grace, since I was stupid enough to lose Samantha.”

“I agree that wasn’t your most glorious hour. I realized the first time I met her that she was an exceptional young woman, and on that particular subject I speak with some authority.”

“You were right. I’ve never met anyone since who even comes close.”

“I’m sorry, Seb, it was tactless of me to raise the subject, but I’m sure, given time, you’ll find someone.”

“I wish.”

“Are you still in touch with Samantha? Is there even the slightest chance…?”

“Not a hope. I’ve written to her several times over the years, but she doesn’t reply.”

“Have you thought of going over to America and admitting you were wrong?”

“Every day.”

*   *   *

“How’s your campaign to have Anatoly Babakov released progressing?” asked Priscilla.

“I fear progress may not be the right word,” said Harry, who was seated on the opposite side of the table from Giles. “Mind you, one can never be sure with the Soviets. One day you think they might be about to release him, but the next you’re convinced they’ve thrown away the key.”

“Could anything happen to change that?”

“A change of leadership in the Kremlin might help. Someone who wants the world to know what Stalin was really like. But there’s not much chance of that while Brezhnev is in power.”

“But he must know that we know that he knows.”

“He does, but he’s just not willing to admit it to the outside world.”

“Does Babakov have a family?”

“His wife escaped from Russia just before he was arrested. She now lives in Pittsburgh. I’ve been in touch, and I’m hoping to visit her when I’m next in the States.”

“I hope you succeed,” said Priscilla. “Please don’t think even for a moment that we onlookers have forgotten about your campaign. Far from it, we are inspired by your example.”

“Thank you,” said Harry. “You and Bob have been so supportive over the years.”

“Robert is a great admirer of your wife, as I’m sure you know. It just took me a little longer to appreciate why.”

“What’s Bob up to now the company is flourishing again?”

“He’s planning to build a new factory. It seems that most of his equipment belongs to the Stone Age.”

“That won’t come cheap.”

“No, but I don’t think he’s got a lot of choice now it looks we’re about to join the Common Market.”

“I saw him having dinner in Bristol with Seb and Ross Buchanan.”

“Yes, they’re plotting something, but I’ve only been able to piece together one or two clues. If I was Detective Sergeant Warwick…”

“Detective
Inspector
Warwick,” Harry said, smiling.

“Yes, of course, I remember, he was promoted in your last book. No doubt Inspector Warwick would have found out what they were up to some time ago.”

“I may be able to add one or two nuggets of my own,” whispered Harry.

“Then let’s swap notes.”

“It’s important to remember that Seb has never forgiven Adrian Sloane for appointing himself chairman on the day of Cedric Hardcastle’s funeral.”

“In Huddersfield,” said Priscilla.

“Yes, but why’s that relevant?”

“Because I know Robert has taken the ferry across the Humber several times in the last couple of months.”

“Could he be visiting another woman, who just happens to own fifty-one percent of Farthings?”

“Possibly, because Arnold Hardcastle recently stayed with us overnight, and apart from meals, he and Robert never came out of the study.”

“Then Adrian Sloane had better keep both his eyes wide open, because if Bob, Seb, and Arnold are working together as a team, heaven help him,” he said, glancing across the table at Priscilla’s husband.

*   *   *

“Bingham’s Fish Paste seems to have fallen out of the headlines lately,” said Gwyneth, turning to the chairman of the company.

“And that’s no bad thing,” said Bob. “Now we can get on with feeding the nation and not titillating the gossip columnists.”

Gwyneth laughed. “I have a confession to make,” she said. “We’ve never had a jar of your fish paste in the house.”

“And I must confess I’ve never voted Labour, though I might if I lived in Bristol.”

Gwyneth smiled.

“What odds would you put on Giles holding on to his seat?” asked Bob.

“Clinging on by his fingernails seems the likely outcome,” said Gwyneth. “Bristol Docklands has always been a marginal seat, but the opinion polls suggest that this time it’s going to be too close to call. So a lot will depend on who the local Conservatives select as their candidate.”

“But Giles is a popular minister, much admired on both sides of the House. Doesn’t that count for anything?”

“About a thousand votes in Griff Haskins’s opinion. But his constituency agent never stops reminding me that if the national swing is against you, there’s not a lot you can do about it.”

*   *   *

“I suppose you have to come up to the Commons fairly regularly,” said Jean Buchanan.

“Not that often actually,” said Griff. “We agents have a tendency to remain at the coal face, making sure the voters still love the member.” At that moment the dining room door opened, and all conversation stopped as he entered the room.

“No, no, please sit down, I didn’t mean to interrupt,” declared a broad Yorkshire accent that hadn’t been affected by several years as an Oxford don.

“How kind of you to join us, prime minister,” said Giles, leaping to his feet.

“Only too delighted,” said Harold Wilson. “It gave me an excuse to escape for a few minutes from a dinner with the executive of the National Union of Mineworkers. Mind you, Giles,” he added, looking around, “I wouldn’t be surprised if we were outnumbered by the Tories in this room. But not to worry, Griff will sort them out.” The prime minister leaned across the table and shook hands with Giles’s agent. “And who are these two delightful ladies?”

“My sisters, Emma and Grace,” said Giles.

“I bow before you both,” said the prime minister. “The first woman chairman of a public company, and the renowned English scholar.” Grace blushed. “And if I’m not mistaken,” he added, jabbing a finger across the table, “that’s Bob Bingham, the fish-paste king. My mother always had a jar of your paste on the table for what she called high tea.”