Jeffrey Archer - Twelve Red Herrings

I couldn’t fault his logic.

“Can I have the cheque?” Duncan asked as the maître d’ passed by our table.

“Certainly, sir,” he replied, not even breaking his stride.

“Now, my trouble is going to be the ending …” began Duncan as Christabel suddenly, if somewhat unsteadily, rose from her chair.

She turned to face me and said, “I’m afraid the time has come for me to leave. It’s been a pleasure meeting you, although I have a feeling we won’t be seeing each other again. I’d just like to say how much I enjoyed your latest novel. Such an original idea. It deserved to be number one.”

I stood, kissed her hand and thanked her, feeling more guilty than ever.

“Goodbye, Duncan,” she said, turning to face her former lover, but he didn’t even bother to look up. “Don’t worry yourself,” she added. “I’ll be out of the apartment by the time you get back.”

She proceeded to negotiate a rather wobbly route across the restaurant, eventually reaching the door that led out onto the street. The maître d’ held it open for her and bowed low.

“I can’t pretend I’m sorry to see her go,” said Duncan, puffing away on his cigar. “Fantastic body, great between the sheets, but she’s totally lacking in imagination.”

The maître d’ reappeared by Duncan’s side, this time to place a small black leather folder in front of him.

“Well, the critics were certainly right about this place,” I commented. Duncan nodded his agreement.

The maître d’ bowed, but not quite as low as before.

“Now, my trouble, as I was trying to explain before Christabel decided to make her exit,” continued Duncan, “is that I’ve done the outline, completed the research, but I still don’t have an ending. Any ideas?” he asked, as a middle-aged woman rose from a nearby table and began walking determinedly towards us.

Duncan flicked open the leather cover, and stared in disbelief at the bill.

The woman came to a halt beside our table. “I just wanted to tell you how much I enjoyed your new book,” she said in a loud voice.

Other diners turned round to see what was going on.

“Thank you,” I said somewhat curtly, hoping to prevent her from adding to my discomfort.

Duncan’s eyes were still fixed on the bill.

“And the ending,” she said. “So clever! I would never have guessed how you were going to get the American family out of the tunnel alive…”

Ted Barker was one of those members of Parliament who never sought high office. He’d had what was described by his fellow officers as a “good war” — in which he was awarded the Military Cross and reached the rank of major. After being demobbed in November 1945 he was happy to return to his wife Hazel and their home in Suffolk.

The family engineering business had also had a good war, under the diligent management of Ted’s elder brother Ken. As soon as he arrived home, Ted was offered his old place on the board, which he happily accepted. But as the weeks passed by, the distinguished warrior became first bored and then disenchanted. There was no job for him at the factory which even remotely resembled active service.

It was around this time that he was approached by Ethel Thompson, the works convenor and — more important for the advancement of this tale — Chairman of the Wedmore branch of the North Suffolk Conservative Association. The incumbent MP, Sir Dingle Lightfoot, known in the constituency as “Tiptoe”, had made it clear that once the war was over they must look for someone to replace him.

“We don’t want some clever clogs from London coming up here and telling us how to run this division,” pronounced Mrs Thompson. “We need someone who knows the district and understands the problems of the local people.” Ted, she suggested, might be just the ticket.

Ted confessed that he had never given such an idea a moment’s thought, but promised Mrs Thompson that he would take her proposal seriously, only asking for a week in which to consider his decision. He discussed the suggestion with his wife, and having received her enthusiastic support, he paid a visit to Mrs Thompson at her home the following Sunday afternoon. She was delighted to hear that Mr Barker would be pleased to allow his name to go forward for consideration as the prospective parliamentary candidate for the division of North Suffolk.

The final shortlist included two clever clogs from London one of whom later served in a Macmillan Cabinet — and the local boy, Ted Barker. When the chairman announced the committee’s decision to the local press, he said that it would be improper to reveal the number of votes each candidate had polled. In fact, Ted had comfortably outscored his two rivals put together.

Six months later the Prime Minister called a general election, and after a lively three-week campaign, Ted was returned as the Member of Parliament for North Suffolk with a majority of over seven thousand. He quickly became respected and popular with colleagues on both sides of the House, though he never pretended to be anything other than, in his own words, “an amateur politician”.

As the years passed, Ted’s popularity with his constituents grew, and he increased his majority with each succeeding general election. After fourteen years of diligent service to the party nationally and locally, the Prime Minister of the day, Harold Macmillan, recommended to the Queen that Ted should receive a knighthood.

By the end of the 1960s, Sir Ted (he was never known as Sir Edward) felt that the time was fast approaching when the division should start looking for a younger candidate, and he made it clear to the local chairman that he did not intend to stand at the next election. He and Hazel quietly prepared for a peaceful retirement in their beloved East Anglia.

Shortly after the election, Ted was surprised to receive a call from 10 Downing Street: “The Prime Minister would like to see Sir Ted at 11.30 tomorrow morning.” Ted couldn’t imagine why Edward Heath should want to see him. Although he had of course visited Number 10 on several occasions when he was a Member of Parliament, those visits had only been for cocktail parties, receptions, and the occasional dinner for a visiting head of state. He admitted to Hazel that he was a little nervous.

Ted presented himself at the front door of Number 10 at 11.17 the next day. The duty clerk accompanied him down the long corridor on the ground floor, and asked him to take a seat in the small waiting area that adjoins the Cabinet Room. By now Ted’s nervousness was turning to apprehension. He felt like an errant schoolboy about to come face to face with his headmaster.

After a few minutes a private secretary appeared. “Good morning, Sir Ted. The Prime Minister will see you now.” He accompanied Ted into the Cabinet Room, where Mr Heath stood to greet him. “How kind of you to come at such short notice, Ted.” Ted had to suppress a smile, because he knew the Prime Minister knew that it would have taken the scurvy or a localised hurricane to stop him from answering such a summons.

“I’m hoping you can help me with a delicate matter, Ted,” continued the Prime Minister, a man not known for wasting time on small-talk. “I’m about to appoint the next Governor of St George’s, and I can’t think of anyone better qualified for the job than you.”

Ted recalled the day when Mrs Thompson had asked him to think about standing for Parliament. But on this occasion he didn’t require a week to consider his reply even if he couldn’t quite bring himself to admit that although he’d heard of St George’s, he certainly couldn’t have located it on a map. Once he’d caught his breath, he simply said, “Thank you, Prime Minister. I’d be honoured.”