“If you have not yet seen them,” he said with a change of tone, “this morning’s newspapers carry more details of the unfortunate accident at Birch Grove. The loss adjusters have traced the explosion to the chaining in series of old and new home generators. There is, apparently, the slight chance of an explosion. When a house of that size is all lit up for a reception, the chance that the generators will all overheat and become unstable is unlikely but sufficiently possible for the insurers to justify asking no further questions.”
“No further questions!” I sneered with a sudden loss of temper. “You make the country sound like a bloody police state!” I winced at the sudden expulsion of breath. But I was beginning to understand why Powell got on the nerves of everyone who had to work with him. There was another of his mirthless smiles. Then a light seemed to come on behind those hooded eyes.
“Come on, Dr Markham,” he said with sudden humour. He reached out a hand to pull me from the chair. “Do please come over to this window.” Wincing and choking back the pain as, supporting me, he squeezed hard on bruised ribs, I hobbled with Powell over to the window. It looked from a great height over Whitehall. Below us, hundreds and thousands of people went about their business. Men in their overcoats and hats, women in their elaborate clothing and high heels—they passed back and forth between Whitehall and a Parliament Square that, closed to traffic, was dominated by its toga-clad statue of Neville Chamberlain.
“Do you know, Dr Markham,” Powell asked in a voice almost too soft for me to hear, “who those people are? Do you know what they are about—let alone what they are thinking? No? Well, we don’t know either. We don’t know because we make it our business not to know. In this country, we honour those who serve the nation, but think no ill of those who prefer to look purely to their own affairs. It is because of this that we do not need to boast—as the governments of other lands do—how we serve the public good, or how trusted we are by the people. It is something implicitly known in this country.
“And because we are trusted, no one complains when we ask—or sometimes take—a favour. It requires a century of honest government to bring about an implicit trust of this sort. If Mr Macmillan’s friends might have squandered it in at most a generation, this is a trust on which our whole way of life depends.” He moved away from the window and let me follow him back to my chair. He smiled, now with a semblance of human feeling. “Of course the insurers will report as we have asked them. All else aside, your evidence and that of the one other survivor will be decisive.”
“Another survivor?” I asked, nearly falling down in surprise. “Someone else got out of that horror alive?” I dropped back into the armchair and reached for my cup.
“Oh yes, Dr Markham,” Powell said with the beginnings of real enjoyment. “You will be pleased to know that Mr Heath managed to hide himself in a cesspit. Its contents protected him from the worst of the explosion. Once he is out of hospital, he will confirm his resignation—the brush with death, he will say, has made him all the more determined to pass what time remains to him with the music that is the real pleasure of his life. Tomorrow morning, the Home Department will have a new Secretary of State. I spoke last night with Lord Halifax by telephone. He was pleased to accept my recommendation of Miss Margaret Roberts.”
A woman as Home Secretary? I opened my mouth with surprise. But Powell paid me no attention.
“You may not know of Miss Roberts,” he went on. “She only came into Parliament at the Grantham bye-election two years ago. She is, nevertheless, a young woman of great promise. Everyone who has met her is impressed by her grasp of important detail and her capacity for hard work. If this country is ever to have a woman Prime Minister, one could not hope for better than Margaret Hilda Roberts.”
He paused again and got up. “But, Dr Markham, the morning will soon be over, and I am aware of the meeting that has been arranged with some lawyers. What the newspapers said about you was unpardonable. Some of it was no more than the coverage of a mistake by the authorities. But they do seem to have gone most scandalously beyond what was released to them. Major Stanhope tells me you have already been advised to settle matters out of court. I think I can predict, though, that the settlements to be proposed will be eminently to your satisfaction. I repeat that, if we do not often ask for them, the favours we do request are seldom refused.”
He paused again and looked out of the window. Was there now a slight look of worry in the blank, fleshless face?
“One matter does remain outstanding,” he said, sounding rather distant. “For all the newspapers will publish their retractions, I do accept that, for the moment, a certain damage has been done to your reputation. It is with this in mind that I have recommended you for a visiting professorship at the University of Dresden. Professor von Hayek is a personal friend as well as my opposite number in Berlin. For many years since his return to Germany, he has made a point of coming to England for a week in the spring, to spend time with me in the bookshops of York. There is a vacancy in the Department of History for an English professor, and, if I ask him, Hayek’s recommendation will be taken by the authorities as law. I hope you will enjoy many evenings of debate with your new colleagues about the often troubled course of Anglo-German relations during the present century.
“Dresden is a most beautiful city. If you have any taste for the baroque, the view across the Augustus Bridge towards the Cathedral is, I am told, unforgettable.”
I swallowed hard. This was the second time in a week I’d heard the praises of Dresden. But the meeting was over, and Powell was helping me to the door of his office.
CHAPTER THIRTY SEVEN
I stepped back into Whitehall at the stroke of twelve. The sun had come out, and people hurried about in still denser crowds to an early lunch. Pakeshi was waiting for me in a double carrying chair.
“To the Savoy, my good fellows,” he cried brightly to the carriers. Even if I was rather slender, my own weight added to his made for a slow progress along Whitehall. “I did ask for a taxi,” he said to me. “Sadly, even the most estimable and understanding Major Stanhope was unable to get a dispensation from the traffic rules.” I sniffed and, despite the sun, was glad of the heating that was powered by the electricity radiated from overhead. We passed in silence through the happy crowds. I saw a class of schoolchildren looking solemn as their teacher stood beside the Cenotaph and lectured on its significance. I stared out at the new Home Office building. A combination of high renaissance and Greek revival, it gleamed white in the sun. Miss Roberts would be the first Home Secretary never to have governed from the old building.
“Did Mr Powell answer all your questions?” Pakeshi asked with a happy wave at some children who were looking at the curiosity of a brown face in Whitehall. I gave up on opening the small cardboard box he’d handed me. A properly weighted carrying chair gives the smoothest ride apart from a magnetised railway journey. Even so, this wasn’t the place for digging a needle into your arm and hitting the right vein. I thought about my meeting with Powell.
“Most of them I didn’t manage to ask,” I said. “I’m not sure if he answered the ones I did ask.” Or had he answered one? Talk about the Delphic Oracle! Pakeshi shrugged and dropped the subject. There were signs outside the Whitehall Theatre advertising a new play by Ayn Rand. Whatever her qualities as a dramatist, there was no doubt she had friends in the right places.