'What d'you think'll happen?' Gregory asked.
'Chamberlain's days as Prime Minister are numbered. Not a doubt of that. This Norwegian affair will be the finish of him. I hope that for his own sake he will retire and leave it to history to vindicate him as a great English gentleman and a fine statesman; but I doubt if he'll do that.'
'D'you think Churchill will succeed him?'
'One can only pray that he will.' Sir Pellinore suddenly became enthusiastic. 'Churchill is the most inveterate enemy the Germans have ever had, and it's the Germans that we're fighting. For years he has stood, a defiant and almost solitary figure in the House, warning the nation of the peril into which Baldwin was allowing it to drift. I'm very proud today to be able to say that I have always believed in Churchill—even in his darkest hours, when nearly everyone had turned against him. He has the attributes of real genius in that he would have made a great name for himself in any profession that he had chosen.
His writings alone would have made him famous, because they have a quality that is unique and outstanding. The Admirals who worked under him when he was First Lord will all tell you that he would have made a great sailor, and had he continued in the Army there is little doubt that he would have gone down to history as a great military commander. He possesses qualities of imagination far beyond those of any of our other leaders and apparently perennial youth, which makes him ready and willing to consider new ideas; a lion's courage and a wonderful human touch which goes straight to the hearts of all who come in contact with him. He has served in practically every high office of the State and his policy with regard to Germany has been consistent, so it is only fair, now that he has been proved right after all these years, that the Premiership should go to him; and what's more, it is the wish of the people.'
'It seems a foregone conclusion that he'll get it, then.'
'Unfortunately, that's very far from being the case. The people have no say at all in who is to be Prime Minister. The House of Commons have no say. Even the Cabinet has no say. It rests almost entirely with the outgoing holder of the office. Chamberlain will go to the Monarch and when he hands in his resignation he will suggest his successor. The unwritten constitution is that the Monarch should either accept that nomination or send for the leader of the Opposition; and although we want the Socialists in, because they have some really first-class men like Bevin and Greenwood, they are not strong enough to carry the whole war on their shoulders with the other half of the country distrusting and criticising their every action.'
'Couldn't the King turn down the outgoing Prime Minister's nomination and send for somebody else who was in the same Party?'
'He could, but it would be contrary to all precedent and liable to prejudice the detached position of the Throne, the very strength of which lies in its aloofness from the dirt and chicanery of Party politics.
Therefore it is most unlikely that the Monarch would take such a step even in a major crisis.'
'In that case Chamberlain may nominate Sir John Simon or Sam Hoare, and from what you say the King's only alternative would be to send for Attlee.'
Sir Pellinore nodded his white head. 'That's the situation, and it's a very worrying one indeed; because, short of a public upheaval that would split all three parties from top to bottom and force a General Election—which is the very last thing we want just now—there would be nothing at all that anybody could do about it. This will be the last and most momentous decision that Neville Chamberlain is called upon to take; but even hedged in as he is, I don't think he can be in much doubt as to the nation's wish. It now remains to be seen if he really has the greatness with which I credit him and nominates Churchill, who criticised the Government so long and so bitterly before he was taken into the Cabinet, rather than one of his old friends with whom he has seen eye to eye for so many years. Let's go upstairs now, shall we?'
'Hurrah! The fatted calf!' cried Gregory, as on entering the library his eye was caught by a long-necked, cobwebby bottle which had been set ready on a salver with a corkscrew, duster and glasses beside it.
'What's that?' Sir Pellinore cocked a bushy white eyebrow.
'Oh, you mean the pre-1914 Mentzendorff's Kummel. Well, we said we'd knock a bottle off when you got home again—and by Jove you've earned it!' Picking up the duster he carefully cleaned the top of the bottle, inserted the wide, spiral cork-screw and with a skilful twist extracted the cork. He had a theory that even the best of modern servants did not understand the handling of fine liquor so he always insisted on uncorking the greatest rarities from his cellar himself. Having carefully wiped the lip of the bottle he poured out two portions and handed one to Gregory.
For a full minute they savoured its wonderful bouquet, then lifting his glass Sir Pellinore said: 'To Hell with Hitler!'
Following his example Gregory added: 'And here's Long Life to Churchill as Britain's Victory Premier and later first Duke of Chartwell.'
They drank and were silent for another minute; then Sir Pellinore exclaimed: 'Gad! What glorious tipple!
They don't make stuff like this in Russia these days; but there it is—the whole darned world's gone to pot in this last half-century.'
'By the by,' said Gregory, 'talking of Russians, did you meet my tame Bolshevik General when you were in Brussels?'
'What, Kuporopoff? Yes. He's a grand feller—man after my own heart.'
'Kuporovitch,' Gregory corrected him.
'That's it. Of course, he's a child compared with me but he's old enough to remember Paris as it was in its heyday. After we'd seen Erika home last night he and I had a rattling good yarn over some '96 Yquem that he had discovered in some pub or other, comparing notes about the high spots. Yes; I liked your friend, Kupothebitch—he's definitely one of us, although he is a foreigner.'
As he was speaking Sir Pellinore strode across to his desk. Pulling open one of the drawers he produced an envelope which he handed to Gregory. 'Little something for you, my boy; it'll buy you a bottle or two of good liquor while there's still something fit to drink left in this decadent world.'
Gregory glanced at the contents of the envelope and gave a gasp. It was a cheque for £10,000.
The elderly baronet was grinning with delight, obviously as pleased as a peacock with himself. 'Surprised you, eh? That extra nought was one more than you bargained for—but you've earned it.'
'It's—it's positively princely,' Gregory stammered. 'Even if I'd been working for money I shouldn't have expected a tenth of this.'
'Why not? You've killed more Germans so far in this war than the entire Brigade of Guards, and I'll bet that their keep has cost the nation more than 10,000 Jimmy-o'-goblins.'
'I can't see the Government setting such a high value on my services, though,' Gregory smiled.