Pimkin still didn’t speak.
“I deliver a copper-bottomed seat, you deliver twelve votes. I think we can call that a fair exchange.”
“What if I get them to abstain?” said Pimkin.
Charles waited, as if giving the idea considerable thought. “It’s a deal,” he said, never having hoped for anything more.
Alexander Dalglish arrived at Eaton Square a little after eight. Fiona met him at the door and explained that Charles had not yet returned from the Commons.
“But I expect him any moment,” she added. “May I offer you a drink?”
Another thirty minutes passed before Charles hurried in. “Sorry I’m late, Alexander,” he said, grasping his guest by the hand. “Hoped I might make it just before you.” He kissed his wife on the forehead.
“Not at all,” said Alexander, “I couldn’t have asked for more pleasant company.”
“What will you have, darling?” asked Fiona.
“A strong whisky, please, and can we go straight into dinner? I’ve got to be back at the talkshop by ten.”
Charles guided his guest toward the dining room and seated him at the side of the table before taking his place below the Holbein portrait of the first Earl of Bridgwater, an heirloom his grandfather had left him. Fiona took a seat opposite her husband. During the meal of Beef Wellington, Charles spent a great deal of time catching up on what Alexander had been doing since they had last met. Although they had spent three years together in the Guards as brother officers they rarely saw each other outside of regimental reunions since Charles had entered the House. He made no mention of the real purpose behind the meeting until Fiona provided the opportunity when she served coffee.
“I know you two have a lot to talk about, so I’ll leave you to get on with it.”
“Thank you,” said Alexander. He looked up at Fiona and smiled. “For a lovely dinner.”
She smiled back and left them alone.
“Now, Charles,” said Alexander, picking up the file he had left on the floor by his side. “I need to pick your brains.”
“Go ahead, old fellow,” said Charles, “only too delighted to be of assistance.”
“Sir Edward Mountjoy has sent me a pretty long list for us to consider, among them a Home Office minister and one or two other Members of Parliament who’ll be losing their present seats. What do you think of … ?”
Dalglish opened the file in front of him as Charles poured him a generous glass of port and offered him a cigar from a gold case that he picked up from the sideboard.
“What a magnificent object,” said Alexander, staring in awe at the crested box and the engraved C.G.S. along its top.
“A family heirloom,” said Charles. “Should have been left to my brother Rupert, but I was lucky enough to have the same initials as my grandfather.”
Alexander handed it back to his host before returning to his notes.
“Here’s the man who impresses me,” he said at last. “Kerslake, Simon Kerslake.”
Charles remained silent.
“You don’t have an opinion, Charles?”
“Yes.”
“So what do you think of Kerslake?”
“Strictly off the record?”
Dalglish nodded, but said nothing.
Charles sipped his port. “Very good,” he said.
“Kerstake?”