Best Kept Secret

morning newspapers so neatly laid out at the other end of the table, or to turn on the radio, as
he didn’t want some ill-informed commentator to influence his judgment. The broadsheets were pontificating on the future of the hereditary principle should the Lord Chancellor come down in
favour of Harry, while the tabloids only seemed interested in whether or not Emma would be able to marry the man she loved.
    By the time he returned to the bathroom to brush his teeth, the scales of Justice still hadn’t come down on either side.
    Just after Big Ben chimed nine, he slipped back into his study and went over his notes in the hope that the scales would finally tilt to one side or the other, but they remained perfectly
balanced. He was going over his notes yet again when a tap on the door reminded him that, however powerful he imagined he was, he still couldn’t hold up time. He let out a deep sigh, tore
three sheets off the pad, stood up, and continued reading as he walked out of his study and down the corridor. When he entered the bedroom he found East, his valet, standing at the foot of the bed
waiting to perform the morning ritual.
    East began by deftly removing the silk dressing gown before helping his master on with a white shirt that was still warm from ironing. Next, a starched collar, followed by a finely laced
neckerchief. As the Lord Chancellor pulled on a pair of black breeches, he was reminded that he’d put on a few pounds since taking office. East then assisted him with his long black and gold
gown before turning his attention to his master’s head and feet. A full-bottomed wig was placed on his head before he stepped into a pair of buckled shoes. It was only when the gold chain of
office that had been worn by thirty-nine previous Lord Chancellors was draped on his shoulders that he became transformed from a pantomime dame into the highest legal authority in the land. A
glance in the mirror, and he felt ready to walk on stage and play his part in the unfolding drama. Just a pity he still didn’t know his lines.
    The timing of the Lord Chancellor’s entrance and exit from the North Tower of the Palace of Westminster would have impressed a regimental sergeant major. At 9.47 a.m. there was a knock on
the door and his secretary, David Bartholomew, entered the room.
    ‘Good morning, my lord,’ he ventured.
    ‘Good morning, Mr Bartholomew,’ the Lord Chancellor replied.
    ‘I am sorry to have to report,’ said Bartholomew, ‘that Lord Harvey died last night, in an ambulance on his way to hospital.’
    Both men knew this was not true. Lord Harvey – Giles and Emma Barrington’s grandfather – had collapsed in the chamber, only moments before the division bell had sounded.
However, they both accepted the age-old convention: if a member of either the Commons or the Lords died while the House was in session, a full inquiry as to the circumstances of his death had to be
set up. In order to avoid this unpleasant and unnecessary charade, ‘died on his way to hospital’ was the accepted form of words that covered such eventualities. The custom dated back to
the time of Oliver Cromwell, when members were allowed to wear swords in the chamber, and foul play was a distinct possibility whenever there was a death.
    The Lord Chancellor was saddened by the death of Lord Harvey, a colleague he both liked and admired. He only wished that his secretary had not reminded him of one of the facts he had written in
his neat copperplate hand below the name of Giles Barrington; namely, that Lord Harvey had been unable to cast his vote after he’d collapsed, and had he done so, it would have been in favour
of Giles Barrington. That would have settled the matter once and for all, and he could have slept soundly that night. Now he was expected to settle the matter once and
for all
.
    Below the name of Harry Clifton, he had entered another fact. When the original appeal had come before the Law Lords six months before, they had voted 4–3 in favour of Clifton inheriting
the title and, to quote the will . . .
and all that therein is.
    A second tap on the door, and his train bearer appeared, wearing another Gilbert and Sullivan-esque outfit, to signal that the ancient ceremony was about to begin.
    ‘Good morning, my lord.’
    ‘Good morning, Mr Duncan.’
    The moment the train bearer picked up the hem of the Lord Chancellor’s long black gown, David Bartholomew stepped forward and thrust open the double