Jeffrey Archer - First Among Equals

Charles came to a halt. “What’s the deal?”

“I keep quiet for the rest of my life and you present me with £50,000 now and a further £50,000 when you become leader.”

“You’ve gone mad.”

“Not me, Charlie, I’ve always been sane. You see, I don’t have a paranoia to work out on dear harmless brother Rupert. The News of the World will love that part now that he’s the fifteenth Earl. I can just see the picture of him wearing his coronet and decked out in his ermine robes.”

“They wouldn’t print it.”

“They would when they learn that he’s as queer as a two-pound note, and therefore our only son will collect the earldom when he’s not entitled to it.”

“No one would believe it, and by the time they print the story it will be too late, said Charles.

“Not a bit,” said Amanda. “I am assured by my agent that the true reason behind the resignation of the leader of the Conservative party would be an even bigger scoop than that of a one-time contestant.”

Charles sank down in the nearest armchair.

“Twenty-five thousand,” he said.

“Fifty thousand,” replied his wife. “It’s only fair. After all, it’s a double deal: no story to the press and you become leader of the Conservative party.”

“All right,” whispered Charles, rising to leave the room.

“Wait a minute, Charlie. Don’t forget I’ve dealt with you in the past.”

“What else are you hoping for?” said Charles, swinging round.

“Just the autograph of the next Tory leader,” she replied producing a check.

“Where the hell did you get hold of that?” asked Charles, pointing to the slip of paper.

“From your checkbook,” said Amanda innocently.

“Don’t play games with me.”

“From the top drawer of your desk.”

Charles snatched it from her and nearly changed his mind. Then he thought of his brother in the House of Lords, his only son not inheriting the title, and having to give up the leadership. He took out his pen and scribbled his name on the check before leaving his wife in the drawing room holding £50,000. She was checking the date and the signature carefully.

Simon and Elizabeth spent a quiet weekend in their country cottage while the photographers pitched camp in Eaton Square. They had received a leak from an “authoritative” source that Pimkin would come out in support of his old school chum.

“A brilliant move,” said Elizabeth over breakfast on the Sunday morning admiring the picture on the front page of the Observer .

“Another photo of Seymour telling us what he will do when he’s Prime Minister?” said Simon, not looking up from the Sunday Times.

“No,” said Elizabeth, and passed her paper across the table. Simon stared at the Holbein portrait of the first Earl of Bridgwater under the headline “A gift to the nation.”

“Good God,” said Simon. Are there no depths he will not sink to, to win this election?”

“My dear, by any standards you have delivered the coup de grace,” said Pimkin to Fiona over lunch that Sunday.

“I thought you would appreciate it,” said Fiona, pouring him another glass of his own wine.

“I certainly did and I particularly enjoyed the director of the National Gallery’s comments — ‘that Charles’s gesture of presenting the priceless painting to the nation was the act of a selfless man.’”

“Of course, once the story had been leaked to the press Charles was left with no choice,” said Alexander Dalglish.

“I realize that,” said Pimkin, leaning back, “and I would have given a dozen bottles of my finest claret to have seen Charles’s face the moment he realized the first Earl of Bridgwater had escaped his clutches forever. If he had denied giving the earl to the nation the publicity that would have followed would have certainly ensured defeat in the election on Tuesday.”

“Win or lose next week, he daren’t then suggest it was all done without his approval,” said Alexander.

“I love it, I love it,” said Pimkin. “I am told that Princess Diana will be unveiling the portrait on behalf of the nation — and rest assured that when she performs the official ceremony, I shall be there to bear witness.”

“Ah, but will Charles?” asked Fiona.

On Monday morning Charles’s brother phoned from Somerset to ask why he had not been consulted about donating the Holbein to the nation.

“It was my picture to dispose of as I pleased,” Charles reminded him and slammed down the phone.

By nine o’clock on Tuesday morning, when the voting took place for the last time, the two contestants had spoken to nearly every member twice. Charles joined his colleagues in the Members’ Dining Room for lunch while Simon took Elizabeth to Locketts in Marsham Street. She showed him some colored brochures of a holiday on the Orient Express which would be the most perfect way to see Venice. She hoped that they wouldn’t have time to go on the trip. Simon hardly mentioned the vote that was simultaneously taking place in the Commons but it never was far from either of their minds.

The voting ended at three-fifty but once again the Chief Whip did not remove the black box until four o’clock. By four-fifteen he knew the winner but did not reveal his name until the 1922 Committee had assembled at five o’clock. He informed their chairman at one minute to five.

Once again, Sir Cranley Onslow stood on the small raised platform in the committee room fourteen to declare the result. There was no need to ask if the people at the back could hear.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he said, his words echoing round the room, “the result of the second ballot for the leadership of the Tory Party is as follows:

Charles Seymour 130

Simon Kerslake 158.”

Just over half the members present rose and cheered while Bill Travers ran all the way to Simon’s room to be the first to report the news. When he arrived Simon swung round and faced the open door.

“You look and sound as though you’d run a marathon.”

“Like Pheidippides, I bring great news of victory.”

“I hope that doesn’t mean you’re going to drop down dead,” said Simon, grinning.

The new leader of the Conservative party said nothing more for a few moments. It was obvious that Pimkin had come out in favor of him. Later that night, one or two other members also admitted that they had changed their minds during the second week because they hadn’t liked the blatant opportunism of Charles presenting a priceless portrait to the nation only a few days before the final vote.

The following morning Fiona phoned Pimkin to ask him why he had acted as he did. “My dear Fiona,” he replied, “like Sidney Carton I considered it would be good to go to my grave knowing I had done one honorable thing in my life.”

It took only a week for Simon’s little house in Beaufort Street to be transformed. He could not as much as turn his head without facing a camera. Everywhere he went he was followed by a platoon of press men. He was surprised how quickly the experience became part of his daily routine, although Elizabeth never found it an edifying experience. She was, however, as booked up as Simon and once again they seemed only to meet in the evenings. He spent his first two weeks selecting the Shadow Cabinet he wanted to take into the next general election. He was able to announce the composition of his new team to the press fourteen days after his election as leader of the Conservative party. He made one sentimental appointment: that of Bill Travers as Shadow Minister of Agriculture.

When asked at a press conference why his defeated rival would not be serving in the team Simon explained that he had offered Charles Seymour the deputy leadership and any portfolio of his choice, but Charles had turned the offer down, saying he preferred to return to the back benches for the present time.