Free The More Deceived by David Roberts Page A

altogether the voyage had not been one he ever wished to repeat.
    When the ‘how-are-you’s’ and the ‘isn’t-it-good-to-be-back-on-dry-land?’ polite generalities had been exchanged, there was a silence and Edward waited to discover why Fern had rung him. They had got on well enough on the
Queen Mary
but they were acquaintances rather than friends and he knew Fern was a busy man with interests in the City and elsewhere.
    ‘I gather our friend was not pleased with his meeting . . .’ Edward said at last. He mentioned no names because Ferguson had warned him not to speak freely on the telephone in case someone else was listening. Edward had pooh-poohed the idea that anyone would bother to interfere with his telephone but had, in practice, taken Ferguson’s advice to heart.
    ‘Our friend? Oh, you mean the President,’ Fern said, making Edward feel silly for being so cautious. ‘Yes, it was always going to be a long shot. The PM’s only comment was “I knew you’d get nothing out of America, Benyon, except words . . . big words but only words.” Rather good, don’t you think?’ Without waiting for Edward to respond, he went on, ‘The reason I am telephoning is to ask – at rather short notice, I am afraid – whether you would be free tomorrow to meet a friend of mine. It’s an awful cheek, I know, and you are probably otherwise engaged but I think you ought to meet him . . . sooner rather than later. Might save wires getting crossed.’
    ‘No, I’m not particularly busy. In any case, I am intrigued. Who is this friend?’
    ‘It may be too embarrassing for you and, if it is, you must say so but Mr Churchill would very much like to meet you.’
    ‘Good heavens! Why should I be embarrassed to meet Mr Churchill?’
    ‘Well, rumour has it that you are investigating certain of his sources of information. We had better say no more on the telephone.’ Fern suddenly seemed to remember security.
    ‘How does he know that?’ Edward said, before he had time to think. He mentally kicked himself. He ought to have denied having undertaken any such inquiry.
    ‘Oh, well, as I say, he has his sources.’
    ‘Where does he want to meet me?’
    ‘It’s rather an imposition but he wondered if you would come down to Chartwell and have lunch with him. It’s possible to talk quietly there but, if that’s impossible, he will be in London next week.’
    Edward hesitated. It seemed rather feeble to have such an empty diary that he could spend a day in Kent without inconvenience. However, his investigation, if it could even be called that, could go no further without talking to Churchill so it would be absurd to refuse the invitation because he did not wish to lose face.
    ‘Yes, I can make it.’
    ‘Good man! There’s a train at eleven ten which will get you to Westerham . . .’
    ‘I think the Lagonda would enjoy a spin so, if you don’t mind, I’ll drive.’
    ‘Certainly! Do you know the way?’
    ‘More or less . . .’
    ‘Have you got a pencil?’ Fern gave him details of how to find the house and then rang off.
    Fenton appeared asking, ‘Will you be eating in tonight, my lord?’
    ‘Yes. Just a chop and a glass of claret. I think I’ll turn in early. Tomorrow I’m going into Kent to meet Mr Churchill so I want to have all my wits about me.’
    ‘Indeed, my lord. From what I read in the newspapers, Mr Churchill is a . . . remarkable gentleman.’
    ‘But, apparently, not to be trusted, Fenton. Not to be trusted.’
    He thoroughly enjoyed his drive, the first of many he was to make to Chartwell, though he could not know it. It was exciting to be going to visit a man who had been at the centre of events since Edward was a child. The Lagonda went like a bird and there was very little traffic once he was out of London and Croydon Aerodrome was behind him. In not much over an hour he was crunching over a gravel drive and drawing to a halt in front of an elegant eighteenth-century door. This had once belonged to