Browning looked at him quizzically. The smooth young man who seemed reluctant to accept his dismissal said acidly, “Mr. Matlock did not care to be driven here, Prime Minister. He walked with the car behind him.”
“Did he now? How very odd of you, Matt,” said Browning his smile re-appearing, even broader.
Matlock began to wonder how clever he had been. It had seemed a good publicity stunt to approach the House with the large official car crawling at his heels like a monstrous but obedient dog.
Several photographs had been taken and a large number of questions asked by the horde of journalists whose prowling ground this was. It had seemed a useful and entertaining manoeuvre.
Now faced by Browning’s enjoyment of the jest, it all seemed rather silly. Worse, he felt that something like this might have been exactly what Browning had planned. Then he reminded himself that Browning’s strength as a politician had always been his capacity for being unsurprised. It was said of him (by friends and foes alike) that he could turn a disaster into a forecast within a day, and into a plan by the end of the week.
The reluctant Clive having removed himself, Matlock was ushered to a chair, upright but comfortable — a compromise between the official and the domestic which he felt rather suited the situation. The Prime Minister himself looked very relaxed and unofficial. He was casually but immaculately dressed, and wore no tie. His crinkly brown hair had just that touch of untidiness which gave an effect of vigour and energy and which it was said took two hairdressers three hours a week to maintain. His square farmer’s face was aglow with health and he carried his fifteen stone lightly on his six foot plus frame. As always, Matlock felt physically diminished by the man, by his bulk, his lightness of foot, his vigour, the very richness of his voice.
“Now what about a drink, Matt? Whisky?”
“It’s too early in the morning to be patriotic, Prime Minister,” he answered.
Browning boomed with laughter, then came over to Matlock with two brimming glasses and sat beside him.
“We don’t see enough of you, Matt. This bunch of sycophantic moles I’m surrounded with make me take myself too seriously.”
“Only those in danger from delusion of grandeur need deflation,” said Matlock.
He took a sip of his drink and recognized without surprise his favourite Scotch. It was a long time since he had tasted it.
“They wouldn’t like this in Yorkshire,” he said, indicating his glass, referring to the main source of English whisky since the secession of Scotland.
“They’re not bloody well going to get it in Yorkshire,” laughed Browning.
“Anyway, we’ve got to support our neighbours. It’s like liar dice. You look after the man on your right.”
“I would hardly have thought the Scots, or anyone for that matter, were on your right, Prime Minister.”
Browning stood up and leaned against the mantelshelf. It was a perfectly casual move and one which fitted perfectly with the appearance of the man — a gentleman farmer elegantly at home in his own parlour. Not that such a creature had existed for half a century or more, but Matlock recognized it. He also recognized the picture behind Browning’s head.
“Careful, Matt. You’re talking about the party you helped to make great.”
It was a photograph of seven men and three women talking casually against a background of fruit trees in blossom.
Browning followed Matlock’s gaze and nodded twice.
“That was it. Matt. That first Cabinet. I was only a toddler then, but that picture means something to me.”
Matlock rose and moved towards the mantelshelf. Browning stepped aside.
“Have a good look, Matt. Those must have been great days.”
He watched with approval as Matlock reached up and unhooked the photo from the wall, and the approval remained as Matlock placed the picture face downwards on the mantelshelf and looked quizzically at the small oval-shaped discoloration on the wallpaper.
“It can only have started meaning something to you quite recently, Prime Minister. I would be interested in purchasing the miniature that used to hang here if you have grown tired of it.”
Browning downed his drink with gusto and went to pour himself another.
“It’s like a game, Matt; a great game. It’s marvellous to meet someone who’s almost as good as me at it. Or at least to meet someone who dares show he’s almost as good as me. I don’t surround myself by fools. Never did. That’s a fool’s policy. But they only let me see so much cleverness, no more. That’s what being clever is.”
“I take it you’re practising what you preach, Prime Minister?”
Browning slapped his thigh. Matlock had never seen anyone slap his own thigh, and he mentally applauded the naturalness of the innately ludicrous gesture.
“So you see me as a kind of subtle Iago? Dishonest even in his protestations of dishonesty? Why do you think I brought you here, Matt?”
“Invited. You invited me. I accepted your invitation.”
“And damn decent of you it was. Why?”
“Why what? Or rather, which why?”
“Answer what you will, Matt. It’s been all counter-punching so far. Let’s have some aggression.”
“How curious your terminology is. Boxing has been outlawed in this country for thirty years.”
“I travel a lot, Matt. It goes with the job. Go on talking.”
“All right. If you will. You’re obviously fishing for a cue. I’ll endeavour to pander to your theatrical whims and supply you with it. I think you would like to do a deal. I have some small nuisance value — perhaps more than I am aware. Your government is approaching Budget Day with greater trepidation than ever before. It’s worth an hour of your time trying to buy me off. But no more. Am I right?”
Browning looked full at Matlock, his body tense and now with no trace of merriment on his face.
“No, Matt. Wrong. I brought you here to have you killed.”
Matlock’s stomach twisted violently and he felt the blood drain from his cheeks, leaving his head light and giddy.
Then Browning’s great jovial laugh filled the room, echoing and re-echoing as the Prime Minister doubled up with mirth.
“I had you there, Matt. For a moment, you believed me. Admit it, eh?”
Matlock could say nothing. He took a long pull at his drink and sat stiffly, filled with self-loathing.
It’s true then. I fear death that much. It’s true. I am terrified. I am paralysed with fear at the awareness of death. It is true. This is the reality in the midst of all my moral abstractions. It is true. I am afraid, selfishly, egotistically, isolatedly afraid.
Browning was speaking again, with a serious note in his voice now.
“But all the same and joking apart, Matt, it’s a bit sad that it’s come to this between us. That you could really believe that, even for a moment, that I had the inclination or the power to have you killed. This is a democracy we live in, not a police state. I’m a civilized man, a politician. You’re an opponent, but I hope I can still keep you as a friend. And even politically we were once on the same side of the fence.”
Matlock still did not trust himself to speak. Browning went on.
“You were right of course. I’ve brought you here to offer you a deal. But before I do, there’s something I’d like you to see. You’re always ready to tell me what I am, Matt, to use my own words against me, to show the world how you feel I am being dishonest, deceptive, immoral. Sometimes what you say hits home, rings a bell. You may not think so, but it does. Well, I’m going to offer you a chance to take instead of give for a change. I’m not going to accuse, to point, to decry. Just show. We should all face our origins some time. Are you ready to do that here and now?”
Matlock pulled himself together. This was no time for introspection. He wondered how much of his reactions had shown and was thankful that he too was not unskilled in the use of political masks.