Mightier than the Sword

37

“Where’s Harry?” one of the journalists shouted as the taxi pulled up outside the Royal Courts of Justice and Emma, Giles, and Sebastian stepped out.

The one thing Emma hadn’t prepared herself for was twenty or thirty photographers lined up behind two makeshift barriers on either side of the court entrance, bulbs flashing. Journalists hollered questions, even though they didn’t expect them to be answered. The most persistent was, “Where’s Harry?”

“Don’t respond,” said Giles firmly.

If only I knew, Emma wanted to tell them as she walked through the press gauntlet, because she’d thought of little else for the past forty-eight hours.

Seb ran ahead of his mother and held open the door to the law courts so her progress would not be impeded. Mr. Trelford, in his long black gown and carrying a faded wig, was waiting for her on the other side of the double door. Emma introduced her brother and son to the distinguished advocate. If Trelford was surprised that Mr. Clifton was not in attendance, he didn’t show it.

The silk led them up the wide marble staircase, taking Emma through what would happen on the first morning of the trial.

“Once the jury has been sworn in, the judge, the Honorable Mrs. Justice Lane, will address them on their responsibilities, and when she has finished she will invite me to make an opening statement on your behalf. When I’ve done so, I will call my witnesses. I shall start with you. First impressions are very important. Juries often make up their minds in the first two days of a trial, so like an opening batsman, if you score a century, it will be the only thing they’ll remember.”

When Trelford held open the door of court fourteen, the first person Emma saw as she entered the courtroom was Lady Virginia with her leading counsel, Sir Edward Makepeace, huddled in a corner, deep in conversation.

Trelford guided Emma to the other side of the court, where they took their places on the front bench, with Giles and Seb in the second row, directly behind them.

“Why isn’t her husband with her?” asked Virginia.

“I have no idea,” said Sir Edward, “but I can assure you, it will have no bearing on the case.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure of that,” said Virginia as the clock behind them quietly struck ten.

A door to the left of the royal crest opened and a tall, elegant woman appeared wearing a long red robe and full-bottomed wig, ready to rule over her domain. Everyone in the well of the court immediately rose and bowed. The judge returned their bow before taking her place in the high-backed chair in front of a desk covered in copious legal documents and leather-bound volumes on the laws of defamation. Once everyone had settled, Dame Elizabeth Lane turned her attention to the jury.

“Allow me to begin,” she said, giving them a warm smile, “by making it clear from the outset that you are the most important people in this courtroom. You are the proof of our democracy and the sole arbiters of justice, because it is you, and you alone, who will decide the outcome of this case. But let me offer you a word of advice. You cannot have failed to notice that there is considerable press interest in this case, so please avoid the media’s accounts of it. Only your opinion matters. They may have millions of readers, viewers, and listeners, but they don’t have a single vote in this courtroom. The same applies to your family and friends, who may not only have opinions on the case but be all too happy to express them. But unlike you,” the judge continued, her eyes never leaving the jury, “they will not have heard the evidence and therefore cannot offer an informed and unbiased opinion.

“Now, before I explain what is about to happen, I will remind you of the Oxford English Dictionary definition of the word libel: A false, undeserved, discredit on a person or country. In this case, you will have to decide whether or not Lady Virginia Fenwick has suffered such a defamation. Mr. Trelford will begin proceedings by making an opening statement on behalf of his client, Mrs. Clifton, and as the trial progresses I will keep you fully briefed. Should a matter of the law arise, I will stop proceedings and explain its relevance to you.”

Dame Elizabeth turned her attention to counsel’s bench. “Mr. Trelford, you may proceed with your opening statement.”

“I am obliged, my lady.” Trelford rose from his place, once again giving her a slight bow. Like the judge, he turned to face the jury before he began his submission. He opened a large black file in front of him, leaned back, held the lapels of his gown, and gave the seven men and five women of the jury if anything an even warmer smile than the judge had managed a few minutes before.

“Members of the jury,” he began. “My name is Donald Trelford, and I represent the defendant, Mrs. Emma Clifton, while my learned friend Sir Edward Makepeace represents the plaintiff, Lady Virginia Fenwick.” He gave a cursory nod in their direction. “This,” he continued, “is a case of both slander and libel. The slander arises because the words in contention were delivered during a heated exchange, when the defendant was taking questions at the annual general meeting of the Barrington Shipping Company, of which she is chairman, and the libel arises because those words were later recorded in the minutes of that meeting.

“Lady Virginia, a shareholder of the company, was sitting in the audience that morning and when questions arose she asked Mrs. Clifton: ‘Is it true that one of your directors sold his vast shareholding over the weekend, in an attempt to bring the company down?’ Shortly afterward, she followed this with another question: ‘If one of your directors was involved in such an action, shouldn’t he resign from the board?’ Mrs. Clifton replied, ‘If you’re referring to Major Fisher, I asked him to resign last Friday when he came to visit me in my office, as I’m sure you already know, Lady Virginia.’ Lady Virginia then asked, ‘What are you insinuating?’ And Mrs. Clifton responded, ‘That on two separate occasions when Major Fisher represented you on the board, you allowed him to sell all your shares over a weekend, and then, after you’d made a handsome profit, you bought them back during the three-week trading period. When the share price recovered and reached a new high, you carried out the same exercise a second time, making an even larger profit. If it was your intention to bring the company down, Lady Virginia, then... you have failed, and failed lamentably, because you were defeated by decent ordinary people who want this company to be a success.’

“Now, members of the jury, it is Mrs. Clifton’s response that is the subject of this action, and it is up to you to decide if Lady Virginia was libeled or if my client’s words were, as I contend, no more than fair comment. For example,” continued Trelford, still looking directly at the jury, “if one of you were to say to Jack the Ripper, ‘You’re a murderer,’ that unquestionably would be fair comment, but if Jack the Ripper were to say to any one of you sitting on the jury, ‘You’re a murderer,’ and if the allegation was then printed in a newspaper, that would undoubtedly be both libel and slander. This case, however, requires a finer judgement.

“So let us look at the relevant words again. ‘If it was your intention to bring the company down, Lady Virginia, then... you have failed, and failed lamentably, because you were defeated by decent ordinary people who want this company to be a success.’ Now, what did Mrs. Clifton mean when she said those words? And is it possible that Lady Virginia overreacted to them? I suspect that, having only heard those words delivered by me, you will not feel able to reach a conclusion until you have heard all the evidence in this case, and seen both the plaintiff and the defendant in the witness box. With that in mind, my lady, I will call my first witness, Mrs. Emma Clifton.”

Harry had become used to the continual presence of the two guards in their bottle-green uniforms stationed outside the door of his cell. He did not know how much time had passed since that door had last been opened, but he had reached about halfway through chapter three, and a story that still made him laugh.

It was so cold Harry couldn’t stop himself from shivering. He tried to snatch a few moments of glorious sleep, but just as he was slipping into unconsciousness the cell door was suddenly flung open. For a moment he wasn’t sure if it was real or just part of his dream. But then the two guards removed the shackles from his arms and legs, pulled him off the mattress, and dragged him out of the cell.

When they reached the bottom of a long flight of stone steps, Harry made a determined effort to climb them, but his legs were so weak they gave way long before the three of them reached the top step. Still the guards kept propelling him forward along a dark corridor until he wanted to scream out in pain, but he refused to give them that satisfaction.

Every few steps he passed armed soldiers. Hadn’t they got anything better to do with their time, thought Harry, than guard a fifty-year-old man who was literally on his last legs? On and on until at last they reached an open door. He was pushed inside, landing unceremoniously on his knees.

Once he’d caught his breath, Harry tried to haul himself to his feet. Like a cornered animal, he looked around a room that must, in better times, have been a classroom: wooden benches, small chairs, and a raised platform at one end with a large table and three high-backed chairs behind it. The blackboard on the back wall gave away its original purpose.

He summoned up all his strength and managed to pull himself up onto one of the benches. He didn’t want them to think he was broken. He began to study the layout of the room more carefully. On the right of the stage were twelve chairs, in two straight lines of six. A man who wasn’t in uniform but wore a gray, ill-fitting suit that any self-respecting tramp would have rejected was placing a single sheet of paper on each of the chairs. Once he’d performed this task, he sat down on a wooden chair opposite what Harry assumed was the jury box. Harry took a closer look at the man and wondered if he was the clerk of the court, but he just sat there, clearly waiting for someone to appear.

Harry turned around to see more green uniforms wearing heavy greatcoats standing at the back of the room, as if waiting for the prisoner to try to escape. If only one of them had heard of Saint Martin, he might have taken pity and cut his coat in half to share it with the freezing man from another country.

As he sat there waiting, waiting for he knew not what, Harry’s thoughts turned to Emma, as they had done so often between stolen moments of sleep. Would she understand why he couldn’t sign the confession and allow them to hammer another nail into Babakov’s coffin? He wondered how her own trial was progressing, and felt guilty for not being by her side.

His thoughts were interrupted when a door on the far side of the room swung open and seven women and five men entered and sat in their allocated places, giving the distinct impression this wasn’t the first time they had performed the task.

Not one of them as much as glanced in his direction, which didn’t stop Harry staring at them. Their blank faces suggested they had only one thing in common: their minds had been confiscated by the State, and they were no longer expected to have opinions of their own. Even in that moment of darkness, Harry reflected on what a privileged life he’d led. Was it possible that among these blank-faced clones there was a singer, an artist, an actor, a musician, even an author, who had never been given the opportunity to express their talent? Such is the lottery of birth.

Moments later, two other men entered the room, made their way to the front bench and sat down, facing the stage, with their backs to him. One of them was in his fifties, far better dressed than anyone else in the room. His suit fitted, and he had an air of confidence that suggested he was the sort of professional even a dictatorship requires if a regime is to run smoothly.

The other man was much younger, and kept looking around the courtroom as if he was trying to find his bearings. If these two were the counsel for the state and for the defense, it wasn’t difficult for Harry to work out which of them would be representing him.

Finally, the door behind the platform opened so the principal actors could make their entrance: three of them, one woman and two men, who took their seats behind the long table on the center of the stage.

The woman, who must have been about sixty and had fine gray hair tightly pinned up in a bun, could have been a retired headmistress. Harry even wondered if this had once been her classroom. She was clearly the most senior person present because everyone else in the room was looking in her direction. She opened the file in front of her and began to read out loud. Harry silently thanked his Russian tutor for the hours she’d spent making him read the Russian classics before getting him to translate whole chapters into English.

“The prisoner” — Harry had to assume she was referring to him, although she had not once acknowledged his presence “recently entered the Soviet Union illegally” — Harry would have liked to take notes, but he hadn’t been supplied with a pen or paper so he would have to rely on his memory, assuming he would even be given the chance to defend himself — “with the sole purpose of breaking the law.” She turned to the jury and did not smile. “You, comrades, have been selected to be the arbiters of whether the prisoner is guilty or not. Witnesses will come forward to assist you in making that judgement.”

“Mr. Kosanov,” she said, turning to face counsel, “you may now present the State’s case.”

The older of the two men seated on the front bench rose slowly to his feet.

“Comrade commissioner, this is a straightforward case that should not trouble the jury for any length of time. The prisoner is a well-known enemy of the State, and this is not his first offense.”

Harry couldn’t wait to hear what his first offense had been. He soon found out.

“The prisoner visited Moscow some five years ago as a guest of our country and took cynical advantage of his privileged status. He used the opening speech at an international conference to mount a campaign for the release of a self-confessed criminal who had previously pleaded guilty to seven offenses against the State. Anatoly Babakov will be well known to you, comrade commissioner, as the author of a book about our revered leader, Comrade Chairman Stalin, for which he was charged with seditious libel and sentenced to twenty years’ hard labor.

“The prisoner repeated these libels despite the fact that it was pointed out to him on more than one occasion that he was breaking the law” — Harry couldn’t recall that, unless the scantily dressed young woman who’d visited him in his hotel room in the middle of the night was meant to have delivered the message, along with the bottle of champagne — “but for the sake of international relations, and to demonstrate our magnanimity, we allowed him to return to the West, where this kind of libel and slander is part of everyday life. We sometimes wonder if the British remember we were their allies during the last war and that our leader at the time was none other than Comrade Stalin.

“Earlier this year, the prisoner traveled to the United States for the sole purpose of making contact with Babakov’s wife, who defected to the West days before her husband was arrested. It was the traitor, Yelena Babakov, who told the prisoner where she had hidden a copy of her husband’s seditious book. Armed with this information, the prisoner returned to the Soviet Union to complete his mission: locate the book, smuggle it back to the West, and have it published.

“You may ask, comrade commissioner, why the prisoner was willing to involve himself in such a risky venture. The answer is quite simple. Greed. He hoped to make a vast fortune for himself and Mrs. Babakov by peddling these libels to whoever would publish them, even though he knew the book was pure invention from beginning to end, and written by a man who’d only met our revered former leader on one occasion when he was a student.

“But thanks to some brilliant detective work carried out by Colonel Marinkin, the prisoner was arrested while trying to escape from Leningrad with a copy of Babakov’s book in his overnight bag. In order that the court can fully understand the lengths to which this criminal was willing to go to undermine the State, I will call my first witness, Comrade Colonel Vitaly Marinkin.”

38

Emma thought her legs would give way as she walked the short distance to the witness box. When the clerk of the court handed her a Bible, everyone could see her hands were shaking, and then she heard her voice.

“I swear by Almighty God that the evidence I give shall be the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help me God.”

“Would you please state your name for the record,” said Mr. Trelford.

“Emma Grace Clifton.”

“And your occupation?”

“I am chairman of the Barrington Shipping Company.”

“And how long have you been chairman of that distinguished company?”

“For the past eleven years.”

Emma could see Mr. Trelford’s head jerking from right to left, and then she recalled his words, “Listen to my questions carefully, but always address your answers to the jury.”

“Are you married, Mrs. Clifton?”

“Yes,” said Emma, turning to the jury, “for nearly twenty-five years.”

Mr. Trelford would have liked her to add, “My husband Harry, our son Sebastian, and my brother Giles are all present in the court.” She could then turn to face them and the jury would realize they were a happy and united family. But Harry wasn’t there, in fact Emma didn’t even know where he was, so she continued to look at the jury. Mr. Trelford moved quickly on. “Can you please tell the court when you first met Lady Virginia Fenwick?”

“Yes,” said Emma, returning to her script, “my brother Giles...” This time she did look across at him, and like an old pro, he smiled first at his sister and then at the jury. “My brother Giles,” she repeated, “invited my husband Harry and myself to dinner to meet the woman he’d just become engaged to.”

“And what was your first impression of Lady Virginia?”

“Stunning. The kind of beauty you normally associate only with film stars or glamorous models. It quickly became clear to me that Giles was totally infatuated with her.”

“And did you, in time, become friends?”

“No, but to be fair we were never likely to become bosom pals.”

“Why do you say that, Mrs. Clifton?”

“We didn’t share the same interests. I’ve never been part of the hunting, shooting, and fishing set. Frankly, we come from different backgrounds, and Lady Virginia mixed in a circle I would never normally have come across.”

“Were you jealous of her?”

“Only of her good looks,” said Emma with a broad grin. This was rewarded with several smiles from the jury box.

“But sadly, your brother and Lady Virginia’s marriage ended in divorce.”

“Which didn’t come as a surprise, at least not to anyone on our side of the family,” said Emma.

“And why was that, Mrs. Clifton?”

“I never felt she was the right person for Giles.”

“So you and Lady Virginia didn’t part as friends?”

“We’d never been friends in the first place, Mr. Trelford.”

“Nevertheless, she came back into your life a few years later?”

“Yes, but that wasn’t by my choice. Virginia started buying a large number of Barrington’s shares, which came as a surprise to me, as she’d never previously shown any interest in the company. I didn’t give it a great deal of thought until the company secretary informed me that she owned seven and a half percent of the stock.”

“Why was seven and a half percent so important?”

“Because it entitled her to a place on the board.”

“And did she take up that responsibility?”

“No, she appointed Major Alex Fisher to represent her.”

“Did you welcome this appointment?”

“No, I did not. From the first day, Major Fisher made it abundantly clear that he was only there to carry out Lady Virginia’s wishes.”

“Can you be more specific?”

“Certainly. Major Fisher would vote against almost any proposal I recommended to the board, and often came up with his own ideas, which he must have known could only damage the company.”

“But in the end, Major Fisher resigned.”

“If he hadn’t, I would have sacked him.”

Mr. Trelford frowned, not pleased that his client had come off-piste. Sir Edward smiled and made a note on the pad in front of him.

“I would now like to move on to the AGM held at the Colston Hall in Bristol, on the morning of August twenty-fourth, 1964. You were in the chair at the time, and—”

“Perhaps Mrs. Clifton can tell us in her own words, Mr. Trelford,” suggested the judge. “And not be continually prompted by you.”

“As you wish, my lady.”

“I had just presented the annual report,” said Emma, “which I felt had gone rather well, not least because I had been able to announce the date for the launch of our first luxury liner, the MV Buckingham.”

“And if I recall,” said Trelford, “the naming ceremony was to be performed by Her Majesty the Queen Mother—”

“Clever, Mr. Trelford, but don’t try my patience.”

“I apologize, my lady, I just thought—”

“I know exactly what you were thinking, Mr. Trelford. Now please let Mrs. Clifton be her own spokesman.”

“At the end of your speech,” said Trelford, turning back to his client, “you took questions from the floor?”

“Yes, I did.”

“And among those who asked a question was Lady Virginia Fenwick. As the outcome of this trial rests on that exchange, I will, with your permission, my lady, read out to the court the words spoken by Mrs. Clifton that are the cause of this trial. In reply to a question from Lady Virginia she said, ‘If it was your intention to bring the company down, Lady Virginia,... then you have failed, and failed lamentably, because you were defeated by decent ordinary people who want this company to be a success.’ Now that you hear those words again in the cold light of day, Mrs. Clifton, do you regret them?”

“Certainly not. They were nothing more than a statement of fact.”

“Then it was never your intention to defame Lady Virginia?”

“Far from it. I simply wanted the shareholders to know that Major Fisher, her representative on the board, had been buying and selling the company’s shares without informing me or any other of his colleagues.”

“Quite so. Thank you, Mrs. Clifton. No more questions, my lady.”

“Do you wish to cross-examine this witness, Sir Edward?” asked Mrs. Justice Lane, well aware of what his answer would be.

“I most certainly do, my lady,” said Sir Edward, rising slowly from his place and adjusting his ancient wig. He checked his first question before leaning back and giving the jury his most avuncular smile, in the hope that they would look upon him as a respected family friend from whom everyone seeks advice.

“Mrs. Clifton,” he said, turning to face the witness box, “let’s not mince words. The truth is that you were against Lady Virginia marrying your brother from the moment you met. In fact, isn’t it the case that you’d made up your mind to dislike her even before you’d met?”

Trelford was surprised. He hadn’t thought Eddie would plunge the dagger in quite so quickly, although he had warned Emma that her cross-examination was not going to be a pleasant experience.

“As I said, Sir Edward, we were not natural friends.”

“But isn’t it the case that you set out from the start to make her an enemy?”

“I wouldn’t go that far.”

“Did you attend the wedding of your brother and Lady Virginia?”

“I was not invited.”

“Were you surprised at that, after the way you’d treated her?”

“Disappointed, rather than surprised.”

“And your husband,” said Sir Edward, taking his time to look around the courtroom as if he was trying to find him, “was he invited?”

“Not one member of the family received an invitation.”

“And why do you think that was?”

“You’ll have to ask your client, Sir Edward.”

“And I intend to do so, Mrs. Clifton. May I now turn to the death of your mother. I understand there was a dispute over her will.”

“Which was settled in the High Court, Sir Edward.”

“Yes, indeed it was. But correct me if I’m wrong, as I am sure you will, Mrs. Clifton, you and your sister Grace inherited almost the entire estate, while your brother, Lady Virginia’s husband, ended up with nothing.”

“That was not my choice, Sir Edward. In fact, I tried to talk my mother out of it.”

“We only have your word for that, Mrs. Clifton.”

Mr. Trelford was quickly on his feet. “My lady, I must protest.”

“Yes, yes, Mr. Trelford, I agree. Sir Edward, that was uncalled for.”

“I apologize, my lady. May I ask you, Mrs. Clifton, if Sir Giles was shocked by your mother’s decision?”

“Sir Edward,” said the judge, even before Mr. Trelford could get to his feet.

“I do apologize, my lady. I’m just an old seeker after the truth.”

“It was a terrible shock for all of us,” said Emma. “My mother adored Giles.”

“But, like you, she clearly didn’t adore Lady Virginia, otherwise she would presumably have made provision for him in her will.” Sir Edward quickly added, “But let us move on. Your brother and Lady Virginia’s marriage was sadly to end in divorce, on the grounds of his adultery.”

“As you well know, Sir Edward,” said Emma, trying to restrain herself, “those were the days when a man had to spend a night in a Brighton hotel with a hired woman before the courts would grant him a divorce. Giles did so at Virginia’s request.”

“I am so sorry, Mrs. Clifton, but on the divorce petition, it merely says adultery. But at least we now all know how you react when you feel strongly about something.”

One look at the jury and it was clear that Sir Edward had made his point.

“One final question concerning the divorce, Mrs. Clifton. Was it a cause of celebration for you and your family?”

“My lady,” said Trelford, leaping to his feet.

“Sir Edward, you are once again overstepping your brief.”

“I’ll try hard not to transgress in future, my lady.”

But when Trelford looked at the jury, he knew that Sir Edward would have felt the reprimand had served its purpose.

“Mrs. Clifton, let us move on to more important matters, namely what you said and what you meant when my client put a perfectly legitimate question to you at the annual general meeting of the Barrington Shipping Company. In the interests of accuracy, I will repeat Lady Virginia’s question: ‘Is it true that one of your directors sold his vast shareholding over the weekend, in an attempt to bring the company down?’ If I may say so, Mrs. Clifton, you deftly and quite brilliantly avoided answering that question. Perhaps you’d care to do so now?”

Emma glanced over at Trelford. He had advised her not to answer the question so she remained silent.

“Perhaps I can suggest that the reason you didn’t want to answer that particular question was because Lady Virginia went on to ask, ‘If one of your directors was involved in such an exercise, shouldn’t he resign from the board?’ Your reply was, ‘If you are referring to Major Fisher...’ although she wasn’t, as you knew only too well. She was talking about your close friend and colleague, Mr. Cedric Hardcastle, was she not?”

“One of the finest gentlemen I’ve ever known,” said Emma.

“Was he indeed?” said Sir Edward. “Well then, let us examine that statement more closely, shall we, because it seems to me that what you were suggesting is that when your close friend — one of the ‘finest men’ you’ve ever known — sold his shares overnight, he did so in order to help the company, but when Lady Virginia sold her shares she was doing it to harm the company. Perhaps the jury might feel that you can’t have it both ways, Mrs. Clifton, unless of course you can find a weakness in my argument, and explain to the court the subtle distinction between what Mr. Hardcastle did on behalf of the company and what Major Fisher did on behalf of my client?”

Emma knew she couldn’t justify what Cedric had done in good faith, and that the reason he’d sold his shares would be extremely difficult to explain to the jury. Trelford had advised her, when in doubt, simply don’t reply, especially if the answer would damn her.

Sir Edward waited for some time before he said, “Well, as you seem unwilling to answer that question, perhaps we should move on to what you said next? ‘If it was your intention to bring the company down, Lady Virginia, then... you have failed, and failed lamentably, because you were defeated by decent ordinary people who want this company to be a success.’ Can you deny, Mrs. Clifton, that what you were suggesting to a packed audience in the Colston Hall in Bristol that morning was that Lady Virginia is not a decent ordinary person?” He emphasized the last three words.

“She’s certainly not ordinary.”

“I agree with you, Mrs. Clifton, she’s extraordinary. But I put it to the jury that the suggestion that my client is not decent, and that her purpose was to bring your company down, is libelous, Mrs. Clifton. Or is that, in your view, also nothing more than the truth?”

“I meant what I said,” Emma replied.

“And so convinced were you of your righteousness that you insisted your words be recorded in the minutes of the AGM.”

“Yes, I did.”

“Did the company secretary advise against this course of action at the time?”

Emma hesitated.

“I can always call Mr. Webster to give evidence,” said Sir Edward.

“I believe he may have done so.”

“Now why would he have done that, I wonder?” said Sir Edward, his voice heavy with sarcasm. Emma continued to stare at him, well aware that he wasn’t expecting her to reply. “Could it have been that he didn’t want you to add libel to the slander you had already committed?”

“I wanted my words to be on the record,” said Emma.

Trelford bowed his head, as Sir Edward said, “Did you indeed? So we have established, have we not, Mrs. Clifton, that you took against my client on the day you met her, that this intense dislike was compounded when you were not invited to your brother’s wedding, and that years later at your company’s AGM, in front of a packed audience of the shareholders, you sought to humiliate Lady Virginia by suggesting she was not a decent ordinary person, but someone who wanted to bring the company down. You then went on to overrule your company secretary in order to ensure that your slanderous words were repeated in the minutes of the AGM. Isn’t the truth, Mrs. Clifton, that you were simply seeking revenge on an ordinary decent human being, who is now asking for nothing more than retribution for your ill-considered words? I think the Bard best summed it up when he said, He that filches from me my good name, robs me of that which not enriches him, and makes me poor indeed.”

Sir Edward continued to glare at Emma, while holding onto the lapels of his ancient, well-worn gown. When he felt he had created the desired effect, he turned to the judge and said, “I have no more questions, my lady.”

When Trelford looked at the jury, he thought they might burst into applause. He decided that he would have to take a risk, one that he wasn’t sure the judge would let him get away with.

“Do you have any further questions for your client, Mr. Trelford?” asked Mrs. Justice Lane.

“Just one, my lady,” said Trelford. “Mrs. Clifton, Sir Edward raised the question of your mother’s will. Did she ever confide her feelings about Lady Virginia to you?”

“Mr. Trelford,” interrupted the judge before Emma could reply, “as you well know, that would be hearsay, and inadmissible.”

“But my mother recorded her opinion of Lady Virginia in her will,” said Emma, looking up at the bench.

“I’m not sure I fully understand you, Mrs. Clifton,” said the judge.

“In her will, she spelled out her reasons for not leaving anything to my brother.”

Trelford picked up the will and said, “I could read out the relevant passage, my lady. If you felt it might help,” he added, trying to sound like an innocent schoolboy.

Sir Edward was quickly on his feet. “This is undoubtedly nothing more than another libel, my lady,” he said, knowing only too well what Trelford was referring to.

“But this is a public, notarized document,” said Trelford, waving the will under the noses of the journalists sitting in the press box.

“Perhaps I should read the words concerned before I make a judgement,” said Mrs. Justice Lane.

“Of course, my lady,” said Trelford. He handed the will to the clerk of the court, who in turn passed it up to the judge.

As Trelford had only highlighted a couple of lines, Mrs. Justice Lane must have read them several times before she finally said, “I think on balance this piece of evidence is inadmissible as it could well be taken out of context. However, Mr. Trelford,” she added, “if you wish me to adjourn proceedings so that you can argue a point of law, I will be happy to clear the court in order that you may do so.”

“No, thank you, my lady. I am happy to accept your judgement,” said Trelford, well aware that the press, several of whom were already leaving the court, would have the relevant passage on their front pages in the morning.

“Then let us move on,” said the judge. “Perhaps you would like to call your next witness, Mr. Trelford.”

“I am unable to do so, my lady, as he is currently attending a debate in the House of Commons. However, Major Fisher will be available to appear at ten o’clock tomorrow morning.”

39

Harry watched from his wooden bench in the third row as Colonel Marinkin entered the makeshift courtroom. He stood to attention in front of the state prosecutor, saluted, and remained standing.

Marinkin was dressed in a smarter uniform than the one Harry remembered from the time he was arrested; the one for special occasions, no doubt. The six buttons on his tunic shone, the crease in his trousers was sharp, and his boots were so finely polished that had he looked down, he would have seen his reflection in them. His five rows of medals would have left no one in any doubt that he had stared the enemy in the eye.

“Colonel, could you tell the court when you first became aware of the defendant?”

“Yes, comrade prosecutor. He came to Moscow some five years ago as the British representative at an international book conference and gave the keynote speech on the opening day.”

“Did you hear that speech?”

“Yes I did, and it became clear to me that he believed the traitor Babakov had worked for many years inside the Kremlin and was a close associate of the late Comrade Stalin. In fact, so persuasive was his argument that by the time he sat down almost everyone else in that hall also believed it.”

“Did you attempt to make contact with the defendant while he was in Moscow?”

“No, because he was traveling back to England the following day, and I confess I assumed that, like so many campaigns the West gets worked up about, it would only be a matter of time before another one came along to occupy their impatient minds.”

“But this particular cause didn’t go away.”

“No, the defendant had clearly convinced himself that Babakov was telling the truth, and that if his book could be published the whole world would also believe him. Earlier this year, the defendant traveled to the United States on a luxury liner, owned by his wife’s family. On arrival in New York, he visited a well-known publisher, no doubt to discuss the publication of Babakov’s book, because the following day he boarded a train to Pittsburgh with the sole purpose of meeting the defector Yelena Babakov, the wife of the traitor. I have in this folder several photographs taken during this visit to Pittsburgh by one of our agents.”

Marinkin handed the folder to the judge’s clerk, who passed it to the tribunal chairman. The three judges studied the photographs for some time before the chairman asked, “How much time did the prisoner spend with Mrs. Babakov?”

“Just over four hours. He then returned to New York. The following morning he visited his publisher once again, and later that day boarded the ship owned by his wife’s family and traveled back to England.”

“Once he had returned, did you continue to maintain a high level of surveillance?”

“Yes. One of our senior operatives monitored his daily activities and reported that the defendant had enrolled for a Russian language course at Bristol University, not far from where he lives. One of my agents signed up for the same course and reported that the accused was a conscientious student, who studied far harder than any of his classmates. Shortly after he’d completed the course, he flew to Leningrad, just weeks before his visa expired.”

“Why didn’t you arrest him immediately he arrived in Leningrad and put him on the next plane back to London?”

“Because I wanted to discover if he had any associates in Russia.”

“And did he?”

“No, the man’s a loner, a romantic, someone who would have been more at home in ancient times when, like Jason, he would have gone in search of the Golden Fleece, which, for him in the twentieth century, was Babakov’s equally fictitious story.”

“And was he successful?”

“Yes, he was. Babakov’s wife had evidently told him exactly where he could find a copy of her husband’s book, because no sooner had he arrived in Leningrad than he took a taxi to the Pushkin antiquarian bookshop on the outskirts of the city. It took him only a few minutes to locate the book he was looking for, which was concealed inside the dust jacket of another title, and must have been exactly where Mrs. Babakov had told him it would be. He paid for the book and two others, then instructed the waiting taxi to take him back to the airport.”

“Where you arrested him?”

“Yes, but not immediately, because I wanted to see if he had an accomplice at the airport he would try to pass the book on to. But he simply bought a ticket for the same plane he had flown in on. We arrested him just before he attempted to board it.”

“Where is the book now?” asked the president of the tribunal.

“It has been destroyed, comrade chairman, but I have retained the title page for the records. It may interest the court to know that it appears to have been a printer’s proof, so it was possibly the last copy in existence.”

“When you arrested the defendant, how did he react?” asked the prosecutor.

“He clearly didn’t realize the severity of his crime because he kept asking on what charge he was being held.”

“Did you interview the taxi driver?” asked the prosecutor, “and the elderly woman who worked in the bookshop, to see if they were in league with the defendant?”

“Yes, I did. Both turned out to be card-carrying members of the party, and it quickly became clear they had no earlier association with the defendant. I released them after a short interview, as I felt the less they knew about my inquiries the better.”

“Thank you, colonel. I have no more questions,” said the prosecutor, “but my colleague may have,” he added before he sat down.

The chairman glanced in the direction of the young man who was seated at the other end of the bench. He rose and looked at the senior judge, but said nothing.

“Do you wish to cross-examine this witness?” she asked.

“That won’t be necessary, comrade chairman. I am quite content with the evidence presented by the chief of police.” He sat back down.

The chairman turned her attention back to the colonel.

“I congratulate you, comrade colonel, on a thoroughly comprehensive piece of detective work,” she said. “But is there anything you would like to add that might assist us to make our judgement?”

“Yes, comrade. I am convinced that the prisoner is merely a naïve and gullible idealist, who believes that Babakov actually worked in the Kremlin. In my opinion he should be given one more chance to sign a confession. If he does so, I will personally supervise his deportation.”

“Thank you, colonel, I will bear that in mind. Now you may return to your important duties.”

The colonel saluted. As he turned to leave the room, he glanced briefly at Harry. A moment later he was gone.

That was the moment Harry realized that this was a show trial with a difference. Its sole purpose was to convince him that Anatoly Babakov was a fraud, so that he would return to England and tell everyone the truth, as it was being played out in that courtroom. But the carefully orchestrated charade still required him to sign a confession, and he wondered just how far they would go to achieve their aim.

“Comrade prosecutor,” said the tribunal chairman, “you may now call your next witness.”

“Thank you, comrade chair,” he said, before rising once again. “I call Anatoly Babakov.”

40

Giles sat down to breakfast and began to go through the morning papers. He was on his second cup of coffee by the time Sebastian joined him.

“How do they read?”

“I think a theatre critic would describe the opening day as having mixed reviews.”

“Then perhaps it’s a good thing,” said Seb, “that the judge instructed the jury not to read them.”

“They’ll read them, believe me,” said Giles. “Especially after the judge refused to let Trelford tell them what my mother had to say about Virginia in her will. Pour yourself a coffee and I’ll read it to you.” Giles picked up the Daily Mail and waited for Seb to return to the breakfast table before he put his glasses back on and began to read. “‘The remainder of my estate is to be left to my beloved daughters Emma and Grace to dispose of as they see fit, with the exception of my Siamese cat, Cleopatra, who I leave to Lady Virginia Fenwick, because they have so much in common. They are both beautiful, well-groomed, vain, cunning, manipulative predators, who assume that everyone else was put on earth to serve them, including my besotted son, who I can only pray will break from the spell she has cast on him before it is too late.’”

“Bravo,” said Seb when his uncle had put the paper down. “What a formidable lady. We could have done with her in the witness box. But what about the broadsheets, how are they reporting it?”

“The Telegraph is hedging its bets, although it does praise Makepeace for his forensic and analytical cross-examination of Emma. The Times speculates about why the defense rather than the prosecution is calling Fisher. You’ll see it under the headline ‘Hostile Witness,’” said Giles, sliding the Times across the table.

“I have a feeling Fisher won’t get mixed reviews.”

“Just be sure to keep staring at him while he’s in the witness box. He won’t like that.”

“Funnily enough,” said Seb, “one female member of the jury keeps staring at me.”

“That’s good,” said Giles. “Be sure to smile at her occasionally, but not too often in case the judge notices,” he added as Emma walked into the room.

“How are they?” she asked, looking down at the papers.

“About as good as we could have expected,” said Giles. “The Mail has turned Mother’s will into folklore, and the serious journalists want to know why Fisher is being called by us and not them.”

“They’ll find out soon enough,” said Emma, taking a seat at the table. “So which one should I start with?”

“Perhaps the Times,” said Giles, “but don’t bother with the Telegraph.”

“Not for the first time,” said Emma, picking up the Telegraph, “I wish I could read tomorrow’s papers today.”

“Good morning,” said Mrs. Justice Lane once the jury had settled. “Proceedings will begin today with a rather unusual occurrence. Mr. Trelford’s next witness, Major Alexander Fisher MP, is not giving evidence by choice, but has been subpoenaed by the defense. When Mr. Trelford applied for a subpoena, I had to decide if his evidence was admissible. On balance, I concluded that Mr. Trelford did have the right to call Major Fisher, as his name is mentioned during the exchange between Mrs. Clifton and Lady Virginia that is at the core of this case, and he may therefore be able to throw some light on the situation. You must not, however,” she emphasized, “read anything into the fact that Major Fisher wasn’t included on Sir Edward Makepeace’s list of witnesses.”

“But they will,” whispered Giles to Emma.

The judge looked down at the clerk of the court. “Has Major Fisher arrived?”

“He has, my lady.”

“Then please call him.”

“Call Major Alexander Fisher MP,” bellowed the clerk.

The double doors at the back of the courtroom swung open and in marched Fisher, with a swagger that took even Giles by surprise. Clearly becoming a Member of Parliament had only added to his considerable self-esteem.

He took the Bible in his right hand and delivered the oath, without once looking at the card the clerk held up for him. When Mr. Trelford rose from his place, Fisher stared at him as if he had the enemy in his sights.

“Good morning, Major Fisher,” said Trelford, but received no response. “Would you be kind enough to state your name and occupation for the court records?”

“My name is Major Alexander Fisher, and I am the Member of Parliament for Bristol Docklands,” he said, looking directly at Giles.

“At the time of Barrington Shipping’s annual general meeting that is the subject of this libel, were you a director of the company?”

“I was.”

“And was it Mrs. Clifton who invited you to sit on the board?”

“No, it was not.”

“So who was it who asked you to represent them as a director?”

“Lady Virginia Fenwick.”

“And why, may I ask? Were you friends, or was it simply a professional relationship?”

“I would like to think both,” said Fisher, glancing down at Lady Virginia, who nodded and smiled.

“And what particular expertise did you have to offer Lady Virginia?”

“I was a stockbroker by profession before I became an MP.”

“I see,” said Trelford. “So you were able to offer advice to Lady Virginia on her share portfolio, and because of your wise counsel, she invited you to represent her on the board of Barrington’s.”

“I couldn’t have put it better myself, Mr. Trelford,” said Fisher, a smug smile appearing on his face.

“But are you sure that was the only reason Lady Virginia selected you, major?”

“Yes, I am sure,” barked Fisher, the smile disappearing.

“I’m just a little puzzled, major, how a stockbroker based in Bristol becomes a professional advisor to a lady living in London, who must have access to any number of leading stockbrokers in the City. So perhaps I should ask how you first met.”

“Lady Virginia supported me when I first stood for Parliament as the Conservative candidate for Bristol Docklands.”

“And who was the Labour candidate at that election?”

“Sir Giles Barrington.”

“Lady Virginia’s ex-husband and Mrs. Clifton’s brother?”

“Yes.”

“So now we know why Lady Virginia chose you as her representative on the board.”

“What are you suggesting?” snapped Fisher.

“Quite simply, that if you had stood for Parliament in any other constituency, you would never have come across Lady Virginia.” Mr. Trelford looked at the jury while he waited for Fisher’s reply, because he was confident none would be forthcoming. “Now that we have established your relationship with the plaintiff, let us consider the value and importance of your professional advice. You will recall, major, that I earlier asked you if you advised Lady Virginia on her share portfolio, and you confirmed that you did.”

“That is correct.”

“Then perhaps you can tell the jury which shares, other than Barrington Shipping, you advised her ladyship on?” Again, Mr. Trelford waited patiently, before he spoke again. “I suspect the answer is none, and that her only interest in you was as an insider, to let her know what was going on at Barrington’s, so both of you could take advantage of any information to which you were privy as a board member.”

“That is an outrageous suggestion,” said Fisher, looking up at the judge. But she remained impassive.

“If that is the case, major, could you deny that on three separate occasions you advised Lady Virginia to sell her shares in Barrington’s — I have the dates, the times, and the amounts in front of me — and on each occasion, just a couple of days later the company announced some bad news.”

“That is what advisors are for, Mr. Trelford.”

“And then some three weeks after that you bought the shares back, which I would suggest was for two reasons. First, to make a quick profit, and second, to be sure that she retained her seven and a half percent of the company’s stock so you didn’t lose your place on the board. Otherwise you wouldn’t have been privy to any more inside information, would you?”

“That is a disgraceful slur on my professional reputation,” barked Fisher.

“Is it?” said Trelford, holding up a sheet of paper for everyone to see, before reading out the figures in front of him. “On the three transactions in question, Lady Virginia made profits of £17,400, £29,320, and £70,100 respectively.”

“It’s not a crime to make a profit for one’s client, Mr. Trelford.”

“No, it most certainly is not, major, but why did you need to use a broker in Hong Kong to carry out these transactions, a Mr. Benny Driscoll?”

“Benny is an old friend who used to work in the city, and I am loyal to my friends, Mr. Trelford.”

“I’m sure you are, major, but were you aware that at the time of your dealings, the Irish Garda had a warrant out for Mr. Driscoll’s arrest for fraud and share manipulation?”

Sir Edward was quickly on his feet.

“Yes, yes, Sir Edward,” said Mrs. Justice Lane. “I do hope, Mr. Trelford, you are not suggesting that Major Fisher was aware of this warrant but was still willing to do business with Mr. Driscoll?”

“That would have been my next question, my lady,” said Trelford, the innocent schoolboy look returning.

“No, I did not know,” protested Fisher, “and had I done so, I certainly wouldn’t have continued to deal with him.”

“That’s reassuring,” said Trelford. He opened a large black file in front of him and took out a single sheet of paper, covered in figures. “When you purchased shares on behalf of Lady Virginia, how were you paid?”

“On commission. One percent of the buying or selling price, which is standard practice.”

“Very right and proper,” said Trelford, making a show of putting the sheet of paper back in his file. He then extracted a second sheet, which he studied with equal interest. “Tell me, major, were you aware that on each occasion after you had asked your loyal friend, Mr. Driscoll, to carry out these transactions for Lady Virginia, he also bought and sold shares in Barrington’s on his own behalf, which he must have known was illegal.”

“I had no idea he was doing that, and I would have reported him to the Stock Exchange had I been aware of it.”

“Would you indeed? So you had no idea that he made several thousand pounds piggybacking your transactions?”

“No, I did not.”

“And that he has recently been suspended by the Hong Kong Exchange for unprofessional conduct?”

“I was not aware of that, but then I haven’t dealt with him for several years.”

“Haven’t you?” said Trelford, returning the second sheet to his file and taking out a third. He adjusted his glasses and studied a row of figures on the page in front of him before saying, “Did you also, on three separate occasions, buy and sell shares for yourself, making a handsome profit each time?”

Trelford continued to stare at the sheet of paper he held in his hand, painfully aware that all Fisher had to say was “I did not,” and his bluff would have been called. However, the major hesitated, just for a moment, which allowed Trelford to add during the brief silence, “I don’t have to remind you, Major Fisher, as a Member of Parliament, that you are under oath, and of the consequences of committing perjury.” Trelford continued to study the row of figures in front of him.

“But I didn’t make a profit on the third transaction,” Fisher blurted out. “In fact, I made a loss.”

A gasp went up around the court, followed by an outbreak of chattering. Trelford waited for complete silence before he continued. “So you made a profit on the first two transactions, major, but suffered a loss on the third?”

Fisher shuffled uneasily in the box, but made no attempt to reply.

“Major Fisher, you stated earlier to the court that it’s not a crime to make a profit for one’s client,” said Trelford, looking down at a scribbled note to check the major’s exact words.

“Yes, I did,” said Fisher, trying to recover.

“But as a qualified stockbroker you will have known that it was a crime,” continued Trelford, picking up a thick red leather-bound volume from the bench in front of him and opening it at a page marked with a slip of paper, “to trade shares in a company of which you sit on the board.” Trelford read out the exact words: “unless you have informed the chairman of that company and sought legal guidance.” He let his words sink in, before slamming the book shut and asking quietly, “Did you inform Mrs. Clifton, or seek legal guidance?”

Fisher gripped the sides of the witness box to stop his hands from shaking.

“Can you tell the court how much profit you made when you bought and sold your Barrington’s shares?” asked Trelford as he continued to look down at a hotel bill from his recent trip to Hong Kong. He waited for some time before he placed the receipt back in his file, looked up at the judge, and said, “My lady, as Major Fisher seems unwilling to answer any more of my questions, I see no purpose in continuing.” He sat down and smiled at Emma.

“Sir Edward,” said Mrs. Justice Lane, “do you wish to cross-examine this witness?”

“Just a couple of questions, if I may,” said Sir Edward, sounding unusually subdued.

“Major Fisher, is there any suggestion that Lady Virginia Fenwick was aware that you were trading in Barrington’s shares on your own behalf?”

“No, sir.”

“Correct me if I’m wrong, but you were simply her advisor, and all the transactions carried out in her name were conducted within the full rigors of the law?”

“They were indeed, Sir Edward.”

“I am obliged to you for that clarification. No more questions, my lady.”

The judge was writing furiously while Fisher remained motionless in the witness box, looking like a rabbit caught in the headlights. Finally she put her pen down and said, “Before you leave the court, Major Fisher, I must tell you that I intend to send a transcript of your evidence to the Department of Public Prosecutions, so they can decide if any further legal action should be taken.”

As the major stepped out of the witness box and made his way out of the courtroom, the press corps deserted their benches and followed him out into the corridor like a pack of baying hounds pursuing a wounded fox.

Giles leaned forward, patted Trelford on the back, and said, “Well done, sir. You crucified him.”

“Him, yes, but not her. Thanks to those two carefully worded questions from Sir Edward, Lady Virginia lives to fight another day.”

41

Something was wrong. Surely this couldn’t possibly be Anatoly Babakov. Harry stared at the frail skeleton of a man who shuffled into the courtroom and collapsed on to the stool opposite the state prosecutor.

Babakov was dressed in a suit and shirt that hung on him as if he were a coat hanger. They were both several sizes too large for him, and Harry’s first thought was that he must have borrowed them from a stranger that morning. And then he realized that they were Babakov’s own suit and shirt; he just hadn’t worn them since the day he’d been sent to prison, all those years ago. His hair was thinning, and the few strands left were steel gray. His eyes, also gray, had sunk back into their sockets, and his skin was lined and parched, not from the heat of the sun, but from endless hours of exposure to the frozen winds born on the Siberian plains. Babakov looked about seventy, even eighty, although Harry knew they were contemporaries so he couldn’t be much more than fifty.

The state prosecutor rose from his place; the sycophant replaced by the bully. He looked right through Babakov and addressed him with a cold arrogance, so different from the manner afforded to the comrade colonel when he’d been in the witness box.

“Tell the court your name and number,” he demanded.

“Babakov, seven-four-one-six-two, comrade prosecutor.”

“Do not address me in that familiar manner.”

The prisoner bowed his head. “I apologize, sir.”

“Before you were convicted, Babakov, what was your occupation?”

“I was a school teacher in the seventh district of Moscow.”

“How many years did you teach at that school?”

“Thirteen years, sir.”

“And the subject you taught?”

“English.”

“What were your qualifications?”

“I graduated from the Foreign Languages Institute in Moscow in 1941.”

“So after graduating, your first job was as a school teacher, and you’ve never worked anywhere else?”

“No, sir, I have not.”

“During those thirteen years as a school teacher, did you ever visit the Kremlin?”

“No, I did not, sir. Never.”

The vehemence with which Babakov said “Never” was a clear indication to Harry that he regarded this mock trial as worthy only of ridicule. Every Soviet schoolchild had visited the Kremlin at some time to pay homage at Lenin’s tomb. If Babakov had been a schoolmaster he would even have supervised such visits. Harry had no way of letting him know that he’d got the message without breaking the thin shell of deception.

“At any time did you ever meet our revered leader the chairman of the Presidium Council, Comrade Stalin?” continued the state prosecutor.

“Yes, on one occasion when I was a student he visited the Foreign Languages Institute to present the annual state awards.”

“Did he speak to you?”

“Yes, he congratulated me on being awarded my degree.”

Harry knew Babakov had won the Lenin medal and come top of his class. Why didn’t he mention that? Because it wasn’t part of the well-prepared script he had been given, and which he was sticking to. The answers had probably been written by the same person who was asking the questions.

“Other than that brief encounter, did you ever come across Comrade Stalin again?”

“No, sir, never.” Once again, he exaggerated the word “never.”

Harry was beginning to form a plan in his mind. If it was to work, he would have to convince those three stony-faced comrades sitting in judgement that he believed every word Babakov was uttering, and was appalled ever to have been taken in by the man.

“I should now like to move on to 1954, when you attempted to have a book published, in which you claimed that you had worked on the president’s private staff for thirteen years as his personal interpreter, when in fact you had never once entered the Kremlin. What made you think you could possibly get away with such a deception?”

“Because, like me, no one who worked at the Sarkoski Press had ever been inside the Kremlin. They had only seen Comrade Stalin from a distance when he reviewed our troops at the May Day parade. So it wasn’t difficult to convince them that I had been a member of his inner circle.”

Harry shook his head in disgust and frowned at Babakov, hoping he wasn’t overdoing it. He saw the chairman make a note on the pad in front of her. Was there even the suggestion of a smile?

“And is it also true that you planned to defect, in the hope of having your book published in the West, with the sole purpose of making a large sum of money?”

“Yes, I thought that if I could fool the people at the Sarkoski Press, how much easier it would be to convince the Americans and the British that I had been a party official working alongside the chairman. After all, how many people from the West have ever visited the Soviet Union, let alone spoken to the comrade chairman, who everyone knows didn’t speak a word of English?”

Harry put his head in his hands and, when he looked up, he stared at Babakov with contempt. The chairman made another note on her pad.

“Once you’d completed the book, why didn’t you defect at the first opportunity?”

“I didn’t have enough money. I had been promised an advance on the day of publication, but I was arrested before I could collect it.”

“But your wife did defect.”

“Yes, I sent her ahead of me with our life savings, hoping I would be able to join her later.”

Harry was appalled by how the prosecutor was mixing half-truths with lies, and wondered how they could possibly think, even for a moment, that he might be deceived by this pantomime. But that was their weakness. Clearly all of them were taken in by their own propaganda, so he decided to play them at their own game.

He nodded whenever the prosecutor seemed to have scored a point. But then he recalled his drama teacher at school chastising him, on more than one occasion, for overacting, so he reined it in.

“Did your wife take a copy of the book with her?” demanded the prosecutor.

“No. It hadn’t been published by the time she left, and in any case she would have been searched when she tried to cross the border, and if she’d had the book with her she would have been arrested and sent straight back to Moscow.”

“But thanks to some brilliant detective work, you were arrested, charged, and sentenced before even one copy of your book reached the shops.”

“Yes,” said Babakov, bowing his head again.

“And when you were charged with offenses against the State, how did you plead?”

“Guilty to all charges.”

“And the people’s court sentenced you to twenty years’ hard labor.”

“Yes, sir. I was lucky to receive such a light sentence for the despicable crime I had committed against the nation.”

Once again Harry realized that Babakov was letting him know he considered the whole trial to be a sham. But it was still important for Harry to look as if he was being taken in by the play within a play.

“That concludes my examination of this witness, comrade chairman,” said the prosecutor, who then bowed low and sat down.

The chairman glanced at the young man who was seated at the other end of the bench.

“Do you have any questions for this witness?”

The young man rose unsteadily to his feet. “No, I do not, comrade chairman. The prisoner Babakov is clearly an enemy of the state.”

Harry felt sorry for the young man, who probably believed every word he’d heard in the courtroom that morning. Harry gave a slight nod to show he also agreed, although the young man’s inexperience had once again given the game away. If he had read more Chekhov he would have realized that silence can often be more powerful than the spoken word.

“Take him away,” said the tribunal chairman.

As Babakov was led out of the courtroom, Harry bowed his head as if he no longer wanted anything to do with the man.

“Comrades, it has been a long day,” said the chairman, turning to the jury. “As Monday is a national holiday, on which we will all remember those brave men and women who sacrificed their lives in the Siege of Leningrad, this court will not reconvene until Tuesday morning, when I will sum up the State’s position, so you can decide if the prisoner is guilty.”

Harry wanted to laugh. He wasn’t even going to be allowed to give evidence, but he was now well aware that this was a tragedy, not a comedy, and he still had his part to play.

The tribunal president rose from her chair and led her colleagues out of the courtroom. No sooner had the door closed behind them than two prison guards grabbed Harry by the arms, and dragged him out of the room.

As he had nearly four days of solitude ahead of him, he was already looking forward to the challenge of seeing how much more he could remember of Uncle Joe. Chapter three. He began mouthing the words as they bundled him out of court.

One of the guards unlocked the heavy cell door and his colleague pushed the prisoner inside.

Even as he fell on the floor, Harry sensed that he was not alone in the cell. He looked up and saw him hunched in the corner, a forefinger pressed firmly to his lips.

“Speak only in English,” were Babakov’s first words.

Harry nodded, and looked back to see one of the guards staring through the bars. The charade was still being played out. He crouched down a few feet away from Babakov.

“They need to believe you were convinced by everything you’ve just witnessed,” Babakov whispered. “If they do, they’ll allow you to go home.”

“But how will that help you?” asked Harry. “Especially if I have to sign a confession saying that I accept you made it all up.”

“Because I can tell you how to get your hands on a copy of Uncle Joe without being caught.”

“Is that still possible?”

“Yes,” said Babakov.

After listening carefully to his new cellmate’s whispered explanation, Harry smiled. “Why didn’t I think of that?”

“I appreciate you finding the time to see me,” said Griff, “especially while you’re in the middle of your sister’s trial.”

“Urgent isn’t a word you use often,” said Giles, “and as you caught the first train to London, I assumed it had to be serious.”

“It won’t become public for a few days,” said Griff, “but my mole in the local Tory party office tells me there’s going to be a meeting of their executive committee this evening, and there’s only one item on the agenda. To call for the member’s resignation.”

“And that would mean a by-election,” said Giles thoughtfully.

“Which is why I caught the first train to London.”

“But Conservative Central Office would never allow Fisher to resign while the government are so far behind in the opinion polls.”

“They won’t have a lot of choice if the press goes on calling Fisher ‘the galloping major,’ and you know only too well what that lot are like, once they smell blood. Frankly, I can’t see Fisher lasting more than a few days. So the sooner you get back down to the constituency, the better.”

“I will, the moment the trial’s over.”

“When is that likely to be?”

“A few more days. A week at the most.”

“If you could come down at the weekend, be seen shopping in Broadmead on Saturday morning, go and watch Rovers play in the afternoon, and then attend Matins at St. Mary Redcliffe on Sunday, it would remind people you’re still alive and kicking.”

“If there is a by-election, how would you rate my chances?”

“Of being reselected as the candidate, or of winning the seat back?”

“Both.”

“You’re still just about favorite to be the candidate, although several women on the executive keep raising the fact that you’ve had two marriages break down. But I’m working on them, and it helps that you turned down a place in the Lords because you wanted to fight the seat again.”

“I told you that in the strictest confidence,” said Giles.

“And I told all sixteen members of the executive committee in the strictest confidence,” replied Griff.

Giles smiled. “And my chances of winning back the seat?”

“A poodle wearing a red rosette would win the by-election if all Ted Heath can come up with is to call a state of emergency every time there’s a strike.”

“Then perhaps it’s time to tell you my other news.”

Griff raised an eyebrow.

“I’m going to ask Karin to marry me.”

“Could it possibly be after the by-election,” begged Griff.

42

For everyone involved in the libel trial, it turned out to be a long weekend.

Following a short consultation with Mr. Trelford immediately after the court had been adjourned for the day, Giles drove Emma down to Gloucestershire.

“Would you prefer to stay at the hall over the weekend? Marsden will take care of you.”

“It’s kind of you to offer,” said Emma, “but I ought to be at home just in case Harry calls.”

“I think that’s unlikely,” said Giles quietly.

“Why?” demanded Emma.

“I visited Sir Alan at Number Ten before the court resumed yesterday morning, and he told me Harry had booked himself onto a BOAC flight last Friday evening, but never boarded the plane.”

“Then they must have arrested him.”

“I fear so.”

“Why didn’t you tell me immediately?”

“Moments before you went into the witness box? I don’t think that would have been helpful.”

“Did Sir Alan have any other news?”

“He told me that if we haven’t heard from Harry by Monday morning, the foreign secretary will call in the Russian ambassador and demand an explanation.”

“What good will that do?”

“He’ll realize that Harry will be on the front page of every paper around the world the next day if they don’t release him, which is the last thing the Russians will want.”

“Then why arrest him in the first place?” demanded Emma.

“They’re up to something, but even Sir Alan can’t work out what it is.”

Giles didn’t tell Emma about his recent experience when he’d tried to enter East Berlin, not least because he’d assumed that Harry was unlikely to get beyond passport control and would have been frogmarched back on to the next plane to Heathrow. It made no sense that they would detain the president of English PEN without good reason. Even the Soviets don’t like bad publicity if they can possibly avoid it. Like Sir Alan, he couldn’t work out what they were up to.

During a sleepless weekend, Emma occupied herself answering letters, reading, even polishing some of the family silver, but she was never more than a few paces away from the phone.

Sebastian rang on Saturday morning and when she heard his voice she thought for a moment, just a moment, that it was Harry.

“It’s ours to lose,” was the expression Sir Edward used during the consultation with Lady Virginia in his chambers on the Friday evening. He advised her to spend a quiet weekend, no late nights, and not to drink too much. She had to be rested, calm, and ready to do battle with Trelford when she stepped into the witness box on Monday morning.

“Just confirm that you always allowed Major Fisher, your professional advisor, to handle anything to do with Barrington’s. ‘At arm’s length,’” was the phrase he kept repeating. “You’ve never heard of Mr. Benny Driscoll, and it came as a great shock when you discovered that Cedric Hardcastle had been dumping all his shares on the market the weekend before the AGM. You simply felt, as a stockholder, that Mrs. Clifton should tell you the truth and not fob you off with a self-serving platitude. And whatever you do, don’t rise to Trelford’s bait, because he’ll try to tickle you under the chin like a trout. Swim in the deep water and don’t be tempted to come up to the surface because, if you do, he’ll hook you and slowly reel you in. And finally, just because things have gone well for us so far, that doesn’t mean you should become overconfident. I’ve seen far too many cases lost on the last day of the trial by a client who thought they’d already won. Remember,” he repeated, “it’s ours to lose.”

Sebastian spent most of his weekend at the bank, trying to catch up with a backlog of unanswered correspondence and dozens of “urgent” queries that Rachel had left in his in-tray. It took all of Saturday morning just to tackle the first pile.

Mr. Bishara’s inspired choice as the new chairman of Farthings had been greeted in the City with acclamation, which made Seb’s life much easier. A few customers closed their accounts when Sloane departed, but many more returned when they discovered his successor would be Ross Buchanan: an experienced, shrewd operator, with bottom, was how the Sunday Times described him.

Sebastian called his mother just before lunch on Saturday and tried to reassure her that there was nothing for her to worry about.

“He probably can’t get through. Can you imagine what the Russian telephone service must be like?”

But he wasn’t convinced by his own words. His father had expressly told him he would be back in time for the trial, and he couldn’t help remembering one of his papa’s favorite maxims, “There’s only one excuse to be late for a lady: death.”

Seb grabbed a quick lunch with Vic Kaufman, who was worried about his own father, but for a different reason. It was the first time he’d mentioned Alzheimer’s.

“I’m becoming painfully aware that Dad is a one-man band. He beats the big drum while the rest of us are occasionally allowed to bang the cymbals. Perhaps the time has come for Farthings and Kaufman’s to consider a merger.”

Seb couldn’t pretend that the idea hadn’t crossed his mind since he’d become deputy chairman, but Vic’s suggestion couldn’t have come at a worse time, while he had so many other things on his mind.

“Let’s talk about it as soon as the trial is over. And by the way,” Seb added, “be sure to keep a close eye on Sloane because rumor in the City is that he’s also showing a keen interest in your father’s health.”

Seb was back behind his desk just after two o’clock and went on attacking the pile of unopened mail for the rest of the day. He didn’t get home until after midnight.

A security man let him into the bank on Sunday morning, but it wasn’t until late on Sunday afternoon that he came across a cream envelope marked PRIVATE & CONFIDENTIAL, with six George Washington stamps in the top right-hand corner. He ripped it open and read a letter from Rosemary Wolfe. How could he possibly take time off to go to America now? How could he possibly not?

Giles did as he was told. He spent Saturday morning walking up and down Broadmead carrying a large, empty Marks and Spencer shopping bag. He shook hands with anyone who stopped to talk to him about the dreadful Conservative government, and that awful Ted Heath. If anyone raised the subject of Major Fisher, he remained diplomatic.

“I wish you were still our MP.”

“If only I’d known, I would never have voted for him.”

“It’s a scandal. The damn man ought to resign,” to which Giles responded with a well-prepared reply: “That’s a decision for Major Fisher and his constituency party to make, so we’ll just have to wait and see.”

Later, he sat at the bar of a packed, noisy pub and had a ploughman’s lunch with Griff, washed down with a pint of Somerset cider.

“If Fisher resigns and a by-election is called,” said Griff, “I’ve already told the Bristol Evening News that the local Labour party won’t be interviewing anyone other than the former member.”

“Cheers,” said Giles, raising his glass. “How did you manage that?”

“Twisted a few arms, made the odd threat, offered the occasional bribe, and promised the chairman an MBE.”

“Nothing new then?”

“Except that I did remind the committee that if the Tories are going to have a new name on the ballot paper, perhaps we should stick with one the voters are familiar with.”

“What are you doing about the increased aircraft noise what’s comin’ out of Filton? It’s a bloody disgrace!”

“I’m no longer your MP,” Giles reminded the man politely as he headed toward the door.

“I didn’t know that. When did that happen?”

Even Griff had the grace to laugh. After they had left the pub they both donned their blue and white scarves and along with six thousand other supporters watched Bristol Rovers beat Chesterfield 3–2.

In the evening, Emma came to Barrington Hall for dinner, but she wasn’t very good company. She left long before Marsden served coffee.

Giles settled down in his grandfather’s favorite chair in the drawing room, a brandy in one hand, a cigar in the other. He was thinking about Karin when the phone rang. He grabbed it, hoping to hear Harry’s voice on the other end of the line, but it was Griff. Who else would call him at that time of night? When Griff told him the news about Fisher, Giles felt sorry for the man for the first time in his life.

Mr. Trelford spent his weekend preparing for Lady Virginia’s cross-examination. But it wasn’t proving easy. She would have learned from Fisher’s mistake, and he could hear Eddie Makepeace advising her to remain calm at all times and not to let him goad her. However hard he tried, he couldn’t come up with a ploy to break through her defense.

The wastepaper basket was full, and the A4 pad in front of him was blank. How could he demonstrate to the jury that Emma’s mother had been right when she compared Virginia to her Siamese cat, Cleopatra? They are both beautiful, well-groomed, vain, cunning, manipulative predators, who assume that everyone else was put on earth to serve them.

It was two o’clock in the morning and he was going over some old Barrington’s boardroom minutes when he came up with a new line of questioning.

Major Fisher had driven out of the Commons car park soon after the House had risen on Friday afternoon. One or two colleagues had wished him luck, but they didn’t sound convincing. As he drove down to the West Country, he thought about the letter he would have to write if his local executive committee didn’t support him.

He remained in his flat all the next day, not turning the front page of the morning papers, not bothering with breakfast or lunch as the lonely hours ticked by. Long before the sun was over the yardarm he began opening bottles and draining them. During the evening, he sat by the phone and waited impatiently to hear how the committee had voted on the No Confidence motion. He returned to the kitchen, opened a tin of pilchards, but left them on the table, untouched. He sat down in the drawing room to watch an episode of Dad’s Army, but didn’t laugh. Finally, he picked up a copy of Friday’s Bristol Evening Post, and looked again at the front-page headline:

He turned to page eleven. He and the editor had always been on good terms, so he had rather hoped... but he didn’t get beyond the headline.

He tossed the paper aside and didn’t turn on the light as the sun disappeared behind the highest building.

The phone rang at twelve minutes past ten. He grabbed the receiver, and immediately recognized the voice of the local party chairman. “Good evening, Peter.”

“Good evening, major. I won’t beat about the bush. I’m sorry to say that the committee didn’t support you.”

“Was it close?”

“I’m afraid not,” said Maynard. “It was unanimous. So it might be wise for you to write a letter offering your resignation rather than waiting for the executive committee to formally deselect you. So much more civilized that way, don’t you think? I am sorry, Alex.”

No sooner had he put the phone down than it rang again. It was a reporter from the Post asking him if he wanted to comment on the unanimous decision to call for his resignation. He didn’t even bother to say “No comment” before slamming the phone back down.

In an alcoholic blur, he walked unsteadily through to his study, sat down and placed his head in his hands while he thought about the wording of the letter. He took a sheet of House of Commons paper from the letter rack and began to write. When he’d finished, he waited for the ink to dry before he folded it, sealed it in an envelope, and placed it on his desk.

He leaned down and opened the bottom drawer of his desk, took out his service revolver, put the muzzle in his mouth, and pulled the trigger.

43

The courtroom was packed, the two combatants ready. All that was needed was for the bell to ring so the first punch could be landed.

On one side of the ring sat Mr. Trelford, who was going over the order of his questions for the last time. Giles, Emma, and Seb sat behind him, talking quietly, making sure they didn’t disturb him.

Giles looked up as a police constable entered the courtroom, walked across to counsel’s bench and handed Mr. Trelford an envelope. The word URGENT was written below his name. Trelford opened it, extracted a letter, and read it slowly. Giles learned nothing from the expression on the barrister’s face, but he recognized the familiar green portcullis crest at the head of the paper.

Sir Edward sat alone with his client on the other side of the ring, delivering his final instructions. “Be calm, take your time before answering each question,” he whispered. “You’re not in a hurry. Face the jury, and never forget that they are the only people in the room who matter.”

The crowd fell silent, and everyone rose when the bell rang for the first round and the referee entered the ring. If Mrs. Justice Lane was surprised to find the press and public galleries of her courtroom packed on a Monday morning, she didn’t show it. She bowed, and everyone in the well of the court returned the compliment. Once they’d all settled back into their seats, with only Sir Edward still standing, she invited the eminent silk to call his first witness.

Virginia walked slowly up to the witness box, and when she took the oath, she could barely be heard. She wore a black tailored suit that emphasized her slim figure, a black pillbox hat, no jewelery, and little makeup, clearly wanting to remind all those present of Major Fisher’s untimely death. Had the jury retired there and then to deliver their verdict, the result would have been unanimous, and Sir Edward would happily have settled for that.

“For the record, would you tell the court your name and where you live,” asked Sir Edward, as he adjusted his wig.

“Virginia Fenwick. I live alone in a modest flat in Cadogan Gardens, SW3.”

Giles smiled. My name is Lady Virginia Alice Sarah Lucinda Fenwick, only daughter of the ninth Earl of Fenwick, and I have homes in Scotland and Tuscany, and a large apartment on three floors in Knightsbridge, with a butler, maid, and chauffeur, would have been more accurate.

“Can I confirm that you were formerly married to Sir Giles Barrington, from whom you are now divorced?”

“Sadly yes,” said Virginia, turning toward the jury. “Giles was the love of my life, but his family never considered me good enough for him.”

Giles would have happily throttled the woman, while Emma wanted to jump up and protest. Mr. Trelford crossed out four of his well-prepared questions.

“But despite that, and all you’ve been put through, you still don’t bear a grudge against Mrs. Clifton?”

“No, I do not. In truth, it was with a heavy heart that I finally issued this writ, because Mrs. Clifton has many admirable qualities, and has unquestionably been an outstanding chairman of a public company, making her a role model for aspiring professional women.”

Mr. Trelford began to write out some new questions.

“Then why did you issue the writ?”

“Because she accused me of wilfully attempting to destroy her family company. Nothing could be further from the truth. I simply wanted to know on behalf of ordinary shareholders, like myself, if one of her directors had disposed of all his stock the weekend before the AGM, because in my opinion that would have greatly harmed the company. But rather than answer my question, she chose to belittle me, giving everyone in that crowded hall the impression that I didn’t know what I was talking about.”

“Word perfect,” said Giles under his breath, which caused Mr. Trelford to smile. He turned and whispered, “I agree, but then while Sir Edward is on his feet, she knows what questions to expect. She’ll have no crib sheet to rely on when I cross-examine her.”

“In particular,” continued Sir Edward, “you are referring to Mrs. Clifton’s reply to the quite valid question you raised at the AGM.”

“Yes. Rather than answer that question, she decided to humiliate me and ruin my reputation, in front of a packed audience, many of them my friends. I was left with no alternative but to seek the recourse of the law.”

“And you were referring on that occasion, not to Major Fisher, as Mrs. Clifton erroneously suggested, but to Mr. Cedric Hardcastle, who, as you pointed out, sold his entire stock over the weekend before the AGM, thus placing the company in jeopardy.”

“That is correct, Sir Edward.”

“Did she really just flutter her eyelids?” whispered Giles.

“And the late Major Fisher was one of your financial advisors?”

“Yes, and whenever he recommended I should buy or sell shares, I followed his advice. I always found him honest, trustworthy, and utterly professional.”

Emma couldn’t bring herself to look at the jury. Giles did, to find they were hanging on Virginia’s every word.

Sir Edward lowered his voice, like a great thespian demanding silence before he delivered his closing line. “Let me finally ask you, Lady Virginia, if you have any regrets about issuing this libel writ against Mrs. Clifton?”

“Yes, I do, Sir Edward. The tragic and unnecessary death of my dear friend, Major Alex Fisher, makes the outcome of this trial unimportant. If by withdrawing this action I could have saved his life, I would have done so without hesitation.” She turned to the jury, took a handkerchief from her sleeve, and dabbed away an imaginary tear.

“I am sorry you have been put through this ordeal, Lady Virginia, so soon after the death of your friend and advisor Major Fisher. No more questions, my lady.”

If they had been alone together in chambers, Trelford would have congratulated his learned friend on a quite masterful cross-examination. He opened his file to see the words Giles had advised, written at the top of the first page. MAKE HER LOSE HER TEMPER. He then looked down at his first question, newly minted.

“Lady Virginia,” he said, emphasizing the word “lady,” “you told the court of your admiration for Mrs. Clifton, and your devotion to her brother Sir Giles Barrington, but despite that, you didn’t invite a single member of the Barrington or Clifton families to attend your wedding to Sir Giles.”

“That was a shared decision, Mr. Trelford. Giles felt every bit as strongly about it as I did.”

“If that is the case, Lady Virginia, perhaps you could explain your father’s words at the time of the wedding, recorded in the Daily Express by William Hickey: My daughter was ready to call off the whole thing if Giles hadn’t agreed to her demands.”

“Gossip column tittle-tattle, written to sell newspapers, Mr. Trelford. Frankly, I’m surprised you feel the need to resort to such tactics.”

Sir Edward couldn’t resist a smile. His client had clearly seen that one coming.

“And later, in your evidence,” said Trelford, moving swiftly on, “you went on to blame Mrs. Clifton for your divorce.”

“She can be a very determined woman,” said Virginia, “as I’m sure you yourself have discovered.”

“But surely your divorce had nothing to do with Mrs. Clifton, but was rather caused by the quarrels you had with your husband about him being cut out of his mother’s will?”

“That is not true, Mr. Trelford. Giles’s inheritance never interested me. I married him for richer, for poorer, and frankly, since you mention it, I was richer than he was.”

This caused enough laughter in court for the judge to scowl menacingly down from her bench.

“So it wasn’t you who insisted that Sir Giles should issue a writ against his own sister, disputing the validity of his mother’s will? That was another shared decision?”

“No, that was Giles’s decision. I think I advised against it at the time.”

“Perhaps you’d like to reconsider that answer, Lady Virginia, as I can always call Sir Giles as a witness, and ask him to set the record straight.”

“Well, I admit that I felt Giles had been treated rather shabbily by his family, and that he had the right at least to question the validity of his mother’s will, as it had been rewritten while the poor lady was in hospital, only days before she died.”

“And what was the court’s decision on that occasion?”

“The judge came down in favor of Mrs. Clifton.”

“No, Lady Virginia, he did not. I have Mr. Justice Cameron’s judgement to hand. He ruled that the will was valid, and that Mrs. Clifton’s mother was of sound mind when she executed it. Which is particularly relevant, considering what she had to say about you at the time.”

Sir Edward was quickly on his feet.

“Mr. Trelford,” said the judge sharply, before Sir Edward could offer an opinion, “we have already traveled down that road and it came to a dead end. Do I make myself clear?”

“I apologize, my lady. Would you have any objection to my asking Lady Virginia if I could read out—”

“Yes, I would, Mr. Trelford. Move on,” she said sharply.

Trelford glanced across at the jury. As it was clear from the looks on their faces they had ignored the judge’s instruction not to read any newspaper reports of the case and must have been well aware of what Mrs. Clifton’s mother thought of Lady Virginia, he was happy to obey the judge’s wishes and to move on.

“Lady Virginia, are you aware that despite the learned judge’s ruling in favor of Mrs. Clifton and her sister, Dr. Grace Barrington, they both agreed that their brother could go on living at their family home in Gloucestershire, as well as at the London house in Smith Square, while Mrs. Clifton and her husband continued to reside at their more modest Manor House?”

“I have no idea what Giles’s domestic arrangements were after I divorced him for adultery, let alone what Mrs. Clifton was up to.”

“You had no idea what Mrs. Clifton was up to,” repeated Mr. Trelford. “In which case, Lady Virginia, you must have either a very short or a very selective memory, because only a few moments ago you told the jury how much you admired Mrs. Clifton. Allow me to remind you of your exact words.” He slowly turned back a page of his file. “‘Emma has many admirable qualities, and has unquestionably been an outstanding chairman of a public company, making her a role model for aspiring professional women.’ That wasn’t always your opinion, was it, Lady Virginia?”

“My opinion of Mrs. Clifton has not changed, and I stand by what I said.”

“Did you purchase seven and a half percent of Barrington’s stock?”

“Major Fisher did on my behalf.”

“For what purpose?”

“As a long-term investment.”

“And not because you wanted to take a seat on the board of the company?”

“No. Major Fisher, as you well know, represented my interests on the board.”

“Not in 1958 he didn’t, because in that year you turned up at an Extraordinary General Meeting of Barrington’s in Bristol, claiming your right to sit on the board and to vote on who should be the company’s next chairman. For the record, Lady Virginia, who did you vote for?”

“I voted for Major Fisher.”

“Or do you mean you voted against Mrs. Clifton?”

“Certainly not. I listened to both their presentations most carefully and decided on balance in favor of Major Fisher, rather than Mrs. Clifton.”

“Well then, clearly you have forgotten what you said on that occasion, but as it was recorded in the minutes of the meeting, allow me to remind you. I don’t believe that women were put on earth to chair boards, take on trade union leaders, build luxury liners, or have to raise vast sums of money from bankers in the City of London. Hardly a ringing endorsement for aspiring professional women.”

“Perhaps you should read on, Mr. Trelford, and not be quite so selective in your quotations.”

Trelford looked beyond the paragraph he’d underlined, and hesitated.

Mrs. Justice Lane gave him a nudge. “I would like to hear what else Lady Virginia had to say on that occasion.”

“And so would I,” said Sir Edward, loud enough for everyone in court to hear.

Trelford reluctantly read out the next couple of lines. “I shall be supporting Major Fisher, and I only hope that Mrs. Clifton will accept the major’s generous offer to serve as his deputy.” Mr. Trelford looked up.

“Please keep going, Mr. Trelford,” prompted Lady Virginia.

“I came here with an open mind, willing to give her the benefit of the doubt, but sadly she has not lived up to my expectations.”

“I think you’ll find, Mr. Trelford,” said Virginia, “that it’s you who has either a very short or a very selective memory, not me.”

Sir Edward applauded, although his hands didn’t actually touch.

Mr. Trelford quickly changed the subject. “Shall we move on to Mrs. Clifton’s words which you claim were libelous and belittled you?”

“I’m quite happy to do so.”

“If it was your intention to bring the company down, Lady Virginia,” continued Trelford, as if he hadn’t been interrupted, “then... you have failed, and failed lamentably, because you were defeated by decent ordinary people who want this company to be a success. Now, Major Fisher admitted that he carried out his dealings in Barrington’s shares simply to make money, which in his case was illegal—”

“In his case, but not in mine,” said Lady Virginia. “In my case he was simply acting on my behalf. For all I know, he was giving exactly the same advice to several other clients.”

“So Major Fisher was not a close friend, who kept you in touch with what was happening on the board of Barrington’s, but simply a professional advisor?”

“Even if we were friends, Mr. Trelford, when it came to business matters, everything he did on my behalf was conducted at arm’s length.”

“I would suggest, Lady Virginia, that when it came to business matters, far from being conducted at arm’s length, it was very much hands-on, and, just as Mrs. Clifton suggested, the two of you planned on three separate occasions to try to bring the company down.”

“Mr. Trelford, I think you are confusing me with Mr. Cedric Hardcastle, a director of the company, who sold all his stock over the weekend before the AGM. When I asked Mrs. Clifton a perfectly legitimate question about who that director was, she seemed to have conveniently forgotten his name. Someone else with either a very short or a very selective memory.”

Sir Edward’s smile was growing broader by the minute, while Trelford was sounding less and less assured. He quickly turned another page.

“We all regret the tragic death of Major Fisher...”

“I certainly do,” said Virginia. “And as I said earlier, which I’m confident you will have recorded word for word, Mr. Trelford, I would never have considered issuing a writ in the first place if I had thought even for a moment that it could have resulted in the tragic and unnecessary death of my dear friend.”

“I do indeed remember your words, Lady Virginia, but I wonder if you noticed that just before proceedings opened this morning, a policeman entered this court and handed me a letter?”

Sir Edward edged forward in his seat, ready to pounce.

“Would it surprise you to know it was addressed to me, and that it was from your dear friend, Major Fisher?”

If Mr. Trelford had wanted to go on speaking, his words would have been drowned out by a cacophony of noise that came from all corners of the courtroom. Only the judge and the jury remained impassive. He waited for complete silence before he continued.

“Lady Virginia, would you like me to read out to the court the last words your dear friend Major Fisher wrote, moments before he died?”

Sir Edward leaped up. “My lady, I have not seen this letter in the bundle of evidence, and therefore have no idea if it’s admissible or even authentic.”

“The blood stain on the envelope would suggest its authenticity, my lady,” said Trelford, waving the envelope in front of the jury.

“I haven’t seen the letter either, Sir Edward,” said the judge, “so it certainly isn’t admissible as evidence until I say so.”

Trelford was quite happy for them to go on discussing the legal niceties as to whether the letter was admissible or not, well aware that he had made his point without having to produce any evidence.

Giles studied the sphinx-like expression on Trelford’s face and couldn’t be sure if Emma’s counsel even wanted the letter to be read out in court, but following what had started out as a triumphant morning for Lady Virginia, he had once again sown a seed of doubt in the jury’s minds. Everyone in the court’s eyes were on him.

Mr. Trelford tucked the envelope back into an inside pocket of his jacket. He smiled up at the judge, and said, “No more questions, my lady.”

44

When the cell door swung open on Tuesday morning, two guards marched in to find Harry and Babakov sitting on the floor in opposite corners of the cell, not speaking.

They grabbed Babakov and, as they dragged him out of the cell, Harry bowed his head as if he wanted nothing to do with the man. A moment later two more guards appeared, walking at a more leisurely pace. Although they took Harry firmly by the arms, they didn’t jostle, push, or drag him out of the cell, which made him wonder if it was just possible that Babakov’s plan had worked. However, the guards didn’t let go of Harry as they led him up the stairs, along the corridor, and into the courtroom, as if they feared he might try to make a run for it. But where would he run, and just how far did they imagine he would get?

Harry had insisted that Babakov sleep on the one thin mattress in their cramped cell, but the Russian had refused, explaining that he couldn’t afford to get used to such luxury when he would be returning to a stone floor in Siberia on Tuesday night. Sleeping on the straw that was liberally scattered over the floor was quite enough luxury for one weekend. The truth was, neither of them had slept for any length of time, which brought back memories for Harry of his days behind enemy lines. By the time the guards came to collect them on the Tuesday morning, they were both mentally and physically exhausted, having used every available hour for the challenge they had set themselves.

When the two guards accompanied Harry into the court, he was surprised to find the chief prosecutor and the jury already in their places. He hardly had time to catch his breath before the door at the back of the room opened and the three judges entered and returned to their seats on the raised dais.

Once again, the tribunal chairman didn’t even glance in Harry’s direction, but immediately turned to the jury. She opened a file in front of her and began what Harry assumed was her summing up. She only spoke for a few minutes, rarely raising her head from the text. Harry could only wonder who had written it, and when.

“Comrades, you have heard all the evidence, and have had more than enough time to consider your verdict. Can there be any doubt that the prisoner is guilty of the crimes he has been charged with, and that he deserves to be sentenced to a long term of imprisonment? The jury will be interested to learn that this will not be the prisoner’s first experience of jail. He has already served a sentence for murder in the United States, but do not let that influence you, because it is you, and you alone, who must decide if he is guilty.”

Harry had to admire the fact that the other two judges were able to keep a straight face while she continued to read out the prepared statement.

“Comrades, first let me ask you if you need to retire to consider your verdict?”

A man seated at the right-hand end of the front row, as befits a bit-part player, stood up and, sticking to his script, said, “No, comrade chairman.”

“Have you reached a verdict?”

“Yes, we have, comrade chairman.”

“And is that verdict unanimous?”

“Yes, it is, comrade chairman.”

“And what is your verdict?”

Each of the twelve members of the jury picked up a piece of paper from their chair, and held it high in the air, revealing the word GUILTY.

Harry wanted to point out that there was only one piece of paper on each chair but, as Anatoly had advised, he looked suitably chastened when the comrade chairman turned to face him for the first time.

“The jury,” she declared, “has unanimously found you guilty of a premeditated crime against the state, and I, therefore, have no hesitation in sentencing you to twelve years’ imprisonment in a labor camp, where you can once again share a cell with your criminal friend Babakov.” She closed her file and paused for some considerable time before adding, “However, as Colonel Marinkin recommended, I will offer you one last chance to sign a confession admitting your crime and the terrible mistake you have made. Should you do so, your sentence will be suspended, and you will be extradited and never allowed to visit the Soviet Union or any of its satellites again. Should you ever attempt to do so, your sentence will automatically be reinstated.” After a short pause she said, “Are you willing to sign a confession?”

Harry bowed his head and said, very quietly, “Yes, I am.”

For the first time, all three judges showed an emotion — surprise. The chairman couldn’t hide her relief, unintentionally revealing what her masters had clearly always wanted.

“Then you may approach the dais,” she said.

Harry stood up and walked over to the three judges. He was shown two copies of the confession, one in Russian and the other in English, both of which he read carefully.

“You will now read your confession to the court.”

Harry read the Russian version first, which brought a smile to the lips of the comrade chairman. He then picked up the English version and started to recite it. From the blank stares he received he wondered if anyone in that courtroom understood a word of English. He decided to take a risk, change the occasional word, and see how they reacted.

“I, Harry Clifton, a citizen of the United Kingdom, and President of PEN, have involuntarily and with coercion, signed this confusion. I have spent the past three years with Anatoly Babakov, who has made it clear to me that he did work in the Kremlin, and met Comrade Chairman Stalin on several occasions, including when he was awarded his degree. Babakov also admitted that the book he wrote about Comrade Stalin was fact, and not a figment of his imagination.

“I shall continue to demand Babakov’s release from prison, now that I am aware of the lengths this court went to, in order to deceive the public with this fraud. I am most grateful to the court for its lethargy on this occasion, and for allowing me to return to my own country.”

The chairman handed him a pen and he was just about to sign both copies when he decided to take a second risk.

“Members of the jury,” said Mrs. Justice Lane. “It now falls to me to sum up what has been a complex case. Some facts are not in dispute. Mrs. Clifton does not deny that when addressing a packed annual general meeting of her family company, she made the following reply to a question from Lady Virginia Fenwick, and later had it recorded in the minutes of the meeting: If it was your intention to bring the company down, Lady Virginia, then... you have failed, and failed lamentably, because you were defeated by decent ordinary people who want this company to be a success.

“The defendant, Mrs. Clifton, has testified that she believes her words were justified, while the plaintiff, Lady Virginia, claims they are libelous. Whether they are or not is what this trial is about, and the final decision is yours.

“Your biggest challenge, may I suggest, is to make a judgement about the two women involved in this case. You have seen them both in the witness box, and I suspect you will have formed your own opinion as to which you consider the more credible. Do not allow yourselves to be influenced by the fact that Mrs. Clifton is the chairman of a public company, and therefore should be given some leeway when answering a question from someone she considers hostile. What you must decide is whether she libeled Lady Virginia, or did not.

“Equally, you should not be overawed by the fact that Lady Virginia is the daughter of an earl. You must treat her no differently than you would your next-door neighbor.

“When you retire to the jury room to consider your verdict, take your time. I am in no hurry. And do not forget that the decision you are about to make will affect both of these women for the rest of their lives.

“But first, you must select a foreman, who will act as chairman. When you’ve reached your verdict, please tell the jury bailiff that you wish to come back into court so that I can inform all those directly and indirectly involved in this case to return to hear your decision. I shall now ask the jury bailiff to escort you to the jury room, so you can begin your deliberations.”

A tall, elegantly dressed man with a military bearing and wearing what looked like a schoolmaster’s gown stepped forward, and led the seven men and five women of the jury out of the courtroom. Moments later, the judge rose from her place, bowed to the court and returned to her chambers.

“What did you make of the summing up?” asked Emma.

“Measured and fair,” Mr. Trelford assured her. “You have nothing to complain about.”

“And how long do you think it will take them to reach a decision?” Giles asked.

“It’s impossible to predict. If they are all in agreement, which I think is highly unlikely, no more than a couple of hours. If they are divided, it could be a couple of days.”

“Can I read the letter Major Fisher sent to you?” asked Sebastian innocently.

“No, you cannot, Mr. Clifton,” said Trelford, pushing the envelope further down into his inside pocket, “and nor can anyone else, unless and until Mrs. Justice Lane allows me to reveal its contents. I cannot, and will not, go against the express wishes of the judge. Good try, though,” he said, grinning at Seb.

“How long are we expected to hang about?” asked Virginia, who was sitting with her counsel on the other side of the courtroom.

“I’ve no idea,” said Sir Edward. “If I were to hazard a guess, I’d say a day, possibly two.”

“And why did Major Fisher address his last letter to Trelford and not to you?”

“That I haven’t been able to work out. But I confess I’m puzzled why Trelford didn’t press the judge more strongly to be allowed to read the letter to the jury, if it was at all likely to benefit his client.”

“Perhaps he was bluffing?”

“Or double-bluffing.”

“Am I safe to take a couple of hours off?” asked Virginia. “There’s something I need to do.”

“Why not? I can’t see the jury returning before this afternoon.”

45

Harry hadn’t expected a chauffeur-driven car to take him to the airport, and he was even more surprised when he saw who the chauffeur was.

“I just want to make sure you get on the plane,” said Colonel Marinkin.

“How very considerate of you, colonel,” said Harry, forgetting to remain in character.

“Don’t get clever with me, Mr. Clifton. The railway station is closer than the airport, and it’s not too late for you to join Babakov on a journey that won’t have a return ticket for another twelve years.”

“But I signed the confession,” said Harry, trying to sound conciliatory.

“Which I know you’ll be glad to hear has already been released to every leading newspaper in the West from the New York Times to the Guardian. It will have hit most of their front pages before you touch down at Heathrow, so even if you did try to deny it—”

“I can assure you, colonel, that, unlike St. Peter, there will be no need for me to deny anything. I saw Babakov for what he was. And in any case, an Englishman’s word is his bond.”

“I’m glad to hear that,” said the colonel, as he accelerated on to the motorway and put his foot hard down. Within seconds the indicator was touching a hundred miles an hour. Harry clung on to the dashboard as the colonel nipped in and out of the traffic, and for the first time since he’d set foot in Russia, Harry was genuinely frightened. As they passed the Hermitage, the colonel couldn’t resist asking, “Have you ever visited the Hermitage, Mr. Clifton?”

“No,” said Harry, “but I’ve always wanted to.”

“Pity, because now you never will,” said the colonel as he overtook a couple of lorries.

Harry only began to relax when the airport terminal came into sight, and the colonel slowed to sixty. He hoped his plane would take off before the first editions hit the streets, otherwise he might still be on that train to Siberia, and as he couldn’t hope to get through customs for at least a couple of hours, it might be a close-run thing.

Suddenly the car swung off the road, through a gate held open by two guards, and drove onto a runway. The colonel dodged in and out of the stationary aircraft, with much the same abandon with which he had treated the cars on the motorway. He screeched to a halt at the bottom of an aircraft’s steps, where two guards, who had clearly been waiting for him, sprang to attention and saluted even before he’d got out of the car. Marinkin leaped out, and Harry followed him.

“Don’t let me hold you up,” said the colonel. “Just be sure you never come back, because if you do, I’ll be at the bottom of the steps waiting for you.” They didn’t shake hands.

Harry walked up the staircase as quickly as he could, knowing he wouldn’t feel safe until the plane had taken off. When he reached the top step the senior steward came forward and said, “Welcome aboard, Mr. Clifton. Let me take you to your seat.” Clearly he was expected. The steward guided him to the back row of first class, and Harry was relieved to find the seat next to him was empty. No sooner had he sat down than the aircraft door was slammed shut and the seat belt sign switched on. He still wasn’t quite ready to breathe a sigh of relief.

“Is there anything I can get you once we’ve taken off, Mr. Clifton?” asked the steward.

“How long is the flight?”

“Five and a half hours, including a stopover in Stockholm.”

“A strong black coffee, no sugar, two pens, and as much writing paper as you can spare. And could you let me know the moment we’re no longer in Russian airspace?”

“Of course, sir,” said the steward, as if he got this sort of request every day.

Harry closed his eyes and tried to concentrate as the plane began to taxi to the far end of the runway in preparation for take-off. Anatoly had explained to him that he knew the book off by heart, and had spent the past sixteen years repeating it to himself again and again in the hope that one day he would be released, when it could be published.

As soon as the seat belt sign had been switched off, the steward returned and handed Harry a dozen sheets of BOAC writing paper and two ballpoint pens.

“I’m afraid that won’t be enough for the first chapter,” said Harry. “Can you keep up a regular supply?”

“I’ll do my best,” said the steward. “And will you be hoping to catch a couple of hours’ sleep during the flight?”

“Not if I can possibly avoid it.”

“Then may I suggest you leave your reading light on, so when the cabin lights are dimmed, you can go on working.”

“Thank you.”

“Would you like to see the first-class menu, sir?”

“Only if I can write on the back of it.”

“A cocktail perhaps?”

“No, I’ll stick with the coffee, thank you. And can I say something that’s going to sound incredibly rude, but I assure you it’s not meant to be.”

“Of course, sir.”

“Could you not speak to me again until we land in Stockholm?”

“As you wish, sir.”

“Other than to tell me when we’re no longer in Russian air space.” The senior steward nodded. “Thank you,” said Harry, then picked up a pen and began writing.

Harry paused as he tried to recall a paragraph that began, For the first six months...

A steaming hot coffee, Harry’s second, and more sheets of paper of different sizes and shapes were supplied by the silent chief steward.

Sebastian took a cab to the High Court shortly after eleven. Just as he had been about to leave his office, Rachel had dropped the morning post and three more thick files on his desk. He tried to tell himself that things would return to normal next week. He couldn’t put off much longer telling Ross Buchanan that he intended to go to America and find out if he had the slightest chance of winning Samantha back, although he wasn’t even sure she would agree to see him. Ross had met Samantha on the Buckingham’s maiden voyage, and later described her as the best asset he’d ever let go.

“I didn’t let her go,” Seb had tried to explain, “and if I could get her back, I would. Whatever the cost.”

As the taxi made its way through the morning traffic, he kept checking his watch, hoping he’d get there before the jury returned.

He was paying the cabbie when he spotted Virginia. He froze on the spot. Even with her back to him, it couldn’t have been anyone else. That confident air of generations past, the style, the class, would have made her stand out in any crowd. But what was she doing hiding away in a back alley talking to Desmond Mellor of all people? Seb didn’t even realize they knew each other, but why wasn’t he surprised? He would immediately tell Uncle Giles and leave it for him to decide if they should let Emma know. Perhaps not until after the trial was over.

He slipstreamed in among a tide of pedestrians to make sure neither of them spotted him. As he entered the Royal Courts of Justice, he ran up the wide staircase, dodging in and out of bewigged barristers as well as witnesses and defendants who wished they weren’t there, until at last he reached the lobby outside court fourteen.

“Over here, Seb,” called a voice.

Seb looked around to see Giles and his mother sitting in the corner of the lobby, chatting to Mr. Trelford, killing time.

He strode across to join them. Giles told him there was no sign of the jury returning. He waited for his mother to resume her conversation with Mr. Trelford before he took Giles aside and told him what he’d just witnessed. “Cedric Hardcastle taught me not to believe in coincidences,” he concluded.

“Particularly when Virginia is involved. With her, everything is planned to the finest detail. However, I don’t think this is the time to tell your mother.”

“But how could those two possibly know each other?”

“Alex Fisher has to be the common factor,” said Giles. “But what worries me is that Desmond Mellor is a far more dangerous and clever man than Fisher ever was. I’ve never understood why he resigned from Barrington’s so soon after he became deputy chairman.”

“I’m responsible for that,” said Seb, and explained the deal he’d made with Hakim Bishara.

“Clever, but be warned, Mellor isn’t the type to forgive or forget.”

“Would all those involved in the case of Fenwick versus Clifton please go to court number fourteen, as the jury is expected to return in the next few minutes.”

The four of them rose as one and made their way quickly back into the courtroom, where they found the judge already seated in her place. Everyone was looking toward the door through which the jury would make their entrance, like theatre-goers waiting for the curtain to rise.

When the door finally opened, the chattering ceased, as the jury bailiff led his twelve charges back into court, then stood aside to allow them to return to their places in the jury box. Once they were settled, he asked the foreman to rise.

The chosen one couldn’t have appeared at first glance to be a less likely leader, even of this disparate group. He must have been around sixty, and not an inch over five foot four, bald and wearing a three-piece suit, white shirt, and a striped tie that Giles guessed represented his club or his old school. You would have passed him in the street without giving him a first look. But the moment he opened his mouth, everyone understood why he had been selected. He spoke with a quiet authority, and Giles wouldn’t have been surprised to learn that he was a solicitor, a schoolmaster, or even a senior civil servant.

“Mr. Foreman,” the judge said, leaning forward, “have you reached a verdict on which you are all agreed?”

“No, my lady,” he replied in a calm, measured voice. “But I felt we ought to inform you of the impasse we have reached, in the hope you might advise us what we should do next.”

“I will certainly try,” said Mrs. Justice Lane, as if she was dealing with a trusted colleague.

“We have taken the vote a number of times, and on each occasion it has resulted in an eight-to-four deadlock. We were not certain if there was any purpose in us continuing.”

“I wouldn’t want you to give up at this early stage,” said the judge. “Considerable time, effort, and expense has been invested in this trial, and the least any of us can do is to be absolutely sure we have made every effort to reach a verdict. If you think it might help, I would be willing to accept a majority verdict of ten to two, but nothing less will be acceptable.”

“Then we will try again, my lady,” said the foreman and, without another word, he led his little band back out of the court, with the bailiff bringing up the rear of an exclusive club that no one else would be invited to join.

Once the door had closed behind them, a babble of chattering broke out, even before the judge had made her exit.

“Who’s got eight, and who’s got four?” was Virginia’s first question.

“You have the eight,” said Sir Edward, “and I can identify almost every one of them.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“Two reasons. While the foreman was speaking to the judge, I kept my eyes on the jury, and the majority of them were looking at you. Juries, in my experience, don’t look at the loser.”

“And the other reason?”

“Take a look at Trelford and you’ll see an unhappy man, because he will have carried out the same exercise.”

“Who got the majority?” asked Giles.

“Never easy to try to second-guess a jury,” said Trelford, touching the envelope in his inside pocket, although he was fairly sure it wasn’t his client who needed the extra two votes to win the action. So perhaps the time had come to allow Mrs. Clifton to see the major’s letter, and decide if she wanted it read out in court.

He would advise her to do so if she still hoped to win the case, but having come to know the lady over the past few months, he would not have been surprised if she thought otherwise.

Harry unfastened his seat belt and walked up and down the length of the cabin as he thought about the next chapter. He began writing again the moment he returned to his seat.

“We are no longer in Russian airspace, Mr. Clifton,” said the steward.

“Thank you,” said Harry.

“We’ve run out of paper,” said the steward.

“How far are we from Stockholm?” asked Harry.

“About another hour, sir.” He hesitated. “I have one other source you might consider.”

“I’ll consider anything, rather than lose an hour.”

“We have two varieties,” said the steward. “First class or economy, but I think economy will serve your purpose better — a heavier texture and less absorbent.”

Both of them giggled like schoolboys as the steward produced a roll in one hand and a box in the other. Henry took his advice and chose economy.

“By the way, sir, I love your books.”

“This isn’t my book,” said Harry, as he continued writing.

Harry paused as he tried to remember the opening line of the next chapter.

“Please fasten your seat belts, as we will be landing in Stockholm in a few minutes’ time.”

“Can I stay on the plane?” asked Harry.

“I’m afraid not, sir, but we have a first-class lounge where they serve breakfast, and where I’m sure you’ll find an endless supply of paper.”

Harry was the first off the plane and within minutes had settled down at a table in the first-class lounge with a black coffee, several varieties of biscuits, and reams of typing paper. He must have been the only passenger who was delighted to learn that the flight had been delayed because of a mechanical fault.

Harry gathered his thoughts before he began the fourth chapter.

Harry was on page 79 of the manuscript when all passengers on the flight to London were requested to reboard the plane, by which time Stalin saw himself as something of a cross between Henry VIII and Catherine the Great. Harry walked up to the check-in counter.

“Would it be possible to change my flight to a later one?”

“Yes, of course, sir. We have one going via Amsterdam in two hours’ time, but I’m afraid there’s no connecting flight to London for another four hours.”

“Perfect.”

46

Giles read William Warwick’s signed confession on the front page of the Times the following morning and couldn’t stop laughing.

How could they have failed to notice that it wasn’t Harry’s signature? He could only assume that the Russians were in such a hurry to get the confession into the hands of the international press before he arrived back in England that they’d made a cock-up. It had happened often enough in the Foreign Office when Giles was a minister, but it rarely got beyond the press department. Mind you, when Churchill was visiting America just after the war he asked the embassy to set up a meeting with the distinguished philosopher Isaiah Berlin, and ended up having tea with Irving Berlin.

Photographs of Harry dominated most of the morning papers, while leaders and opinion pieces about the popular author and his long-standing battle to have Anatoly Babakov released from prison filled many column inches on the inside pages.

The cartoonists had a field day, depicting Harry as either George slaying the dragon or David felling Goliath. But Giles’s favorite was one in the Daily Express of Harry fencing with a pen against a bear with a broken sword. The caption read: Mightier than the Sword.

Giles was still laughing when he read William Warwick’s confession for a second time. He assumed heads would be rolling, perhaps literally, in Russia.

“What’s so funny?” asked Emma when she joined him for breakfast, still looking as if she could have done with a good night’s sleep.

“Harry’s done more to embarrass the Russians in one day than the Foreign Office could manage in a year. And there’s even better news. Just look at the Telegraph’s headline.” He held the paper up so she could read it.

“It’s not a laughing matter,” said Emma, pushing the papers aside. “If he’d still been in Russia when the first editions came out it would have been a completely different headline.”

“Well, at least look on the bright side.”

“There’s a bright side?”

“There most certainly is. Up until now, everyone’s been asking why Harry wasn’t in court supporting you. Well, now they all know, which is bound to make an impression on the jury.”

“Except that Virginia was brilliant in the witness box. Far more convincing than I was.”

“But I suspect the jury will have seen through her by now.”

“Just in case you’ve forgotten, it took you a little longer.”

Giles looked suitably chastened.

“I’ve just come off the phone with him,” said Emma. “He’s been held up in Stockholm. He seemed preoccupied and didn’t say a great deal. He told me he’s not expecting to land at Heathrow until around five this afternoon.”

“Did he get his hands on Babakov’s book?” asked Giles.

“His money ran out before I had time to ask him,” said Emma as she poured herself some coffee. “In any case, I was more interested in trying to find out why it had taken him almost a week to do a journey that most other people manage in under four hours.”

“And what was his explanation?”

“Didn’t have one. Said he’d tell me everything as soon as he got home.” Emma took a sip of her coffee before adding, “There’s something he’s not telling me, that hasn’t made the front pages.”

“I bet it has something to do with Babakov’s book.”

“Damn that book,” said Emma. “What possessed him to take such a risk when he’d already been threatened with a jail sentence?”

“Don’t forget this is the same man who took on a German division armed only with a pistol, a jeep, and an Irish corporal.”

“And he was lucky to survive that as well.”

“You knew what kind of man he was long before you married him. For better or worse...” Giles said, taking his sister’s hand.

“But does he begin to understand what he’s put his family through during the last week, and just how lucky he is to have been put on a plane back to England rather than on a train heading for Siberia along with his friend Babakov?”

“I suspect there’s a part of him that will have wanted to be on that train with Babakov,” said Giles quietly. “That’s why we both admire him so much.”

“I’ll never let him go abroad again,” said Emma with feeling.

“Well, as long as he only heads west, it should still be all right,” said Giles, trying to lighten the mood.

Emma bowed her head, and suddenly burst into tears. “You don’t realize just how much you love someone until you think you might never see them again.”

“I know how you feel,” said Giles.

During the war, Harry had once stayed awake for thirty-six hours, but he was a lot younger then.

With a ballpoint pen in one hand, and a slice of Edam cheese in the other, he carried on writing, page after page. He could hear Jessica remonstrating with him. How can you sit in an airport lounge writing someone else’s book, when you’re just a taxi ride away from the finest collection of Rembrandts, Vermeers, Steens, and De Wittes in the world? Not a day went by when he didn’t think of Jessica. He just hoped she’d understand why he had to temporarily replace Rembrandt with Babakov. Harry paused again to gather his thoughts.

“Would all passengers...”

Mrs. Justice Lane released everyone from court number fourteen at four o’clock that afternoon, but not until she was convinced that the jury wouldn’t be able to reach a verdict that evening.

“I’m off to Heathrow,” said Emma, looking at her watch.

“With a bit of luck I’ll be just in time to meet Harry off the plane.”

“Would you like us to come with you?” asked Giles.

“Certainly not. I want him all to myself for the first few hours, but I’ll bring him back to Smith Square this evening, and we can all have dinner together.”

Taxi drivers always smile when a fare says Heathrow. Emma climbed into the back of the cab, confident she could be at the airport before the plane landed.

The first thing she did on entering the terminal building was to check the arrivals board. Little numbers and letters flicked over every few moments, supplying the latest information for each flight. The board indicated that passengers arriving from Amsterdam on BOAC 786 were now in baggage reclaim. But then she remembered that Harry had only taken a small overnight bag, as he hadn’t planned to be in Leningrad for more than a few hours, one night at the most. In any case, he was always among the first off the plane as he liked to be speeding down the motorway on his way back to Bristol before the last passengers had cleared customs. Made him feel he’d stolen time.

Could she have missed him, she wondered, as several passengers passed her, with bags displaying Amsterdam luggage tags. She was about to go in search of a telephone and call Giles when Harry finally appeared.

“I’m so sorry,” he said, throwing his arms around her. “I had no idea you’d be waiting for me. I thought you’d still be in court.”

“The judge let us go at four because it didn’t look as if the jury were going to reach a verdict today.”

Harry released her, and said, “Can I make the strangest request?”

“Anything, my darling.”

“Could we book into an airport hotel for a couple of hours?”

“We haven’t done that for some time,” said Emma, grinning.

“I’ll explain why later,” said Harry. He didn’t speak again until he’d signed the hotel register and they’d checked into their room.

Emma lay on the bed, watching as Harry sat at a little desk by the window, writing as if his life depended on it. She wasn’t allowed to speak, turn on the television, or even order room service, so, in desperation, she picked up the first chapter of what she assumed must be the latest William Warwick novel.

She was hooked from the first sentence. When Harry finally put down his pen, three and a half hours later, and slumped onto the bed beside her, all she said was, “Don’t say a word, just hand me the next chapter.”

Emma turned the page, while Harry fell into a deep sleep.

When he woke just after midnight, she had reached chapter twelve (the opening paragraph of which was on the back of a first-class menu). She gathered up several sheets of paper and put them as neatly as she could into Harry’s overnight bag, then helped him off the bed, guided him out of the room, and into the nearest lift. Once Emma had paid the bill, she asked the bellboy to hail her a taxi. He opened the back door and allowed the tired old man and his girlfriend to climb inside.

“Where to, miss?” asked the cabbie.

“Twenty-three Smith Square.”

During the journey back into London, Emma brought Harry up to date about what had been happening in the trial, Fisher’s death, and Giles’s preparations for the by-election, Virginia’s performance in the witness box, and the letter from Fisher that Mr. Trelford had received that morning.

“What did it say?” asked Harry.

“I don’t know, and I’m not sure I even want to know.”

“But it might help you win the case.”

“That doesn’t seem likely if Fisher’s involved.”

“And I’ve only been away just over a week,” said Harry as the taxi drew up outside Giles’s home in Smith Square.

When the front door bell rang, Giles quickly answered it, to find his closest friend holding on to his sister with one hand, and the railing with the other, to make sure he didn’t fall over. His two new guards took an arm each and guided him into the house, past the dining room, and up the stairs to the guest bedroom on the first floor. He didn’t reply when Giles said, “Sleep well, old chum,” and closed the door behind him.

By the time Emma had undressed her husband and hung up his suit, she became painfully aware what the inside of a Russian prison cell must smell like, but he was already sound asleep by the time she pulled off his socks.

She crept into the bed beside him, and although she knew he couldn’t hear her, she whispered firmly, “The farthest east I will allow you to travel in future will be Cambridge.” She then switched on the bedside light and continued to read Uncle Joe. It was another hour before she finally discovered why the Russians had gone to such lengths to make sure that no one ever got their hands on the book.

Emma fell asleep.

47

When Emma woke the following morning, she found Harry kneeling on the floor, trying to sort out various different bits of paper and arrange them in neat piles: BOAC writing paper, the backs of a dozen first-class menus, and even lavatory paper. She joined him, concentrating on the lavatory paper. Forty minutes later, they had a book.

“What time do we have to be in court?” asked Harry as they made their way downstairs to join Giles and Seb for breakfast.

“Ten, in theory,” said Emma, “but Mr. Trelford doesn’t think the jury will return much before midday.”

Breakfast was the first real meal Harry had eaten for the best part of a week, but despite that, he was surprised how little he could manage. They sat in silence as he regaled them with everything he’d experienced since they’d last seen him. They were introduced to the taxi driver, the old woman in the bookshop, the KGB colonel, the tribunal chairman, the chief prosecutor, the defense attorney, the jury, and, finally, Anatoly Babakov, whom he’d liked and admired. He told them how that truly remarkable man had spent every hour he could stay awake telling Harry his story.

“Won’t he be in considerable danger if the book is published?” suggested Giles.

“The answer must be yes, but he was adamant that Uncle Joe be published before he died, because it would allow his wife to live in comfort for the rest of her life. So once the trial is over, I plan to fly back to the States and hand over the manuscript to Harold Guinzburg. I’ll then travel on to Pittsburgh to see Yelena Babakov, and pass on several messages from her husband,” he added as Big Ben struck the first of ten chimes.

“It can’t be that late,” said Emma, leaping up from the table. “Seb, go and find a cab while your father and I get ready.”

Seb smiled. He wondered when mothers stopped treating their children as if they were perpetually fifteen years old.

Ten minutes later, they were all heading up Whitehall toward the Strand.

“Are you looking forward to being back in the House?” asked Harry as they drove past Downing Street.

“I haven’t even been selected as the candidate yet,” said Giles.

“Well, at least this time Alex Fisher won’t cause you any trouble.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure of that,” said Giles.

“You must be a shoo-in,” said Emma.

“In politics there are no shoo-ins,” Giles assured her as they drew up outside the law courts.

The cameras began flashing even before Emma had stepped out of the cab. She and Harry walked arm in arm through the phalanx of journalists and photographers, most of whom seemed more interested in her husband than in the defendant.

“Are you relieved to be back home, sir?” shouted one of them.

“Is London colder than Siberia?” quipped another.

“Is it good to have him back, Mrs. Clifton?” yelled a third.

Emma broke Giles’s golden rule. “Yes, it most certainly is,” she said as she squeezed Harry’s hand.

“Do you think you’ll win today?” persisted another, which she pretended not to hear. Seb was waiting for them, and held open the massive door to allow them through.

“Are you hoping to be the Labour candidate in the Bristol by-election, Sir Giles?” But Giles simply waved and smiled, giving them a picture but no words, before he disappeared into the building.

The four of them made their way up the wide marble staircase to find Mr. Trelford occupying his favorite corner bench on the first floor. Trelford stood the moment he saw Emma approaching. She introduced him to Harry.

“Good morning, Detective Inspector Warwick,” said Trelford. “I’ve been looking forward to meeting you.”

Harry shook the barrister warmly by the hand. “I must apologize for not being here sooner, but I have—”

“I know,” said Trelford, “and I can’t wait to read it.”

The tannoy crackled. “Would all those involved in the Lady Virginia Fenwick versus...”

“The jury must have reached a decision,” Trelford said, already on the move. He looked around to check that they were all following him, and bumped into someone. He apologized, but the young man didn’t look back. Sebastian, who had walked on ahead, held open the door to court number fourteen so his mother and her silk could resume their places in the front row.

Emma was too nervous to speak and, fearing the worst, kept glancing anxiously over her shoulder at Harry, who sat in the row behind her as they waited for the jury to appear.

When Mrs. Justice Lane entered the courtroom, everyone rose. She bowed before resuming her place. Emma transferred her attention to the closed door beside the jury box. She didn’t have to wait long before it swung open, and the bailiff reappeared followed by his twelve disciples. They took their time finding their places, treading on each other’s toes like late-arriving theatregoers. The bailiff waited for them to settle before he banged his rod three times on the floor and shouted, “Will the foreman please rise.”

The foreman rose to his full five feet four inches and looked up at the judge. Mrs. Justice Lane leaned forward and said, “Have you reached a verdict on which you are all agreed?”

Emma thought her heart would stop beating as she waited for his reply.

“No, my lady.”

“Then have you reached a verdict on which you are agreed by a majority of at least ten to two?”

“We did, my lady,” said the foreman, “but unfortunately, at the last moment, one of our number changed his mind, and we have been stuck on nine votes to three for the past hour. I am not convinced that will change, so once again I am seeking your guidance as to what we should do next.”

“Do you believe you could reach a majority of ten to two, if I gave you a little more time?”

“I do, my lady, because on one particular matter, all twelve of us are in agreement.”

“And what is that?”

“If we were allowed to know the contents of the letter Major Fisher wrote to Mr. Trelford, we might well be able to come to a decision fairly quickly.”

Everybody’s eyes were fixed on the judge, except for Sir Edward Makepeace, who was looking closely at Trelford. Either he was a formidable poker player or he didn’t want the jury to know what was in that letter.

Trelford rose from his seat and reached into his inside pocket, only to find that the letter was no longer there. He looked across to the far side of the court, to see that Lady Virginia was smiling.

He returned her smile.