Cometh the Hour

by Jeffrey Archer

  “But I’m flying back to London this afternoon.”

  “Which is just dandy, because a case this important won’t be settled in a hurry. Don’t forget, Cyrus is on his honeymoon, and we wouldn’t want to spoil that, would we? Although I have a feeling he’ll be calling his lawyers from time to time.”

  “So what am I expected to do?”

  “Go home, prepare for the birth of your child and wait until you hear from me. And just a word of warning, Ginny. They’re certain to have a detective in London keeping an eye on you.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “Because it’s exactly what I’d do.”

  * * *

  Virginia boarded the 4:40 p.m. flight from Baton Rouge to New York. The plane landed at Kennedy just after 10 p.m.

  She made her way to Gate 42 and thought she’d stop on the way to pick up a copy of Vogue. But when she saw the Barnes & Noble window was dominated by two bestselling books, she marched straight past. She didn’t have long to wait before passengers were asked to board the plane for London.

  Virginia was met at Heathrow by a chauffeur once again supplied by Mellor Travel, who drove her down to Hedley Hall in Hampshire, the country home of Bofie Bridgwater. Bofie was there to greet her as she stepped out of the car.

  “Did you pull it off, my darling?”

  “I don’t know yet. But one thing’s for certain—when I return to London, I’m going to have to give birth.”

  24

  BUCK TREND PHONED Virginia the following day to tell her that two Pinkerton detectives were on their way to England to watch her every move and report back to Grant’s lawyers. One mistake, he warned her, and there would be no settlement. Was there even a possibility that Trend suspected she wasn’t pregnant?

  If Virginia was going to convince the two detectives that she was about to give birth, she would need the help of someone who was shrewd, resourceful and unscrupulous; in short, a man who considered fooling detectives and bending the law as simply part of his everyday life. She’d only ever met one person who fitted that description and, although she despised the man, Virginia didn’t have a lot of choice if the next eight weeks were to go as planned.

  She knew only too well that he would expect something in return, and it wasn’t money, because he already had enough for both of them. But there was one thing Desmond Mellor didn’t have, and wanted desperately—recognition. Having identified his Achilles’ heel, all Virginia had to do was convince him that as the daughter of the earl of Fenwick, and a distant niece of the Queen Mother, she had the key to unlock that particular door and fulfil his ambition to be tapped on the shoulder by Her Majesty and hear the words, “Arise, Sir Desmond.”

  * * *

  “Operation Childbirth” was run like a military campaign, and the fact that Desmond Mellor had never risen above the rank of sergeant in the pay corps, and had never set eyes on the enemy, made it even more remarkable. Virginia spoke to him twice a day, although they never met in person, once he’d confirmed that the two detectives had arrived in London and were watching her apartment night and day.

  “You must be sure they see exactly what they would expect to see,” he told her. “Behave like any normal mother-to-be, with only a few weeks to go before she gives birth.”

  Virginia continued to see Bofie and his chums regularly, for lunch, even dinner, at which she munched sticks of cucumber and drank glasses of carrot juice, eschewing champagne for the first time in her life. And when pressed, she never even hinted who the father might be. The gossip columns settled on Anton Delouth, the unsuitable young French man who had accompanied her to Tenerife, never to be seen again. The Express kept reprinting the one blurred photograph they had of them lying on a beach together.

  Virginia relentlessly carried out her daily routine, with touches of sheer genius supplied by Desmond Mellor. A chauffeur-driven car picked her up once a week from Cadogan Gardens and drove her slowly to 41A Harley Street, never running a red light, never seeking a faster lane. After all, she was heavily pregnant and, more important, she didn’t want the two Pinkerton detectives to lose sight of her. On arrival at 41A, a large, five-story Georgian town house with seven brass name plates by its door, Virginia reported to reception for her weekly appointment with Dr. Keith Norris.

  Dr. Norris and his assistant then examined her for over an hour before she returned to the car and was driven home. Desmond had assured her that the doctor was completely reliable and would personally deliver the child in his private clinic.

  “How much did you have to pay him to keep his mouth shut?”

  “Not a penny,” replied Desmond. “In fact, he only hopes that I’ll keep my mouth shut.” He let her wait for a moment before he added, “When Dr. Norris’s attractive young nurse became pregnant, he certainly didn’t want Mrs. Norris to find out why he’d chosen Mellor Travel to organize her trip to a clinic in Sweden.”

  Virginia was reminded once again that she didn’t need this man as an enemy.

  “There are two more people who must be informed of the impending birth,” said Mellor, “if you want the world to believe you’re pregnant.”

  “Who?” asked Virginia suspiciously.

  “Your father and Priscilla Bingham.”

  “Never,” said Virginia defiantly.

  * * *

  “Never” turned out to be a week later, in the case of Priscilla Bingham. When Virginia rang her old friend in Lincolnshire, Priscilla was reserved and somewhat distant—they had parted on sour terms after Virginia had caused the breakup of her marriage—until Virginia burst into tears and said, “I’m pregnant.”

  Priscilla’s ex-husband Bob Bingham, like everyone else, was curious to know who the father might be, but that was the one thing Priscilla couldn’t prise out of Virginia, even during a long lunch at the Mirabelle.

  Virginia took a little longer to obey Desmond’s second command, and even as the Flying Scotsman pulled into Edinburgh Waverley she was still considering returning to King’s Cross without leaving the train. However, she concluded she couldn’t win either way. If she told her father she was pregnant, he would probably cut off her allowance. On the other hand, if Buck Trend failed to secure a settlement and Papa were to discover she’d never been pregnant in the first place, he would undoubtedly disown her.

  When Virginia walked into her father’s study at ten o’clock that morning, looking eight months pregnant, she was shocked by his reaction. The earl assumed the Daily Express had got it right and Anton Delouth was the father, and the cad had run off and deserted her. He immediately doubled her allowance to £4,000 a month and only asked one thing in return: that once Virginia had given birth, she might consider visiting Fenwick Hall more often.

  “A grandson at last,” were the words he kept repeating.

  For the first time, Virginia didn’t curse the fact that she had three brothers who’d only sired daughters.

  * * *

  On Priscilla’s advice, Virginia placed an advertisement for a nanny in The Lady, and was surprised by how many replies she received. She was looking for someone who would take complete responsibility for the child: mother, governess, mentor and companion, as she had no intention of fulfilling any of these obligations. Priscilla helped her prune the applicants down to a short list of six, and Desmond Mellor suggested she interview them on separate days, so the two detectives would have something new to report back to Grant’s lawyers in Baton Rouge.

  After Virginia and Priscilla had interviewed the final five—one of them didn’t turn up—they both agreed that only one of the candidates ticked all the required boxes. Mrs. Crawford was a widow and the daughter of a clergyman. Her husband, a captain in the Scots Guards, had been killed in Korea, fighting for Queen and country. Mrs. Crawford turned out to be the eldest of six children and had spent her formative years raising the other five. Equally important, she had no children of her own. Even the earl approved of his daughter’s choice.

  * * *

  I
t occurred to Virginia that if she was to play out this charade to its ultimate conclusion, she needed to look for a larger establishment that would accommodate not only a butler and housekeeper but also the redoubtable Mrs. Crawford, along with her newborn child.

  After viewing several desirable residences in Kensington and Chelsea, closely observed by the two detectives, she settled on a town house in Onslow Gardens that had a top floor Mrs. Crawford assured her would make a satisfactory nursery. When Virginia looked out of the drawing-room window, she noticed one of the detectives taking a photograph of the house. She smiled and told the estate agent to take the property off the market.

  The only slight problem Virginia now faced was that despite her father’s generously increased allowance, she certainly didn’t have enough money in her bank account to pay for a nanny, a butler and a housekeeper, let alone the deposit on the house in Onslow Gardens. Her former butler, Morton, had phoned earlier in the week—he was no longer allowed to visit the flat—to say that Dr. Norris had provisionally booked Mrs. Morton into the clinic in a fortnight’s time. As Virginia climbed into bed that night, she decided she would have to call her lawyer in the morning. Moments after she’d fallen into a deep sleep, the phone rang. Only one person would consider calling her at that time of night, because he would still be sitting at his desk.

  Virginia picked up the phone and was delighted to hear the deep southern drawl on the other end of the line.

  “I guess you’ll be pleased to know we’ve finally agreed terms with Grant’s lawyers,” said Buck Trend. “But there are conditions.”

  “Conditions?”

  “There always are with a settlement this large.” Virginia liked the word “large.” “But we may still have a problem or two.” She didn’t care so much for “problem or two.” “We’ve agreed on a settlement of one million dollars, along with a maintenance order of ten thousand a month for the child’s upbringing and education.”

  Virginia gasped. Not in her wildest dreams … “How can that possibly be a problem?” she asked.

  “You must agree not to reveal the identity of the father to anyone, and that means anyone.”

  “I’m happy to agree to that.”

  “You and the child will never be allowed to set foot in Louisiana, and if either of you ever decide to travel to the United States, Grant’s lawyers must be informed at least a month in advance.”

  “I’ve only been to the States once in my life,” said Virginia, “and I have no plans to return.”

  “The child’s surname must be Fenwick,” continued Trend, “and Mr. Grant has to approve the Christian names you select.”

  “What’s he worried about?”

  “He wants to make sure that if it’s a boy, you don’t call him Cyrus T. Grant IV.”

  Virginia laughed. “I’ve already selected the name if it’s a boy.”

  “And if any of these conditions are broken at any time, all payments will immediately cease.”

  “That’s quite an incentive to keep to the agreement,” said Virginia.

  “All payments will automatically cease in 1995, by which date it is assumed the child will have completed his or her full-time education.”

  “I’ll be nearly seventy by then.”

  “And finally, Mr. Grant’s attorneys will be sending a doctor and a nurse to England to witness the birth.”

  Virginia was glad Trend couldn’t see her face. Once she’d put the phone down, she immediately rang Desmond Mellor to ask him how they could possibly get around that seemingly intractable problem. When the phone rang again at 7:45 the following morning, Desmond had come up with a solution.

  “But won’t Dr. Norris object?” asked Virginia.

  “Not while there’s a chance he might have to explain to his wife and children why he’s been struck off the medical register.”

  * * *

  Virginia waited until she heard the siren before she called her lawyer in Baton Rouge.

  “The baby’s going to be born prematurely,” she screamed down the phone. “I’m on my way to the hospital now!”

  “I’ll inform Grant’s attorneys immediately.”

  A few minutes later there was a loud knock on the door. When the butler answered it, one of the paramedics picked up Virginia’s overnight case, while the other took her gently by the arm and guided her to a waiting ambulance. She glanced across the road to see two men clambering into a car. When the ambulance arrived at 41A Harley Street, the two paramedics opened the back door and led their patient slowly into the private clinic, to find Dr. Norris and a staff nurse waiting for them. Norris left instructions that he should be told immediately the American doctor and his assistant arrived. He only needed fifteen minutes.

  Nobody took any notice of the couple who slipped out of the back door of the clinic and took a taxi for the first time in their lives. But then, it wasn’t every day the Mortons were handed a thousand pounds in cash.

  Virginia undressed quickly and put on a nightgown. After she had climbed into the bed the nurse dabbed some rouge on her cheeks and sprayed a little moisture on her forehead. She lay back, trying to look exhausted. Twenty-two minutes later the nurse rushed back in.

  “Dr. Langley and his assistant have just arrived and are asking if they can witness the birth.”

  “Too late,” said Dr. Norris, who left the patient to welcome his American colleagues.

  “We heard it was an emergency,” Dr. Langley said. “Is the baby all right?”

  “I can’t be sure yet,” said Norris, looking concerned. “I had to perform an emergency caesarean. The baby’s in an incubator, and I’ve given Lady Virginia a sedative to help her sleep.”

  Dr. Norris led them through to a room where they could observe the new-born infant in the incubator, seemingly fighting for its life. A narrow plastic tube inserted into one nostril was connected to a ventilator, and only the steady beeps of the heart monitor showed the child was actually alive.

  “I’m feeding the little fellow through a gastric tube. We just have to pray his fragile body will accept it.”

  Dr. Langley examined the child closely for some time before asking if he could see the mother.

  “Yes, of course,” said Norris. He led the two Americans through to the private room where Virginia was lying in bed, wide awake. Immediately the door opened, she closed her eyes, lay still and tried to breathe evenly.

  “I’m afraid it’s been rather an ordeal for the poor lady, but I’m confident she’ll recover quickly. I wish I could say the same for her child.”

  Virginia was relieved they only stayed for a few minutes, and she didn’t open her eyes until she heard the door close behind them.

  “If you’d like to remain overnight, we have a guest room, but if you return first thing in the morning, I’ll be able to give you my written report.”

  The Americans took one more look at the baby before leaving.

  Later that evening, Dr. Langley reported back to Grant’s lawyers that he doubted the child would make it through the night. But then, he had no way of knowing that the baby had never needed to be in intensive care in the first place.

  * * *

  Dr. Langley and his assistant returned to 41A Harley Street the following morning, when Norris was able to report a slight improvement in the child’s condition. His mother was sitting up in bed enjoying her breakfast. She looked suitably anguished and pale when they visited her.

  Other visitors dropped in during the week, including Virginia’s father and her three brothers, as well as Bofie Bridgwater, Desmond Mellor and Priscilla Bingham, who were all delighted by the child’s progress. Virginia was surprised how many people said, “He’s got your eyes.”

  “And your ears,” Bofie added.

  “And the ancestral Fenwick nose,” pronounced the earl.

  On the seventh day, mother and child were allowed to go home, where the responsibility for the infant was taken over by Nanny Crawford. However, Virginia had to wait another three weeks
before she could begin to relax, and that was only after she had been told, courtesy of Mellor Travel, that Dr. Langley and his assistant had boarded a plane for New York, accompanied by one of the detectives.

  “Why hasn’t the other one gone back with them?” she asked Mellor.

  “I don’t know yet, but I’ll find out.”

  * * *

  A wire transfer for $750,000 arrived at Coutts three days later, and was credited to the account of Lady Virginia Fenwick. Mr. Fairbrother rang and asked if her ladyship wanted the dollars converted into pounds.

  “What’s the spot rate as we speak?” Virginia asked.

  “Two sixty-three to the pound, my lady,” said a surprised Fairbrother.

  “So what amount in sterling would be credited to my account?”

  “£285,171, my lady.”

  “Then go ahead, Mr. Fairbrother. And send me confirmation the moment you’ve completed the transaction,” she added, before putting the phone down.

  Desmond Mellor smiled. “Word perfect.”

  * * *

  Virginia and a healthy little boy moved into No.9 Onslow Gardens sixteen days later, along with Nanny Crawford, the butler and a housekeeper. Virginia inspected the nursery briefly and then handed the child over to its willing new devotee, before disappearing downstairs.

  The christening was held at St. Peter’s, Eaton Square, and was attended by the earl of Fenwick, who made one of his rare visits to London, Priscilla Bingham, who had reluctantly agreed to be a godmother, and Bofie Bridgwater, who was delighted to be a godfather. Desmond Mellor kept a wary eye on a solitary figure seated at the back of the church. The vicar held the baby over the font and dipped a finger in the holy water, before making a sign of the cross on the child’s forehead.

  “Christ claims you for his own. Frederick Archibald Iain Bruce Fenwick, receive the sign of his cross.”

  The earl beamed, and Mellor looked around to see the lone detective had disappeared. He had honored his part of the bargain, and now he expected Virginia to keep hers.