X

IN DOWNING STREET

AFTER OUR CONFERENCE with the River Police I looked in at Ingard House, mainly to try to keep up Henniker’s morale. He was not happy. ‘I’m just wasting the bank’s money and my time,’ he said. ‘With the possible exception of the ships, which might be viable if they went back to being an independent company, the whole concern is insolvent. There’s really nothing more I can do except advise the bank to put in a liquidator. And you tell me I mustn’t do that yet.’

‘I want you to give us two more days,’ I said. ‘Today’s Monday. On Thursday morning you’re free of all obligation to me. I know it’s been hell for you, but try to bear it. I’m not exactly enjoying myself, either. Can you keep things ticking over, try to look busy, for just two more days?’

He laughed, a little bitterly. ‘I don’t go back on my word, wrong as I feel now that I was to give it,’ he said.

‘Were you brought up on Latin?’ I asked.

‘Well, I struggled with “mensa”, I suppose. But why on earth?’

‘I had a good Latin master, and he made us put Latin verse into English doggerel. It seemed pretty pointless at the time, but looking back, I think I got more from his Latin lessons than anything else in my life. I’m going to offer you a reflection from Horace now:

Tu ne quaesieris, scire nefas, quem mihi, quem tibi finem di dederint.

And an English doggerel version:

Don’t try to find out, mate

We’re not meant to know

To what sort of fate

God intends us to go.

‘I often find Horace comforting. He makes one realise that people went through it all a couple of thousand years ago.’

He laughed again, less bitterly. ‘You’re an odd character,’ he said. ‘Well, roll on Thursday.’

*

I felt the same. My plans were all made. One of the ‘Jewel Class’ of frigates, HMS Moonstone, was cruising off Ushant, hoping to pick up the Agnes when she entered the Channel. Assuming that she did pick her up, and that the Agnes went on up-Channel, arrangements had been made for aircraft from Plymouth and Southampton to keep an eye on her. Another frigate, HMS Onyx, would be waiting off South Foreland tomorrow afternoon, ready to take up the trail once the Agnes had come through the Strait of Dover. If things went on as we expected, I was to join Onyx by helicopter from Dover during the afternoon. Seddon would be on board the police launch.

I hate waiting for something to happen, but now there was nothing for it but to wait. And what made waiting worse was that we still had little more than guesswork to go on, and it was by no means certain that anything would happen at all. Doubtless the Ingard Group would be in liquidation by the end of the week. That would be a City sensation, and it was certainly important, but somehow I couldn’t work up a great deal of interest in the fate of the Ingard group.

As I should soon be giving up the relative luxury of my service flat I felt that I might as well use its facilities for lunch, though I didn’t feel much like eating. However, I had an omelette and a bottle of Piesporter Moselle sent up to my room. Over lunch it occurred to me that the one person at all intimately connected with Andrew Stavanger I had not yet met was his daughter, Mrs Carolan. I didn’t think that she could tell me much, and from what Miss Macdonald had said she wasn’t even greatly interested, but it would be tidier, I thought, if I went through the motions of calling on her. Carolan being a Cabinet minister, his home telephone number was ex-directory, but I had the number from Miss Macdonald – I had asked for it as a matter of routine, with the vague feeling that it might be useful to know it. I lifted the phone to ring her to ask for an appointment, when, for some reason, I decided not to ring beforehand. I decided instead to call, unannounced, at six o’clock, reckoning that she would quite probably be out during the afternoon, and might well be going out to dinner later. Six o’clock seemed a good sort of time to call – if she was in there was no reason why she shouldn’t see me, and if she was out I didn’t think that I’d miss much.

*

The Carolans had an attractive small Georgian house off Millbank, convenient for the House of Commons, and a pleasant place to live. It was not all that far from my apartment block in Chelsea and with nothing better to do I walked there. Mainly to look more official, I took with me my black briefcase which, as it happened, still held the file on the Southwark Bridge case. Mrs Carolan herself came to the door when I rang, which surprised me slightly, though I shouldn’t have been surprised in view of their public commitment to the more aggressive forms of political equality. I gave her a card, which simply said ‘Colonel Peter Blair, Police Liaison Department, Home Office’.

She looked at it, I thought rather distastefully, and I said, ‘I do hope I’m not bothering you at an awkward time, Mrs Carolan, but a possible new factor in your father’s apparent disappearance has just come to light, and I’d be immensely grateful if I could discuss it with you.’

‘My father hasn’t disappeared,’ she said. ‘I suppose that Macdonald woman has been keeping on at you. He has gone abroad somewhere on one of his ships – there’s no earthly reason why he shouldn’t. But you’d better come in. I can’t give you very long, but I must try to put a stop to this tiresome idea of my father’s disappearance.’

She took me into a beautifully furnished drawing room on the first floor, with a superb Cezanne from Carolan’s private collection on the wall facing you as you went in. ‘Would you prefer your husband to be present?’ I asked her. ‘I have some possibly distressing news of your father.’

‘My husband is speaking at Barrow-in-Furness, and he won’t be back in London before Wednesday,’ she said. ‘But what is your news – and who, incidentally, are you? Policeman normally come either from the local police station or from New Scotland Yard. I’ve never heard of your’ – she glanced at my card again – ‘Police Liaison Department. What is it?’

I explained briefly the department’s place in the scheme of things, adding, ‘You’re right in supposing that police inquiries were invoked by a certain Miss Macdonald, though I’m acting quite improperly by mentioning her name. I do so because you yourself mentioned her, and I’m anxious that you should understand precisely our position in the matter. Miss Macdonald’s story was, I’m afraid, so vague that the regular police passed it on to us, in case it might have any bearing on other matters with which we’re concerned. It’s just possible that it has. But before I go any further, would you like to check my identity? You can do so by ringing New Scotland Yard, and asking for Assistant Commissioner Seddon. He himself will probably not be there at this hour, but his office will be manned, and if you care to ask about my credentials I’m sure you will be satisfied.’

She stamped her foot slightly. ‘Oh, I don’t doubt you personally,’ she said. ‘But I am very much puzzled by what you say. I don’t see how my father’s cruise can have any conceivable interest for the police.’

I had come without any clear idea of what to say to her. Something in her manner made me want to question her more sharply than I had intended, and to give purpose to my visit I decided to produce an edited version of the Southwark Bridge case, suggesting that a body found in the Thames might just possibly be her father’s. Since I knew that the body was not that of Andrew Stavanger, this may seem heartless as I set it down, but I also knew that Mrs Carolan had shown so little interest in her father’s whereabouts over several months that whatever I said would not be likely greatly to upset her, particularly as what I proposed to say would soon be proved wrong.

‘Some months ago,’ I said, ‘early in June, to be precise, very soon after your father’s last known appearance in his office, the body of a man of about his age and build was found in the Thames. That body has not yet been identified, and for reasons which I need not now go into the case came to my department. When Miss Macdonald’s story was brought to us it seemed remotely possible that the unidentified body might be that of Mr Andrew Stavanger. That is why I have come to see you.’

Rather than appearing in any way distressed, she seemed suddenly somewhat relieved. ‘It can’t possibly be my father,’ she said. ‘But surely the matter can be settled easily enough by letting someone who knows my father see a photograph of the body?’

‘Indeed. That is precisely what has brought me here. You are your father’s next of kin, and the best possible source of identification. I shall be most grateful if you would look at the photographs I have with me. I must warn you that they are pictures of a dead man, and may be distressing to you.’

‘I’m not squeamish. And since I know that they can’t be photographs of my father, I don’t at all mind looking at them. If that’s all you want, let’s get on with it.’

I took the photographs from my briefcase and handed them to her. She began to look at them without much interest. ‘I can tell you quite definitely that this is not my father,’ she said. Suddenly she looked at one of the photographs more closely, and swayed a little. ‘But . . . but . . .’

I still don’t know why I said what I did. ‘Was it hot in Rome?’ I asked.

*

The effect was electrical. All trace of swaying gone, she took three brisk steps to a lovely eighteenth-century bureau that stood under the Cezanne, opened a drawer, and turned to face me with a small black automatic pistol pointed at my middle. ‘I don’t know who the hell you are,’ she said. ‘You may be on our side, but I’m taking no chances.’

‘It seems to me that you’re taking an appalling risk,’ I said as calmly as I could. ‘Suppose you actually fired that thing – your servants will come rushing in, and you’ll have a horrible amount of explaining to do.’

‘I haven’t got any resident servants,’ she said scornfully. ‘The explaining is a matter for you. And if I don’t like the explanation I shall certainly shoot you.’

‘Worse and worse. A dead body needs a great deal of explaining.’

‘Not at all. I shall say that you tried to rape me and that I fired in self-defence. Everybody will believe me.’

‘I take it that you have a firearms certificate?’

She laughed. ‘You can take it as you like, Mister or Colonel, or whoever you are. All that matters is that I’ve got the gun. Now tell me who sent you here.’

The pistol was unwavering. I tried not to look at it, but to look at her eyes instead. She was undoubtedly an attractive woman, and highly intelligent. Her eyes did not tell me much, but I thought she was more puzzled than frightened. ‘If you shoot me, you will never know why I came,’ I said. ‘And that might have a serious effect on your plans.’ As I talked, I edged a little nearer to her.

She was standing by the bureau under the Cezanne, facing the door. My back was to the door, so I had no chance of making a dash for it, and trusting that when it came to the point she would not, in fact, fire at me. There was a window to my right, looking onto the street, but as the drawing room was on the first floor it did not offer much hope of escape, even if I could get it open. Nevertheless, I thought the window might help. I looked away from her for a moment, and called out, ‘What’s that bloody man doing at the window?’

For a fraction of a second she took her eyes off me to look at the window, and in that split second I flung myself forward in a rugby tackle. As I got my left arm round her knees I grabbed her wrist with my right hand, and turned the pistol away from both of us. It went off as she fell, but the bullet went harmlessly into the wall, chipping the frame of the Cezanne, but fortunately missing the canvas. She was only a slip of a woman, a nice figure and no weight. She bit my ear and drew blood, in return for which I slapped her face. I had to twist her arm to make her drop the pistol, and as it fell on the carpet I picked it up, handling it by the end of the barrel. ‘It will be safer with me,’ I said. I stood up, and looked down at her huddled on the floor. My ear was bleeding quite severely, and a few drops of blood fell on the carpet before I could get my handkerchief to it. ‘I’m sorry about your carpet,’ I said, ‘but it is wholly your own fault.’

She looked at me venomously, but made no attempt to get up. A suspicion which had begun to form in my mind as I listened to her speaking became a certainty. ‘Perhaps you will tell us why you use the telephone in your father’s flat when you have a perfectly good phone in your own house,’ I said.

That really did startle her. ‘How much do you know?’ she asked.

‘Practically everything. Except that I am still waiting for you to identify the man whose photograph you looked at.’

‘Do you mean that you don’t know?’

I said nothing. Unhappily she put the right interpretation on my silence, and began to recover her nerve. She got up from the floor, patted her skirt distastefully, and sat on what I took to be a fine example of a Chippendale chair, using its elegance to display her own elegant legs. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ she said, ‘but I’ll make a bargain with you. If you clear out now and don’t come back, I’ll say nothing of this whole incident. You can’t stay here for ever. If you don’t go now, I shall scream and scream and accuse you of attempting to rape me. And you’ll go to prison for a long time. I hope you enjoy it.’

‘You’re forgetting the pistol,’ I said.

‘But you have the pistol. I shall say you threatened me with it.’

‘Yes, I do have the pistol. What you’re forgetting is that it has your fingerprints on it – mine are only on the barrel. It won’t do, Mrs Carolan. You see, I really do belong to the police, and there are a great many questions that my superiors will wish to ask you. We know about your curious visits to your father’s flat, and they require explanation. You clearly recognised the dead man in the photographs. He has been dead for some five months, and medical evidence in the case suggests strongly that he was murdered. Why have you not come forward with the information you undoubtedly possess? I am satisfied that the man is not your father, but I am far from satisfied that your father is alive. There are many other things, which I won’t go into now. But you will understand that I must ask you to accompany me to New Scotland Yard.’

‘Are you daring to arrest me?’

‘No, Mrs Carolan, I am not arresting you – whether or not you are ultimately arrested will depend on the explanations you can give. You are prominent in public life, and you know very well that the police are entitled to look to all citizens for help in dealing with crime, or suspected crime. I ask you to accompany me voluntarily to New Scotland Yard. If you refuse, I shall have no alternative but to arrest you, and that will mean most damaging publicity for your husband.’

‘You don’t offer much alternative. Do you want me to come now?’

‘Yes, please.’

‘Well, can I have a wash and get a few things?’

I was determined not to let her out of my sight. ‘There will be ample toilet facilities at New Scotland Yard, and anything you wish to send for can be collected for you,’ I said.

‘Very well. But you are going to pay heavily for all this.’

We went out of the house together. Never have I prayed so ardently for a taxi, and never have I been more thankful to see one. I opened the cab door for her, told the driver to take us to New Scotland Yard and got in with her.

*

Until that moment I don’t think Mrs Carolan really believed that I had anything to do with the police, and I’m sure that this helped considerably in getting her to come with me: she was intensely curious about me, and wanted to find out what I was up to. When she found that we were actually going to Scotland Yard she was much subdued.

If she was subdued, I was intensely nervous. The short trip from Millbank to New Scotland Yard took only a few minutes, and I had no clear idea of what I was going to do. I had called on Mrs Carolan expecting the interview to be short and purely a matter of routine – now I was taking the wife of a Cabinet Minister into custody on a charge that I couldn’t even formulate. The one thought in my mind was that somehow she had got to be kept out of the way for the next forty-eight hours, and not allowed to communicate with anybody.

When we got to New Scotland Yard I decided to behave with the utmost formality. One of my main difficulties was the fact that I knew scarcely any of the regular police. Fortunately the duty officer at the reception desk was a man I had met several times on visits to Seddon, and he accepted that my business was urgent. He sent for a woman police officer to take Mrs Carolan into a waiting room. ‘This lady is to be treated with every consideration,’ I said, ‘but she is on no account to be left alone, and she is not to be allowed to use a telephone without further instructions.’

With Mrs Carolan out of the way for the moment I could rally my own forces. It was getting on for eight o’clock, a bad time, but it was imperative to get hold of Seddon and Sir Edmund Pusey. I rang Seddon, and was thankful to find him at home. He promised to come to his office at once. Pusey, it turned out, had gone off to a big dinner in the City. I wrote a note asking him to drop whatever he was doing and to join Seddon and me at New Scotland Yard forthwith. A constable was sent off in a car to deliver the note and to bring Sir Edmund back.

*

Seddon arrived first, and we went up to his room. I gave him a hurried account of the evening’s adventures and he agreed that Mrs Carolan ought to be held. ‘But it’s going to be hellish difficult,’ he said. ‘If we arrest her she’ll have to appear before a magistrate in the morning, and then the balloon will go up. And what can we charge her with?’

‘Attempted murder of me, if necessary. I’ve got the pistol with her fingerprints on it, and there’s a bullet embedded in the wall of her drawing room. But I don’t want her to make a public appearance in court. We’ve still next to no idea of what she’s mixed up in, and the publicity she’ll get from appearing in court will alert everyone else concerned.’

‘Sure, but if we don’t arrest her, technically she’s free to go off at any time.’

‘We could hold her under the Prevention of Terrorism Act.’

Seddon drew in his breath. ‘Holding the wife of a Cabinet Minister under the Prevention of Terrorism Act would be a grave business, Peter.’

‘This is a grave business,’ I said.

*

Our discussion was interrupted by the arrival of Sir Edmund Pusey, wearing a dinner jacket. ‘We hadn’t even got through the soup,’ he said. ‘What on earth are you up to now?’

I told my story again. However maddening some of his other characteristics can be, Sir Edmund always redeems himself by his utter loyalty to those he calls his people. He asked no questions, and made no comment on my story. ‘There’s only one thing to do,’ he said, ‘and we must do it at once. We must see the Prime Minister.’

*

The Prime Minister was also at a dinner, at which he was due to make a speech, but a little thing like that didn’t worry Sir Edmund Pusey. Within minutes he was on the phone to Sir Gervase Datchet, the secretary of the Prime Minister’s private office, at his home, and within half an hour a plan of campaign had been set in motion. The Prime Minister was to have his dinner and make his speech, but he would then plead a slight indisposition and return to Downing Street. There, at ten thirty, he would be ready to receive us. That left a bit of time in hand, and we had Mrs Carolan brought up to Seddon’s room. While we were waiting for her I asked Seddon to take particular note of her speaking voice. ‘I’m sure she’s the woman we heard talking on the phone in Andrew Stavanger’s flat,’ I said.

Mrs Carolan had recovered all her old jauntiness. ‘I wish to prefer a charge of rape against this man,’ she said, pointing at me. Then she noticed Sir Edmund’s dinner jacket. ‘Who are you?’ she asked rudely. ‘I feel that I’m living in a complete madhouse.’

Sir Edmund bowed politely. ‘I am Sir Edmund Pusey, formerly of the Diplomatic Service, now of the Home Office,’ he said. ‘Your allegations against Colonel Blair will, of course, be gone into if you insist, but my advice would be that in your own interests you should not pursue them. Colonel Blair is an officer of my department, and he called to see you in connection with the disappearance of your father, which we are investigating. Certain evidence suggests that you have been using your father’s flat to make telephone calls of a distinctly curious nature. It would be helpful to yourself as well as to us if you would explain them.’

‘Is there anything wrong in a daughter going to her father’s flat while he is away on a cruise?’

‘Ah, so you admit to going there?’

She saw the danger of her own question. ‘I admit nothing – I was asking a purely hypothetical question. You have no right to question me like this. I demand the presence of my solicitor.’

‘I have every right to ask questions – you are not compelled to answer them. But surely you understand that it would be better for everybody if the mystery of your father’s disappearance were cleared up informally without invoking other legal processes?’

‘Am I under arrest?’

‘No.’

‘Then I wish to go home.’

‘I’m sorry, Mrs Carolan, but I’m afraid that it’s not possible at the moment. You will be well looked after here.’

‘What powers have you got to hold me like this?’

‘You may be satisfied that we have powers.’

We got no further with Kate Carolan. She refused to say anything at all, and after a few minutes of futile and one-sided conversation on our part, the woman police officer took her away. ‘Phew!’ said Sir Edmund. ‘What a formidable woman! It’s all very well to say that we have power to hold her, but I’m not at all sure that we have. Perhaps we should all be looking forward to dignified retirement. We’ll just have to see what the PM feels about things.’

‘I think you’re right, Peter,’ Seddon said. ‘I don’t know that swearing to a voice is very good evidence, but I’d be prepared to say that she’s the woman we heard in the flat.’

Absurd as it was I was slightly relieved that the rape charge appeared to have been dropped. I gave the pistol to Seddon for the fingerprints to be examined and recorded.

*

Mr Vespasian Smith has observed (some may feel that he has observed it rather too often) that if a child born Smith has wise parents they will provide an uncommon given name to modify the Smith. By this standard his own parents showed exceptional wisdom, for the ‘Vespasian’ was an undoubted asset in his political career. True, an Opposition newspaper some years back had published a photograph of what purported to be his birth certificate with the V standing for plain Victor instead of the memorable Vespasian, and it was alleged that Victor had become Vespasian only when Mr Smith became president of the Oxford Union and wanted publicity. But Mr Smith was not an able income tax lawyer – his profession before he became a Minister – for nothing, and the facts in the matter were subject to such a variety of interpretations that the precise origin of his Imperial Roman name remained obscure. The coalition over which he now presided was an uneasy one – probably all coalitions are – but although he had many political enemies he had succeeded so far in holding together a difficult team with remarkable skill.

He received us in one of the smaller rooms at No 10 Downing Street, accompanied only by Sir Gervase Datchet. Sir Edmund, of course, he knew by reputation, and he began affably enough, ‘Well, Pusey, what on earth do you mean by snatching a man away from his dinner?’

Pusey was equally amiable. ‘At least, sir, you were able to finish your dinner. I wasn’t allowed to get beyond the soup.’

‘And what’s it all about?’ said the PM.

‘Do you wish these proceedings minuted?’ Sir Gervase asked.

‘If the Prime Minister agrees, I think it would be better for our whole conversation to remain un-minuted,’ Sir Edmund put in. ‘What we have to say is confidential in the highest degree – for the Prime Minister’s ear alone.’

‘Do you wish me to withdraw?’

Sir Edmund looked at the PM. ‘I shall be happy to have Sir Gervase with us – I know that we can rely on his discretion. But it is a matter for you.’

‘You’re damnably mysterious. Of course Gervase must stay. Let’s get on with it.’

*

Sir Edmund can be the most devious of men, but when he wants to be, nobody can be more brutally direct. ‘I have to report, sir, that the wife of one of your Cabinet colleagues, Mrs Kate Carolan, this evening attempted to murder Colonel Blair, one of my officers, by firing a pistol at him when he was interviewing her in connection with what we believe to be a serious crime, or series of crimes. Mrs Carolan is at present being held at New Scotland Yard.’

‘Good God! Do you mean that she is under arrest and will have to come up in court tomorrow? The publicity will be appalling.’

‘Not exactly. For the moment she is being detained, but she has not been formally arrested because it might seriously prejudice other proceedings if she were to appear in court. That’s one of the things on which we need your advice.’

‘I don’t see how you can do it,’ said Sir Gervase. ‘Either she is arrested, in which case she must be brought before a magistrate within twenty-four hours, or she must be free to go home.’

‘She could be held under the Prevention of Terrorism Act,’ observed Sir Edmund.

‘The wife of a Cabinet Minister! Preposterous!’

‘It is not so preposterous,’ I said. ‘May I give you a brief outline of the facts?’ The Prime Minister nodded, and I went on, ‘Just over a fortnight ago the police were asked by the London Metropolitan Bank to investigate the possible forgery of a signature on a document purporting to withdraw £300,000 from the bank. The signature on the document is that of a man called Andrew Stavanger, who has disappeared. He was – or is, if he is still alive – Mrs Carolan’s father. She is the only child. We have found – may I stress that none of this is yet public knowledge – that a big City consortium, the Ingard Group, which made use of the £300,000, is on the rocks’ – Sir Gervase whistled slightly – ‘and, furthermore, that a shipping company incorporated in the group has been manipulated in ways that are yet to be explained. The indications are that some, at least, of the ships have been used for the smuggling of arms, almost certainly to Africa, and possibly to this country also. Mr Stavanger was the former owner of the shipping company, which was taken over by the Ingard Group a few years ago. We have further evidence that one of the company’s ships is on her way to England after making a curious and circuitous voyage. We have some clues to the possible destination of this ship, but our feelings here are not evidence, and I won’t elaborate on them. Just before we left to come here we learned that the ship has been sighted by HMS Moonstone, off Ushant, and she is believed to be making her way up-Channel. We are being given the fullest cooperation by the Navy, and another frigate, HMS Onyx, is standing by off South Foreland to pick her up, probably some time tomorrow evening, when she passes through the Strait of Dover. If our speculations are anywhere near the truth we expect her to be off a lonely part of the Essex marshes in the early hours of Wednesday morning. What will happen then we have no idea, but it is imperative that we should discover what she does. It is equally imperative that no one who may be connected with the affair should know that Mrs Carolan is in the hands of the police – and that she herself should have no opportunity of communicating with anybody else, not even with her husband.’

‘I see.’ The Prime Minister gave a little cough. ‘Is Carolan mixed up in any of this? He has been saying some very odd things lately.’

‘We don’t know. It seems inconceivable, but it also seems inconceivable that Mrs Carolan should pull out a pistol when I was asking her some questions about her father.’

‘If I may ask, Colonel Blair, how did you contrive not to be shot? I have met Mrs Carolan, of course, and she has always struck me as a most competent and determined woman.’

‘Well, she fired her pistol, but it so happened that – er – I was able to seize her wrist before she fired, and the bullet went harmlessly into the wall of her drawing room. It nearly damaged one of the famous Carolan Cezannes – it did hit the frame, but I think it just missed the canvas.’

‘You acted with commendable presence of mind. The dangers to which those who guard the security of the State are exposed are too seldom acknowledged,’ he said sententiously. I made a little bow, and he went on, ‘In all the circumstances I cannot see that it will do much harm to Mrs Carolan to be, shall I say, a temporary guest of the police, but what am I to do if Vivian Carolan demands action to find his missing wife?’

‘I don’t think he’s likely to do that tomorrow. He is speaking at Barrow-in-Furness tonight, and I daresay he’s got other things to do in the north-west. He’s not due back home until Wednesday. By then we shall know more about the ship and, perhaps, of various other things. It’s between now and Wednesday morning that she must be kept out of the way.’

‘Suppose Carolan rings up?’

‘He’ll just get no reply. He may be annoyed, but I doubt if he’ll come rushing back.’

‘It’s a risk that must be taken, I suppose. What, precisely, do you want me to do?’

‘We came, sir, primarily to report to you, so that you are forewarned in what may be a delicate political situation. I don’t think we need ask for any specific action on your part,’ Sir Edmund said. ‘Obviously there are political implications in Mrs Carolan’s activities, the more serious if her husband is in any way involved. You will judge those for yourself, and have your own means of taking such precautions as you think fit. We have explained why we want to hold Mrs Carolan incommunicado for the moment. If you think we have a reasonable case, I would suggest that you do nothing – except pass a private Act of Oblivion on all we have just said, so that if between now and Wednesday any question is raised concerning Mrs Carolan’s whereabouts, you can manifest ignorance.’

‘Which would not be strictly true, Sir Edmund.’

Pusey gave one of his charming little smiles. ‘In the very strictest sense it could be held to be true, because we have deliberately not told you just where Mrs Carolan will be spending her time in police custody. I am not even sure of this myself, because it has yet to be decided.’

‘You’re a dangerous man, Pusey,’ said the PM, ‘but, perhaps, a useful one. Well, gentlemen, it shall be as you wish, but you will understand that I cannot protect you if your plans come unstuck. Carolan has a considerable following in the country – not, I think, as large as he himself believes, but big enough to make it desirable for me to have him in the Government. If it turns out that he has seriously been – er – indiscreet, well, that is another matter. You understand what I mean.’

‘I understand you perfectly,’ said Sir Edmund.

‘That’s all right, then. You must keep me fully informed – Gervase will put you in touch with me at any time of day or night. I think that’s about all we can do for the moment. Goodnight, gentlemen – as you all seem to have missed your dinner, it’s high time you repaired to the police canteen. Don’t you go, Gervase. There’s a lot I want to talk to you about.’

*

We took our dismissal. ‘I think we can do rather better than the canteen,’ said Sir Edmund. ‘My wife will be at home now – let’s see what she can rustle up.’