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  Mrs. Justice Lane looked down at Mrs. Clifton, whose head was bowed. During the past week she’d come to admire the defendant and felt she would like to get to know her better once the trial was over. But that would not be possible. In fact, she would never speak to the woman again. If she were to do so, it would unquestionably be grounds for a retrial.

  If the judge had to guess who had been responsible for leaking the letter, she would have placed a small wager on Sir Giles Barrington. But she never guessed, and never gambled. She only considered the evidence. However, the fact that Sir Giles was not in court that morning might have been considered as evidence, even if it was circumstantial.

  The judge turned her attention to Sir Edward Makepeace, who never gave anything away. The eminent silk had conducted his brief quite brilliantly and his eloquent advocacy had undoubtedly assisted Lady Virginia’s case. But that was before Mr. Trelford had brought Major Fisher’s letter to the court’s attention. The judge understood why neither Emma Clifton nor Lady Virginia would want the letter to be disclosed in open court, although she was sure Mr. Trelford would have pressed his client to allow him to enter it in evidence. After all, he represented Mrs. Clifton, not her brother. Mrs. Justice Lane assumed it wouldn’t be long before the jury returned and delivered their verdict.

  * * *

  When Giles phoned his constituency headquarters in Bristol that morning, he and his agent Griff Haskins didn’t need to hold a long conversation. Having read the front page of the Mail, Griff reluctantly accepted that Giles would have to withdraw his name as the Labour candidate for the forthcoming by-election in Bristol Docklands.

  “It’s typical Fisher,” said Giles. “Full of half-truths, exaggeration and innuendo.”

  “That doesn’t surprise me,” said Griff. “But can you prove it before polling day? Because one thing’s for certain, the Tories’ eve-of-poll message will be Fisher’s letter, and they’ll push it through every letterbox in the constituency.”

  “We’d do the same, given half a chance,” admitted Giles.

  “But if you could prove it was a pack of lies…” said Griff, refusing to give up.

  “I don’t have time to do that, and even if I did, I’m not sure anyone would believe me. Dead men’s words are so much more powerful than those of the living.”

  “Then there’s only one thing left for us to do,” said Griff. “Let’s go on a bender and drown our sorrows.”

  “I did that last night,” admitted Giles. “And God knows what else.”

  “Once we’ve chosen a new candidate,” said Griff, quickly slipping back into election mode, “I’d like you to brief him or her, because whoever we pick will need your support and, more important, your experience.”

  “That might not turn out to be an advantage in the circumstances,” Giles suggested.

  “Stop being so pathetic,” said Griff. “I’ve got a feeling we won’t get rid of you quite that easily. The Labour Party is in your blood. And wasn’t it Harold Wilson who said a week is a long time in politics?”

  * * *

  When the inconspicuous door swung open, everyone in the courtroom stopped talking and turned to watch as the bailiff stood aside to allow the seven men and five women to enter the court and take their places in the jury box.

  The judge waited for them to settle before she leaned forward and asked the foreman, “Have you been able to reach a verdict?”

  The foreman rose slowly from his place, adjusted his spectacles, looked up at the judge and said, “Yes, we have, my lady.”

  “And is your decision unanimous?”

  “It is, my lady.”

  “Have you found in favor of the plaintiff, Lady Virginia Fenwick, or the defendant, Mrs. Emma Clifton?”

  “We have found in favor of the defendant,” said the foreman, who, having completed his task, sat back down.

  Sebastian leapt to his feet and was about to cheer when he noticed that both his mother and the judge were scowling at him. He quickly resumed his seat and looked across at his father, who winked at him.

  On the other side of the court sat a woman who was glaring at the jury, unable to hide her displeasure, while her counsel sat impassively with his arms folded. Once Sir Edward had read the front page of the Daily Mail that morning, he’d realized that his client had no chance of winning the case. He could have demanded a retrial, but in truth Sir Edward wouldn’t have advised his client to put herself through a second trial with the odds tipped so heavily against her.

  * * *

  Giles sat alone at the breakfast table at his home in Smith Square, his usual routine abandoned. No bowl of cornflakes, no orange juice, no boiled egg, no Times, no Guardian, just a copy of the Daily Mail laid out on the table in front of him.

  12th November 1970

  Dear Mr. Trelford,

  You will be curious to know why I have chosen to write to you, and not Sir Edward Makepeace. The answer is, quite simply, I have no doubt that both of you will act in the best interests of your clients.

  Allow me to begin with Sir Edward’s client, Lady Virginia Fenwick, and her fatuous claim that I was nothing more than her professional advisor, who always worked at arm’s length. Nothing could be further from the truth. I have never known a client who was more hands-on, and when it came to the buying and selling of Barrington’s shares, she only had one purpose in mind, namely to destroy the company, whatever the cost, along with the reputation of its chairman, Mrs. Clifton.

  A few days before the trial was due to open, Lady Virginia offered me a substantial sum of money to claim that she had given me carte blanche to act on her behalf, in order to leave the jury with the impression that she didn’t really understand how the stock market worked. Let me assure you that in reply to Lady Virginia’s question to Mrs. Clifton at the AGM, “Is it true that one of your directors sold his vast shareholding in an attempt to bring the company down?” the fact is, that is exactly what Lady Virginia herself did on no fewer than three occasions, and she nearly succeeded in bringing Barrington’s down. I cannot go to my grave with that injustice on my conscience.

  However, there is another injustice that is equally unpalatable, and that I am also unable to ignore. My death will cause a by-election in the constituency of Bristol Docklands, and I know that the Labour Party will consider re-selecting the former Member of Parliament, Sir Giles Barrington, as its candidate. But, like Lady Virginia, Sir Giles is hiding a secret he does not wish to share, even with his own family.

  When Sir Giles recently visited East Berlin as a representative of Her Majesty’s Government, he had what he later described in a press statement as a one-night stand with a Miss Karin Pengelly, his official interpreter. Later, he gave this as the reason his wife had left him. Although this was Sir Giles’s second divorce on the grounds of adultery, I do not consider that that alone should be sufficient reason for a man to withdraw from public life. But in this case, his callous treatment of the lady in question makes it impossible for me to remain silent.

  Having spoken to Miss Pengelly’s father, I know for a fact that his daughter has written to Sir Giles on several occasions to let him know that not only did she lose her job as a result of their liaison, but she is now pregnant with his child. Despite this, Sir Giles has not even paid Miss Pengelly the courtesy of replying to her letters, or showing the slightest concern for her predicament. She does not complain. However, I do so on her behalf, and I am bound to ask, is this the kind of person who should be representing his constituents in the House of Commons? No doubt the citizens of Bristol will express their opinion at the ballot box.

  I apologize, sir, for placing the burden of responsibility on your shoulders, but I felt I had been left with no choice.

  Yours sincerely,

  Alexander Fisher, Major (Rtd.)

  Giles stared down at his political obituary.

  3

  “WELCOME BACK, CHAIRMAN,” said Jim Knowles as Emma walked into the boardroom. “Not that I doubted for a moment