Cometh the Hour

by Jeffrey Archer

  Mrs. Justice Lane looked down at Mrs. Clifton, whose head was bowed. During the past week she’d come to admire the defendant and felt she would like to get to know her better once the trial was over. But that would not be possible. In fact, she would never speak to the woman again. If she were to do so, it would unquestionably be grounds for a retrial.

  If the judge had to guess who had been responsible for leaking the letter, she would have placed a small wager on Sir Giles Barrington. But she never guessed, and never gambled. She only considered the evidence. However, the fact that Sir Giles was not in court that morning might have been considered as evidence, even if it was circumstantial.

  The judge turned her attention to Sir Edward Makepeace, who never gave anything away. The eminent silk had conducted his brief quite brilliantly and his eloquent advocacy had undoubtedly assisted Lady Virginia’s case. But that was before Mr. Trelford had brought Major Fisher’s letter to the court’s attention. The judge understood why neither Emma Clifton nor Lady Virginia would want the letter to be disclosed in open court, although she was sure Mr. Trelford would have pressed his client to allow him to enter it in evidence. After all, he represented Mrs. Clifton, not her brother. Mrs. Justice Lane assumed it wouldn’t be long before the jury returned and delivered their verdict.

  * * *

  When Giles phoned his constituency headquarters in Bristol that morning, he and his agent Griff Haskins didn’t need to hold a long conversation. Having read the front page of the Mail, Griff reluctantly accepted that Giles would have to withdraw his name as the Labour candidate for the forthcoming by-election in Bristol Docklands.

  “It’s typical Fisher,” said Giles. “Full of half-truths, exaggeration and innuendo.”

  “That doesn’t surprise me,” said Griff. “But can you prove it before polling day? Because one thing’s for certain, the Tories’ eve-of-poll message will be Fisher’s letter, and they’ll push it through every letterbox in the constituency.”

  “We’d do the same, given half a chance,” admitted Giles.

  “But if you could prove it was a pack of lies…” said Griff, refusing to give up.

  “I don’t have time to do that, and even if I did, I’m not sure anyone would believe me. Dead men’s words are so much more powerful than those of the living.”

  “Then there’s only one thing left for us to do,” said Griff. “Let’s go on a bender and drown our sorrows.”

  “I did that last night,” admitted Giles. “And God knows what else.”

  “Once we’ve chosen a new candidate,” said Griff, quickly slipping back into election mode, “I’d like you to brief him or her, because whoever we pick will need your support and, more important, your experience.”

  “That might not turn out to be an advantage in the circumstances,” Giles suggested.

  “Stop being so pathetic,” said Griff. “I’ve got a feeling we won’t get rid of you quite that easily. The Labour Party is in your blood. And wasn’t it Harold Wilson who said a week is a long time in politics?”

  * * *

  When the inconspicuous door swung open, everyone in the courtroom stopped talking and turned to watch as the bailiff stood aside to allow the seven men and five women to enter the court and take their places in the jury box.

  The judge waited for them to settle before she leaned forward and asked the foreman, “Have you been able to reach a verdict?”

  The foreman rose slowly from his place, adjusted his spectacles, looked up at the judge and said, “Yes, we have, my lady.”

  “And is your decision unanimous?”

  “It is, my lady.”

  “Have you found in favor of the plaintiff, Lady Virginia Fenwick, or the defendant, Mrs. Emma Clifton?”

  “We have found in favor of the defendant,” said the foreman, who, having completed his task, sat back down.

  Sebastian leapt to his feet and was about to cheer when he noticed that both his mother and the judge were scowling at him. He quickly resumed his seat and looked across at his father, who winked at him.

  On the other side of the court sat a woman who was glaring at the jury, unable to hide her displeasure, while her counsel sat impassively with his arms folded. Once Sir Edward had read the front page of the Daily Mail that morning, he’d realized that his client had no chance of winning the case. He could have demanded a retrial, but in truth Sir Edward wouldn’t have advised his client to put herself through a second trial with the odds tipped so heavily against her.

  * * *

  Giles sat alone at the breakfast table at his home in Smith Square, his usual routine abandoned. No bowl of cornflakes, no orange juice, no boiled egg, no Times, no Guardian, just a copy of the Daily Mail laid out on the table in front of him.

  12th November 1970

  Dear Mr. Trelford,

  You will be curious to know why I have chosen to write to you, and not Sir Edward Makepeace. The answer is, quite simply, I have no doubt that both of you will act in the best interests of your clients.

  Allow me to begin with Sir Edward’s client, Lady Virginia Fenwick, and her fatuous claim that I was nothing more than her professional advisor, who always worked at arm’s length. Nothing could be further from the truth. I have never known a client who was more hands-on, and when it came to the buying and selling of Barrington’s shares, she only had one purpose in mind, namely to destroy the company, whatever the cost, along with the reputation of its chairman, Mrs. Clifton.

  A few days before the trial was due to open, Lady Virginia offered me a substantial sum of money to claim that she had given me carte blanche to act on her behalf, in order to leave the jury with the impression that she didn’t really understand how the stock market worked. Let me assure you that in reply to Lady Virginia’s question to Mrs. Clifton at the AGM, “Is it true that one of your directors sold his vast shareholding in an attempt to bring the company down?” the fact is, that is exactly what Lady Virginia herself did on no fewer than three occasions, and she nearly succeeded in bringing Barrington’s down. I cannot go to my grave with that injustice on my conscience.

  However, there is another injustice that is equally unpalatable, and that I am also unable to ignore. My death will cause a by-election in the constituency of Bristol Docklands, and I know that the Labour Party will consider re-selecting the former Member of Parliament, Sir Giles Barrington, as its candidate. But, like Lady Virginia, Sir Giles is hiding a secret he does not wish to share, even with his own family.

  When Sir Giles recently visited East Berlin as a representative of Her Majesty’s Government, he had what he later described in a press statement as a one-night stand with a Miss Karin Pengelly, his official interpreter. Later, he gave this as the reason his wife had left him. Although this was Sir Giles’s second divorce on the grounds of adultery, I do not consider that that alone should be sufficient reason for a man to withdraw from public life. But in this case, his callous treatment of the lady in question makes it impossible for me to remain silent.

  Having spoken to Miss Pengelly’s father, I know for a fact that his daughter has written to Sir Giles on several occasions to let him know that not only did she lose her job as a result of their liaison, but she is now pregnant with his child. Despite this, Sir Giles has not even paid Miss Pengelly the courtesy of replying to her letters, or showing the slightest concern for her predicament. She does not complain. However, I do so on her behalf, and I am bound to ask, is this the kind of person who should be representing his constituents in the House of Commons? No doubt the citizens of Bristol will express their opinion at the ballot box.

  I apologize, sir, for placing the burden of responsibility on your shoulders, but I felt I had been left with no choice.

  Yours sincerely,

  Alexander Fisher, Major (Rtd.)

  Giles stared down at his political obituary.

  3

  “WELCOME BACK, CHAIRMAN,” said Jim Knowles as Emma walked into the boardroom. “Not that I doubted for a moment
that you would return in triumph.”

  “Hear, hear,” said Clive Anscott, pulling back Emma’s chair so she could take her place at the head of the table.

  “Thank you,” said Emma as she sat down. She looked around the boardroom table and smiled at her fellow directors. They all returned her smile. “Item number one.” Emma looked down at the agenda as if nothing untoward had taken place during the past month. “As Mr. Knowles convened this meeting at short notice, the company secretary hasn’t had time to distribute the minutes of the last board meeting, so I’ll ask him to read them to us now.”

  “Will that be necessary, given the circumstances?” asked Knowles.

  “I’m not sure I’m fully aware of the circumstances, Mr. Knowles,” said Emma, “but I suspect we’re about to find out.”

  Philip Webster, the company secretary, rose from his place, gave a nervous cough—some things never change, thought Emma—and began to read out the minutes as if he were announcing what train was due to arrive on platform four.

  “A board meeting was held at Barrington House on Tuesday 10 November 1970. All the directors were present, with the exception of Mrs. Emma Clifton and Mr. Sebastian Clifton, who both sent their apologies, explaining that they were otherwise engaged. Following the resignation of the deputy chairman, Mr. Desmond Mellor, and in the absence of Mrs. Clifton, it was agreed by common consent that Mr. Jim Knowles should take the chair. There then followed a long discussion on the future of the company and what action should be taken if Lady Virginia Fenwick were to win her libel case against Mrs. Clifton. Admiral Summers placed on record that he considered nothing should be done until the outcome of the trial was known, as he was confident that the chairman would be vindicated.”

  Emma smiled at the old seadog. If the ship had sunk, he would have been the last to leave the bridge.

  “Mr. Knowles, however, did not share the admiral’s confidence, and informed the board that he had been following the case closely and had come to the reluctant conclusion that Mrs. Clifton didn’t have ‘a snowball’s chance in hell,’ and that not only would Lady Virginia win, but the jury would award her substantial damages. Mr. Knowles then reminded the board that Mrs. Clifton had made it clear she would resign as chairman if that was the outcome. He went on to say that he considered it was nothing more than the board’s duty to consider the company’s future in that eventuality, and in particular who should replace Mrs. Clifton as chairman. Mr. Clive Anscott agreed with the acting chairman and proposed the name of Mr. Desmond Mellor, who had recently written to him explaining why he felt he had to resign from the board. In particular, he had stated that he could not consider remaining on the board while ‘that woman’ was in charge. There then followed a long discussion in the course of which it became clear that the directors were evenly divided on the issue of how to handle the problem. Mr. Knowles, in his summing-up, concluded that two statements should be prepared, and once the result of the trial was known, the appropriate one should be released to the press.

  “Admiral Summers stated that there would be no need for a press statement, because once Mrs. Clifton had been exonerated, it would be business as usual. Mr. Knowles pressed Admiral Summers on what he would do if Lady Virginia won the case. The admiral replied that he would resign as a member of the board, as there were no circumstances in which he would be willing to serve under Mr. Mellor. Mr. Knowles asked for the admiral’s words to be recorded in the minutes. He then went on to outline his strategy for the company’s future, should the worst happen.”

  “And what was your strategy, Mr. Knowles?” asked Emma innocently.

  Mr. Webster turned to the next page of the minutes.

  “It’s no longer relevant,” said Knowles, giving the chairman a warm smile. “After all, the admiral has been proved right. But I did consider it no more than my duty to prepare the board for every eventuality.”

  “The only eventuality you should have prepared for,” snorted Admiral Summers, “was handing in your resignation before this meeting took place.”

  “Don’t you think that’s a little rough?” chipped in Andy Dobbs. “After all, Jim was placed in an unenviable position.”

  “Loyalty is never unenviable,” said the admiral, “unless of course you’re a cad.”

  Sebastian suppressed a smile. He couldn’t believe anyone still used the word “cad” in the second half of the twentieth century. He personally felt “fucking hypocrite” would have been more appropriate, although, in truth, it wouldn’t have been any more effective.

  “Perhaps the company secretary should read out Mr. Knowles’s statement,” said Emma. “The one that would have been released to the press, had I lost the case.”

  Mr. Webster extracted a single sheet of paper from his file, but before he had the chance to utter a word, Knowles rose from his place, gathered up his papers and said, “That won’t be necessary, chairman, because I tender my resignation.”

  Without another word, he turned to leave, but not before Admiral Summers muttered, “Not a moment too soon.” He then fixed his gimlet eye on the two other directors who had backed Knowles.

  After a moment’s hesitation, Clive Anscott and Andy Dobbs also stood up, and quietly left the room.

  Emma waited for the door to close before she spoke again. “From time to time, I may have appeared impatient with the company secretary’s fastidious recording of the board’s minutes. I now concede that Mr. Webster has proved me wrong, and I apologize unreservedly.”

  “Do you wish me to record your sentiments in the minutes, madam chairman?” asked Webster, without a hint of irony.

  This time Sebastian did allow himself a smile.

  4

  ONCE HARRY HAD edited the fourth draft of Anatoly Babakov’s remarkable memoirs of Stalin’s Russia, all he wanted to do was take the first available flight to New York and hand the manuscript of Uncle Joe to his publisher, Harold Guinzburg. But there was something even more important that prevented him from leaving. An event he had no intention of missing, under any circumstances. His mother’s seventieth birthday party.

  Maisie had lived in a cottage on the Manor House estate since her second husband’s death three years before. She remained actively involved with several local charities, and although she rarely missed her daily three-mile constitutional, it was now taking her over an hour. Harry would never forget the personal sacrifices his mother had made to ensure he won a choral scholarship to St. Bede’s, and with it the chance to compete with anyone, whatever their background, including his oldest friend, Giles Barrington.

  Harry and Giles had first met at St. Bede’s over forty years ago, and seemed an unlikely pair to end up as best friends. One born in the back streets of the docks, the other in a private ward of the Bristol Royal Infirmary. One a scholar, the other a sportsman. One shy, the other extrovert. And certainly no one would have predicted that Harry would fall in love with Giles’s sister, except Emma herself, who claimed she had planned the whole thing after they’d first met at Giles’s twelfth birthday party.

  All Harry could remember of that occasion was a skinny little object—Giles’s description—sitting by the window, head down, reading a book. He had remembered the book, but not the girl.

  Harry met a very different young woman seven years later, when the grammar school joined Red Maids’ for a combined school production of Romeo and Juliet. It was Elizabeth Barrington, Emma’s mother, who noticed that they continued to hold hands after they’d left the stage.

  When the curtain came down on the final performance, Harry admitted to his mother that he’d fallen in love with Emma and wanted to marry her. It had come as a shock that Maisie didn’t seem delighted by the prospect. Emma’s father, Sir Hugo Barrington, made no attempt to hide his feelings, although his wife couldn’t explain why he was so vehemently opposed to any suggestion of them marrying. Surely he couldn’t be that much of a snob? But despite both their parents’ misgivings, Harry and Emma became engaged just before they went up to
Oxford. Both virgins, they didn’t sleep together until a few weeks before the wedding.

  But the wedding ended in tears because when the college chaplain said, “If any man can show any just cause why they may not lawfully be joined together, let him now speak, or else hereafter, forever hold his peace,” Old Jack, Harry’s mentor and friend, hadn’t held his peace, and told the congregation why he feared he had just cause.

  When Harry learned the truth about who his father might be, he was so distraught he immediately left Oxford and joined the Merchant Navy, unaware that Emma was pregnant, or that, while he was crossing the Atlantic, England had declared war on Germany.

  It wasn’t until he’d been released from prison, joined the US Army and been blown up by a German landmine, that he finally returned to England to be reunited with Emma, only to discover that he had a three-year-old son called Sebastian. Even then, it was still another two years before the highest court in the land decided that Sir Hugo Barrington was not Harry’s father, but, despite the ruling, both he and Emma were aware that there would always be a lingering doubt about the legitimacy of their marriage in an even higher court.

  Harry and Emma had desperately wanted to have a second child, but they agreed not to tell Sebastian why they had decided against it. Harry never, even for a moment, placed any blame on his beloved mother. It hadn’t taken a lot of digging to discover that Maisie had not been the first factory worker to be seduced by Hugo Barrington on the annual works outing to Weston-super-Mare.

  When Sir Hugo died in tragic circumstances, Giles inherited his title along with the estates, and the natural order of things was finally restored. However, while Harry had remained happily married to Emma, Giles had been through two divorces, and his political career now seemed to be in tatters.