A moment later Simon passed his wife another letter.
15 May 1989
Seymour’s Bank,
202 Cheapside,
London, EC1
Dear Mr. Kerslake,
I write to correct one fact to which the press have continually referred. Mr. Charles Seymour, the former chairman of this bank, did seek to return to Seymour’s after the Conservatives went into Opposition. He hoped to continue as chairman on a salary of £40,000 a year.
The board of Seymour’s did not fall in with his wishes.
Yours sincerely,
Clive Reynolds.
“Will you use it?” asked Elizabeth, when she had finished reading the letter through.
“No. It will only draw more attention to the issue.”
Elizabeth looked at her husband as he continued to read the letters, and remembered the file that she still possessed on Amanda Wallace. She would never reveal its contents to Simon; but perhaps the time had come to make Charles Seymour sweat a little.
On the Monday evening Simon sat on the front bench listening to the Financial Secretary moving those clauses of the short Finance Bill which were being taken in committee on the floor of the House. Charles never let any of Raymond Gould’s team get away with a phrase or even a comma if he could see a weakness in their case, and the Opposition were enjoying every moment. Simon sat and watched the votes slipping away, knowing he could do nothing to stop the process.
Of the three candidates only Pimkin slept well the night before the election.
Voting began promptly at nine o’clock the next day in the Grand Committee room of the House of Commons, the party Whips acting as tellers. By three-ten all but one of those entitled to vote had done so. John Cope, the Chief Whip, stood guard over the large black tin box until Big Ben struck four, when it became apparent that Mrs. Thatcher had decided to remain neutral.
At four o’clock the box was removed to the Chief Whip’s office and the little slips were tipped out and checked twice in less than fifteen minutes. As John Cope left his room he was followed, Pied Piper-like, by lobby correspondents hoping to learn the result, but he had no intention of divulging anything before he reached the 1922 Committee who were keenly awaiting him.
Committee room fourteen was filled to overflowing, with some 280 of the 289 Conservative Members of Parliament present. Their chairman, Sir Cranley Onslow, welcomed the Chief Whip and asked him to join him on the small raised platform. He did so and passed over a folded piece of paper. The chairman of the 1922 Committee rose, faced the committee, unfolded the piece of paper, and pushed up his glasses. He hesitated as he took in the figures.
“The result of the ballot carried out to select the leader of the parliamentary party is as follows:
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 o
ffer 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?”
“Its 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.”
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. “Its 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 fou
rteen 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.