38

 

The Case of the Seven Bishops: seven bishops who protested against King James II’s Declaration of Indulgence.

 

 

2.39 p.m.

 

PERCH LEAVES HIS pantry office and heads through the clatter of the kitchen, out and along the corridor to the Boardroom.

He judges his arrival perfectly, with an instinct born of decades of service. Just as he enters by the Boardroom’s double doors, the last morsels of a long lunch are being scraped up, knives are being set down on empty plates, glasses and coffee cups drained.

Throughout the meal much laughter has been issuing from the Boardroom, echoing down the corridor to the kitchen, and the atmosphere as Perch comes in is markedly relaxed and convivial. The brothers have treated themselves to a couple of bottles of fine wine to accompany their veal escallope with potatoes au gratin and steamed mange touts followed by champagne mousse and a selection of cheeses and biscuits, but wine alone cannot account for the merriment. Perch suspects that the real reason is the absence of Master Sonny. There is always less tension in the Boardroom when he is not around.

As Perch covers the distance between the doors and the table, another peal of laughter springs from six sibling throats. Perch is neither so self-conscious nor so naïve as to think that he is the object of the brothers’ amusement.

“I trust the meal was acceptable?” he enquires as he gathers up the first of the empty cheese plates, Mungo’s.

“More than acceptable, Perch,” says Chas.

“I don’t suppose there’s any more of that champagne mousse, is there?” asks Wensley.

The enquiry is greeted by barracking hoots and pig-like grunts from his brothers.

“My blood-sugar level’s low,” Wensley protests.

“Alas, Master Wensley, your third helping entirely depleted our stocks,” says Perch with an exaggerated archness which is calculated to evoke further chortles and jeers from Wensley’s brothers, and which succeeds.

“Hey, Perch,” says Fred. “We were just discussing something. Perhaps you could help us.”

“I shall endeavour to assist in any way I can,” replies Perch, adding Thurston’s empty plate to the stack balanced expertly on the spread fingertips of his left hand.

“Do you think it’s true what they say about absolute power?”

“Corrupting absolutely?”

“That’s it.”

“I cannot for the life of me imagine what could have precipitated such a discussion among the sons of Septimus Day.”

“Let’s just say it’s an occupational hazard. Here you go.” Fred sets his plate on top of the stack. “Well? Do you have an opinion?”

“It isn’t really my place to have opinions, sir, and those I do hold it is not my place to air.”

Genial cries of “Come off it!” and “Nonsense!” are showered down on him.

“Very well then,” says Perch, coming to a halt between Fred and Sato. “I shall offer my opinion, but only because it was solicited. Power, sirs, is open to abuse if it is not subject to a system of checks and balances, as when, for instance, it is wielded by a dictator who can use oppression to silence those who raise their voices against him and force to eliminate those who would attempt to overthrow him. But does this mean that power per se is a corrupting influence? Surely the corruption exists already within the dictator; the flaw is already there, and power merely exacerbates it. Power of one person over another is created out of mankind’s willing need for guidance and rule. It would not exist were there not a demand for it, therefore we must assume that it is a good thing, a necessary thing, beneficial to all as long as those in authority remain answerable to those they have authority over. To draw an example from my immediate experience: you, sirs, might be said to have absolute power over this store and every customer and employee in it – and that is some considerable responsibility, given a gigastore’s importance to the economy and prestige of the nation it serves. But in order for your decisions to be beneficial to yourselves, they must also be beneficial to everyone under you. To put it at its crudest, any unwise policy you implement will lose you custom, therefore it is in your best interests to ensure that your policies are wise. Which, I hasten to add, they invariably are. In this sense, the absolute power you wield, far from corrupting you, encourages you to aspire to the highest nobility in thought and deed. In short, absolute power makes absolute sense.” He gives a small bow to indicate that he is done.

“Bravo!” exclaims Fred. “Good man!” He leads a warm round of applause, which lasts for as long as it takes Perch to gather up Sato’s plate and proceed, solemnly and unsmilingly, around the table to Sonny’s place, where an untouched main course sits, cooled and congealed.

“Am I to take it that Master Sonny will not be joining us?”

A furtive look passes between Mungo and Chas, which Perch pretends not to have noticed. The other brothers appear oblivious, perhaps busy mulling over his sagacious and not uncomplimentary words.

“It’s still possible,” says Mungo. “When Chas and I left him downstairs, he seemed open to the idea of some kind of solid sustenance for lunch.”

“No doubt he was referring to ice cubes,” quips Fred.

“I could have his meal reheated and take it down to him,” Perch offers.

Another brief meeting of Mungo’s and Chas’s gazes. Perch is quick to perceive that some kind of deception is going on.

“He seemed quite set on having lunch with us,” says Chas. “Something’s delayed him, obviously.”

“Best leave it here,” Mungo tells Perch.

“Very good, sir.”

Perch has no sooner left the Boardroom than the terminal by Thurston’s elbow gives a long, loud beep.

“Priority e-memo,” says Thurston. He removes his spectacles, huffs on the lenses, polishes them with his jacket sleeve, and returns them to the bridge of his nose, then hits a couple of keys.

“Who’s it from?” Sato asks.

“The Eye.” Thurston starts to read the message appearing on his screen.

His brothers look on, silent and curious. Chas catches Mungo’s eye and mouths the word “Sonny?” Mungo shakes his head fractionally: the e-memo can’t possibly have anything to do with Sonny’s trip downstairs.

“Shit,” says Thurston. He rests his thin wrists against the sides of the keyboard.

“Is that a good news ‘shit’ or a bad news ‘shit’?” Fred asks. “They sound pretty much alike.”

Thurston does not answer or take his gaze off the monitor. His eyes flick from left to right, rereading.

“It’s a bad news ‘shit’,” Fred confirms. “Shit.”