Red Crystal (5 page)

Sir Henry Northcliff put down his pen and sighed. He wished that they weren’t having to go out to lunch. He would have preferred to have had a light meal at home, gone for a walk on Hampstead Heath, and spent a quiet afternoon by the fire.

There was a soft knock and Caroline put her head round the door. ‘We should leave in half an hour.’

He nodded. ‘I’ll have finished by then.’ They smiled at each other. Whenever Henry looked at Caroline he was amazed by his good fortune. It seemed quite extraordinary that this lovely creature should be his wife.

He motioned her in and she came quickly over to the desk. They gripped hands. ‘Six months tomorrow,’ she smiled.

‘And they said it wouldn’t work.’

Their marriage had certainly been talked about. The wedding had been as quiet as possible and had taken place a good four months after Henry’s divorce had come through, but it had made no difference. All the newspapers had carried the story, some with pictures. The gossips in Parliament and Lincoln’s Inn had enjoyed a field day. It wasn’t every day that the Attorney-General got married, and to a girl half his age. He knew what people were saying: that he was making a fool of himself. He knew equally well that it wasn’t true.

‘Will you have to work this evening?’ Caroline asked.

There was a pile of legal gazettes which he should glance through, but he was loath to work that evening. With two dinners, a late meeting at Number Ten and a lot of paperwork to catch up on he’d been busy every evening that week. He replied, ‘No.’

‘Good! I didn’t pursue you all these years never to see you at
all
.’

She touched his hand and left. He reflected on her ‘pursuit’ of him. It was utter rubbish, of course. Caroline was incapable of anything more forceful than calm resolve, and she had resolved to love him quietly and patiently from the time she was eighteen. He hadn’t been aware of it then, of course. She was, after all, only a child, the daughter of a friend who had died long ago. But when his empty marriage had finally drawn to its long overdue conclusion, she had been there, quiet and understanding, the one person he felt at peace with. It was a year before he’d realized that she was right about the enormous age difference – that it didn’t matter a bit. When they’d eventually married she had been twenty-five, he fifty. They had been exceptionally happy ever since.

The phone rang. It was David Garner, the Director of Public Prosecutions. David took many decisions with only the briefest reference to Henry, but anything with political overtones, anything that might ‘develop’, anything remotely sensitive, these things were brought straight to Henry as Attorney-General.

Henry had been so busy during the week, working on some proposed legislation the government wanted rushed through, that he and David had not been able to discuss all the outstanding business.

Henry guessed – correctly – that this call would involve the Oxford demonstration which had occurred several days before, on the previous Saturday. He pulled the file towards him and opened it.

‘A total of thirty students have been charged now, all on breach of the peace charges,’ the DPP began. ‘But one has been positively identified with
both
assaults. A girl named Stephanie Kitson, who was seen to throw the brick which broke the window and injured the dinner guest. And also seen to whack the ambassador over the head.’

‘And how
are
the victims?’ asked Henry.

‘The ambassador has a bruise on his forehead, but nothing more. Thank
goodness
. The other guest is recovering, apparently. No permanent damage, but several stitches in his head. There’ll be a medical report, of course.’

‘So, has this girl caused any trouble before?’

‘No, but the police have successfully opposed bail – she’s liable to disappear, so they think. She keeps announcing that she doesn’t recognize their authority.’

Henry said, ‘I see. Now, there were no other assaults. Is that right?’

‘Correct. But some demonstrators held up chairs and waved them threateningly, others brandished banners, a table was over-turned. So far only two people have been positively identified with these antics – names of Reardon and Lampton.’

‘And neither has any previous form?’ Henry asked.

‘No, nothing at all.’

Henry thought for a moment. Violence during political demonstrations was a relatively recent phenomenon in Britain, one that was extremely distasteful to the average citizen, and he knew that the government were very keen to stamp on it hard. Particularly when an ambassador had been assaulted – and the US ambassador at that. It was politically extremely embarrassing and the press had been making a meal of it both in Britain and abroad.

And yet political considerations weren’t really the overriding factor here. The point was, these demonstrators had to realize that they were subject to the law like everyone else, and that their political views did not excuse their actions in any way at all. Innocent dinner guests had a right to dine without being assaulted and abused. Besides, a man had been wounded. That on its own merited a serious charge.

‘Right,’ he said finally, ‘if you’re satisfied as to the evidence, let’s go for actual bodily harm, assault and criminal damage for the brick-throwing lady. For the two who brandished chairs, affray. For the rest we’ll have to leave it at breach of the peace. For the moment anyway.’

‘Okay. Oh, and there’s another girl out on bail, name of Linda Wilson’ – the DPP laughed shortly – ‘why are
women
getting so aggressive suddenly?’

Henry grunted in mystification.

‘Anyway,’ continued the DPP, ‘they can’t pin her to the demonstration. No positive identification at this stage. But they want to charge her anyway, with assaulting a police officer and resisting arrest.’

Henry asked, ‘Where did they arrest her?’

‘At a house in North London in the early hours of last Sunday, I think. The place where they found the Kitson girl.’

Henry could imagine it, the police rushing in, waking the occupants, giving them the fright of their lives. In his days at the Bar he’d defended enough people to know the outrage they felt at being hauled out of bed early in the morning, particularly if they were not habitual criminals.

‘What sort of form did the assault take?’

There was the rustle of papers at the other end of the line. ‘Er – an alarm clock to the head.’

‘Well, I’ll have a look at that evidence in more detail, but my instinct is to forget about that one and concentrate on the offences at the demonstration itself. What do you think?’

They discussed it for a few minutes, and agreed the basic principles.

When the DPP had rung off, Henry considered the last matter of the Wilson girl. Yes, he was sure it was right to drop the charges. The student might have had a vindictive motive for assaulting a police officer but she could just as easily have been terrified out of her life. Besides in the eyes of the public and more particularly the media, dawn raids smacked of fascist tactics, and he didn’t want to add fuel to that flame.

It was almost time to leave. He put the papers he’d been working on in his briefcase and tidied his desk. There was an hour and a half’s drive ahead, just to go to a lunch with people he suspected he wasn’t going to like very much. County types, rich. But they were distant cousins of Caroline’s – second cousins by marriage, he seemed to remember – and she’d gone to stay there a lot when she was a schoolgirl. He must put a good face on it.

He went into the hall and found Caroline waiting with his coat. ‘It’s a lovely day,’ she said. ‘It’ll be nice to get out into the country for a bit.’ She shot an anxious look at him. ‘I’m sorry if you’re dreading it – I hope it won’t be too boring.’

‘I’m sure it won’t.’ He touched her cheek. ‘Just give me a subtle kick in the shins when my eyes glaze over.’

It was either back to London or home to pick up her record player. Victoria decided on the record player. She could give Mel and the others the news by phone and tell them all the details when she got back to London.

Going home meant seeing her parents, of course. They wouldn’t like her buying the farm, not at all. In fact, the thought of how intensely they wouldn’t like it made Victoria feel a little nervous. But then she wouldn’t tell them, not today anyway. She’d do it by letter during the week.

Cawsley Hall lay half an hour away on the edge of the Cotswolds, near the Wiltshire-Gloucestershire border, an imposing property situated at the end of a long drive in two hundred and fifty acres of park, paddock, and farmland. The house itself was a small but excellent example of early eighteenth-century Palladian architecture and, though the Danby family liked to think they’d lived there for ages, they had, in fact, only been in the house since 1890 when Alfred Danby, the son of a Bristol shopkeeper, made his first fortune from brewing.

As the house came into view Victoria winced. There were several strange cars parked in the front drive. She sighed. Weekend guests. She should have checked. She left the Mini out of sight at the side of the house near the walled garden and went in by a side door. She walked quickly through the gun-room, across the back hall and began to climb silently up the back stairs.

‘Tor?’

Victoria spun round, then relaxed as she saw her sister in the hall below. ‘God!’ she exclaimed. ‘I thought you were Mother.’

Diana giggled and shook her head. ‘I saw your car. How are you? How’s –
things
?’

‘Are there many guests?’

‘About four staying. But there’ll be lots more for lunch.’

Victoria made a face and sat disconsolately on the stairs. ‘Bother!’ She hated parties, at least the sort her parents gave.

‘It’s all best behaviour stuff,’ Diana went on. ‘The county’s coming – the Lord Lieutenant and Sir Harry Mortimer and the Gordons.
And
the Ranfurleighs! A coup for Mother.’ She rolled her eyes. ‘And of course there’ll be Caroline and Henry—’

‘Caro and Henry!’

‘They’re the
star
guests.’

Victoria was astonished. ‘But Mother didn’t
tell
me!
Honestly
!’

In the old days Victoria had often asked Caroline home for the summer holidays. Mother had tolerated the visits because Caroline was a distant relation, but there were other school friends she would have preferred Victoria to bring home. Now, ever since her marriage, Caroline was suddenly a bosom member of the family. Sometimes Victoria was amazed at her mother’s transparency.

She said angrily, ‘I mean,
honestly
, Di – Caro’s
my
friend.’

Diana shrugged. ‘Maybe. But Mother’s been trying to get them down to lunch ever since the wedding …’

The sound of voices came echoing down a corridor. Victoria braced herself as Mrs Danby came into the hall carrying a vase of flowers.

‘Ah, so you’ve decided to come after all!
Well
…’ Mrs Danby looked at Victoria’s clothes and made a visible effort to restrain herself.

Victoria said, ‘I didn’t know you were having a lunch party.’

‘Oh yes you did. I told you.
Months
ago.’

Victoria vaguely remembered her mother mentioning it. ‘But you didn’t say Caro and Henry were coming.’

Immediately Mrs Danby was on the defensive. ‘Well, darling, what if they
are
? We’re very fond of them. Daddy and I have been trying to get them down for
ages
.’

‘But—’

‘Goodness gracious! I should have thought you’d be delighted. You haven’t seen them in months, have you?’

Victoria dropped her eyes. How could she explain to Mother that it hadn’t occurred to her to impose on Caroline’s new life?

‘Well, since you
are
here,’ continued Mrs Danby, ‘Daddy and I want to talk to you.’

Victoria had a sudden premonition of what was coming.

‘Mr Rawlinson phoned me,’ her mother said quietly and firmly, ‘and he told me you had some funny ideas about Granny’s trust.’

Victoria stared. She didn’t think solicitors were allowed to tell tales. She protested mildly, ‘But it’s nothing to do with anyone else.’

Mrs Danby blinked at her. ‘I beg your pardon.’

Victoria drew a deep breath and said with growing uncertainty, ‘I can invest the capital in Granny’s trust more or less as I like.’

‘Well – !’ Mrs Danby said with authority. ‘I don’t think that’s true, Victoria—’

‘Yes, it is.’

Her mother stiffened. There was a silence. Eventually she said coldly, ‘I see. And what exactly are you planning to invest it in?’

‘A farm.’

‘A
farm
?’ Mrs Danby exclaimed. ‘Why a
farm
for goodness sake?’

Victoria said earnestly, ‘Because I want to work on the land, to create things. To’ – she searched for the right expression – ‘to lead a meaningful life …’

‘Ah!’ Her mother pounced. ‘Now,
wait
a minute. This isn’t
you
, is it, Victoria? It’s someone else who’s been putting these ideas into your head. Am I right? A –
friend
– perhaps?’

‘No,’ Victoria lied. She’d never told Mother about Mel. Mel had hair down to his shoulders, wore embroidered clothes and had no job. She added defensively, ‘Although certain friends
are
going to help me.

It’s going to be a co-operative.’ The word sounded better than a commune.

Mrs Danby sighed long and loud, an expression of exasperation and exhausted tolerance. ‘Well, I don’t intend to discuss this any more
now
. I’ve got lunch to worry about. But I really think you’re being exceedingly thoughtless, Victoria.
Exceedingly
.’

When she’d gone Diana said, ‘Oh dear.’

‘She can’t stop me,’ Victoria said unhappily. ‘I can do it, Di. And I’m jolly well going to.’

A loud buzz of conversation was coming from the open door of the drawing-room. Going into rooms full of people had always filled Victoria with dread. She remembered all those agonizing parties in her teens when, feeling huge and whale-like in some ghastly unsuitable dress, she’d clung to a wall, totally ignored, or been dragged across the middle of a room by the hostess, like a prize specimen across a show ring, to be introduced to someone who wasn’t in the least interested in talking to her.