Jeffrey Archer - First Among Equals

Charles Seymour 138

Simon Kerslake 135

Alec Pimkin 15”

There was a gasp followed by prolonged chatter, which lasted until members noticed that the chairman remained standing as he waited for some semblance of order to return among his colleagues.

“There being no outright winner,” Sir Cranley continued, “a second ballot will take place next Tuesday without Mr. Pimkin.”

The national press surrounded Pimkin as he left the Commons that afternoon, wanting to know whom he would advise his supporters to vote for in the second ballot. Pimkin, obviously relishing every moment, declared a little pompously that he intended to interview both candidates in the near future and ask them one or two apposite questions. He was at once dubbed “Kingmaker” by the press, and the phones at his home and office never stopped ringing. Whatever their private thoughts, both Simon and Charles agreed to see Pimkin before he told his supporters how he intended to cast his vote.

Elizabeth sat alone at her desk willing herself to go through with it. She glanced down at the faded file that she had not looked at for so many years. She sipped the brandy from the tumbler by her side, both of which she had discovered in the medicine cabinet a few minutes before. All her years of training and commitment to the Hippocratic oath went against what she felt she must now do. While Simon had slept soundly she had lain awake considering the consequences, then made the final decision. Simon’s career came first. She picked up the receiver, dialed the number, and waited. She nearly replaced it at once when she heard his voice.

“730-9712. Charles Seymour speaking.”

“It’s Elizabeth Kerslake,” she said, trying to sound confident. There was a long silence in which neither of them spoke.

Once Elizabeth had taken another sip of brandy she added, “Don’t hang up, Mr. Seymour, because I feel confident you’ll be interested in what I have to say.”

Charles still didn’t speak.

“Having watched you from a distance over the years I am sure that your reaction to Carson’s question in the Commons last week was not spontaneous.”

Charles cleared his throat but still didn’t speak.

“And if anything else happens this week that could cause my husband to lose the election, be assured I shall not sit by and watch.”

There was still no reply.

“I have a file in front of me marked ‘Miss Amanda Wallace and if you wish all its contents to remain confidential I would advise you to avoid any repercussion of your antics. It’s packed with names Private Eye would wallow in for months.”

Charles said nothing.

Elizabeth’s confidence was growing. “You needn’t bother to inform me that such an action would get me struck off the medical register. That would be a small penalty for watching you have to suffer the way my husband has this week.” She paused. “Good day, Mr. Seymour.”

Charles still didn’t speak.

Elizabeth put the phone down and swallowed the remainder of the brandy. She prayed that she had sounded convincing because she knew she could never carry out such a threat.

Charles took Pimkin to dinner at White’s — where Alec had always wanted to be a member — and was escorted to a private room on the first floor.

Charles didn’t wait long to ask, “Why are you going through with this charade? Don’t you realize I would have won it in the first round, if you hadn’t stood?”

Pimkin bridled. “No doubt, but I haven’t had so much fun in years.”

“Who the hell got you your seat in the first place?”

“I well remember,” said Pimkin. “And I also remember the price you exacted for it. But now it’s my turn to call the tune, and this time I require something quite different.”

“What are you hoping for? Chancellor of the Exchequer in my first administration?” said Charles, barely able to keep the sarcasm from his voice.

“No, no,” said Pimkin, “I know my worth; I am not a complete fool.”

“So what do you want? Membership of White’s? Perhaps I could fix that.”

“Nothing as mundane. In return for putting you into Downing Street I expect to be translated to the House of Lords.”

Charles hesitated. He could always give Pimkin his word; and who other than Pimkin would notice if in three years’ time he didn’t carry it through?

“If you and your fifteen men vote for me next Tuesday I’ll put you in the Lords,” said Charles. “You have my word on it.”

“Good,” said Pimkin. “But one small thing, old chum,” he added as he closely folded his napkin.

“Christ — what do you want now?” asked Charles, exasperated.

“Like you, I want the agreement in writing.”

Charles hesitated again, but this time he knew he was beaten. “I agree,” he said.

“Good, then it’s a deal,” said Pimkin. Looking round for a waiter he added, “I rather think champagne is called for.”

When Pimkin put the same proposition two days later Simon Kerslake took some time before he answered. Then he said, “That’s a question I would have to consider on its merits at the time, if and when I became Prime Minister.”

“So bourgeois,” said Pimkin as he left Simon’s room. “I offer him the keys to No. 10 and he treats me like a locksmith.”

Charles left the Commons that night having spent his time going round a large cross-section of his supporters, and he was reassured to discover they were standing firm. Wherever he went in the long Gothic corridors members singly or in groups came up to pledge their support. It was true that Kerslake’s windfall of £300,000 was fast becoming yesterday’s news, but Charles still felt enough blood had been let from that wound to ensure his final victory, even though he still cursed Pimkin for holding up the result. One anonymous note, with all the necessary details, sent to the right Labour member, had certainly proved most effective. Charles cursed as he realized Elizabeth Kerslake had successfully stopped any further covert attacks on his rival.

When he arrived home he was appalled to find Amanda waiting for him in the drawing room.

“I thought I told you to stay away until the middle of next week?”

“I changed my mind, Charlie,” said Amanda.

“Why?” he asked suspiciously.

“I think I’ve earned a little reward for being such a good girl.”

“What do you have in mind?” he asked as he stood by the mantelpiece.

“Fair exchange.”

“For what?”

“For the world rights to my life story.”

“Your what?” said Charles in disbelief. “Who is going to be the slightest bit interested in you?”

“It’s not me they’re interested in, Charlie, it’s you. The News of the World have offered me £100,000 for the unexpurgated story of life with Charles Seymour.” She added dramatically, “Or what it’s like to live with the second son of an earl who will go to any lengths to become Prime Minister.”

“You can’t be serious,” said Charles.

“Deadly serious. I’ve made quite a few notes over the years. How you got rid of Derek Spencer but failed to pull the same trick on Clive Reynolds. The extremes you went to trying to keep Simon Kerslake out of the House. How your first wife swapped the famous Holbein picture of the first Earl of Bridgwater. But the story which will cause the most interest is the one in which the real father of young Harry Seymour is revealed because his dad’s life story was serialized in the People a couple of years ago, and that seems to be one episode they missed out.”

“You bitch. You know Harry is my son,” said Charles, advancing toward her. But Amanda stood her ground.

“And perhaps I should include a chapter on how you assault your wife behind the closed doors of your peaceful Eaton Square mansion.”