He came sixth in the list that morning, and on behalf of his absent client lan Kimmins apologized to the Reading magistrates and assured them it would not happen again. Charles received a fifty-pound fine and was banned from driving for six months. The whole case was over in four minutes.
When Charles was told the news by telephone later that day he was appreciative of Kimmins’s sensible advice and felt he had escaped lightly. He couldn’t help remembering how many column inches George Brown, the Labour Foreign Secretary, had endured after a similar incident outside the Hilton Hotel.
Fiona kept her own counsel.
At the time Fleet Street was in the middle of “the silly season,” that period in the summer when the press are desperate for news. There had only been one cub reporter in the court when Charles’s case came up, and even he was surprised by the interest the nationals took in his little scoop. The pictures of Charles taken so discreetly outside the Seymours’ country home were now glaring from the pages the following morning. Headlines ranged from “Six months’ ban for drink-drive son of earl” to “MP’s Ascot binge ends in heavy fine.” Even The Times mentioned the case on its home news page.
By lunchtime the same day every Fleet Street newspaper had tried to contact Charles — and so had the Chief Whip. When he did track Charles down his advice was short and to the point. A junior Shadow minister can survive that sort of publicity once, not twice.
“Whatever you do, don’t drive a car during the next six months and don’t ever drink and drive again.”
Charles concurred, and after a quiet weekend hoped he had heard the last of the case. Then he caught the headline on the front page of the Sussex Gazette, “Member faces no confidence motion”: Mrs. Blenkinsop, the chairman of the Ladies’ Luncheon Club, was proposing the motion — not for the drunken driving but for deliberately misleading her about why he had been unable to fulfill a speaking engagement at their annual luncheon.
Raymond had become so used to receiving files marked “Strictly Private,” “Top Secret,” or even “For Your Eyes Only” in his position as a Government Under-Secretary that he didn’t give a second thought to a letter marked “Confidential and Personal” even though it was written in a scrawled hand. He opened it while Joyce was boiling his eggs.
“Four minutes and forty-five seconds, just the way you like them,” she said as she returned from the kitchen and placed two eggs in front of him. “Are you all right, dear? You’re white as a sheet.”
Raymond recovered quickly, pushing the letter into a pocket before checking his watch. “Haven’t the time for the other egg,” he said. “I’m already late for Cabinet committee, I must dash.”
Strange, thought Joyce, as her husband hurried to the door. Cabinet committees didn’t usually meet until ten and he hadn’t even cracked open his first egg. She sat down and slowly ate her husband’s breakfast, wondering why he had left all his post behind.
Once he was in the back of his official car Raymond read the letter again. It didn’t take long.
Dear “Malcolm,”
I enjoid our little get together the other evening and five hundrud pounds would help me to forget it once and for all.
PS. I’ll be in touch again soon.
He read the letter once more and tried to compose his thoughts. There was no address on the top of the notebook paper. Neither letter nor envelope gave any clue as to where they had come from.
After he had arrived outside the Department of Employment Raymond remained in the back seat for several moments.
“Are you feeling all right, sir?” his driver asked.
“Fine, thank you,” he replied, and jumped out of the car and ran all the way up to his office. As he passed his secretary’s desk he barked at her, “No interruptions.”
“You won’t forget Cabinet committee at ten o’clock, will you, Minister?”
“No,” replied Raymond sharply and slammed his office door. Once at his desk he tried to calm himself and recall what he would have done had he been approached by a client as a barrister at the bar: first instruct a good solicitor. Raymond considered the two most capable lawyers in England to be Arnold Goodman and Sir Roger Pelham. Goodman was getting too high a profile for Raymond’s liking whereas Pelham was just as sound but virtually unknown to the general public. He called Pelham’s office and made an appointment to see him that afternoon.
Raymond hardly spoke in Cabinet committee, but as most of his colleagues wanted to express their own views nobody noticed. As soon as the meeting was over Raymond hurried out and took a taxi to High Holborn.
Sir Roger Pelham rose from behind his large Victorian desk to greet the junior minister.
“I know you’re a busy man, Gould,” Pelham said as he fell back into his black leather chair, “so I shan’t waste your time. Tell me what I can do for you.”
“It was kind of you to see me at such short notice,” Raymond began and without further word handed the letter over.
“Thank you,” the solicitor said courteously and, pushing his half-moon spectacles higher up his nose he read the note three times before he made any comment.
“Blackmail is something we all detest,” he began, “but it will be necessary for you to tell me the whole truth, and don’t miss out any details. Please remember I am on your side. You’ll recall only too well from your days at the bar what a disadvantage one labors under when one is in possession of only half the facts.”
The tips of Pelham’s fingers touched, forming a small roof in front of his nose as he listened intently to Raymond’s account of what had happened that night.
“Could anyone else have seen you?” was Pelham’s first question.
Raymond thought back and then nodded. “Yes,” he said. “Yes, I’m afraid there was another girl who passed me on the stairs.”
Pelham read the letter once more. “My immediate advice,” he said, looking Raymond in the eye and speaking slowly and deliberately, “and you won’t like it, is to do nothing.”
“But what do I say if she contacts the press?”
“She will probably get in touch with someone from Fleet Street anyway, even if you pay the £500, or however many other £500s you can afford. Don’t imagine you’re the first minister to be blackmailed, Mr. Could. Every homosexual in the House lives in daily fear of it. It’s a game of hide and seek. Very few people other than saints have nothing to bide, and the problem with public life is that a lot of busybodies want to seek.” Raymond remained silent, trying not to show his anxiety. “Phone me on my private line immediately after the next letter arrives,” said Pelham, scribbling a number on a piece of paper.
“Thank you,” said Raymond, at least relieved that his secret was now shared with someone else. Pelham rose from behind his desk and accompanied Raymond to the door. “You’ll be glad to see Yorkshire back as county champions,” said the solicitor as he walked down the long passage with the minister. Raymond did not reply. When they reached the outer door they shook hands formally. “I’ll wait to hear from you,” said Pelham. A pity that the man showed no interest in cricket.
Raymond left the solicitor’s office feeling better, but he found it hard to concentrate on his work the rest of that day and slept only in fits and starts during the night. When he read the morning papers he was horrified to see how much space was being given to Charles Seymour’s peccadillo. What a field day they would be able to have with him. When the post came, he searched anxiously for the scrawled handwriting. It was hidden under an American Express circular. He tore it open. The same hand was this time demanding that the £500 should be deposited at a newsagent in Pimlico. Sir Roger Pelham saw the minister one hour later.