And Thereby Hangs a Tale Read online

  AND THEREBY HANGS A TALE

  Also by Jeffrey Archer

  NOVELS

  Not a Penny More, Not a Penny Less

  Shall We Tell the President?

  Kane & Abel

  The Prodigal Daughter

  First Among Equals

  A Matter of Honour

  As the Crow Flies

  Honor Among Thieves

  The Fourth Estate

  The Eleventh Commandment

  Sons of Fortune

  False Impression

  The Gospel According to Judas

  (with the assistance of Professor Francis J. Moloney)

  Prisoner of Birth

  Paths of Glory

  SHORT STORIES

  A Quiver Full of Arrows

  A Twist in the Tale

  Twelve Red Herrings

  The Collected Short Stories

  To Cut a Long Story Short

  Cat O’Nine Tales

  PLAYS

  Beyond Reasonable Doubt

  Exclusive

  The Accused

  PRISON DIARIES

  Volume One: Hell

  Volume Two: Purgatory

  Volume Three: Heaven

  SCREENPLAYS

  Mallory: Walking off the Map

  False Impression

  JEFFREY ARCHER

  AND THEREBY HANGS A TALE

  ST. MARTIN’S PRESS

  NEW YORK

  This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  AND THEREBY HANGS A TALE. Copyright © 2010 by Jeffrey Archer. All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.

  www.stmartins.com

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Archer, Jeffrey, 1940–

  And thereby hangs a tale / Jeffrey Archer.—1st ed.

  p. cm.

  Stories gathered “while on my travels around the world. Ten of them are based on known incidents . . . while the remaining five are the result of my imagination”—Foreword.

  ISBN 978-0-312-53953-5

  I. Title.

  PR6051.R285A84 2010

  823'.914—dc22

  2010021666

  First published in the United Kingdom by Macmillan, an imprint of Pan Macmillan Ltd.

  First U.S. Edition: September 2010

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  For Simon Bainbridge

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  I would like to thank the following people for their valuable advice and assistance:

  Simon Bainbridge, Rosie de Courcy, Alison Prince, Billy Little, David Russell, Nisha and Jamwal Singh, Jerome Kerr-Jarrett, Mari Roberts, Jonathan Ticehurst, and Brian Wead.

  GRUMIO

  First, know my horse is tired, my master and mistress fallen out.

  CURTIS

  How?

  GRUMIO

  Out of their saddles into the dirt, and thereby hangs a tale.

  CURTIS

  Let’s ha’t, good Grumio.

  The Taming of the Shrew

  IV, i, ll. 47–52.

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  During the past six years I have gathered together several of these stories while on my travels around the world. Ten of them are based on known incidents and are marked as in my past collections with an asterisk, while the remaining five are the result of my imagination.

  I would like to thank all those people who have inspired me with their tales, and while there may not be a book in every one of us, there is so often a damned good short story.

  —Jeffrey Archer

  May 2010

  CONTENTS

  1. STUCK ON YOU*

  2. THE QUEEN’S BIRTHDAY TELEGRAM*

  3. HIGH HEELS*

  4. BLIND DATE

  5. WHERE THERE’S A WILL*

  6. DOUBLE-CROSS*

  7. “I WILL SURVIVE”*

  8. A GOOD EYE

  9. MEMBERS ONLY*

  10. THE UNDIPLOMATIC DIPLOMAT*

  11. THE LUCK OF THE IRISH*

  12. POLITICALLY CORRECT

  13. BETTER THE DEVIL YOU KNOW

  14. NO ROOM AT THE INN

  15. CASTE-OFF*

  *Based on true incidents

  STUCK ON YOU*

  1

  Jeremy looked across the table at Arabella and still couldn’t believe she had agreed to be his wife. He was the luckiest man in the world.

  She was giving him the shy smile that had so entranced him the first time they met, when a waiter appeared by his side. “I’ll have an espresso,” said Jeremy, “and my fiancée”—it still sounded strange to him—“will have a mint tea.”

  “Very good, sir.”

  Jeremy tried to stop himself looking round the room full of “at home” people who knew exactly where they were and what was expected of them, whereas he had never visited the Ritz before. It became clear from the waves and blown kisses from customers who flitted in and out of the morning room that Arabella knew everyone, from the maître d’ to several of “the set,” as she often referred to them. Jeremy sat back and tried to relax.

  They’d first met at Ascot. Arabella was inside the royal enclosure looking out, while Jeremy was on the outside, looking in; that was how he’d assumed it would always be, until she gave him that beguiling smile as she strolled out of the enclosure and whispered as she passed him, “Put your shirt on Trumpeter.” She then disappeared off in the direction of the private boxes.

  Jeremy took her advice, and placed twenty pounds on Trumpeter—double his usual wager—before returning to the stands to see the horse romp home at 5–1. He hurried back to the royal enclosure to thank her, at the same time hoping she might give him another tip for the next race, but she was nowhere to be seen. He was disappointed, but still placed fifty pounds of his winnings on a horse the Daily Express tipster fancied. It turned out to be a nag that would be described in tomorrow’s paper as an “also-ran.”

  Jeremy returned to the royal enclosure for a third time in the hope of seeing her again. He searched the paddock full of elegant men dressed in morning suits with little enclosure badges hanging from their lapels, all looking exactly like each other. They were accompanied by wives and girlfriends adorned in designer dresses and outrageous hats, desperately trying not to look like anyone else. Then he spotted her, standing next to a tall, aristocratic-looking man who was bending down and listening intently to a jockey dressed in red-and-yellow hooped silks. She didn’t appear to be interested in their conversation and began to look round. Her eyes settled on Jeremy and he received that same friendly smile once again. She whispered something to the tall man, then walked across the enclosure to join him at the railing.

  “I hope you took my advice,” she said.

  “Sure did,” said Jeremy. “But how could you be so confident?”

  “It’s my father’s horse.”

  “Should I back your father’s horse in the next race?”

  “Certainly not. You should never bet on anything unless you’re sure it’s a certainty. I hope you won enough to take me to dinner tonight?”

  If Jeremy didn’t reply immediately, it was only because he couldn’t believe he’d heard her correctly. He eventually stammered out, “Where would you like to go?”

  “The Ivy, eight o’clock. By the way, my name’s Arabella Warwick.” Without another word she turned on her heel and went back to join her set.

  Jeremy was surprised Arabella had given him a second look, let alone suggested they should dine together that evening. He expected that nothing would come of it, but as she
’d already paid for dinner, he had nothing to lose.

  Arabella arrived a few minutes after the appointed hour, and when she entered the restaurant, several pairs of male eyes followed her progress as she made her way to Jeremy’s table. He had been told they were fully booked until he mentioned her name. Jeremy rose from his place long before she joined him. She took the seat opposite him as a waiter appeared by her side.

  “The usual, madam?”

  She nodded, but didn’t take her eyes off Jeremy.

  By the time her Bellini had arrived, Jeremy had begun to relax a little. She listened intently to everything he had to say, laughed at his jokes, and even seemed to be interested in his work at the bank. Well, he had slightly exaggerated his position and the size of the deals he was working on.

  After dinner, which was a little more expensive than he’d anticipated, he drove her back to her home in Pavilion Road, and was surprised when she invited him in for coffee, and even more surprised when they ended up in bed.

  Jeremy had never slept with a woman on a first date before. He could only assume that it was what “the set” did, and when he left the next morning, he certainly didn’t expect ever to hear from her again. But she called that afternoon and invited him over for supper at her place. From that moment, they hardly spent a day apart during the next month.

  What pleased Jeremy most was that Arabella didn’t seem to mind that he couldn’t afford to take her to her usual haunts, and appeared quite happy to share a Chinese or Indian meal when they went out for dinner, often insisting that they split the bill. But he didn’t believe it could last, until one night she said, “You do realize I’m in love with you, don’t you, Jeremy?”

  Jeremy had never expressed his true feelings for Arabella. He’d assumed their relationship was nothing more than what her set would describe as a fling. Not that she’d ever introduced him to anyone from her set. When he fell on one knee and proposed to her on the dance floor at Annabel’s, he couldn’t believe it when she said yes.

  “I’ll buy a ring tomorrow,” he said, trying not to think about the parlous state of his bank account, which had turned a deeper shade of red since he’d met Arabella.

  “Why bother to buy one, when you can steal the best there is?” she said.

  Jeremy burst out laughing, but it quickly became clear Arabella wasn’t joking. That was the moment he should have walked away, but he realized he couldn’t if it meant losing her. He knew he wanted to spend the rest of his life with this beautiful and intoxicating woman, and if stealing a ring was what it took, it seemed a small price to pay.

  “What type shall I steal?” he asked, still not altogether sure that she was serious.

  “The expensive type,” she replied. “In fact, I’ve already chosen the one I want.” She passed him a De Beers catalog. “Page forty-three,” she said. “It’s called the Kandice Diamond.”

  “But have you worked out how I’m going to steal it?” asked Jeremy, studying a photograph of the faultless yellow diamond.

  “Oh, that’s the easy part, darling,” she said. “All you’ll have to do is follow my instructions.”

  Jeremy didn’t say a word until she’d finished outlining her plan.

  That’s how he had ended up in the Ritz that morning, wearing his only tailored suit, a pair of Links cufflinks, a Cartier Tank watch and an old Etonian tie, all of which belonged to Arabella’s father.

  “I’ll have to return everything by tonight,” she said, “otherwise Pa might miss them and start asking questions.”

  “Of course,” said Jeremy, who was enjoying becoming acquainted with the trappings of the rich, even if it was only a fleeting acquaintance.

  The waiter returned, carrying a silver tray. Neither of them spoke as he placed a cup of mint tea in front of Arabella and a pot of coffee on Jeremy’s side of the table.

  “Will there be anything else, sir?”

  “No, thank you,” said Jeremy with an assurance he’d acquired during the past month.

  “Do you think you’re ready?” asked Arabella, her knee brushing against the inside of his leg while she once again gave him the smile that had so captivated him at Ascot.

  “I’m ready,” said Jeremy, trying to sound convincing.

  “Good. I’ll wait here until you return, darling.” That same smile. “You know how much this means to me.”

  Jeremy nodded, rose from his place, and, without another word, walked out of the morning room, across the corridor, through the swing doors, and out onto Piccadilly. He placed a stick of chewing gum in his mouth, hoping it would help him to relax. Normally Arabella would have disapproved, but on this occasion she had recommended it. He stood nervously on the pavement and waited for a gap to appear in the traffic, then nipped across the road, coming to a halt outside De Beers, the largest diamond merchant in the world. This was his last chance to walk away. He knew he should take it, but just the thought of her made it impossible.

  He rang the doorbell, which made him aware that his palms were sweating. Arabella had warned him that you couldn’t just stroll into De Beers as if it was a supermarket, and that if they didn’t like the look of you, they would not even open the door. That was why he had been measured for his first hand-tailored suit and acquired a new silk shirt, and was wearing Arabella’s father’s watch, cufflinks, and old Etonian tie. “The tie will ensure that the door is opened immediately,” Arabella had told him, “and once they spot the watch and the cufflinks, you’ll be invited into the private salon, because by then they’ll be convinced you’re one of the rare people who can afford their wares.”

  Arabella turned out to be correct, because when the doorman appeared, he took one look at Jeremy and immediately unlocked the door.

  “Good morning, sir. How may I help you?”

  “I was hoping to buy an engagement ring.”

  “Of course, sir. Please step inside.”

  Jeremy followed him down a long corridor, glancing at photographs on the walls that depicted the history of the company since its foundation in 1888. Once they had reached the end of the corridor, the doorman melted away, to be replaced by a tall, middle-aged man wearing a well-cut dark suit, a white silk shirt, and a black tie.

  “Good morning, sir,” he said, giving a slight bow. “My name is Crombie,” he added, before ushering Jeremy into his private lair. Jeremy walked into a small, well-lit room. In the center was an oval table covered in a black velvet cloth, with comfortable-looking leather chairs on either side. The assistant waited until Jeremy had sat down before he took the seat opposite him.

  “Would you care for some coffee, sir?” Crombie inquired solicitously.

  “No, thank you,” said Jeremy, who had no desire to hold up proceedings any longer than necessary, for fear he might lose his nerve.

  “And how may I help you today, sir?” Crombie asked, as if Jeremy were a regular customer.

  “I’ve just become engaged . . .”

  “Many congratulations, sir.”

  “Thank you,” said Jeremy, beginning to feel a little more relaxed. “I’m looking for a ring, something a bit special,” he added, still sticking to the script.

  “You’ve certainly come to the right place, sir,” said Crombie, and pressed a button under the table.

  The door opened immediately, and a man in an identical dark suit, white shirt, and dark tie entered the room.

  “The gentleman would like to see some engagement rings, Partridge.”

  “Yes, of course, Mr. Crombie,” replied the porter, and disappeared as quickly as he had arrived.

  “Good weather for this time of year,” said Crombie as he waited for the porter to reappear.

  “Not bad,” said Jeremy.

  “No doubt you’ll be going to Wimbledon, sir.”

  “Yes, we’ve got tickets for the women’s semifinals,” said Jeremy, feeling rather pleased with himself, remembering that he’d strayed off script.

  A moment later, the door opened and the porter reappeared
carrying a large oak box which he placed reverentially in the center of the table, before leaving without uttering a word. Crombie waited until the door had closed before selecting a small key from a chain that hung from the waistband of his trousers, unlocking the box and opening the lid slowly to reveal three rows of assorted gems that took Jeremy’s breath away. Definitely not the sort of thing he was used to seeing in the window of his local H. Samuel.

  It was a few moments before he fully recovered, and then he remembered Arabella telling him he would be presented with a wide choice of stones so the salesman could estimate his price range without having to ask him directly.

  Jeremy studied the box’s contents intently, and after some thought selected a ring from the bottom row with three perfectly cut small emeralds set proud on a gold band.

  “Quite beautiful,” said Jeremy as he studied the stones more carefully. “What is the price of this ring?”

  “One hundred and twenty-four thousand, sir,” said Crombie, as if the amount was of little consequence.

  Jeremy placed the ring back in the box, and turned his attention to the row above. This time he selected a ring with a circle of sapphires on a white-gold band. He removed it from the box and pretended to study it more closely before asking the price.

  “Two hundred and sixty-nine thousand pounds,” replied the same unctuous voice, accompanied by a smile that suggested the customer was heading in the right direction.

  Jeremy replaced the ring and turned his attention to a large single diamond that lodged alone in the top row, leaving no doubt of its superiority. He removed it and, as with the others, studied it closely. “And this magnificent stone,” he said, raising an eyebrow. “Can you tell me a little about its provenance?”

  “I can indeed, sir,” said Crombie. “It’s a flawless, eighteen-point-four carat cushion-cut yellow diamond that was recently extracted from our Rhodes mine. It has been certified by the Gemmological Institute of America as a Fancy Intense Yellow, and was cut from the original stone by one of our master craftsmen in Amsterdam. The stone has been set on a platinum band. I can assure sir that it is quite unique, and therefore worthy of a unique lady.”