Cometh the Hour

1

The jury was out.

The judge had asked the seven men and five women to make one final effort to reach a verdict. Mrs. Justice Lane instructed them to return the following morning. She was beginning to think a hung jury was the most likely outcome. The moment she stood up, everyone in the well of the court rose and bowed. The judge returned the compliment, but it wasn’t until she had left the court that a babble of chatter erupted.

“Would you be kind enough to accompany me back to my chambers, Mrs. Clifton,” said Donald Trelford, “so we can discuss the contents of Major Fisher’s letter, and whether they should be made public.”

Emma nodded. “I’d like my husband and brother to join us, if that’s possible, as I know Sebastian has to get back to work.”

“Of course,” said Trelford, who gathered up his papers and, without another word, led them out of the courtroom and down the wide marble staircase to the ground floor. As they stepped out onto the Strand, a pack of baying journalists, accompanied by flashing cameras, once again surrounded them, and dogged their steps as they made their way slowly across to the QC’s chambers.

They were finally left alone once they’d arrived at Lincoln’s Inn, an ancient square full of neat-looking town houses that were in fact chambers occupied by barristers and their clerks. Mr. Trelford led them up a creaky wooden staircase to the top floor of No. 11, passing rows of names printed neatly in black on the snow-white walls.

When Emma entered Mr. Trelford’s office, she was surprised to see how small it was, but then there are no large offices in Lincoln’s Inn, even if you are the head of chambers.

Once they were all seated, Mr. Trelford looked across at the woman who sat opposite him. Mrs. Clifton appeared calm and composed, even stoical, which was rare for someone who was facing the possibility of defeat and humiliation, unless... He unlocked the top drawer of his desk, extracted a file and handed copies of Major Fisher’s letter to Mr. and Mrs. Clifton and Sir Giles Barrington. The original remained locked in his safe, although he was in no doubt that Lady Virginia had somehow got hold of the copy he had with him in court.

Once they had all read the letter, handwritten on House of Commons paper, Trelford said firmly, “If you will allow me to present this as evidence in open court, Mrs. Clifton, I am confident we can win the case.”

“That is out of the question,” said Emma, handing her copy back to Trelford. “I could never allow that,” she added with the dignity of a woman who knew that the decision might not only destroy her but also hand victory to her adversary.

“Will you at least allow your husband and Sir Giles to offer their opinion?”

Giles didn’t wait for Emma’s permission. “Of course it must be seen by the jury, because once it has, they’ll come down unanimously in your favor and, more importantly, Virginia will never be able to show her face in public again.”

“Possibly,” said Emma calmly, “but at the same time, you would have to withdraw your candidacy for the by-election, and this time the prime minister won’t be offering you a seat in the House of Lords as compensation. And you can be sure of one thing,” she added. “Your ex-wife will consider destroying your political career a far greater prize than defeating me. No, Mr. Trelford,” she continued, not looking at her brother, “this letter will remain a family secret, and we will all have to live with the consequences.”

“That’s pigheaded of you, sis,” said Giles, swinging around. “Perhaps I don’t want to spend the rest of my life feeling responsible for you losing the case and having to stand down as chairman of Barrington’s. And don’t forget, you’ll also have to pay Virginia’s legal costs, not to mention whatever compensation the jury decide to award her.”

“It’s a price worth paying,” said Emma.

“Pigheaded,” repeated Giles, a decibel louder. “And I’ll bet Harry agrees with me.”

They all turned toward Harry, who didn’t need to read the letter a second time, as he could have repeated it word for word. However, he was torn between wishing to support his oldest friend and not wanting his wife to lose her libel case. What John Buchan once described as being “between a rock and a hard place.”

“It’s not my decision to make,” said Harry. “But if it were my future that was hanging by a thread, I’d want Fisher’s letter to be read out in court.”

“Two to one,” said Giles.

“My future isn’t hanging by a thread,” said Emma. “And you’re right, my darling, the final decision is mine.” Without another word, she rose from her place, shook hands with her counsel and said, “Thank you, Mr. Trelford. We’ll see you in court tomorrow morning, when the jury will decide our fate.”

Trelford bowed, and waited for the door to close behind them before he murmured to himself, “She should have been christened Portia.”

“How did you get hold of this?” asked Sir Edward.

Virginia smiled. Sir Edward had taught her that when facing cross-examination, if an answer doesn’t help your cause, you should say nothing.

Sir Edward didn’t smile. “If the judge were to allow Mr. Trelford to present this as evidence,” he said, waving the letter, “I would no longer be confident that we will win the case. In fact I’m certain we’d lose.”

“Mrs. Clifton will never allow it to be presented as evidence,” said Virginia confidently.

“How can you be sure?”

“Her brother intends to fight the by-election in Bristol Docklands caused by Major Fisher’s death. If this letter were to be made public, he’d have to withdraw. It would end his political career.”

Lawyers are meant to have opinions on everything, except their clients. Not in this case. Sir Edward knew exactly how he felt about Lady Virginia, and it didn’t bear repeating, in or out of court.

“If you’re right, Lady Virginia,” said the elderly QC, “and they don’t offer the letter as evidence, the jury will assume it’s because it doesn’t assist Mrs. Clifton’s cause. That would undoubtedly tip the balance in your favor.”

Virginia tore up the letter and dropped the little pieces into the wastepaper basket. “I agree with you, Sir Edward.”

Once again, Desmond Mellor had booked a small conference room in an unfashionable hotel, where no one would recognize them.

“Lady Virginia is the odds-on favorite to win a two-horse race,” said Mellor from his place at the head of the table. “It seems Alex Fisher ended up doing something worthwhile for a change.”

“Fisher’s timing couldn’t have been better,” said Adrian Sloane. “But we’ll still need to have everything in place if there’s to be a smooth takeover of Barrington’s Shipping.”

“Couldn’t agree with you more,” said Mellor, “which is why I’ve already drafted a press statement that I want you to release as soon as the verdict has been announced.”

“But all that could change if Mrs. Clifton allows Fisher’s letter to be read out in court.”

“I can assure you,” said Mellor, “that letter will never see the light of day.”

“You know what’s in that letter, don’t you?” said Jim Knowles.

“Let’s just say I’m confident that Mrs. Clifton will not want the jury to see it. Which will only convince them that our beloved chairman has something to hide. Then they will surely come down in Lady Virginia’s favor, and that will be an end of the matter.”

“As they’re likely to reach a verdict some time tomorrow,” said Knowles, “I’ve called an emergency board meeting for Monday morning at ten o’clock. There will only be two items on the agenda. The first will be to accept Mrs. Clifton’s resignation, followed by the appointment of Desmond as chairman of the new company.”

“And my first decision as chairman will be to appoint Jim as my deputy.” Sloane frowned. “Then I’ll ask Adrian to join the board, which will leave the City and the shareholders in no doubt that Barrington’s is under new management.”

“Once the other board members have read this,” said Knowles, waving the press statement as if it were an order paper, “it shouldn’t be long before the admiral and his cronies decide they have no choice but to hand in their resignations.”

“Which I will reluctantly accept,” said Mellor, before adding, “with a heavy heart.”

“I’m not convinced Sebastian Clifton will fall in with our plans quite that easily,” said Sloane. “If he decides to remain on the board, it might not be quite the smooth transition you have in mind, Desmond.”

“I can’t imagine Clifton will want to be a director of the Mellor Shipping Company after his mother has been publicly humiliated by Lady Virginia, not only in court, but in every national newspaper.”

“You must know what’s in that letter,” repeated Knowles.

Giles made no attempt to change his sister’s mind, because he realized it would be pointless.

Among Emma’s many qualities was a fierce loyalty to her family, her friends and any cause she believed in. But the other side of that coin was a stubbornness that sometimes allowed her personal feelings to override her common sense, even if her decision could result in losing the libel case, and even having to resign as chairman of Barrington’s. Giles knew, because he could be just as obstinate. It must be a family trait, he decided. Harry, on the other hand, was far more pragmatic. He would have weighed up the options and considered the alternatives long before he came to a decision. However, Giles suspected Harry was torn between supporting his wife and loyalty to his oldest friend.

As the three of them stepped back out onto Lincoln’s Inn Fields, the first gas lights were being lit by the lamplighter.

“I’ll see you both back at the house for dinner,” said Giles. “I’ve got a couple of errands to run. And by the way, sis, thank you.”

Harry hailed a taxi, and he and his wife climbed into the back. Giles didn’t move until the cab had turned the corner and was out of sight. He then headed off at a brisk pace in the direction of Fleet Street.

2

Sebastian rose early the following morning and after reading the Financial Times and the Daily Telegraph he just couldn’t see how his mother could hope to win her libel trial.

The Telegraph pointed out to its readers that if the contents of Major Fisher’s letter remained a secret, it wouldn’t help Mrs. Clifton’s cause. The FT concentrated on the problems Barrington’s Shipping would face should its chairman lose the case and have to resign. The company’s shares had already fallen by a shilling, as many of its shareholders had clearly decided that Lady Virginia was going to be the victor. Seb felt the best his mother could hope for was a hung jury. Like everyone else, he couldn’t stop wondering what was in the letter Mr. Trelford wouldn’t allow him to read, and which side it was more likely to help. When he had phoned his mother after returning from work, she hadn’t been forthcoming on the subject. He didn’t bother to ask his father.

Sebastian turned up at the bank even earlier than usual but once he’d sat down at his desk and begun trying to work his way through the morning mail, he found he couldn’t concentrate. After his secretary Rachel had asked him several questions which remained unanswered, she gave up and suggested he go to court, and not return until the jury had delivered its verdict. He reluctantly agreed.

As his taxi drove out of the City and into Fleet Street, Seb spotted the bold headline on a Daily Mail placard and shouted “Stop!” The cabbie swung into the curb and threw on his brakes. Seb jumped out and ran across to the paperboy. He handed him fourpence and grabbed a copy of the paper. As he stood on the pavement reading the front page he felt conflicting emotions: delight for his mother, who would now surely win her case and be vindicated, and sadness for his uncle Giles, who had clearly sacrificed his political career to do what he considered the honorable thing, because Seb knew his mother would never have allowed that letter to be seen by anyone outside the family.

He climbed back into the cab and wondered, as he stared out of the window, how he would have reacted had he been faced with the same dilemma. Was the prewar generation guided by a different moral compass? He wasn’t in any doubt what his father would have done, or how angry his mother would be with Giles. His thoughts turned to Samantha, who had returned to America when he’d let her down. What would she have done in similar circumstances? If only she would give him a second chance, he wouldn’t make the same mistake again.

Seb checked his watch. Most God-fearing people in Washington would still be asleep, so he realized he couldn’t phone his daughter Jessica’s headmistress, Dr. Wolfe, to find out why she wanted to speak to him urgently. Was it just possible...?

The taxi pulled up outside the Royal Courts of Justice in the Strand. “That’ll be four and six, gov’nor,” said the cabbie, interrupting his thoughts. Seb handed him two half-crowns.

As he stepped out of the cab, the cameras immediately began to flash. The first words he could make out above the melee of hollering hacks was, “Have you read Major Fisher’s letter?”

When Mrs. Justice Lane entered court fourteen and took her place in the high-backed chair on the raised dais, she didn’t look pleased. The judge wasn’t in any doubt that although she had firmly instructed the jury not to read any newspapers while the trial was taking place, the only subject they would be discussing in the jury room that morning would be the front page of the Daily Mail. She had no idea who was responsible for leaking Major Fisher’s letter, but that didn’t stop her, like everyone else in that courtroom, from having an opinion.

Although the letter had been sent to Mr. Trelford, she was certain it couldn’t have been him. He would never involve himself in such underhand tactics. She knew some barristers who would have turned a blind eye, even condoned such behavior, but not Donald Trelford. He would rather lose a case than swim in such murky waters. She was equally confident that it couldn’t have been Lady Virginia Fenwick, because it would only have harmed her cause. Had leaking the letter assisted her, she would have been the judge’s first suspect.

Mrs. Justice Lane looked down at Mrs. Clifton, whose head was bowed. During the past week she’d come to admire the defendant and felt she would like to get to know her better once the trial was over. But that would not be possible. In fact, she would never speak to the woman again. If she were to do so, it would unquestionably be grounds for a retrial.

If the judge had to guess who had been responsible for leaking the letter, she would have placed a small wager on Sir Giles Barrington. But she never guessed, and never gambled. She only considered the evidence. However, the fact that Sir Giles was not in court that morning might have been considered as evidence, even if it was circumstantial.

The judge turned her attention to Sir Edward Makepeace, who never gave anything away. The eminent silk had conducted his brief quite brilliantly and his eloquent advocacy had undoubtedly assisted Lady Virginia’s case. But that was before Mr. Trelford had brought Major Fisher’s letter to the court’s attention. The judge understood why neither Emma Clifton nor Lady Virginia would want the letter to be disclosed in open court, although she was sure Mr. Trelford would have pressed his client to allow him to enter it in evidence. After all, he represented Mrs. Clifton, not her brother. Mrs. Justice Lane assumed it wouldn’t be long before the jury returned and delivered their verdict.

When Giles phoned his constituency headquarters in Bristol that morning, he and his agent Griff Haskins didn’t need to hold a long conversation. Having read the front page of the Mail, Griff reluctantly accepted that Giles would have to withdraw his name as the Labour candidate for the forthcoming by-election in Bristol Docklands.

“It’s typical Fisher,” said Giles. “Full of half-truths, exaggeration and innuendo.”

“That doesn’t surprise me,” said Griff. “But can you prove it before polling day? Because one thing’s for certain, the Tories’ eve-of-poll message will be Fisher’s letter, and they’ll push it through every letterbox in the constituency.”

“We’d do the same, given half a chance,” admitted Giles.

“But if you could prove it was a pack of lies...” said Griff, refusing to give up.

“I don’t have time to do that, and even if I did, I’m not sure anyone would believe me. Dead men’s words are so much more powerful than those of the living.”

“Then there’s only one thing left for us to do,” said Griff. “Let’s go on a bender and drown our sorrows.”

“I did that last night,” admitted Giles. “And God knows what else.”

“Once we’ve chosen a new candidate,” said Griff, quickly slipping back into election mode, “I’d like you to brief him or her, because whoever we pick will need your support and, more important, your experience.”

“That might not turn out to be an advantage in the circumstances,” Giles suggested.

“Stop being so pathetic,” said Griff. “I’ve got a feeling we won’t get rid of you quite that easily. The Labour Party is in your blood. And wasn’t it Harold Wilson who said a week is a long time in politics?”

When the inconspicuous door swung open, everyone in the courtroom stopped talking and turned to watch as the bailiff stood aside to allow the seven men and five women to enter the court and take their places in the jury box.

The judge waited for them to settle before she leaned forward and asked the foreman, “Have you been able to reach a verdict?”

The foreman rose slowly from his place, adjusted his spectacles, looked up at the judge and said, “Yes, we have, my lady.”

“And is your decision unanimous?”

“It is, my lady.”

“Have you found in favor of the plaintiff, Lady Virginia Fenwick, or the defendant, Mrs. Emma Clifton?”

“We have found in favor of the defendant,” said the foreman, who, having completed his task, sat back down.

Sebastian leapt to his feet and was about to cheer when he noticed that both his mother and the judge were scowling at him. He quickly resumed his seat and looked across at his father, who winked at him.

On the other side of the court sat a woman who was glaring at the jury, unable to hide her displeasure, while her counsel sat impassively with his arms folded. Once Sir Edward had read the front page of the Daily Mail that morning, he’d realized that his client had no chance of winning the case. He could have demanded a retrial, but in truth Sir Edward wouldn’t have advised his client to put herself through a second trial with the odds tipped so heavily against her.

Giles sat alone at the breakfast table at his home in Smith Square, his usual routine abandoned. No bowl of cornflakes, no orange juice, no boiled egg, no Times, no Guardian, just a copy of the Daily Mail laid out on the table in front of him.

Giles stared down at his political obituary.

3

“Welcome back, Chairman,” said Jim Knowles as Emma walked into the boardroom. “Not that I doubted for a moment that you would return in triumph.”

“Hear, hear,” said Clive Anscott, pulling back Emma’s chair so she could take her place at the head of the table.

“Thank you,” said Emma as she sat down. She looked around the boardroom table and smiled at her fellow directors. They all returned her smile. “Item number one.” Emma looked down at the agenda as if nothing untoward had taken place during the past month. “As Mr. Knowles convened this meeting at short notice, the company secretary hasn’t had time to distribute the minutes of the last board meeting, so I’ll ask him to read them to us now.”

“Will that be necessary, given the circumstances?” asked Knowles.

“I’m not sure I’m fully aware of the circumstances, Mr. Knowles,” said Emma, “but I suspect we’re about to find out.”

Philip Webster, the company secretary, rose from his place, gave a nervous cough — some things never change, thought Emma — and began to read out the minutes as if he were announcing what train was due to arrive on platform four.

“A board meeting was held at Barrington House on Tuesday 10 November 1970. All the directors were present, with the exception of Mrs. Emma Clifton and Mr. Sebastian Clifton, who both sent their apologies, explaining that they were otherwise engaged. Following the resignation of the deputy chairman, Mr. Desmond Mellor, and in the absence of Mrs. Clifton, it was agreed by common consent that Mr. Jim Knowles should take the chair. There then followed a long discussion on the future of the company and what action should be taken if Lady Virginia Fenwick were to win her libel case against Mrs. Clifton. Admiral Summers placed on record that he considered nothing should be done until the outcome of the trial was known, as he was confident that the chairman would be vindicated.”

Emma smiled at the old seadog. If the ship had sunk, he would have been the last to leave the bridge.

“Mr. Knowles, however, did not share the admiral’s confidence, and informed the board that he had been following the case closely and had come to the reluctant conclusion that Mrs. Clifton didn’t have ‘a snowball’s chance in hell,’ and that not only would Lady Virginia win, but the jury would award her substantial damages. Mr. Knowles then reminded the board that Mrs. Clifton had made it clear she would resign as chairman if that was the outcome. He went on to say that he considered it was nothing more than the board’s duty to consider the company’s future in that eventuality, and in particular who should replace Mrs. Clifton as chairman. Mr. Clive Anscott agreed with the acting chairman and proposed the name of Mr. Desmond Mellor, who had recently written to him explaining why he felt he had to resign from the board. In particular, he had stated that he could not consider remaining on the board while ‘that woman’ was in charge. There then followed a long discussion in the course of which it became clear that the directors were evenly divided on the issue of how to handle the problem. Mr. Knowles, in his summing-up, concluded that two statements should be prepared, and once the result of the trial was known, the appropriate one should be released to the press.

“Admiral Summers stated that there would be no need for a press statement, because once Mrs. Clifton had been exonerated, it would be business as usual. Mr. Knowles pressed Admiral Summers on what he would do if Lady Virginia won the case. The admiral replied that he would resign as a member of the board, as there were no circumstances in which he would be willing to serve under Mr. Mellor. Mr. Knowles asked for the admiral’s words to be recorded in the minutes. He then went on to outline his strategy for the company’s future, should the worst happen.”

“And what was your strategy, Mr. Knowles?” asked Emma innocently.

Mr. Webster turned to the next page of the minutes.

“It’s no longer relevant,” said Knowles, giving the chairman a warm smile. “After all, the admiral has been proved right. But I did consider it no more than my duty to prepare the board for every eventuality.”

“The only eventuality you should have prepared for,” snorted Admiral Summers, “was handing in your resignation before this meeting took place.”

“Don’t you think that’s a little rough?” chipped in Andy Dobbs. “After all, Jim was placed in an unenviable position.”

“Loyalty is never unenviable,” said the admiral, “unless of course you’re a cad.”

Sebastian suppressed a smile. He couldn’t believe anyone still used the word “cad” in the second half of the twentieth century. He personally felt “fucking hypocrite” would have been more appropriate, although, in truth, it wouldn’t have been any more effective.

“Perhaps the company secretary should read out Mr. Knowles’s statement,” said Emma. “The one that would have been released to the press, had I lost the case.”

Mr. Webster extracted a single sheet of paper from his file, but before he had the chance to utter a word, Knowles rose from his place, gathered up his papers and said, “That won’t be necessary, chairman, because I tender my resignation.”

Without another word, he turned to leave, but not before Admiral Summers muttered, “Not a moment too soon.” He then fixed his gimlet eye on the two other directors who had backed Knowles.

After a moment’s hesitation, Clive Anscott and Andy Dobbs also stood up, and quietly left the room.

Emma waited for the door to close before she spoke again. “From time to time, I may have appeared impatient with the company secretary’s fastidious recording of the board’s minutes. I now concede that Mr. Webster has proved me wrong, and I apologize unreservedly.”

“Do you wish me to record your sentiments in the minutes, madam chairman?” asked Webster, without a hint of irony.

This time Sebastian did allow himself a smile.

4

Once Harry had edited the fourth draft of Anatoly Babakov’s remarkable memoirs of Stalin’s Russia, all he wanted to do was take the first available flight to New York and hand the manuscript of Uncle Joe to his publisher, Harold Guinzburg. But there was something even more important that prevented him from leaving. An event he had no intention of missing, under any circumstances. His mother’s seventieth birthday party.

Maisie had lived in a cottage on the Manor House estate since her second husband’s death three years before. She remained actively involved with several local charities, and although she rarely missed her daily three-mile constitutional, it was now taking her over an hour. Harry would never forget the personal sacrifices his mother had made to ensure he won a choral scholarship to St. Bede’s, and with it the chance to compete with anyone, whatever their background, including his oldest friend, Giles Barrington.

Harry and Giles had first met at St. Bede’s over forty years ago, and seemed an unlikely pair to end up as best friends. One born in the back streets of the docks, the other in a private ward of the Bristol Royal Infirmary. One a scholar, the other a sportsman. One shy, the other extrovert. And certainly no one would have predicted that Harry would fall in love with Giles’s sister, except Emma herself, who claimed she had planned the whole thing after they’d first met at Giles’s twelfth birthday party.

All Harry could remember of that occasion was a skinny little object — Giles’s description — sitting by the window, head down, reading a book. He had remembered the book, but not the girl.

Harry met a very different young woman seven years later, when the grammar school joined Red Maids’ for a combined school production of Romeo and Juliet. It was Elizabeth Barrington, Emma’s mother, who noticed that they continued to hold hands after they’d left the stage.

When the curtain came down on the final performance, Harry admitted to his mother that he’d fallen in love with Emma and wanted to marry her. It had come as a shock that Maisie didn’t seem delighted by the prospect. Emma’s father, Sir Hugo Barrington, made no attempt to hide his feelings, although his wife couldn’t explain why he was so vehemently opposed to any suggestion of them marrying. Surely he couldn’t be that much of a snob? But despite both their parents’ misgivings, Harry and Emma became engaged just before they went up to Oxford. Both virgins, they didn’t sleep together until a few weeks before the wedding.

But the wedding ended in tears because when the college chaplain said, “If any man can show any just cause why they may not lawfully be joined together, let him now speak, or else hereafter, forever hold his peace,” Old Jack, Harry’s mentor and friend, hadn’t held his peace, and told the congregation why he feared he had just cause.

When Harry learned the truth about who his father might be, he was so distraught he immediately left Oxford and joined the Merchant Navy, unaware that Emma was pregnant, or that, while he was crossing the Atlantic, England had declared war on Germany.

It wasn’t until he’d been released from prison, joined the US Army and been blown up by a German landmine, that he finally returned to England to be reunited with Emma, only to discover that he had a three-year-old son called Sebastian. Even then, it was still another two years before the highest court in the land decided that Sir Hugo Barrington was not Harry’s father, but, despite the ruling, both he and Emma were aware that there would always be a lingering doubt about the legitimacy of their marriage in an even higher court.

Harry and Emma had desperately wanted to have a second child, but they agreed not to tell Sebastian why they had decided against it. Harry never, even for a moment, placed any blame on his beloved mother. It hadn’t taken a lot of digging to discover that Maisie had not been the first factory worker to be seduced by Hugo Barrington on the annual works outing to Weston-super-Mare.

When Sir Hugo died in tragic circumstances, Giles inherited his title along with the estates, and the natural order of things was finally restored. However, while Harry had remained happily married to Emma, Giles had been through two divorces, and his political career now seemed to be in tatters.

Emma had spent the past three months preparing for the “big event,” and nothing had been left to chance. Harry was even made to deliver a dress rehearsal of his speech in their bedroom the night before.

Three hundred guests beat a path to the Manor House for a black-tie dinner to celebrate Maisie’s seven decades, and when she made her entrance on Harry’s arm, it wasn’t difficult for anyone to believe that she must have been one of the great beauties of her day. Harry sat down beside her and beamed with pride, although he became more and more nervous as the moment approached when he would have to propose his mother’s health. Performing in front of a packed audience no longer troubled him, but in front of his mother...

He began by reminding the guests of his mother’s formidable achievements, against all the odds. She had progressed from being a waitress in Tilly’s tearoom, to manager of the city’s Grand Hotel — the first woman to hold that position. After she had reluctantly retired at the age of sixty, Maisie had enrolled as a mature student at Bristol University, where she read English, and three years later graduated with honors; something Harry, Emma and Sebastian hadn’t achieved — all for different reasons.

When Maisie rose to reply, the whole room rose with her. She opened her speech like a seasoned pro, not a note, not a tremor. “Mothers always believe their sons are special,” she began, “and I’m no exception. Of course I’m proud of Harry’s many achievements, not only as a writer but, more importantly, as president of English PEN and as a campaigner on behalf of his less fortunate colleagues in other countries. In my opinion, his campaign to have Anatoly Babakov released from a Siberian gulag is a far greater achievement than topping the New York Times bestseller list.

“But the cleverest thing Harry has ever done was to marry Emma. Behind every great man...” Laughter and applause suggested that the audience agreed with Maisie. “Emma is a remarkable woman in her own right. The first female chairman of a public company, yet she still somehow manages to be an exemplary wife and mother. And then of course there’s my grandson, Sebastian, who I’m told will be the next governor of the Bank of England. That must be right, because it was Sebastian himself who told me.”

“I’d rather be chairman of Farthings Bank,” Seb whispered to his aunt Grace, who was seated beside him.

“All in good time, dear boy.”

Maisie ended with the words, “This has been the happiest day of my life, and I count myself lucky to have so many friends.”

Harry waited for the applause to subside before he rose again to propose Maisie’s long life and happiness. The assembled guests raised their glasses and continued to cheer as if it was the last night of the Proms.

“I’m sorry to see you on your own again, Seb,” said Grace once the applause had died down and everyone had resumed their seats. Seb didn’t respond. Grace took her nephew’s hand. “Hasn’t the time finally come for you to accept that Samantha is married and has another life?”

“I wish it was that easy,” said Seb.

“I regret not marrying and having children,” Grace confided, “and that’s something I’ve not even told my sister. But I do know that Emma wants so much to be a grandmother.”

“She already is,” whispered Seb. “And like you, that’s something I’ve never told her.”

Grace’s mouth opened, but no words came out. “Sam has a little girl called Jessica,” Seb said. “I only needed to see her once to know she was my daughter.”

“Now I begin to understand,” said Grace. “Is there really no chance you and Samantha can be reconciled?”

“Not while her husband is still alive.”

“I’m so sorry,” said Grace, squeezing her nephew’s hand.

Harry was delighted to see his brother-in-law chatting amiably to Griff Haskins, the Labour Party agent for Bristol Docklands. Perhaps the wily old pro could still persuade Giles to allow his name to go forward, despite Major Fisher’s poisonous intervention. After all, Giles had been able to show that the letter was peppered with half-truths and was clearly an attempt to settle old scores.

“So have you finally made a decision about the by-election?” asked Harry, when Giles broke away from Griff to join him.

“I’ve not been left with a lot of choice,” said Giles. “Two divorces and a dalliance with an East German woman, who may even be a Stasi spy, doesn’t make one the ideal candidate.”

“But the press seem convinced that whoever the Labour candidate is, they’re certain to win by a landslide while this Tory government remains so unpopular.”

“It’s not the press or even the electorate who will select the candidate but a group of men and women who make up the local selection committee, and I can tell you, Harry, there’s nothing more conservative than a Labour Party selection committee.”

“I’m still convinced they’d back you now they know the truth. Why don’t you throw your hat in the ring and let them decide?”

“Because if they asked me how I feel about Karin, they might not like the answer.”

“It was kind of you to include me in such an illustrious occasion, Mrs. Clifton.”

“Don’t be silly, Hakim, your name was one of the first on the guest list. No one could have done more for Sebastian, and after that rather unpleasant experience with Adrian Sloane I shall be forever in your debt, which I know your countrymen don’t take lightly.”

“You have to know who your friends are, when you spend so much time looking over your shoulder, Mrs. Clifton.”

“Emma,” she insisted. “And tell me, Hakim, what exactly do you see when you look over your shoulder?”

“An unholy trinity that I suspect has plans to rise from the dead and once again try to take control of Farthings — and possibly even Barrington’s.”

“But Mellor and Knowles are no longer on the board of Barrington’s, and Sloane has forfeited whatever reputation he had in the City.”

“True, but that hasn’t stopped them forming a new company.”

“Mellor Travel?”

“Which I don’t imagine will be recommending that their customers book a holiday on the Barrington line.”

“We’ll survive,” said Emma.

“And I presume you know that Lady Virginia Fenwick is considering selling her shares in Barrington’s? My spies tell me she’s a bit strapped for cash at the moment.”

“Is she indeed? Well, I wouldn’t want those shares to fall into the wrong hands.”

“You needn’t worry about that, Emma. I’ve already instructed Sebastian to pick them up the moment they come on the market. Be assured that if anyone even thinks about attacking you again, Hakim Bishara and his caravan of camels will be at your disposal.”

“It’s Deakins, isn’t it?” said Maisie, as a thin, middle-aged man with prematurely gray hair came up to her to pay his respects. He was dressed in the suit he must have graduated in.

“I’m flattered that you remember me, Mrs. Clifton.”

“How could I ever forget? After all, Harry never stopped reminding me, ‘Deakins is in my class but, frankly, he’s in a different class.’”

“And I was proved right, Mother,” said Harry as he joined them. “Because Deakins is now Regius Professor of Greek at Oxford. And like myself, he mysteriously disappeared during the war. But while I ended up in jail, he was at a place called Bletchley Park. Not that he ever reveals what went on behind those moss-covered walls.”

“And I doubt he ever will,” said Maisie, looking more closely at Deakins.

“‘Did you ever see the picture of “We Three”?’” said Giles, appearing by Deakins’s side.

“Which play?” demanded Harry.

“Twelfth Night,” said Giles.

“Not bad, but which character says the words and to whom?”

“The Fool, to Sir Andrew Aguecheek.”

“And who else?”

“Sir Toby Belch.”

“Impressive,” said Deakins, smiling at his old friend, “but for an alpha, which act and which scene?”

Giles fell silent.

“Act two, scene three,” said Harry. “But did you spot the one-word mistake?”

“Did you never see,” said Maisie.

This silenced the three of them, until Emma came across and said, “Stop showing off and circulate. This isn’t an old boys’ reunion.”

“She always was a bossy little thing,” said Giles as the old school chums split up and began to mingle with the other guests.

“When a woman shows some leadership,” said Maisie, “she’s immediately branded as bossy, but when a man does exactly the same thing, he’s described as decisive, and a born leader.”

“’Twas ever thus,” said Emma. “Perhaps we should do something about it.”

“You already have, my dear.”

After the last guest had departed, Harry and Emma accompanied Maisie back to her cottage.

“Thank you for the second happiest day of my life,” said Maisie.

“In your speech, mother,” Harry reminded her, “you said it was the happiest day of your life.”

“No, not even close,” replied Maisie. “That will always be reserved for the day I discovered you were still alive.”

5

Harry always enjoyed visiting his New York publisher, but he wondered if anything would have changed now that Aaron Guinzburg had taken over from his father as chairman.

He took the lift to the seventh floor, and when the doors slid open, he found Kirsty, Harold’s long-suffering former secretary, waiting for him. At least that hadn’t changed. Kirsty led him briskly down the corridor to the chairman’s office. A gentle tap on the door before she opened it, to allow Harry to enter another world.

Aaron, like his father before him, considered it must have been a clerical error by the Almighty that he had not been born on the other side of the Atlantic. He wore a double-breasted, pin-striped suit, probably tailored in Savile Row, a white shirt with a starched collar and a Yale tie. Harry could have been forgiven for thinking Aaron’s father had been cloned. The publisher jumped up from behind his desk to greet his favorite author.

Over the years the two of them had become close friends and, once Harry had sat down in the ancient leather armchair on the other side of the publisher’s large desk, he spent a few moments taking in the familiar surroundings. The oak-paneled walls were still covered in sepia photographs — Hemingway, Faulkner, Buchan, Fitzgerald, Greene and more recently Saul Bellow. Harry couldn’t help wondering if he would ever join them. He’d already outsold most of the authors on the wall, but the Guinzburgs didn’t measure success by sales alone.

“Congratulations, Harry.” The same warm, sincere voice. “Number one again. William Warwick becomes more popular with every book, and having read Babakov’s revelations that Khrushchev had a hand in killing Stalin, I can’t wait to publish Uncle Joe. I’m confident that book is also heading for the top spot, albeit on the nonfiction list.”

“It’s a truly amazing work,” replied Harry. “I only wish I’d written it.”

“I suspect you did write a great deal of it,” said Aaron, “because I detect your hand on almost every page.” He looked questioningly at Harry.

“Every word is Anatoly’s. I am nothing more than his faithful scribe.”

“If that’s the way you want to play it, that’s fine by me. However, your most ardent fans just might notice your style and phraseology creeping in from time to time.”

“Then we’ll both have to stick to the same hymn sheet, won’t we?”

“If you say so.”

“I do,” said Harry firmly.

Aaron nodded. “I’ve drawn up a contract for Uncle Joe which will require Mrs. Babakova’s signature as her husband’s representative. I’m willing to offer her a one-hundred-thousand-dollar advance on signing, against a ten percent royalty.”

“How many copies do you think you’ll sell?”

“A million, possibly more.”

“Then I want the royalty to rise to twelve and a half percent after the first hundred thousand sales, and fifteen percent once you’ve sold a quarter of a million.”

“I’ve never given such good terms for a first book,” protested Aaron.

“This isn’t a first book, it’s a last book, a one-off, a one and only book.”

“I accept your terms,” said Aaron, “but on one condition.” Harry waited. “When the book is published, you’ll do an author tour, because the public will be fascinated to know how you managed to smuggle the manuscript out of the Soviet Union.”

Harry nodded, and the two men stood up and shook hands. Something else Aaron had in common with his father: a handshake was quite enough to show that the deal had been closed. In a Guinzburg contract, there were no get-out clauses.

“And while you’re over here, I need to finalize a new three-book contract for the William Warwick series.”

“On the same terms as Babakov,” said Harry.

“Why, will he be writing those as well?”

Both men laughed, before shaking hands a second time.

“Who’s publishing Uncle Joe in England?” asked Aaron, as he sat back down.

“Billy Collins. We closed the deal last week.”

“Same terms?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know? Mind you, when I get home he’s certain to ask me the same question.”

“And he’ll get the same reply, no doubt. Now, Harry, your timing couldn’t be better, because I need to speak to you on another subject in the strictest confidence.”

Harry leaned back in his chair.

“I’ve always wanted Viking to merge with an appropriate paperback house, so I don’t have to make separate deals the whole time. Several other companies have already gone down that road, as I’m sure you know.”

“But if I remember correctly, your father was always against the idea. He feared it would stifle his independence.”

“And he still feels that way. But he’s no longer chairman, and I’ve decided it’s time to move up a gear. I’ve recently been offered an attractive deal by Rex Mulberry of Mulberry House.”

“‘The old order changeth, yielding place to new.’”

“Remind me.”

“Tennyson, Morte d’Arthur.”

“So, are you prepared to yield to new?”

“Although I don’t know Rex Mulberry, I’ll happily back your judgment,” said Harry.

“Good. Then I’ll have both contracts drawn up immediately. If you can get Mrs. Babakova to sign hers, I’ll have yours ready by the time you get back from Pittsburgh.”

“She’ll probably resist taking an advance payment, or even royalties, so I’ll just have to remind her that the last thing Anatoly said before they dragged him off was ‘Make sure Yelena doesn’t have to spend the rest of her life in a different kind of prison.’”

“That should do the trick.”

“Possibly. But I know she still considers it nothing less than her duty to suffer the same deprivation her husband is experiencing.”

“Then you must explain to her that we can’t publish the book if she doesn’t sign the contract.”

“She will sign the contract, but only because she wants the whole world to know the truth about Joseph Stalin. I’m not convinced she’ll ever cash the check.”

“Try deploying that irresistible Clifton charm.” Aaron rose from behind his desk. “Lunch?”

“The Yale Club?”

“Certainly not. Pa still eats there every day, and I don’t want him to find out what I’m up to.”

Harry rarely read the business section of any newspaper, but today he made an exception. The New York Times had devoted half a page to the merger between the Viking Press and Mulberry House, alongside a photograph of Aaron shaking hands with Rex Mulberry.

Viking would have 34 percent of the new company, while Mulberry, a far bigger house, would control 66 percent. When the Times asked Aaron how his father felt about the deal, he simply replied, “Curtis Mulberry and my father have been close friends for many years. I am delighted to have formed a partnership with his son, and look forward to an equally long and fruitful relationship.”

“Hear, hear, to that,” said Harry, as a dining car waiter poured him a second cup of coffee. He glanced out of the window to see the skyscrapers of Manhattan becoming smaller and smaller as the train continued on its journey to Pittsburgh.

Harry sat back, closed his eyes and thought about his meeting with Yelena Babakova. He just hoped she would fall in with her husband’s wishes. He tried to recall Anatoly’s exact words.

Aaron Guinzburg had risen early, excited by the prospect of his first day as deputy chairman of the new company.

“Viking Mulberry,” he murmured into the shaving mirror. He liked the billing.

His first meeting that day was scheduled for twelve o’clock, when Harry would report back on his visit with Mrs. Babakova. He planned to publish Uncle Joe in April, and was delighted that Harry had agreed to go on tour. After a light breakfast — toast and Oxford Marmalade, a three-and-a-half-minute boiled egg and a cup of Earl Grey tea — Aaron read the article in the New York Times for a second time. He felt it was a fair reflection of his agreement with Rex Mulberry and was pleased to see his new partner repeating something he’d said to Aaron many times: I am proud to be joining a house with such a fine literary tradition.

As it was a clear, crisp morning, Aaron decided to walk to work and savor the thought of starting life anew. He wondered how long it would be before his father admitted he’d made the right decision if the company were to play in the major leagues. He crossed the road onto Seventh Avenue, his smile broadening with each step he took. As he walked toward the familiar building he noticed two smartly dressed doormen standing at the entrance. Not an expense his father would have approved of. One of the men stepped forward and saluted.

“Good morning, Mr. Guinzburg.” Aaron was impressed that they knew his name. “We have been instructed, sir, not to allow you to enter the building.”

Aaron was struck dumb. “There must be some mistake,” he eventually managed. “I’m deputy chairman of the company.”

“I’m sorry, sir, but those are our instructions,” said the second guard, stepping forward to block his path.

“There must be some mistake,” repeated Aaron.

“There is no mistake, sir. Our instructions were clear. If you attempt to enter the building, we are to prevent you from doing so.”

Aaron hesitated for a moment before taking a pace back. He stared up at the newly minted sign declaring VIKING MULBERRY, then attempted to enter the building once again, but neither guard budged an inch. Reluctantly, he turned away and hailed a cab, giving the driver his home address. There must be a simple explanation, he kept telling himself as the taxi headed toward 67th Street.

Once he was back in his apartment, Aaron picked up the phone and dialed a number he didn’t need to look up.

“Good morning, Viking Mulberry, how can I help you?”

“Rex Mulberry.”

“Who’s calling please?”

“Aaron Guinzburg.” He heard a click, and a moment later another voice said, “Chairman’s office.”

“This is Aaron Guinzburg. Put me through to Rex.”

“Mr. Mulberry is in a meeting.”

“Then get him out of the meeting,” said Aaron, finally losing his temper.

Another click. He’d been cut off. He dialed the number again, but this time he didn’t get any farther than the switchboard. Collapsing into the nearest chair, he tried to gather his thoughts. It was some time before he picked up the phone again.

“Friedman, Friedman and Yablon,” announced a voice.

“This is Aaron Guinzburg. I need to speak to Leonard Friedman.” He was immediately put through to the senior partner. Aaron took his time explaining what had happened when he’d turned up at his office that morning, and the result of his two subsequent phone calls.

“So your father was right all along.”

“What do you mean?”

“A handshake was always good enough for Curtis Mulberry, but when you deal with his son Rex, just make sure you read the small print.”

“Are you suggesting Mulberry’s got right on his side?”

“Certainly not,” said Friedman, “just the law. As long as he controls sixty-six percent of the company’s stock, he can call the shots. We did warn you at the time of the consequences of being a minority shareholder, but you were convinced it wouldn’t be a problem. Although I have to admit, even I’m shocked by the speed with which Mulberry has taken advantage of his position.”

Once Friedman had taken his client though the relevant details of the contract, Aaron wished he’d read Law at Harvard and not History at Yale. “Still,” said the lawyer, “we did manage to insert clause 19A, which Mulberry will surely now live to regret.”

“Why is clause 19A so important?”

After Friedman had explained the significance of the get-out clause in great detail, Aaron put the phone down and walked across to the drinks cabinet. He poured himself a whisky — before twelve o’clock for the first time in his life. Twelve o’clock, the time of his appointment with Harry. He glanced at his watch: 11:38. He put down his drink, and ran out of the apartment.

He cursed the slow lift as it trundled down to the ground floor, where he hurled back the grille and ran out onto the street. He hailed a yellow cab, never a problem on Fifth Avenue, but once he hit Third, Aaron was faced with the inevitable gridlock. Light after light seemed to turn red just as the cab reached the front of the line. When they ground to a halt at the next set of lights, Aaron handed the driver a five-dollar bill and leapt out. He ran the last two blocks, dodging in and out of the traffic, horns blaring, as he tried to stay on the move.

The two guards were still stationed outside the building, almost as if they were expecting him to return. Aaron checked his watch on the run: four minutes to twelve. He prayed that Harry would be late. Harry was never late. Then he saw him about a hundred yards away, striding in his direction, but he arrived at the front of the building just moments before Aaron. The guards stood aside and allowed him to pass. Someone else they were expecting.

“Harry! Harry!” shouted Aaron, now only a few strides from the front door, but Harry had already entered the building. “Harry!” Aaron screamed again as he reached the entrance, but the two guards marched forward and blocked his path just as Harry stepped into a lift.

When the lift door opened, Harry was surprised not to find Kirsty waiting for him. Funny how you get used to something, he thought, even take it for granted. He made his way across to the reception desk and told an unfamiliar young woman his name. “I have an appointment with Aaron Guinzburg.”

She checked her day sheet. “Yes, you’re down to see the chairman at twelve, Mr. Clifton. You’ll find him in Mr. Guinzburg’s old office.”

“His old office?” said Harry, unable to mask his surprise.

“Yes, the room at the far end of the corridor.”

“I know where it is,” Harry replied, before heading off toward Aaron’s office. He knocked on the door and waited.

“Come in,” said a voice he didn’t recognize.

Harry opened the door and immediately assumed he’d walked into the wrong room. The walls had been stripped of their magnificent oak paneling and the distinguished authors’ photographs replaced by a set of gaudy prints of SoHo. A man he’d never met before, but whom he recognized from his photograph in that morning’s New York Times, rose from behind a trestle table and thrust out a hand.

“Rex Mulberry. Delighted to meet you at last, Harry.”

“Good morning, Mr. Mulberry,” said Harry. “I have an appointment with my publisher, Aaron Guinzburg.”

“I’m afraid Aaron doesn’t work here any longer,” said Mulberry. “I’m the chairman of the new company, and the board decided that the time had come for Viking to make some radical changes. But, let me assure you, I’m a great admirer of your work.”

“So you’re a fan of Wilfred Warwick, are you?” said Harry.

“Yes, I’m a huge fan of Wilfred’s. Have a seat.” Harry reluctantly sat down opposite the new chairman. “I’ve just been over your latest contract, which I’m sure you’ll agree is generous by normal publishing standards.”

“I have only ever been published by Viking, so I’ve nothing to compare it with.”

“And of course we will honor Aaron’s most recent contract in the Wilfred Warwick series, as well as the one for Uncle Joe.”

Harry tried to think what Sebastian would have done in these circumstances. He was aware that the contract for Uncle Joe was in his inside pocket and, after some considerable persuasion, had been signed by Yelena Babakova.

“Aaron had agreed to prepare a new three-book contract, which I had intended to go over with him today,” he said, playing for time.

“Yes, I have it here,” said Mulberry. “There are a few minor adjustments, none of them of any real significance,” he added as he pushed the contract across the table.

Harry turned to the last page, to find Rex Mulberry’s signature already on the dotted line. He took out his fountain pen — a gift from Aaron — removed the top and stared down at the words, On behalf of the author. He hesitated, before saying the first thing that came into his head.

“I need to go to the lavatory. I came straight from Grand Central as I didn’t want to be late.” Mulberry forced a smile, as Harry placed the elegant Parker on the table beside the contract. “I won’t be long,” Harry added as he rose from his seat and casually left the room.

Harry closed the door behind him, walked quickly down the corridor, past the reception desk and didn’t stop until he reached the lobby, where he stepped inside the first available lift. When the doors opened again on the ground floor, he joined the bustle of office workers who were making their way out of the building for their lunch break. He glanced at the two guards, but they didn’t give him a second look as he passed them. They seemed to be focused on someone standing sentinel-like on the opposite side of the street. Harry turned his back on Aaron and hailed a cab.

“Where to?”

“I’m not sure yet,” said Harry, “but could you drive across to the far corner and pick up the gentleman who’s standing there.” The cabbie came to a halt on the other side of the street. Harry wound down the window. “Jump in,” he shouted.

Aaron looked suspiciously inside, but when he saw Harry, he quickly joined him in the back.

“Did you sign the contract?” were his first words.

“No, I did not.”

“What about the Babakov contract?”

“I still have it,” said Harry, touching the inside pocket of his jacket.

“Then we just may be in the clear.”

“Not yet. I persuaded Mrs. Babakova that she should cash Viking’s cheque for $100,000.”

“Help,” said Aaron.

“Where to?” demanded the cabbie again.

“Grand Central Station,” said Harry.

“Can’t you just phone her?” said Aaron.

“She doesn’t have a phone.”

6

“It’s the first time I’ve ever known you do something dishonest,” said Emma, as she poured herself a second cup of coffee.

“But surely it’s morally defensible,” said Harry. “After all, the end justified the means.”

“Even that’s questionable. Don’t forget that Mrs. Babakova had already signed the contract and accepted the check in payment.”

“But she hadn’t cashed it and, in any case, she was under the impression Anatoly’s book would be published by Viking.”

“And it still would have been.”

“But not by Aaron Guinzburg, with whom she made the original deal.”

“A High Court judge might consider that an interesting legal dilemma. And who’s going to publish William Warwick, now you’re no longer with Viking?”

“The Guinzburg Press. Anatoly and I will be the company’s first authors, and Aaron will also be presenting me with a new fountain pen.”

“A new pen?”

“It’s a long story, which I’ll save for when you get back from your board meeting,” said Harry, breaking into the top of his egg.

“I’m still a little surprised that Mulberry hadn’t considered the possibility of Aaron setting up his own company and didn’t include a clause in the merger document preventing him from poaching any of Viking’s authors.”

“I’m sure he did consider it, but if he’d inserted such a clause, Aaron’s lawyers would have realized immediately what he was up to.”

“Perhaps he doubted that Aaron would have the resources to set up a new publishing company.”

“Well, he got that wrong,” said Harry. “Aaron’s already had several offers for his shares in Viking Mulberry, including one from Rex Mulberry himself, who clearly doesn’t want any of his rivals to get their hands on Aaron’s thirty-four percent stake.”

“What goes around...” said Emma. Harry smiled as he sprinkled a little salt on his egg. “But however much you like Aaron,” continued Emma, “after his obvious lack of judgment when it came to Mulberry, are you sure he’s the right man to be your American publisher? If you were to sign a three-book contract, and then—”

“I admit I had my doubts,” said Harry, “but I’ve been reassured by the fact that Aaron’s father has agreed to return as president of the new company.”

“Is that a hands-on job?”

“Harold Guinzburg doesn’t do hands-off.”

“Item number one,” declared Emma in her crisp, clear chairman’s voice. “The latest update on the building of our second luxury liner, the MV Balmoral.” She glanced toward the group’s new chief executive, Eric Hurst, who was looking down at an already open file.

“The board will be pleased to learn,” he said, “that despite a few unavoidable holdups, which is not unusual in such a major undertaking, we are still well on course to launch the new ship in September. Equally important, we remain within our forecast budget, having anticipated most of the issues that so bedevilled the construction of the Buckingham.”

“With one or two notable exceptions,” said Admiral Summers.

“You’re right, admiral,” said Hurst. “I confess that I didn’t foresee the need for a second cocktail bar on the upper deck.”

“Passengers are allowed to drink on deck?” said the admiral.

“I’m afraid so,” said Emma, suppressing a grin. “But it does mean extra money in our coffers.” The admiral didn’t attempt to suppress a snort.

“Although I still need to keep a watchful eye on the timing of the launch,” continued Hurst, “it shouldn’t be too long before we can announce the first booking period for the Balmoral.”

“I wonder if we’ve bitten off more than we can chew?” chipped in Peter Maynard.

“I think that’s the finance director’s department, not mine,” said Hurst.

“It most certainly is,” said Michael Carrick, coming in on cue. “The company’s overall position,” he said, looking down at his pocket calculator, which the admiral had already dismissed as a newfangled machine, “is that our turnover is three percent up on this time last year, and that’s despite a substantial loan from Barclays to make sure that we don’t miss any payments during the building phase.”

“How substantial?” demanded Maynard.

“Two million,” said Carrick, not needing to check the figure.

“Can we afford to service such a large overdraft?”

“Yes, Mr. Maynard, but only because our cash flow is also up on last year, along with increased bookings on the Buckingham. It seems the current generation of seventy-year-olds are refusing to die, and have rather taken to the idea of an annual cruise. So much so that we have recently introduced a loyalty program for customers who’ve taken a holiday with us on more than three occasions.”

“And what does membership entitle them to?” asked Maurice Brasher, Barclays’ representative on the board.

“Twenty percent off the price of any voyage as long as it’s booked more than a year in advance. It encourages our regulars to look upon the Buckingham as their second home.”

“What if they die before the year is up?” asked Maynard.

“They get every penny back,” said Emma. “Barrington’s is in the luxury liner business, Mr. Maynard, we’re not undertakers.”

“But can we still make a profit,” pressed Brasher, “if we give so many of our customers a twenty percent discount?”

“Yes,” said Carrick, “there’s still a further ten percent leeway, and don’t forget, once they’re on board, they spend money in our shops and bars, as well as the twenty-four-hour casino.”

“Something else I don’t approve of,” muttered the admiral.

“What’s our current occupancy rate?” asked Maynard.

“Eighty-one percent over the past twelve months, often a hundred percent on the upper decks, which is why we’re building more staterooms on the Balmoral.”

“And what’s breakeven?”

“Sixty-eight percent,” said Carrick.

“Very satisfactory,” said Brasher.

“While I agree with you, Mr. Brasher, we can’t afford to relax,” said Emma. “Union-Castle are planning to convert the Reina del Mar into a luxury liner, and Cunard and P&O have both recently begun construction on ships that will carry over two thousand passengers.”

There followed a long silence, while members of the board tried to take this information in.

“Is New York still our most lucrative run?” asked Maynard, who hadn’t appeared particularly interested in the other directors’ questions.

“Yes,” said Hurst, “but the Baltic cruise is also proving popular — Southampton to Leningrad, taking in Copenhagen, Oslo, Stockholm and Helsinki.”

“But now we’re launching a second ship and, considering how many other liners are already on the high seas,” continued Maynard, “do you anticipate any staffing problems?”

Emma was puzzled by the number of questions Maynard was asking. She was beginning to suspect him of having his own agenda.

“That shouldn’t be a problem,” said Captain Turnbull, who hadn’t spoken until then. “Barrington’s is a popular line to work for, especially with the Filipinos. They remain on board for eleven months, never leaving the ship and rarely spending a thing.”

“What about the twelfth month?” asked Sebastian.

“That’s when they go home and hand over their hard-earned cash to their wives and families. Then they report back for duty twenty-eight days later.”

“Poor blighters,” said Brasher.

“In truth, Mr. Brasher,” said Turnbull, “the Filipinos are the happiest members of my crew. They tell me they’d far rather be with the Barrington line than spending twelve months out of work in Manila.”

“What about the officers? Any problems there, captain?”

“At least six qualified men apply for every available job, admiral.”

“Any women?” asked Emma.

“Yes, we now have our first woman on the bridge,” said Turnbull. “Clare Thompson. She’s the first mate, and proving damned effective.”

“What has the world come to?” said the admiral. “Let’s hope I don’t live to see a woman prime minister.”

“Let’s hope you do,” said the chairman, gently chiding her favorite director, “because the world has moved on, and perhaps we should too.” Emma looked at her watch. “Any other business?”

The company secretary coughed, a sign that he had something he needed to tell the board.

“Mr. Webster,” said Emma, sitting back, aware that he was not a man to be hurried.

“I feel I should inform the board that Lady Virginia Fenwick has disposed of her seven and a half percent shareholding in the company.”

“But I thought—” began Emma.

“And the shares have been registered at Companies House in the name of the new owner.”

“But I thought—” repeated Emma, looking directly at her son.

“It must have been a private transaction,” said Sebastian. “I can assure you her shares never came up for sale on the open market. If they had, my broker would have picked them up immediately on behalf of Farthings, and Hakim Bishara would have joined the board as the bank’s representative.”

Everybody in the room began to speak at once. They were all asking the same question. “If Bishara didn’t buy the shares, who did?”

The company secretary waited for the board to settle before he answered their collective cry. “Mr. Desmond Mellor.”

There was immediate uproar, which was silenced only by Sebastian’s curt interjection. “I have a feeling Mellor won’t be returning as a member of the board. It would be far too obvious, and wouldn’t suit his purpose.” Emma looked relieved. “No, I think he’ll select someone else to represent him. Someone who’s never sat on the board before.”

Every eye was now fixed on Sebastian. But it was the admiral who asked, “And who do you think that might be?”

“Adrian Sloane.”

7

A black stretch limousine was parked outside the Sherry-Netherland. A smartly dressed chauffeur opened the back door as Harry walked out of the hotel. He climbed in and sank into the backseat, ignoring the morning papers stacked neatly on the cocktail bar opposite him. Who drank at that time in the morning, Harry wondered. He closed his eyes and tried to concentrate.

Harry had told Aaron Guinzburg several times that he didn’t need a stretch limo to take him on the short journey from the hotel to the studio, a yellow cab would have been just fine.

“It’s all part of the service the Today program gives its headline guests.”

Harry gave in, although he knew Emma would not have approved. “An extravagant waste of the company’s money,” as NBC would have discovered, if Emma had been its chairman.

Harry recalled the first time he’d appeared on an American breakfast radio show, more than twenty years before, when he had been promoting his debut William Warwick novel. It had been a fiasco. His already brief spot was cut short when the previous two guests, Mel Blanc and Clark Gable, both overran their allotted time, and when it was finally his turn in front of the microphone, Harry had forgotten to mention the title of his book, and it quickly became clear that his host, Matt Jacobs, hadn’t read it. Two decades later, and he accepted that was par for the course.

Harry was determined not to suffer the same fate with Uncle Joe, which the New York Times had already described as the most anticipated book of the season. All three morning shows had offered him their highest rated spot, at 7:24 a.m. Six minutes didn’t sound a long time, but in television terms, only ex-presidents and Oscar winners could take it for granted. As Aaron pointed out, “Just think how much we’d have to pay for a six-minute peak-time advertisement.”

The limo came to a halt outside the glass-fronted studio on Columbus Avenue. A smartly dressed young woman was standing on the sidewalk waiting for him.

“Good morning, Harry,” she said. “My name is Anne and I’m your special assistant. I’ll take you straight through to makeup.”

“Thank you,” said Harry, who still hadn’t got used to people he’d never met calling him by his Christian name.

“As you know, you’re on at 7:24 for six minutes, and your interviewer will be Matt Jacobs.”

Harry groaned. Would he have read the book this time? “Great,” he said.

Harry hated makeup. He’d showered and shaved only an hour before, but it was a ritual he knew he couldn’t refuse, despite insisting, “As little as possible, please.” After a liberal amount of cream was applied to his cheeks, and powder dabbed on his forehead and chin, the makeup girl asked, “Shall I remove those stray gray hairs?”

“Certainly not!” said Harry. She looked disappointed, and satisfied herself with trimming his eyebrows.

Once he’d escaped, Anne escorted him through to the green room, where he sat quietly in a corner while a B-movie star, whose name he didn’t catch, was telling an attentive audience what it was like to share a scene with Paul Newman. At 7:20, the door swung open and Anne reappeared to carry out her most important function of the day. “Time to take you through to the studio, Harry.”

Harry jumped up and followed her down a long corridor. He was far too nervous to speak, which she was clearly accustomed to. She stopped outside a closed door on which a notice declared: DO NOT ENTER WHEN RED LIGHT IS ON. When the light turned green, she heaved open the heavy door and led him into a studio the size of an aircraft hangar, crammed with arc lights and cameras, with technicians and floor staff running in every direction during the ad break. Harry smiled at the studio audience, who from the blank expressions on their faces clearly didn’t have a clue who he was. He turned his attention to the host, Matt Jacobs, who was seated on a sofa looking like a spider waiting for a passing fly. A studio assistant handed him a copy of Uncle Joe while a second powdered his nose. Jacobs glanced at the cover before turning to the back flap to check the author’s biography. He finally turned to the front flap and read the synopsis of the book. This time Harry was prepared. While he waited to be taken to his place, he studied his inquisitor carefully. Jacobs didn’t seem to have aged in the past twenty years, although Harry suspected the makeup girl had been allowed to use her considerable skills to defy the passage of time. Or had he succumbed to a facelift?

The studio manager invited Harry to join Jacobs on the sofa. He was graced with a “Good morning, Mr. Clifton,” but then his host became distracted by a note yet another assistant placed in front of him.

“Sixty seconds to transmission,” said a voice from somewhere beyond the arc lights.

“Where will it be?” asked Jacobs.

“The page will come up on camera two,” said the floor manager.

“Thirty seconds.”

This was the moment when Harry always wanted to get up and leave the studio. Uncle Joe, Uncle Joe, Uncle Joe, he repeated under his breath. Don’t forget to keep mentioning the title of the book, Aaron had reminded him, because it’s not your name on the cover.

“Ten seconds.”

Harry took a sip of water as a hand appeared in front of his face, displaying five splayed fingers.

“Five, four...”

Jacobs dropped his notes on the floor.

“Three, two...”

And looked straight into the camera.

“One.” The hand disappeared.

“Welcome back,” said Jacobs, reading directly from the teleprompter. “My next guest is the crime novelist Harry Clifton, but today we’re not discussing one of his works, but a book he smuggled out of the Soviet Union.” Jacobs held up his copy of Uncle Joe, which filled the whole screen.

Good start, thought Harry.

“But let me make it clear,” continued Jacobs, “that it was not the book itself that Mr. Clifton smuggled out, just the words. He says that while he was locked up in a Russian prison cell with Anatoly Babakov, Uncle Joe’s author, he learned the entire manuscript by heart in four days, and after he had been released he wrote it out word for word. Some people might find this hard to believe,” said Jacobs, before turning to face Harry for the first time, and from the incredulous look on his face, he was clearly one of them.

“Let me try and understand what you’re suggesting, Mr. Clifton. You shared a cell with the distinguished author Anatoly Babakov, a man you’d never met before.”

Harry nodded, as the camera swung onto him.

“During the next four days he recited the entire contents of his banned book, Uncle Joe, an account of the eleven years he worked in the Kremlin as Joseph Stalin’s interpreter.”

“That is correct,” said Harry.

“So when you were released from prison, four days later, like a professional actor, you knew your part off by heart.”

Harry remained silent, as it was now clear that Jacobs had his own agenda.

“I’m sure you’ll agree, Mr. Clifton, that no actor, however seasoned, could be expected to remember forty-eight thousand words after only four days of rehearsal.”

“I am not an actor,” said Harry.

“Forgive me,” said Jacobs, not looking as if he wanted to be forgiven, “but I suspect that you are a very accomplished actor who has invented this whole story for no other purpose than to promote your latest book. If that’s not the case, perhaps you’ll allow me to put your claim to the test.”

Without waiting for Harry to respond, Jacobs turned to another camera and, holding up the book, said, “If your story is to be believed, Mr. Clifton, you shouldn’t have any difficulty in reciting whichever page I select from Mr. Babakov’s book.” Harry frowned as Jacobs added, “I’m going to turn to a page at random, which will appear on the screen so that all our viewers can see it. You will be the one person who won’t be able to.”

Harry’s heart reached a thumping pace, because he hadn’t read Uncle Joe since he’d handed in the manuscript to Aaron Guinzburg some time ago.

“But first,” said Jacobs turning back to face his guest, “let me ask you to confirm that we have never met before.”

“Just once,” Harry replied. “You interviewed me on your radio program twenty years ago, but you’ve clearly forgotten.”

Jacobs looked flustered, but quickly recovered. “Then let’s hope your memory is better than mine,” he said, not making any attempt to hide his sarcasm. He picked up the book, and flicked through several pages before stopping at random. “I’m going to read out the first line of page 127,” he continued, “and then we’ll see if you can complete the rest of the page.” Harry began to concentrate. “One of the many subjects no one ever dared to raise with Stalin—”

Harry tried to gather his thoughts, and as the seconds passed, the audience began murmuring among themselves, while Jacobs’s smile became broader. He was just about to speak again, when Harry said, “One of the many subjects no one ever dared to raise with Stalin was the role he played during the siege of Moscow, when the outcome of the Second World War still hung in the balance. Did he, like most of the government ministers and their officials, beat a hasty retreat to Kuibyshev on the Volga, or did he, as he claimed, refuse to leave the capital and remain in the Kremlin, personally organizing the defense of the city? His version became legend, part of the official Soviet history, although several people saw him on the platform moments before the train departed for Kuibyshev, and there are no reliable reports of anyone seeing him in Moscow again until the Russian army had driven the enemy from the gates of the city. Few of those who expressed any doubts about Stalin’s version lived to tell the tale.” Harry looked into the camera and continued to deliver the next twenty-two lines without hesitation.

He knew he’d come to the end of the page when the studio audience burst into applause. Jacobs took a little longer to recover his composure, but eventually managed, “I might even read this book myself,” with an ingratiating smile.

“That would make a change,” said Harry, immediately regretting his words, although some of the studio audience laughed and applauded even louder, while others just gasped.

Jacobs turned to face the camera. “We’ll take a short break, and return after these messages.”

When the green light came on, Jacobs yanked off his lapel mic, jumped up from the sofa and marched across to the floor manager. “Get him off the set now!”

“But he’s got another three minutes,” said the floor manager, checking his clipboard.

“I don’t give a fuck. Wheel on the next guest.”

“Do you really want to interview Troy Donahue for six minutes?”

“Anyone but that guy,” he said, gesturing in Harry’s direction before beckoning Anne. “Get him off the set now,” he repeated.

Anne hurried across to the sofa. “Will you please come with me, Mr. Clifton,” she said, not sounding as if it was a request. She led Harry out of the studio and didn’t stop until they were back on the sidewalk, where she abandoned her headline guest, although there was no sign of a chauffeur waiting by an open limo door.

Harry hailed a cab and on the way back to the Sherry-Netherland he checked page 127 of his copy of Uncle Joe. Had he left out the word “hasty”? He couldn’t be sure. He went straight up to his room, removed his makeup and took his second shower of the morning. He didn’t know if it was the huge arc lights or Jacobs’s hectoring manner that had caused him to sweat so profusely.

Once he’d put on a clean shirt and his other suit, Harry took the lift to the mezzanine floor. When he walked into the dining room, he was surprised how many people gave him a second look. He ordered breakfast, but didn’t open the New York Times, as he thought about how angry the Guinzburgs would be after he’d humiliated one of breakfast TV’s leading presenters. He was due to meet them in Aaron’s office at nine to discuss the details of his national tour, but Harry assumed he’d now be heading back to Heathrow on the next available flight.

Harry signed the check, and decided to walk to Aaron’s new office on Lexington Avenue. He left the Sherry-Netherland just after 8:40, and by the time he reached Lexington, he was just about ready to face the headmaster’s wrath. He took the elevator to the third floor, and when the doors opened, Kirsty was standing there. She said only “Good morning, Mr. Clifton” before leading him through to the chairman’s office.

She knocked and opened the door to reveal a carbon copy of the office Harry had such fond memories of. Hemingway, Fitzgerald, Greene and Buchan all stared down at him from the oak-paneled walls. Harry stepped inside to see father and son seated opposite each other at the partners’ desk. The moment they saw him they stood and applauded.

“Hail the conquering hero,” said Aaron.

“But I thought you’d be—”

“Ecstatic,” said Harold Guinzburg, slapping him on the back. “The phone’s been ringing off the hook for the past hour, and you’re set to be on every major talk show across the country. But be warned, everyone’s going to pick a different page after your triumph this morning.”

“But what about Jacobs?”

“He’s turned you into an overnight star. You may never be invited back on to his show, but all the other networks are chasing you.”

Harry spent the next seven days flying from airport to airport: Boston, Washington, Dallas, Chicago, San Francisco and Los Angeles. He was rushed from studio to studio in an attempt to fulfil every commitment on his revised schedule.

Whenever he was in the air, in the back of a limousine or in a green room, even in bed, he read and re-read Uncle Joe, astounding audiences right across the country with his prodigious memory.

By the time he touched down in Los Angeles to be Johnny Carson’s headline guest on The Tonight Show, journalists and television crews were turning up at the airports, hoping to grab an interview with him, even on the move. Exhausted, Harry finally returned on the red-eye to New York, only to be whisked off in yet another limo to his publisher’s office on Lexington Avenue.

When Kirsty opened the door of the chairman’s office, Harold and Aaron Guinzburg were holding up a copy of the New York Times bestseller list. Harry leapt in the air when he saw that Uncle Joe had hit the top spot.

“How I wish Anatoly could share this moment.”

“You’re looking at the wrong list,” said Aaron.

Harry looked across to the other side of the page to see that William Warwick and the Smoking Gun headed the fiction list.

“This is a first even for me,” said Harold as he opened a bottle of champagne. “Number one in fiction and nonfiction on the same day.”

Harry turned, to see Aaron placing a framed photograph of Harry Clifton on the wall, between John Buchan and Graham Greene.