The first he knew of it was Catesby reading to him. But for this, it often struck him later, he would not have known for days – weeks, even. How little of it would have broken through the bubble?
‘What do you suppose this means? Here, in the Henry Esmond column on the back page.’
The old man was holding a copy of the Sunday Post folded over a couple of times to make it manageable.
‘“What larks I hear at Uphill Park. As the black Zim roars out of one entrance, the black Humber growls in another.” Now what on earth is that about?’
Troy knew. ‘Henry Esmond’ was the Post’s William Hickey. Gossip, unattributable gossip, and anyone with a story he wouldn’t dare put his name to was free to use it. This was undoubtedly the work of Troy’s nephew Alex, staying just the right side of the libel laws by not naming the individuals frequenting Uphill. Only the makes of car. But, cabinet ministers drove Humbers, and few, if any, outside the Soviet Embassy staff drove Zims . . . just the odd British defector in Moscow.
It was an old technique. It might just work. Flush out your bird by daring the other newspapers to run with what they have. Let the competition beat for you. Then run with the whole damn shooting match and claim prior publication as your defence.
Sure enough, the following day Catesby appeared with the London Argus, still trying to make two and two make four.
‘Blowed if I understand it. Like a damned crossword puzzle. “Dr Patrick Fitzpatrick’s weekend parties at Uphill Park have of late been graced by guests of some distinction. Indeed it is reported that East has met West, and that Dr Fitzpatrick’s flatmates, the former fashion models Tara and Caroline Ffitch, are among the most obliging of hostesses to be found along the prime meridian. Oh lucky man who passes a weekend at country matters in this delightful Sussex retreat, long home to Viscount Athelnay.” D’ye think it’s in code?’
Troy did not as a rule read gossipcolumns and for a moment he wondered why Catesby did, then he realised that he read everything in the paper – cover to cover. It was his way of getting by. This was crude. ‘Country matters’ was the crudest of Shakespearian puns – too crude to need explanation, he thought. And if it did, he would not offer it.
Three days later the tabloids all ran with photographs of the Ffitch girls. None of them mentioned Tereshkov or Woodbridge. Oh, lucky Woodbridge. At the weekend, the Sunday Times ran a profile of ‘Harley Street socialite – Patrick Fitzpatrick’. The Observer interviewed him on the subject of his garlic beds. He must, Troy thought, have been drunk or desperate. Or perhaps this was Fitz’s way of containing the damage – give them a photo-opportunity and an interview on something absolutely harmless? But nothing Fitz could say now was harmless. They’d got him in their sights, and he was a fool not to see it.
Then, after ten days of unsubtle innuendo, Alex took his finger from the dyke and let the flood burst.
Catesby read it to Troy. He felt like a bad actor making far too much use of the man in the prompt box.
‘“Passing Dreyfus Mews the other day who should I find popping out from number 21 but that man-about-the-corridors-of-power Tim W**dbr*dge MP, Minister of State at the F*r*ign Office. Stopping to tie my shoelace I saw his red Mini Minor leave the mews at the northern end, and deciding that public safety necessitated I retie the other lace, I found myself still there when a dark blue Morgan rolled in the south end and that man-about-the-KGB Anton Tereshkov rang on the bell to be greeted with hugs and kisses by the delightful Ffitch sisters, the house guests of that man-about-everywhere Patrick Fitzpatrick. I sincerely hope the ladies do not catch cold, for it seemed to me that they were somewhat scantily clad for the time of year.”’
Catesby did not, for the first time, ask what it meant. It was all too obvious.
‘There’ll be questions,’ he said. ‘At least there’d better be.’
‘Could I see?’ said Troy.
Alex had swapped the symbolic vehicles for the real ones. Woodbridge did drive an outrageously red Mini, and Tereshkov had parked his expensive, un-Soviet, British-built Morgan next to Troy’s Bentley at Uphill. All the same, the precision of the encounter – in one end of the mews and out the other – seemed just that, symbolic, as it had in the first snippet, and it left Troy wondering about the extent of the real evidence. He wondered at the blanking out of five vowels. It did not keepthe Post the right side of libel and he doubted that they expected it to do so. It was a red rag to a bull. It showed exactly the direction they expected to take issue – it would not be Fitz or the sisters, and if it were Tereshkov it would be the first time in history that an agent of a foreign power had issued a writ for libel.
‘D’ye suppose he’ll sue?’ Catesby asked.
‘He’ll have no choice. They want him to.’
‘They want him to sue!’
‘They’ve got proof. Cast-iron proof, I should think. They clearly have much more than they’re saying. They’ve blanked his name to make him think they’re being coy for safety’s sake. In reality they want him to stepoutside the Commons and enter a realm where he has no immunity. If he sues he’s a fool. The most he can hope for is that it doesn’t get raised in the Commons. And I don’t think he stands a cat in hell’s chance of not being asked about it. Then the best he can do is say he does not have the time or the inclination to answer every piece of scurrilous gossip and whichever honourable member has raised it ought to have better uses for his time and so on.’
‘I see. What do you think he’ll do?’
‘I think he’ll deny it. And if he does, protocol demands he sue – last refuge of honour after all – and then the Post will produce God knows what, photographs, letters, and they’ve got him.’
‘It wasn’t like this when I was young.’
‘Yes it was,’ said Troy. ‘You just didn’t know it.’
It took less than a day. That evening, Jack Dorking, Woodbridge’s opposite number on the Labour benches, rose to ask if he would deny an affair with the mistress of a Soviet agent. It was more subtly put – one of those ‘Is the House aware?’ openers, when all of Britain was aware – and addressed not to Woodbridge but to the Home Secretary, Nicholas Travis, in his capacity as the man who should investigate should the gossip prove unfounded and a slur upon ‘a member of this House’. It defied logic, but it worked. Woodbridge got together with half a dozen cronies and denied it to the House the following day.
Just before lunch on the day after that, Troy and Catesby met as usual. Catesby shuffled into the conservatory, the morning papers under his arm and read out the ‘Woodbridge Statement Mark III ’.
‘“I wish to deny any rumour or allegation of any impropriety between myself and Miss Tara Ffitch or her sister Caroline. I have met the misses Ffitch, they are house guests of Dr Fitzpatrick of Harley Street. Dr Fitzpatrick maintains a weekend cottage on the estate of Lord Athelnay. Lord Athelnay and I are old friends – we have known one another since the war – indeed there are many in this House who would claim such friendship with Lord Athelnay. I have been a frequent recipient of his hospitality at Uphill, and I have met the misses Ffitch both at Lord Athelnay’s lodge and at the cottage of Dr Fitzpatrick. I can only recall two meetings with Mr Tereshkov. The first at a reception given by the Soviet Embassy for the visit of Mr Khrushchev in 1956, and the second at a reception given by the Prime Minister some eighteen months ago for the Russian cosmonaut Major Gagarin. I have accordingly instructed my solicitor to begin proceedings against the Sunday Post for libel.’
‘Well?’ said Catesby.
‘He’s damned,’ said Troy. ‘Damned for a tart.’