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.