Precipice by Robert Harris review - 'a beautifully crafted novel'

Robert Harris PIC: Ian Gavan/Getty Images

Precipice is Robert Harris's 16th novel, and there hasn’t been a dud among them. This is unusual. Most who deliver a book every year or two have the occasional flop. Harris ranges widely in terms of subject matter. His last novel began with the execution of Charles I and told of the hunt for the men who had signed the death warrant. This new one ends with the overthrow of the Liberal Prime Minister, Herbert Asquith, in 1916. Both Charles and Asquith made mistakes which contributed to their downfall. Both were regarded by their followers as martyrs. Both stumbled into war and failed to manage it.

This is a political novel, as Harris's usually are, to some degree anyway, but it is also a love story, or perhaps one should say, the story of an infatuation. In 1914, when the novel begins, Asquith had been Prime Minister for six years. There were difficulties, chiefly an acute Irish Problem, but he was serenely master of his cabinet. He was inclined to drink too much brandy in the evening but his ability to transact business was unquestionable. He was 60 and married with seven children, five from is first marriage, two from his second to Margot Tennant. Asquith came from a middle-class Yorkshire family, but moved comfortably among the aristocracy. He was at ease with women, enjoyed their company. Now, in 1914, he was in love. 

The young woman was Venetia Stanley, daughter of the immensely rich Lord Sheffield, and from childhood a close friend of Asquith's daughter Violet. 

Asquith was smitten, and Venetia was flattered; she was also very fond of him. He was "Darling Mr Asquith". He he took her for drives in his chauffeur-driven car, the partition between front and back seats closed, wrote letters to her every day, sometimes more than one. The Post Office was remarkably efficient then - a letter posted at lunchtime might be delivered in the late afternoon post. His letters were loving, gossipy and indiscreet. All his letters quoted in the novel are, Harris tells us, authentic - "the reader may be astonished to learn". Quite so. Venetia's in reply are invented by the author. 

War, as we know, broke out in August 1914. Would Britain be involved? The arguments have been rehearsed time and again. Harris makes them seem fresh and urgent. Few in the Cabinet were eager, the only exception being the young First Lord of the Admiralty, Winston Churchill. (The sketch of the young Winston is brilliant.)

Asquith's infatuation became ever more urgent. He not only wrote two or three times a day - sometimes during cabinet meetings - he also passed on information about the war and policy, even to the extent of sending her official documents. It was crazy, and yet, needy as he was, in other respects he seemed as calm and clear-minded as ever. Anyone reading the letters, however, might wonder if the Prime Minister could be trusted, even if he was going mad. 

And soon the letters were indeed being read by others. A young policeman - also the only fictional character in the novel, certainly the only important one - is attached to the secret service and instructed to read, photograph, and then reseal the letters between Asquith and Venetia, which are intercepted every day. There are, he is told, fears that Miss Stephen may be a German agent. It is soon clear she isn't, but the interception of the letters continues and political use will be made of them by the Northcliffe Press, already eager to have Asquith driven from office.

Harris deploys his plot with the dexterity one has grown to expect from him. He blends war, news, politics, arguments about stategy and the daily lives of his characters deftly together. Asquith left detail to the service chiefs; he was there, in his view, to be consulted, to advise and warn. His reluctance to upset the routine of his life was remarkable, though often sensible; he still took weekends in the country, found time for golf, and played bridge most evenings. But as Venetia chafed under the weight of his neediness and took nursing work in a hospital (which he insisted on visiting), she began to seek a way out. You can't blame her, but it was a hard knock for Asquith and his state of mind (and heart) contributed to the collapse of his government and loss of office.

Much of the detail of this beautifully crafted novel is delightful. Many will be surprised to learn that there were no gates then blocking members of the public's entry to Downing Street at this time, astonished that the Prime Minister could leave Number 10 to stroll unaccompanied to his club in Pall Mall, less so, I suppose, by the scale of life led by Venetia's parents. One of the main triumphs, however, of this persuasive and enjoyable novel, is the sympathy with which Harris treats both Asquith and Venetia.

Precipice, by Robert Harris, Hutchinson Heinemann, £22. Robert Harris is appearing at the Edinburgh Book Festival on 29 August.