57
Buckingham Palace
The Mini Cooper was waiting curbside when Samantha emerged from Lord Radcliff’s house. Her phone rang the instant she settled into the passenger seat.
“Well?” asked Gabriel.
“We had a rather spirited exchange, to put it mildly.”
“He denied everything?”
“But of course. Then, after threatening to sue me to death, he told me the truth.”
“Why would he do a thing like that?”
“Because it turns out that his lordship was a bit player in a much broader conspiracy to bring down the Edwards government. And he wasn’t going to take the fall alone.”
“Did he name names?”
“Quite a few,” said Samantha. “But you’ll never guess the name of the ringleader.”
“Be still, my beating heart.”
“Mine’s going a mile a minute.”
“Have you got the receipts?”
“A recording, actually. Now if you’ll excuse me,” she said before ringing off, “I have a story to write.”
* * *
Prime Minister Hillary Edwards emerged from Number Ten promptly at ten fifteen and took to the lectern to deliver her farewell address. She had prepared the text without the help of her speechwriters and memorized it during her sleepless final night in Number Ten’s private apartment. She made no mention of the scandal that brought down her government or of her successor. Nor did she make any attempt to defend her turbulent premiership, having decided to leave that to the historians and the press. She was resigned to the fact that their verdict was likely to be harsh.
At the conclusion of her remarks, she slid into her official Range Rover Sentinel and left Downing Street for the last time as prime minister. A few tourists gawked at her during the short drive to Buckingham Palace, but there was no show of support. The King’s equerry, kilted and adorned with decorations, greeted her in the central quadrangle and escorted her upstairs to the 1844 Room, where His Majesty waited. Their conversation was brief, a few pleasantries, a question or two about her children and her plans. Then she handed over her resignation and it was done. She was left with the distinct impression that the monarch was not sorry to see her go.
The equerry then marched her downstairs to the quadrangle and helped her into the Range Rover. Her phone was lying on the back seat, quivering with a stream of incoming text messages. She assumed they were expressions of support from her Party colleagues, the same colleagues who had unceremoniously cast her out of Number Ten. She would grant herself a few hours’ reprieve before responding—time enough, she reasoned, for the sting of her public defenestration to subside. She was not yet fifty and had no intention of retiring from the Commons and fading into obscurity. Memories of the Federov fiasco would soon fade, and she would once again stand for Party leader. There was nothing to be gained by petty vindictiveness.
But as her Range Rover sped along Birdcage Walk, the stream of text messages suddenly turned to a raging river. She reluctantly took up her phone and read the message that was bannered across the top of the screen. It was the MP from Waveney, a steadfast friend and ally.
He must be stopped . . .
There was no indication of who he was or why this fellow needed stopping. But subsequent messages quickly unraveled the mystery. Several contained a link to a breaking news story that had appeared while Hillary was meeting with the King. Written by Samantha Cooke, it said that the Telegraph had obtained a recording of the prominent London financier Lucinda Graves conspiring with the ousted Conservative Party treasurer Lord Michael Radcliff to bring down the Edwards government. The centerpiece of the plot was the million-pound Federov contribution. It had been made, according to a Party insider, with the specific intention of harming the prime minister.
A prime minister, thought Hillary Edwards, who had just handed her resignation to the King.
She rang Stephen Frasier.
“We shall see, indeed,” he said. “I had a feeling it was something big.”
“Now we know why Samantha was asking you about the financial reform package. I only wish she had published her story a few minutes earlier. I would have thought twice about resigning.”
“Had you done that, Hillary, you would have thrown the Party into turmoil.”
“If the messages on my phone are any indication, the Party already is in turmoil. Someone has to convince Hugh to cancel his meeting with the King. He is in no position to accept an invitation to form a new government.”
“Nor, for that matter, should His Majesty extend one.”
“Talk about turmoil,” said Hillary.
“Perhaps you should ring him.”
“His Majesty?” she quipped.
“Hugh Graves. If he’ll take anyone’s call, it’s yours.”
“What a splendid idea.”
Her first call to Graves went straight to his voicemail. When two more attempts to reach him met with the same result, she called Stephen Frasier again.
“Much to my surprise,” she said darkly, “Hugh isn’t answering.”
“That’s probably because he’s now on his way to the Palace.”
“Someone has to tell him to turn around.”
“Agreed,” said Frasier. “But who?”
* * *
