This Was a Man (The Clifton Chronicles #7)(74)

Giles had warned them that Karin was unlikely to complete the course in under four hours, so the family had all risen early that morning to make sure they could find a spot where she was certain to see them. The previous evening Freddie had been on his knees preparing a placard that he hoped would make Karin laugh as she staggered past them.

Once Giles had returned to Smith Square after dropping his wife off at the A–D registration tent in Greenwich Park, he led her little band of supporters to the back of the Treasury building and found a front-row place behind the barriers on Parliament Square, opposite the statue of Winston Churchill.





Karin was now approaching what was known by all marathon runners as the wall. It usually came at around 17 to 20 miles, and she’d heard so often about the temptation to try and convince yourself that if you dropped out, no one would notice. Everyone would notice. They might not say anything, but Sebastian had made it clear that he wouldn’t be parting with a penny unless she crossed the finishing line. A deal’s a deal, he’d reminded her. But she seemed to be going slower and slower, and it didn’t help when she spotted a 30 miles per hour road sign ahead of her.

But something, possibly the fear of failure, kept her going, and she pretended not to notice when she was overtaken by a letter box, and a few minutes later by a camel. Go, go, go, she told herself. Stop, stop, stop, her legs insisted. As she passed the 20-mile mark, the crowd cheered loudly, not for her, but for a caterpillar who strolled past her.

When Karin spotted the Tower of London in the distance, she began to believe she just might make it. She checked her watch: 3 hours 32 minutes. Could she still complete the course in under four hours?

As she turned off the Embankment and passed Big Ben, a loud, sustained cheer went up. She looked across to see Giles, Harry and Emma waving frantically. Jessica never stopped drawing, while Freddie held up a placard that declared KEEP GOING, I THINK YOU’RE IN THIRD PLACE!

Karin somehow managed to raise an arm in acknowledgement, but by the time she turned into the Mall, she could barely place one foot in front of the other. With a quarter of a mile to go, she became aware of the packed stands on both sides of the road, the crowds cheering more loudly than ever and a BBC television crew who were filming her while running backwards faster than she was running forwards.

She looked up to see the digital clock above the finishing line ticking relentlessly away. Three hours 57 minutes, and she suddenly began to take an interest in the seconds, 31, 32, 33 . . . With one last herculean effort, she tried to speed up. When she finally crossed the line, she raised her arms high in the air as if she were an Olympic champion. After a few more strides, she collapsed in a heap on the ground.

Within a moment, a race official in a Red Cross smock was kneeling beside her, a bottle of water in one hand, a shiny silver cape in the other.

‘Try to keep moving,’ he said as he placed a medal round her neck.

Karin began walking slowly, very slowly, but her spirits were lifted when in the distance she spotted Freddie running towards her, arms outstretched, with Giles only a few paces behind.

‘Congratulations!’ Freddie shouted, even before he’d reached her. ‘Three hours, fifty-nine minutes and eleven seconds. I’m sure you’ll do better next year.’

‘There isn’t going to be a next year,’ said Karin with considerable feeling. ‘Even if Sebastian offers me a million pounds.’





LADY VIRGINIA FENWICK


1983–1986





30


VIRGINIA HAD MOVED OUT of her flat in Chelsea and into the duke’s Eaton Square townhouse the day after his chauffeur drove Clarence and Alice to Heathrow to go their separate ways; one flying east, the other west.

Although still a little apprehensive, she became more and more confident that she’d got away with it, until they travelled up to the country together to spend a long weekend at Castle Hertford.

It was while the duke was out shooting that Mr Moxton, the estate manager, had dropped her a handwritten note requesting a private meeting with her.

‘I apologize for raising the subject,’ he said after Virginia had summoned him to join her in the drawing room, ‘but may I ask if the ￡185,000 the duke gave you was a gift or a loan?’

‘Does it make any difference?’ asked Virginia sharply.

‘Only for tax purposes, my lady.’

‘Which would be more convenient?’ she asked, her tone softening.

‘A loan,’ said Moxton, who Virginia hadn’t suggested should sit, ‘because then there are no tax implications. If it was a gift, you would be liable for a tax bill of around one hundred thousand pounds.’

‘And we wouldn’t want that,’ said Virginia. ‘But when would I be expected to repay the loan?’

‘Shall we say five years? At which time of course it could be rolled over.’

‘Of course.’

‘However, in the unlikely possibility that his grace should pass away before then, you would be liable to return the full amount.’

‘Then I shall have to do everything in my power to make sure his grace lives for at least another five years.’

‘I think that would be best for everyone, my lady,’ said Moxton, not sure if he was meant to laugh. ‘May I also ask if there are likely to be any further loans of this kind in the future?’