De mortuis nil nisi bonum. The distinguished journalist and editor Dominic Lawson was unmoved by sentiment and set out the prosecution case, but almost everyone else has been warm about Jeffrey Archer, and surely wanted to bring comfort to Mary. There is also widespread shock. Although he was 86, Jeffrey seemed indestructible, in so many respects.
After his victory in the libel action - this ultimately helped to bring him down, of which more below - I wrote that Jeffrey was like a squash ball. You could stand him on a grand piano, and he would still come back into shape.
The libel action was extraordinary. Via an intermediary, Jeffrey arranged to pay a tart £2000. Most of us would have assumed that he had received value for money. He denied it, and the judge believed him, inspired by Mary's beauty; 'Is she not fragrant?' She was and is. Yet that should not have been the point.
Humourists often mock judges' naïveté. That might work in light comedy, but in real life it has little truth. A view of life as seen from the judicial bench leaves few illusions about human nature. But there is always an exception. The judge who steered the jury to a £500,000 pay out was one such.
The rest of us rubbed our eyes in disbelief. Only Jeffrey could have paid £2000 to a prostitute and turned it into half a million. If Jeffrey had commissioned a coat of arms, with a Latin motto, de mortuis ought to have given way to 'stranger than fiction.'
There is one libel verdict, a derisory award of damages: say £1. If that had been the reward, there would have been two consequences. First, the taint of disgrace would probably have prevented his being sent to the Lords (though with Jeffrey one could never be sure). Second, the half million disaster for the newspaper led to the editor being sacked. He died young. Whether that was the medical cause, a lot of his colleagues wanted revenge.
Fast forward a few years. The evening is coming to an end at one of Jeffrey's Albert Embankment parties. I am leaving along with John Sergeant of ITN. Jeffrey stopped us. 'John, Bruce: there is something you must know. The Prime Minister just phoned to speak to William.' - ie Tony Blair to talk to William Hague. 'Apparently we are launching a bombing mission against Iraq this evening. William has gone off to brief Margaret [Thatcher] and John [Major].' This must have been one of the happiest moments of Jeffrey's life. Prime Minister, ex-Prime Ministers, the Leader of the Opposition: all that traffic going through his flat. He would have been in ecstasy.
But at that very moment, lawyers and journalists were in confab, preparing next Sunday's edition of the News of the World, which would lead to the perjury conviction and to jail.
There is one interesting aspect of the ensuing trial. Jeffrey did not go in the witness box. In those days, judges were not allowed to draw an inference from such silence. It was for the prosecution to prove guilt, not the defendant to prove innocence. (Since then, the rules have changed.) But whatever the judge's direction, it seems inconceivable that jurors would not have drawn their own conclusions. If Jeffrey were innocent, he would surely have proclaimed the fact. He was hardly an inarticulate man. So why silence?
It is said that the prosecution thought that they had all the evidence they needed for ten guilty verdicts and that if Jeffrey had gone in the witness box, he would have been destroyed. Probably, and that is no doubt what his lawyers advised. But: with Jeffrey there was always a but. Might there not have been a stranger than fiction outcome? We shall never know. With Jeffrey, you never did know.
The parties: I enjoy shepherd's pie and I delight in Krug. Yet as a combination, no. It did not work. Whether at home or in restaurants, Jeffrey had little interest in what he ate and drank. For him, it was all about showing off. From prison, his Christmas card incorporated Mr Toad: a rare outbreak of self-scrutiny.
There was another aspect to the parties. Jeffrey himself did not seem to relax. He was too busy counting the Cabinet Ministers and fretting if there was an absentee. He did not seem to accept that the odd minister who had intended to be there might have fallen to the force majeure of duty.
Whatever the ministerial turn-out, and it was always high, there would be excitement on most evenings. I remember one memorable encounter. This was just before the Westland crisis, when Michael Heseltine went to war with Margaret Thatcher over the fate of a helicopter company. I was chatting to Norman Lamont, who said that this would end up with Michael resigning. 'Balls' I replied. Norman persisted: 'You mark my words.'
Hezza was on the other side of the room. I went up to him, as did Phil Edmonds. I introduced them. Michael looked blank. 'Oh come on' said I: 'Phil is the best spin-bowler in England.' That was more or less true. I switched to Westland, along the following lines. 'You have twisted the Prime Ministerial tail more than anyone else has done, ever. But you can't win. You ought to leave yourself a line of withdrawal, after the inevitable defeat.' Michael's eyes and lion's mane both blazed. 'I will do nothing of the sort. There is no question of defeat. I am going to win.' 'God Almighty' I thought: 'Lamont's right. This is the irresistible force versus the immovable object.' So it proved, a few weeks later.
Meanwhile, Phil Edmonds spoke up, about a really important subject, Test cricket. 'We're all going off to the West Indies, and no-one thinks we've a chance. Will you come and give us a pep talk?' Hezza was in his stride. 'Of course I will, and this is what I'll say. "You must banish the thought of defeat. You must make it a psychological impossibility. You must think victory, and only victory. Victory for breakfast. Victory for lunch. Victory for dinner. Victory at all times." I will give that talk - pause - as long as you don't tell the others that I didn't know who you were.'
Phil Edmonds is a proud man, not lacking in ego. Even so, at that moment he was Michael's slave. I have never tried to find out whether the pep talk took place, but if so, it made no difference. England were slaughtered. Hezza later wrote a book entitled 'Where there is a will.' Although a very Heseltine title, it was also misleading. In cricket as in politics, a will does not always guarantee a way.
Jeffrey is an example. There was a time when will-power did not prevail. Yet the squash ball always came back. With Jeffrey, the word 'unique' is an understatement. We shall never see his like again. His friends will tell Archer stories for as long as they live.