Jeffrey Archer - First Among Equals

Raymond turned scarlet but before he could speak the head of chambers continued.

“Now I want your word on it,” said Sir Nigel, “that it will end, and end immediately.”

“You have my word,” said Raymond quietly.

“I’m not a prig,” said Sir Nigel, pulling down on his waistcoat, “but if you are going to have an affair for Cod’s sake make it as far away from the office as possible and, if I may advise you, that should include the House of Commons and Leeds. There’s still a lot of the world left over and it’s full of women.

Raymond nodded his agreement: he could not fault the head of chambers’ logic.

Sir Nigel continued, obviously embarrassed. “There’s a nasty fraud case starting in Manchester next Monday. Our client has been accused of setting up a series of companies that specialize in life insurance but avoid paying out on the claims: I expect you remember all the publicity. Miss Arnold has been put on the case as a reserve junior. They tell me it could last several weeks.”

“She’ll try and get out of it,” said Raymond glumly.

“She already has, but I made it quite clear that if she felt unable to take the case on she would have to find other chambers.”

Raymond breathed a sigh of relief. “Thank you,” he said.

“Sorry about this. I know you’ve earned your silk, old boy, but I can’t have members of chambers going around with egg on their faces. Thank you for your cooperation: I can’t pretend I enjoyed that.”

“Got time for a quiet word?” asked Charles.

“You’re wasting your time, dear thing, if you imagine the disciples will change their minds at this late stage,” said Alec Pimkin. “All twelve of them will vote against the Government on Europe. That’s final.”

“I don’t want to discuss Europe this time, Alec. It’s far more serious, and on a personal level. Let’s go and have a drink on the terrace.”

Charles ordered the drinks, and the two men strolled out on to the quiet end of the terrace toward the Speaker’s house. Charles stopped as soon as he was certain there was no longer anyone within earshot.

“If it’s not Europe, what is it?” asked Pimkin, staring out at the Thames.

“What’s this I hear about you losing your seat?”

Pimkin turned pale and touched his bow tie nervously. “It’s this bloody boundary business. My constituency is swallowed up, and no one seems willing to interview me for a new one.”

“What’s it worth if I secure you a safe seat for the rest of your life?”

Pimkin looked suspiciously up at Charles. “Almost anything up to a pound of flesh,” he added with a false laugh.

“No, I won’t need to cut that deep.”

The color returned to Pimkin’s cheeks. “Whatever it is, you can rely on me, old fellow.”

“Can you deliver the disciples?” said Charles.

Pimkin turned pale again.

“Not on the small votes in committee,” said Charles, before Pimkin could reply. “Not on the clauses even, just on the second reading, the principle itself. Standing by the party in their hour of need, no desire to cause an unnecessary general election, all that stuff — you fill in the details for the disciples. I know you can convince them, Alec.”

Pimkin still didn’t speak.

“I deliver a copper-bottomed seat, you deliver twelve votes. I think we can call that a fair exchange.”

“What if I get them to abstain?” said Pimkin.

Charles waited, as if giving the idea considerable thought. “It’s a deal,” he said, never having hoped for anything more.

Alexander Dalglish arrived at Eaton Square a little after eight. Fiona met him at the door and explained that Charles had not yet returned from the Commons.

“But I expect him any moment,” she added. “May I offer you a drink?”

Another thirty minutes passed before Charles hurried in. “Sorry I’m late, Alexander,” he said, grasping his guest by the hand. “Hoped I might make it just before you.” He kissed his wife on the forehead.

“Not at all,” said Alexander, “I couldn’t have asked for more pleasant company.”

“What will you have, darling?” asked Fiona.

“A strong whisky, please, and can we go straight into dinner? I’ve got to be back at the talkshop by ten.”

Charles guided his guest toward the dining room and seated him at the side of the table before taking his place below the Holbein portrait of the first Earl of Bridgwater, an heirloom his grandfather had left him. Fiona took a seat opposite her husband. During the meal of Beef Wellington, Charles spent a great deal of time catching up on what Alexander had been doing since they had last met. Although they had spent three years together in the Guards as brother officers they rarely saw each other outside of regimental reunions since Charles had entered the House. He made no mention of the real purpose behind the meeting until Fiona provided the opportunity when she served coffee.

“I know you two have a lot to talk about, so I’ll leave you to get on with it.”

“Thank you,” said Alexander. He looked up at Fiona and smiled. “For a lovely dinner.”

She smiled back and left them alone.

“Now, Charles,” said Alexander, picking up the file he had left on the floor by his side. “I need to pick your brains.”

“Go ahead, old fellow,” said Charles, “only too delighted to be of assistance.”

“Sir Edward Mountjoy has sent me a pretty long list for us to consider, among them a Home Office minister and one or two other Members of Parliament who’ll be losing their present seats. What do you think of...?”

Dalglish opened the file in front of him as Charles poured him a generous glass of port and offered him a cigar from a gold case that he picked up from the sideboard.

“What a magnificent object,” said Alexander, staring in awe at the crested box and the engraved C.G.S. along its top.

“A family heirloom,” said Charles. “Should have been left to my brother Rupert, but I was lucky enough to have the same initials as my grandfather.”

Alexander handed it back to his host before returning to his notes.

“Here’s the man who impresses me,” he said at last. “Kerslake, Simon Kerslake.”

Charles remained silent.

“You don’t have an opinion, Charles?”

“Yes.”

“So what do you think of Kerslake?”

“Strictly off the record?”

Dalglish nodded, but said nothing.

Charles sipped his port. “Very good,” he said.

“Kerstake?”

“No, the port. Taylor’s ’35. I’m afraid Kerslake is not the same vintage. Need I say more?”

“Well, no, I follow your drift but it’s most disappointing. He looks so good on paper.”

“On paper is one thing,” said Charles, “but having him as your member for twenty years is quite another. You want a man you can rely on. And his wife — never seen in the constituency, you know.” He frowned. “I’m afraid I’ve gone too far.”

“No, no,” said Alexander. “I’ve got the picture. Next one is Norman Lamont.”

“First class but he’s already been selected for Kingston, I’m afraid,” said Charles.

Dalglish looked down at his file once again. “Well, what about Pimkin?”

“We were at Eton together. His looks are against him, as my grandmother used to say, but he’s a sound man, and very good in the constituency, so they tell me.”

“You would recommend him then?”

“I should snap him up before another constituency adopts him.”

“That popular, is he?” said Alexander. “Thanks for the tip. Pity about Kerslake.”

“That was strictly off the record,” said Charles.

“Of course. Not a word. You can rely on me.”

“Cigar to your liking?”