“And I suspect you will regret this one too, Sir Alan.”
“I don’t think so. If I were to tell Lord Barrington the truth about Karin Brandt, many of our agents’ lives would be put in danger.”
“Then what’s to stop me telling him?”
“The Official Secrets Act.”
“Are you absolutely confident that I wouldn’t go behind your back?”
“I am, Mr. Clifton, because if I know one thing about you, it’s that you would never betray your country.”
“You’re a bastard,” said Harry.
“That’s part of my job description,” said Sir Alan.
*
Harry would often visit his mother at her cottage on the estate during his four to six p.m. writing break, when they would enjoy what Maisie described as high tea: cheese and tomato sandwiches, hot scones with honey, éclairs and Earl Grey tea.
They would discuss everything from the family—her greatest interest—to the politics of the day. She didn’t care much for Jim Callaghan or Ted Heath, and only once, straight after the war, had voted anything other than Liberal.
“A wasted vote, Giles never stopped reminding you.”
“A wasted vote is when you don’t vote, as I’ve told him many times.”
Harry couldn’t help but notice that since her late husband had died, his mother had slowed down. She no longer walked the dog every evening, and recently she’d even canceled the morning papers, unwilling to admit her eyesight was failing.
“Must get back to my six to eight session,” said Harry. As he rose from his seat by the fire, his mother handed him a letter.
“Not to be opened until they’ve laid me to rest,” she said calmly.
“That won’t be for some years, Mother,” he said as he bent down and kissed her on the forehead, although he didn’t believe it.
*
“So, are you glad you took the day off?” Giles asked Sebastian as they walked back through the Grace Gates after stumps.
“Yes, I am,” said Seb. “Thank you.”
“What a glorious partnership between Knott and Illingworth. They may have saved the day for England.”
“I agree.”
“Did you have a chance to chat to Mick Jagger?”
“No, I didn’t speak to him.”
“What about Don Bradman?”
“I shook his hand.”
“Peter O’Toole?”
“I couldn’t understand a word he said.”
“Paul Getty?”
“We exchanged cards.”
“What about the prime minister?”
“I didn’t realize he was there.”
“From this scintillating exchange, Sebastian, should I conclude that you were distracted by a certain young lady?”
“Yes.
“And are you hoping to see her again?”
“Possibly.”
“Are you listening to a word I’m saying?”
“No.”
*
The three of them met once a week, ostensibly to discuss matters concerning Mellor Travel, on whose board they all sat. But as they didn’t always want their fellow directors to know what they were up to, the meeting was neither minuted nor official.
The Unholy Trinity, as Sebastian referred to them, consisted of Desmond Mellor, Adrian Sloane and Jim Knowles. They only had one thing in common: a mutual hatred of anyone named Clifton or Barrington.
After Mellor had been forced to resign from the board of Barrington’s and Sloane was dismissed as chairman of Farthings Bank, while Knowles departed from the shipping company without any “regrets” being minuted, they had become bound together by a common thread—to gain control of Farthings Bank, and then take over Barrington’s shipping company, by fair means or foul.
“I am able to confirm,” said Mellor as they sat quietly in the corner of one of the few London clubs that would have them as members, “that Lady Virginia has reluctantly sold me her seven and a half percent holding in Barrington’s Shipping, which will allow one of us to take a seat on the board.”
“Good news,” said Knowles. “I’m only too happy to volunteer for the job.”
“No need to be in such a rush,” said Mellor. “I think I’ll leave our fellow directors to consider the possible consequences of whoever I might select, so that every time the boardroom door opens, Mrs. Clifton will wonder which one of us is about to appear.”
“That’s a job I would also relish,” chipped in Sloane.