Cometh the Hour (The Clifton Chronicles 6)

“I’ll see you both back at the house for dinner,” said Giles. “I’ve got a couple of errands to run. And by the way, sis, thank you.”

Harry hailed a taxi, and he and his wife climbed into the back. Giles didn’t move until the cab had turned the corner and was out of sight. He then headed off at a brisk pace in the direction of Fleet Street.

2

SEBASTIAN ROSE EARLY the following morning and after reading the Financial Times and the Daily Telegraph he just couldn’t see how his mother could hope to win her libel trial.

The Telegraph pointed out to its readers that if the contents of Major Fisher’s letter remained a secret, it wouldn’t help Mrs. Clifton’s cause. The FT concentrated on the problems Barrington’s Shipping would face should its chairman lose the case and have to resign. The company’s shares had already fallen by a shilling, as many of its shareholders had clearly decided that Lady Virginia was going to be the victor. Seb felt the best his mother could hope for was a hung jury. Like everyone else, he couldn’t stop wondering what was in the letter Mr. Trelford wouldn’t allow him to read, and which side it was more likely to help. When he had phoned his mother after returning from work, she hadn’t been forthcoming on the subject. He didn’t bother to ask his father.

Sebastian turned up at the bank even earlier than usual but once he’d sat down at his desk and begun trying to work his way through the morning mail, he found he couldn’t concentrate. After his secretary Rachel had asked him several questions which remained unanswered, she gave up and suggested he go to court, and not return until the jury had delivered its verdict. He reluctantly agreed.

As his taxi drove out of the City and into Fleet Street, Seb spotted the bold headline on a Daily Mail placard and shouted “Stop!” The cabbie swung into the curb and threw on his brakes. Seb jumped out and ran across to the paperboy. He handed him fourpence and grabbed a copy of the paper. As he stood on the pavement reading the front page he felt conflicting emotions: delight for his mother, who would now surely win her case and be vindicated, and sadness for his uncle Giles, who had clearly sacrificed his political career to do what he

considered the honorable thing, because Seb knew his mother would never have allowed that letter to be seen by anyone outside the family.

He climbed back into the cab and wondered, as he stared out of the window, how he would have reacted had he been faced with the same dilemma. Was the prewar generation guided by a different moral compass? He wasn’t in any doubt what his father would have done, or how angry his mother would be with Giles. His thoughts turned to Samantha, who had returned to America when he’d let her down. What would she have done in similar circumstances? If only she would give him a second chance, he wouldn’t make the same mistake again.

Seb checked his watch. Most God-fearing people in Washington would still be asleep, so he realized he couldn’t phone his daughter Jessica’s headmistress, Dr. Wolfe, to find out why she wanted to speak to him urgently. Was it just possible…?

The taxi pulled up outside the Royal Courts of Justice in the Strand. “That’ll be four and six, gov’nor,” said the cabbie, interrupting his thoughts. Seb handed him two half-crowns.

As he stepped out of the cab, the cameras immediately began to flash. The first words he could make out above the melee of hollering hacks was, “Have you read Major Fisher’s letter?”

* * *

When Mrs. Justice Lane entered court fourteen and took her place in the high-backed chair on the raised dais, she didn’t look pleased. The judge wasn’t in any doubt that although she had firmly instructed the jury not to read any newspapers while the trial was taking place, the only subject they would be discussing in the jury room that morning would be the front page of the Daily Mail. She had no idea who was responsible for leaking Major Fisher’s letter, but that didn’t stop her, like everyone else in that courtroom, from having an opinion.

Although the letter had been sent to Mr. Trelford, she was certain it couldn’t have been him. He would never involve himself in such underhand tactics. She knew some barristers who would have turned a blind eye, even condoned such behavior, but not Donald Trelford. He would rather lose a case than swim in such murky waters. She was equally confident that it couldn’t have been Lady Virginia Fenwick, because it would only have harmed her cause. Had leaking the letter assisted her, she would have been the judge’s first suspect.

Mrs. Justice Lane looked down at Mrs. Clifton, whose head was bowed. During the past week she’d come to admire the defendant and felt she would like to get to know her better once the trial was over. But that would not be possible. In fact, she would never speak to the woman again. If she were to do so, it would unquestionably be grounds for a retrial.

If the judge had to guess who had been responsible for leaking the letter, she would have placed a small wager on Sir Giles Barrington. But she never guessed, and never gambled. She only considered the evidence. However, the fact that Sir Giles was not in court that morning might have been considered as evidence, even if it was circumstantial.

The judge turned her attention to Sir Edward Makepeace, who never gave anything away. The eminent silk had conducted his brief quite brilliantly and his eloquent advocacy had undoubtedly assisted Lady Virginia’s case. But that was before Mr. Trelford had brought Major Fisher’s letter to the court’s attention. The judge understood why neither Emma Clifton nor Lady Virginia would want the letter to be disclosed in open court, although she was sure Mr. Trelford would have pressed his client to allow him to enter it in evidence. After all, he represented Mrs. Clifton, not her brother. Mrs. Justice Lane assumed it wouldn’t be long before the jury returned and delivered their verdict.

* * *

When Giles phoned his constituency headquarters in Bristol that morning, he and his agent Griff Haskins didn’t need to hold a long conversation. Having read the front page of the Mail, Griff reluctantly accepted that Giles would have to withdraw his name as the Labour candidate for the forthcoming by-election in Bristol Docklands.

“It’s typical Fisher,” said Giles. “Full of half-truths, exaggeration and innuendo.”

“That doesn’t surprise me,” said Griff. “But can you prove it before polling day? Because one thing’s for certain, the Tories’ eve-of-poll message will be Fisher’s letter, and they’ll push it through every letterbox in the constituency.”

“We’d do the same, given half a chance,” admitted Giles.

“But if you could prove it was a pack of lies…” said Griff, refusing to give up.

“I don’t have time to do that, and even if I did, I’m not sure anyone would believe me. Dead men’s words are so much more powerful than those of the living.”

“Then there’s only one thing left for us to do,” said Griff. “Let’s go on a bender and drown our sorrows.”

“I did that last night,” admitted Giles. “And God knows what else.”

“Once we’ve chosen a new candidate,” said Griff, quickly slipping back into election mode, “I’d like you to brief him or her, because whoever we pick will need your support and, more important, your experience.”

“That might not turn out to be an advantage in the circumstances,” Giles suggested.

“Stop being so pathetic,” said Griff. “I’ve got a feeling we won’t get rid of you quite that easily. The Labour Party is in your blood. And wasn’t it Harold Wilson who said a week is a long time in politics?”