The Madness of July (10 page)

Ruskin had good luck in his roving cabinet job that let him wander freely from his base in Downing Street, and he spent a good deal of time in the corridors of Flemyng’s building and on the other side of Whitehall in Defence, advertising himself as the most discreet listener in the business. He had also, like Flemyng himself, a particular fondness for the parliamentary maze, where he had made himself popular. He would cock a friendly ear, hear a personal story of difficulty, pass the word through the right channel. ‘Let’s have it out,’ he would say in his confiding way, perfectly mannered and easy at the same time. Francesca often remarked on the musicality of his voice. He was nearly two years younger than Flemyng and, unless fate intervened unkindly, would finish near the top. Wherry asked him to describe his role, and he gave a shrug and a smile. ‘Continuity, I suppose. Calm. Will’s speciality too.’

He looked at Flemyng. ‘Agreed?’

Engaging him directly, Ruskin gossiped with Flemyng about the Paris signing, and the coming French state visit. They turned to the government’s bout of summer nerves. ‘Summer heat and inflation in double digits… can’t beat it for panic. We know the pattern.’

‘The madness of July,’ Ruskin said. ‘There’s never a year when people don’t say the government can’t go on, we’re falling apart.’ Flemyng agreed. ‘It passes,’ he said, ‘like a fever.’

The summer term was always wild, especially when the temperatures rose. People said silly things, the newspapers fantasized and parliament fretted. All to be expected. ‘Tennis next week before we go our separate ways?’ Ruskin suggested. He was a member at Queen’s, and Lucy would fix a time. Settled.

‘Your office rang this morning,’ Flemyng said. ‘Anything up?’

‘Forget it,’ said Ruskin. ‘It can wait.’

About ten minutes had passed and Francesca wanted to signal time to Paul and Sassi. She knocked gently on the door to the box and opened it a crack. Everyone turned round. The two men rose but seemed reluctant to part, still bound up in conversation, heads together, their shadows intertwined on the dark red curtains around them. Francesca leaned towards Paul, and they came forward. Neither of them had alluded to acquaintanceship, but there was closeness on display.

As he emerged, Sassi said, ‘Good, Paul,’ as if to put an end to their conversation, and turned to the table, lightening his face as he did so. ‘We’ve sorted everything. The special relationship lives.’ Wherry said, ‘Bet it was baseball.’ Sassi put a playful finger to the side of his nose, as if it was a joke and his private time with Paul had been a mirage. The bell rang for Act II. Two minutes later, as the conductor entered the pit to take his bow, they were settling themselves in the box again.

Although Francesca could identify her husband’s unease, whose cause she had no means of identifying, he had the ability to conceal it from everyone else. Things might be shifting around him, but Flemyng looked untroubled. Alarms were hidden, except that she could sense that his easy balance had gone. To calm himself he would be thinking of a visit home to Altnabuie at the weekend. The lights were down, the applause died and she turned towards the stage.

An artificial silence descended on the box. Sassi was leaning forward, both hands on the velvet-covered rail. The stage lights were bright, and Francesca saw the guests’ dark outlines on the brilliant backdrop. She saw their box as a second stage set, on which the action had paused. Everyone around her, the Americans at the front and Flemyng and Paul at the back, was refusing to move.

The gunshot that brought the duel and the second act to an end was a loud crack, coming from the prompt corner just below them, and they could smell the powder. Paul sprang to attention in his chair, and took a moment to calm himself. Flemyng unfolded his arms. Wherry, sitting in front, remained quite still at the sound of gunfire. A hunter, for sure.

Paul didn’t waste a minute in the second interval, but took Flemyng aside. No one seemed surprised. The Americans were talking to Francesca, and she found Sassi exploring her Italian background, more distant than his own. ‘We were Naples,’ he said. ‘You?’

‘The north,’ said Francesca. ‘In the Veneto. But it was generations ago. I take it you’re more recent.’ Sassi offered little more. He continued, gently, to probe her. ‘I don’t often talk about my family,’ he said. ‘
Omertà
, you might say.’ Francesca laughed, enjoying his game.

Penny was dealing with the ministers and Flemyng and Paul were free to speak, standing in a corner, Paul with his back to the others. ‘Let’s talk about Washington and one of our bigger problems,’ he said, keeping his voice low. ‘An ambassador.’

Flemyng started and his eyes came up. ‘Dennis is home and dry,’ he said. ‘On his way. Surely.’ Old Inskip was getting his move from Paris, after years of manoeuvres, and the office was happy for him.

Paul said, ‘No. We’re changing horses, I’m sorry to say. Can’t say more, but you’ll be pleased. A grown-up appointment.’ Francesca had broken from Sassi but saw Paul’s serious expression and turned away.

‘It’s another damned complication that we don’t need,’ he was saying. But the calendar couldn’t be denied and it was time for the greatest diplomatic prize of all to be passed on. Runners and riders headed for the line, straining at their bridles. Malton at the UN, Colquhoun in Pretoria, O’Hare in Brussels, his unorthodox love life notwithstanding, Glendinning in Bonn looking for escape from a one-horse town and a last chance of glory, and the permanent secretary himself, Finzi. No one else in the running save for Dennis, who had got Paris as a consolation prize when Moscow slipped through his fingers. They had all been at it for two months, making unscheduled visits to London to sit at the right lunch table (‘happened to be in town… half term for the youngest… time to catch up’) and at first Dennis seemed to have faltered.

But he had put in a wondrous late run, with the help of Flemyng’s boss who admired his style with the French and had managed to fix it for him with a discreet conversation at a Downing Street dinner. ‘Steady and classy,’ he’d said. ‘Washington will like him. A good vintage and at his peak. Drinking well, you might say.’ He regretted the phrase afterwards, but never mind.

All of a sudden Dennis was the man: throwing a wild party in Paris to celebrate in advance, the excuse being the visit of an artist whose name would bring French ministers flocking to the embassy, where he could quietly pass the word that, sad though he was, he would soon be taking his leave of the Faubourg St Honoré for the big Lutyens house on Massachusetts Avenue, Washington NW, which he told his guests was almost as lovely a residence.

Everyone knew of Dennis’s problem with the third Courvoisier, but his comfort with the American scene, his grace in public and his happy ability to write a political précis laced with the tartness of a natural diarist meant that his colleagues put it to one side. Everyone was happy; Downing Street signed it off. His appointment would produce small headlines and minimal comment in the public prints. Relief all round.

‘What happened?’ said Flemyng, in a tone that suggested he already knew the answer.

‘Well,’ said Paul, ‘Tom Brieve did for him.’ Flemyng’s face darkened. ‘He was in Paris the other day, a pre-conference thing. Dennis
en fête
. Completely pissed at dinner, pardon my French. Prattled on about tennis on the White House courts, how the secretary of state was junior to him when they were both in Moscow. I got this from Marilyn in the embassy, who was there, poor girl. I’m afraid he did his Jacques Brel impression. Twice.’

‘Oh, God,’ said Flemyng.

‘Catastrophic. You know Brieve can’t stand him. Wanted another. So he scampered back to Number Ten and pressed the panic button. Dennis was a hopeless soak and insecure. Roped in Yves from the French embassy to put in a bad word. He’s a mate – they’re cooking up some deal with the state visit. All rubbish. Dennis is just prone to the odd good night. Sharper than our Tom any day and trustworthy, as we both have cause to know. But I lost that one, I’m afraid, and so did your boss.’

He went on, ‘I don’t know if you’ve picked this up…’ He was looking closely at Flemyng, who neither nodded his head nor gave it a shake. Paul hesitated.

‘… but it’s felt…’ He was adjusting his grammar to cover the source of the idea ‘… that maybe we shouldn’t just be looking at career people for a replacement. Maybe we should cast our net a bit more widely.’

‘You know what we think about outsiders,’ Flemyng said. ‘There’s a great fuss, fireworks on the Thames, then a bloody explosion. Ugly, and it never works.’

Paul said, ‘I know. I bear the scars. But this is different. Keep it to yourself – entirely – would you?’ Flemyng raised his hands in a gesture of assent.

‘There’s a thought,’ once again authorship was concealed, ‘that we might think of a minister.’

Flemyng flinched. Paul said, ‘I know – by-elections are dangerous, reshuffling cabinet a pain. All that. But there’s a reason.’ And then, as if it had struck him for the first time, he looked Flemyng straight in the eye and put a firm hand on his shoulder. ‘Don’t worry – if that’s the appropriate word in this context – the fickle finger of fate isn’t pointing at you. Probably.’

And added, ‘Would that be disappointing?’

Flemyng was serious. ‘No. But why change course? There’s no good reason I can see.’

Paul turned his eyes towards the Americans. ‘It’s not done yet. But we think it will work. And I think you’ll be pleased.’ He looked Flemyng in the eye again. ‘It’s necessary, believe me.’

As he spoke, Flemyng saw Francesca and Ruskin in a close exchange. He could hear nothing, but saw that she was startled, maybe annoyed. Her eyes had widened a little in the way they did when she was thrown; she was touching her forehead as if she felt a headache coming on. Ruskin was smiling as he spoke and laughed when he leaned back. Flemyng moved towards them, and took his wife’s arm.

She was surprised at his quiet whisper as they went into the box together, because it seemed too melodramatic for him. ‘Another complication. I don’t know when it’s all going to stop. And what was going on with him?’

‘Afterwards,’ she said. ‘Please.’

It was half-past ten when the curtain came down. Flowers sprouted from the singers’ arms as they came forward for their second curtain calls, the director got some boos from high up in the amphitheatre, and the throng began to pour out into Bow Street. The party in the box gathered for post-match coffee and drinks in the dining room and Flemyng found himself with Ruskin. Summer troubles again.

‘What’s up in your patch?’ Flemyng asked.

‘Bloody Treasury mostly. And timetable nerves in the House. Talk of postponing the rising.’ Ruskin raised his eyes to the ceiling.

The party broke up in the course of a few minutes, Flemyng and Wherry promising to lunch after the summer sojourns, Sorley giving Francesca a hug that she would have been happier not to receive, Ruskin seeming a touch distracted but giving everyone a benediction with one long arm before he slipped down the stairs and disappeared. Francesca and Flemyng would soon be alone. First, Paul. He asked Francesca to give them a few minutes, and she headed along the grand tier to pay her backstage calls.

Paul checked that the door had clicked shut.

‘I told Sassi some of what we know. They’re aware and it’s taking its course.’

Flemyng asked a blunt question. ‘Whereabouts?’

‘The dead man, Aidan McKinley as we know him – was found at the Lorimer, where he’d checked in. Natural choice, I’m told, and used by our boys quite a bit. Anyway, police called from Kensington, embassy notified, preliminary view – no post-mortem yet, obviously – that he took a drugs overdose. And remember this, Will, the Americans have every interest in confirming a natural death. Tourist expires; sad business. Why would they want anything else? And it’s true, so I’m told – he was a heavy user, our medics confirm it. You’ll help with the story underneath? There are many complications. Tomorrow, please, at ten.’

The evening was over. He opened the door, saw Paul down the stairs, and in a few minutes Francesca was back. After a hug, he said, ‘Did you hear anything in the box when you opened the door to call Paul and Sassi?’ She didn’t smile.

‘Why? What’s up? You’re so tense. Not yourself. I didn’t enjoy this evening.’

‘I need to know,’ he said.

She said that when she’d opened the door to invite them back, they were close together in conversation – so much so that she pulled back and was about to close the door when they caught her presence and broke quickly. A few words had floated towards her, that was all.

‘Sassi was talking. He said they were seeing Berlin at its best and its worst.’

‘That was it? “The best and worst of Berlin?”’

‘Nothing else. They weren’t smiling, though.’

‘Thanks, Bat-ears,’ said Flemyng with a smile. ‘No names?’ She shook her head.

‘Another thing,’ he said. ‘Jonathan. What was he saying to you?’

‘Something quite odd,’ said Francesca. ‘We hadn’t even been talking about you, but he threw something in. Said he’d heard you were knocking around with some old friends. Made a joke of it – said people like you could never let go.’

‘Names?’

Only one, Francesca said. ‘Sam Malachy.’

She saw his surprise.

They were alone in the dining room, sitting on either side of the marble fireplace, with the extravagant clock above them, the table alongside empty except for some unfinished wine glasses and bundled napkins. Flemyng, without raising his voice, asked how she had interpreted Ruskin’s mention of Sam. Francesca said he hadn’t seemed interested in getting an answer. ‘A message, then?’ Maybe, she said.

‘Have you been seeing Sam?’ she said. Flemyng avoided a direct answer. ‘Jonathan’s probably had dealings with him, one way or another. He’s all over the place in his job. That’s the point of him, after all.’

Standing up, she faced him and there was fire in her gaze. ‘What the hell is going on? Because I don’t want it to get between us. You’re down and you’re worried, and I don’t believe it’s family and nothing else. I just don’t.’ She reached out for his hand, but with no apology for her words.