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it?”
    “Strafford’s Memoir—compiled here in his retirement. It’s a highly personal statement of how he came to be buried in the diplomatic service in such an obscure spot.”
    “Does it explain the mystery?”
    “Far from it. It heightened the mystery, for Strafford does not—cannot—explain it. He recounts the circumstances of his exile, but they baffled him as much as they still baffle me.”
    “This sounds extraordinary.”
    “By any standards.”
    “May I see the Memoir?”
    “Certainly. I will fetch it now. Can I suggest that we take this opportunity of retiring to the drawing room?”
    There was no dissent. Sellick led us back through the hall to the drawing room, where the lamps had been lit in readiness for us. He went on through another door, asking Alec to pour me a drink while he fetched the Memoir.
    Alec handed me another macia. “Interested?” he enquired.
    “Very. It’s not every day one gets to see a primary source like this.”
    “There speaks the true historian.”
    “Have you seen it?”
    “Yes, but not read it. Leo’s never been so forward with it before. Maybe he thinks he’s found somebody to appreciate it.”
    Was Alec becoming sarcastic under the influence of several drinks? I’d no time to ponder the point, for Sellick returned almost at once, carrying a marbled, leather-bound tome. He waved us into deep armchairs facing the fireplace and stood, one foot on the fender, holding the book before him.
     
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R O B E R T G O D D A R D
    “It’s a fair old read,” he said, “a mix of diary and recollection.
    There’s some irrelevant material, interesting in its own right but not strictly germane. Yet it confirms throughout that Strafford’s exit from politics in 1910—and the events leading up to it—constituted the great disappointment of his life, in more ways than one. If you’re sufficiently interested, Martin, I’d like you to read it and give me your opinion.”
    “I’d like to very much.” My enthusiasm was genuine. As a student, I’d never excelled at wading through arid source documents, but there had never existed the motivation to do so, never the expectation of discovering something new or fascinating as a result. Sellick had promoted this document so well I could hardly have borne not to read it. There was, however, more promotion to come yet.
    “This is probably no time for considered appraisal,” Sellick said. “I hope Alec told you that you would be most welcome to remain here tonight. I would suggest that a reading of this could best be undertaken in the morning with a clear head. But never fear”—he had seen me framing a protest at this delay—“I will not leave you to lose sleep over the contents. I will tell you what I have already learnt from them. Then you will be able to judge for yourself whether mine seem appropriate conclusions.”
    Sellick sat beneath a standard lamp to the right of the fireplace and leafed through the book, cradled in his lap, as he spoke.
    “Strafford was the youngest of Asquith’s prótegés and easily the most handsome. He was also unattached. He was, therefore, the eligible bachelor par excellence. He had the pick of a dozen well-connected young Liberal ladies. Yet his choice fell elsewhere and—for an Edwardian Home Secretary—it fell perversely. Strafford met and came to love a young Suffragette—a captivating crea-ture, it would seem, but scarcely the ideal bride. These were sensitive times for politicians in their private lives. Lloyd George was forever courting disaster with extra-marital adventures and mere divorce had ruined more than one politician. So how could a Home Secretary whose government resisted female suffrage consider marrying a militant young proponent of that cause?”
    “Difficult,” I agreed.
    “But not impossible, if he was prepared to pay the price.
     

P A S T C A R I N G
    27
    Morally, he could not be reproached. All such a marriage would do is embarrass the government. So,