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“The man I was telling you about.”
“Please don’t speak in riddles, Alexia. I’m half asleep.”
“William Hamlin!” Alexia said exasperatedly.
“Ah. So that’s his name. You wouldn’t tell me before, remember?”
“Was his name,” said Alexia. “He’s been killed. Murdered.”
“I thought you said he’d been deported?”
“He had. He must have come back, somehow. And now he’s dead. Read the article.”
Teddy read. As he did so he thought back to his conversation with Sir Edward Manning, only a week earlier.
“Trust me. He doesn’t have the wherewithal to get himself back here.”
So much for that. Teddy shuddered to think of how close this madman had come to contacting Alexia a second time, perhaps even to hurting her.
“The journalist doesn’t mention you.” He handed the paper back to her.
“No. No one seems to have made the connection.”
“Good.” Dabbing the amber liquid off his shirt with a napkin, Teddy rolled over, replumping his pillow. “Then you’ve nothing to worry about. Good night.”
Alexia was shocked. “Nothing to worry about? Teddy, he’s been murdered.”
“Exactly. So he won’t be bothering you again, will he? That’s good news in my book.”
“Why are you being so callous?” Alexia asked angrily. “He didn’t deserve to die. He was ill. Confused.”
Teddy sat up wearily. “Look, Alexia, the man threatened you. You can’t expect me to like people who threaten my wife, or to feel sorry for them. I’m not going to be so hypocritical as to feign grief for a complete stranger just to salve your conscience.”
“You’re right. I’m sorry.” Leaning over, she kissed him on the cheek. “I’m shocked, that’s all. He was a sweet boy once.”
“So was Hitler,” said Teddy robustly. “Try to get some rest.”
Within minutes he was snoring loudly.
The flight attendant came over to Alexia. “Can I bring you something to eat, Home Secretary? A cheese plate perhaps, or some fruit? I know you said you wanted a light meal.”
Alexia pulled herself together. Teddy was right. What had happened to Billy was awful, but it did draw a line under things. And wasn’t that what she wanted, deep down? It wasn’t as if his death was her fault, or her responsibility. As tragic as it was, maybe it was for the best.
She smiled at the flight attendant. “I’ll have the cheese, please. No blue. And a strong cup of coffee. I have a lot of work to get through before we land.”
Chapter Twenty-two
The next year was a triumphant one for Alexia De Vere. As Britain’s economy rebounded, so the nation’s collective spirit blossomed like a daffodil bursting through the frost after a long, cold winter. A Gallup Poll ranked Henry Whitman the most popular sitting prime minister since Churchill, and the rest of the cabinet basked contentedly in Henry’s reflected glow. As for Alexia De Vere, the home secretary’s personal popularity almost rivaled that of the prime minister.
How had it happened? Only a couple of years ago, Alexia De Vere had been one of the more loathed figures of minor British politics, a throwback to the bad old days of heartless conservatism. When people thought of Alexia De Vere (if they thought of her at all), they associated her with prison riots and knee-jerk, throw-away-the-key justice. The fact that she was stinking rich, spoke with a plum in her mouth, and had married into a family posher than the Windsors did little to endear her to ordinary voters. But after a year and a half in the job that no one, including Alexia herself, had ever expected her to get, and despite her early hiccups over immigration, Mrs. De Vere had succeeded in winning over the hearts and minds of the British public in a spectacular coup de grace. People respected the way she had strengthened the police force and put more coppers back on the beat. They approved of her defense of hospitals, of her
libertarian stance on education and support for parent-run schools. They liked her Care Homes Act to protect the elderly from exploitation and abuse. Yes, Alexia De Vere was tough. But she was also hardworking, efficient, and ballsy enough to fight for traditional British values and institutions. The rottweiler of old had transformed herself into a British bulldog for the modern age. Her enemies could do nothing but sit back and watch.
After brokering a deal to establish a vast Renault car plant in the East Midlands, creating tens of thousands of new jobs, Alexia received an invitation to tea at Ten Downing Street.
“I should have made you foreign secretary.” The prime minister stretched his legs while a butler poured the tea. “The French think the soleil shines out of your derriere. You’re the toast of Paris.”
“I don’t know about that,” Alexia said modestly. She never quite knew where she stood with Henry Whitman. Cabinet colleagues complained that he supported her unreservedly, but Alexia often felt an undercurrent of dislike beneath the prime minister’s smiles.
