Jeffrey Archer - First Among Equals

“You look pleased with yourself,” said Charles, shaking out his umbrella before closing the front door. His wife stood in the hallway, her arms crossed.

“How has your day been?” she asked.

“So-so,” said Charles, wanting to hear the news. “But what about you?”

“Oh, pleasant enough. I had coffee with your mother this morning. She seems very well. A little cold in the head, otherwise—”

‘To hell with my mother. How did your lunch with Miss Trubshaw go?”

“I wondered how long it would take you to get round to that.”

She continued to wait just as long as it took for them to walk into the drawing room and sit down. “After seventeen years as secretary to your father and twelve years as secretary to the board there isn’t much Miss Trubshaw doesn’t know about Seymour’s or its present chairman,” Fiona began.

“So what did you discover?”

“Which do you want to hear about first, the name of his mistress or the number of his Swiss bank account?”

Fiona revealed everything she had learned over her two-hour lunch, explaining that Miss Trubshaw usually only drank fortified wine but on this occasion she had downed most of a vintage bottle of Pommard. Charles’s smile grew wider and wider as each fact came pouring out. To Fiona he looked like a boy who has been given a box of chocolates and keeps discovering another layer underneath.

“Well done, old girl,” he said when she had come to the end of her tale. “But how do I get all the proof I need?”

“I’ve made a deal with our Miss Trubshaw.”

“You’ve what?”

“A deal. With Miss Trubshaw. You get the proof if she remains as secretary to the board for a further five years, and no loss of benefit to her pension.”

“Is that all she wants?” said Charles, guardedly.

“And the price of another lunch at the Savoy Grill when you’re invited back on the board.”

Unlike many of his Labour colleagues Raymond now enjoyed dressing up in white tie and tails and mixing with London society. An invitation to the annual bankers’ banquet at the Guildhall was no exception. The Prime Minister was the guest of honor and Raymond wondered if he would drop a hint as to how long he expected the parliamentary session to last before he felt he had to call an election.

At the pre-dinner drinks Raymond had a quick word with the Lord Mayor before becoming involved in a conversation with a circuit court judge on the problems of the parity of sentencing.

When dinner was announced Raymond found his seat on one of the long fingers stretching away from the top table. He checked his place card. Raymond Gould QC, MP. On his right was the chairman of Chloride, Michael Edwardes, and on his left an American banker who had just taken up an appointment in the City.

Raymond found Michael Edwardes’s views on how the Prime Minister should tackle the nationalized industries fascinating, but he devoted far more of his attention to the Euro Bond manager from Chase Manhattan. She must have been thirty, Raymond decided, if only because of her elevated position at the bank and her claim to have been an undergraduate at Wellesley at the time of Kennedy’s death. He would have put Kate Garthwaite at far younger and was not surprised to learn she played tennis in the summer and swam every day during the winter — to keep her weight down, she confided. She had a warm, oval face, and her dark hair was cut in what Raymond thought was a Mary Quant style. Her nose turned up slightly at the end and would have cost a lot of money for a plastic surgeon to reproduce. There was no chance of seeing her legs as they were covered by a long dress, but what he could see left Raymond more than interested.

“I see there’s an ‘MP’ behind your name, Mr. Gould. May I ask which party you represent?” she asked, in an accent heard more often in Boston.

“I’m a Socialist, Mrs. Garthwaite. Where do your sympathies lie on this occasion?”

“I would have voted Labour at the last election if I had been qualified,” she declared.

“Should I be surprised?” he teased.

“You certainly should. My ex-husband is a Republican congressman.”

He was about to ask his next question when the toastmaster called for silence. For the first time Raymond turned his eyes to the top table and the Prime Minister. Harold Wilson’s speech stuck firmly to economic problems and the role of a Labour Government in the City and gave no clue as to the timing of the next election. Nevertheless, Raymond considered it a worthwhile evening. He had made a useful contact with the chairman of a large public company. And he had acquired Kate’s telephone number.

The chairman of Seymour, reluctantly agreed to see him a second time, but it was obvious from the moment Charles walked in when no hand was proffered that Derek Spencer intended it to be a short interview.

“I thought I ought to see you personally,” said Charles as he settled back in the comfortable leather chair and slowly lit a cigarette, “rather than raise my query at the AGM next month.”

The first sign of apprehension began to show on the chairman’s face, but he said nothing.

“I’m rather keen to discover why the bank should pay out a monthly check of £400 to an employee called Miss Janet Darrow, whom I have never come across, although it appears she has been on the payroll for over five years. The checks, it seems, have been going to a branch of Lloyds in Kensington.”

Derek Spencer’s face became flushed.

“What I am at a loss to discover,” continued Charles after he had inhaled deeply, “is what services Miss Darrow has been supplying to the bank. They must be quite impressive to have earned her £25,000 over the last five years. I appreciate that this is a small amount when you consider the bank’s turnover of 123 million last year, but my grandfather instilled in me at an early age the belief that if one took care of the pennies the pounds would take care of themselves.”

Still Derek Spencer said nothing, although beads of sweat had appeared on his forehead. Suddenly Charles’s tone changed. “If I find I am not a member of the board by the time of the Annual General Meeting I feel it will be my duty to point out this slight discrepancy in the bank’s accounts to the other shareholders present.”

“You’re a bastard, Seymour,” the chairman said quietly.

“Now that is not accurate. I am the second son of the former chairman of this bank and I bear a striking resemblance to my father, although everyone says I have my mother’s eyes.”

“What’s the deal?”

“No deal. You will merely keep to your original agreement and see that I am reinstated on the board before the AGM. You will also cease any further payments to Miss Janet Darrow immediately.”

“If I agree, will you swear never to mention this matter to anyone again?”

“I will. And, unlike you, I am in the habit of keeping my word.”

Charles rose from his chair, leaned over the desk, and stubbed out his cigarette in the chairman’s ashtray.

Andrew Fraser was surprised when he heard that Jock McPherson wanted to see him. The two men had never been on good terms since McPherson had failed to be elected to the Scottish Labour Party Executive Committee and had then left the party to stand against him at Edinburgh Carton Since McPherson had switched his allegiance they had barely been on speaking terms. However, Andrew realized it would be foolish not to see him after the SNP’s sweeping successes in the election.

Andrew was even more surprised when McPherson asked if all seven SNP Members of Parliament could also attend the meeting, not in Andrew’s office but somewhere private. He agreed, even more mystified.

McPherson and his band of renegade Scots arrived together at Cheyne Walk, looking as though they had already held a meeting between themselves. Andrew offered them a variety of seats, including the dining room chairs, a pouffe, and even the kitchen stool, apologizing that his London flat had never been intended to accommodate nine men in the drawing room.