Robert Harris's Precipice, Asquith and Venetia Stanley

Billericay Dickie had a love affair with Nina in the back of his Cortina. Mr Asquith, it seems, had one with the socialite Venetia Stanley in the back of his prime-ministerial 1908 Napier.

Today's Observer has an article on Precipice, Robert Harris's forthcoming novel about the summer of 1914 and Britain's entry into the First World War.

Asquith wrote to Venetia Stanley three times a day, and those letters have been central to Harris's research for his new novel:

“I became fascinated by this aspect of Asquith’s story," said Harris. "We can account for so much of his time in the run-up to the first world war, but this enabled me to tell that story day by day through the 560 letters Venetia kept."

In his last days in No 10, having resigned and invited the Conservatives to form a coalition government after a fateful weekend in 1915 when he was unable to reach Stanley, Asquith is believed to have disposed of her letters. "He had a huge bonfire, but I could put together her replies, I realised, from what he had said and from the bits he quoted."

The claim that the physical element of the affair has been underestimated, Harris believes, is supported by the fittings of the PM’s car: "It was not how we might imagine now. It was totally sealed, like a bedroom on wheels, with blinds on the windows and only a push-button intercom to speak to the driver."

But sex is not the only missing component. Stanley and Asquith also discussed everything. "He enjoyed talking to her because she was clever and not trying to get a job or anything," said [Harris] ....  "So I feel that Venetia, like so many significant women behind the scenes, has been somewhat excised from history. If nothing else, I hope my novel will help give her the place she deserves."

Lord Bonkers, no doubt, will be consulting his lawyers, but I shall leave you with Charles Masterman's account of those summer days before Britain declared war:

It was a company of tired men who for twelve hot summer nights, without rest or relaxation, had devoted their energies to avert this thing which had now come inevitably to pass. No one who has been through the experience of those twelve days will ever be quite the same again. 

It is difficult to find a right simile for that experience. It was like a company of observers watching a little cloud in the east, appearing out of a blue sky, seeing it grow, day by day, until all the brightness had vanished and the sun itself has become obscured. 

It was like the victim of the old mediaeval torture enclosed in a chamber in which the walls, moved by some unseen mechanism, steadily closed on him day by day, until at the end he was crushed to death. 

It was most like perhaps those persons who have walked on the solid ground and seen slight cracks and fissures appear, and these enlarge and run together and swell in size hour by hour until yawning apertures revealed the boiling up beneath them of the earth's central fires, destined to sweep away the forests and vineyards of its surfaces and all the kindly habitations of man.

And all this experience - the development of a situation heading straight to misery and ruin without precedent - was continued in the midst of a world where the happy, abundant life of the people flowed on unconcerned and all thoughts were turned towards the approaching holidays and the glories of triumphant summer days.