The dark world around Passolides seemed to stand still, only his tears had life, washing clean the ash-covered crucifixes as he retrieved them from the floor.
It was not finished. Two further pieces of paper slipped from the envelope. The first was a photocopy of a British Army service record, tracing the short career of a junior officer in a Scottish regiment from his induction in Edinburgh through service in Egypt. And onward to Cyprus. In 1956.
Passolides found the name at the top of the service sheet – now he recognized the officer in the photograph. Lieutenant, one day Prime Minister, Francis Ewan Urquhart.
And the second piece of paper. A primitive leaflet. Appealing to all to come tomorrow to the rally in Trafalgar Square.
At last Passolides knew the identity of the man he had been searching for. The man who had murdered his brothers. And, with a passion for Hellenic honour fermented over endless centuries, he knew what he had to do. Elizabeth woke to find he had stolen from their bed again. She followed the noises to the narrow galley kitchen. He was busying himself at the refrigerator when she walked in. 'I am sorry if I disturbed you' he apologized. 'Why can't you sleep, Francis?'
'There seems so little to sleep for.' There was a finality in his tone. 'Anyhow,' he offered in mitigation, 'I was hungry.' He had before him a large slice of Dundee cake and cheddar cheese, a favourite childhood delicacy which the family ghillie always produced during their beats across the Perthshire moors in search of grouse and deer. It had been years, he'd almost forgotten the sharp-sweet flavour. He began to consume the pieces slowly and with considered relish.
'You pay your midnight feast more attention than you do me in recent days, Francis. You've locked yourself away from me, looked straight through me, you've neither heard me when I've spoken nor offered answers to my questions. There's an anger, an impatience within you which drives you from my bed.' 'Bad dreams. They distract.'
'I've been your wife long enough to know it's not dreams which bother you,' she rebuked. 'Go to bed, Elizabeth.'
He took another mouthful, but she would not be moved.
'You're not running from your dreams, Francis, you're no child. And neither am I. You've never been like this with me before.' Her distress was evident. 'You are angry with me.' 'No.' 'Blame me for my folly with the letter.' 'No!'
'Think that I have helped destroy you.' She reproached him and reproached herself still more.
'We destroy ourselves. All that I have done would have been done whether the letter existed or not. And all that must be done, too.' 'What will you do?'
He looked at her but would not answer. He began munching again, carefully breaking morsels from both cheese and fruit cake, gathering up the crumbs. 'You shut me out.'
'There are some journeys we can only take on our own.'
'After all these years, Francis, it's as though you no longer trust me.'
He pushed aside his plate and came to her. 'Nothing could be further from my mind. Or from my heart. Through all these troubled times you have been the only one I could rely on, could reach for in the darkness and know you would be there. And if I've hurt you through my silence then the fault is mine, not yours, and I beg for your forgiveness. Elizabeth, you must know that I love you. That you are the only woman I have ever loved.' He said it with such force that there could be no doubting his sincerity.
'What will you do, Francis?' she repeated, demanding his trust.
'Fight. With all I have, for everything I have achieved.' 'In what way?'
'So many men spend their lives in fear of doing something wrong, of making error, that they do nothing except live in fear and slip uselessly away.' His eyes blazed contemptuous defiance. 'I will not go meekly into the night. The world will hear of my going. And remember.' 'It sounds so very final, Francis. You scare me.'
'If my life were to end at this moment, Elizabeth, there would be only one regret, that I would be leaving you behind. Yet we both know that the time must come. What matters is what I leave behind, for you. A legacy. A pride. Dignity. A memory people will applaud.' He smiled. 'And that Library.' 'I can't imagine life without you.'
'As I cannot imagine life without all this.' He waved his arms around the most private trappings of power. 'But there comes a time when the body is worn, the spirit tires, the sword is blunted by battle – and even love must have its rest. What survives, for those chosen few, is the name, even after all else has faded away. Immortality. I want you to trust me, Elizabeth. To support me in whatever it is I have to do.' 'I always have.'
'And know that whatever it is I do, I do for us both.'
'Then nothing has changed.' She seemed to relax, understanding bringing a measure of reassurance. She had always known he was not like other men; he lived by his own rules, it could come as no surprise to her that he intended to depart by his own rules, too. Whenever the time came. A time perhaps of his own choosing. She managed a smile as she reached for him.
He kissed her with great tenderness. 'I have so many reasons to be grateful to you, I scarcely know where to start. But let me start with your cake. It's delicious, Elizabeth. I think I shall have another slice.' 'I'll join you. If I may.'
TWELVE
The morning broke wound-pink beyond the cupola of St Paul's Cathedral and already the preparations had been underway for many hours. Road diversions had been posted along the route to Trafalgar Square, lamp posts and shop windows festooned with posters and his portrait, banners were being painted, reporters were turning phrases such as 'an Armada of faith' and 'the irresistible gale of revolution'. Makepeace was everywhere, the word upon all lips.
No one knew precisely how many would be joining Makepeace on the final stretch of his march from Watford or how many would be there to welcome him on his arrival, but after the derision which had been piled upon the West Midlands force following the fiasco in Birmingham, the capital's Police Commissioner had decided it was not a time for taking chances. Although there was no indication of trouble beyond the pressure of unknown numbers, the fountains in Trafalgar Square had been emptied, the great pump rooms beneath inspected for suspect packages, the metal crowd barriers collected like supermarket trolleys in neat rows across the square. The population of pigeons, avian mongrels, complained at the unexpected clatter and noise, rising in feathery spirals of protest and darkening the sky before trying to settle once again, furious at the continued disruption. Their homeland was being invaded; for the day, at least, the square would be snatched from them.
Urquhart had bathed early, Elizabeth bringing him a great soup cup of tea in the bath while the steam and hot waters restored the colour in his sleep-starved cheeks. She thought she heard him muttering, perhaps calling for her, but when she enquired he answered that he was simply practising a few lines for his final election speech. She had noticed that the bulky draft provided by his team of speech-writers remained untouched. 'They believe I can't win,' he explained, 'and it shows.' Neither had he touched his Ministerial boxes.
By the time he had completed his ablutions with a meticulous manicure, as though he had all the time in the world at his disposal, the crowd barriers were being put in place and interlocked around the square. A small number were left at sensitive points around Whitehall and particularly near the entrance to Downing Street, just in case. To keep the hounds from the bear. But little trouble was expected; in less than a week Makepeace's militia would be occupying the corridors of power as of right.