Your Royal Hostage

by Antonia Fraser

  general question of Princess Amy's innocence is surely irrelevant.' Monkey stood up. 'This is my stop.'

  The Tube train shuddered slightly as it came into the station.

  'Next week same time but on the Northern Line between Golders Green and Leicester Square. It's a good long line; we can use it right down to Kennington if necessary. Usual procedure for joining each other. I'll get on the train at Golders Green station. One stop each in reverse alphabetical order this time which starts with you, Tom, at Hampstead and ends with Beagle at Euston. Watch for me in the last carriage as the train enters the station. We'll work down if we have to, once we're all gathered. Follow my lead. When I judge we're safe, I'll open my Standard at the City pages.'

  'What about Mornington Crescent?' questioned Fox plaintively; he was studying his Tube map. 'I see I'm to get on at Mornington Crescent —'

  Monkey smiled at him. 'Follow the map, my dear Fox, that's all.'

  'Actually, I get on at Mornington Crescent,' remarked Chicken to no one in particular. As so often with Chicken, she sounded politely superior.

  The Tube doors slid open.

  In stately fashion Monkey descended from the train. The others watched him go, a heavily built man in a dark-grey pin-stripe; the sort of man you would not be surprised to see wearing a bowler or at least carrying a furled umbrella. But Monkey had never so far carried an umbrella since the presence of an umbrella was the emergency signal to abandon the meeting. As for the bowler, that was the final signal for the disbanding of the group.

  The others watched him go and remained silent. It was against the rules for anyone to speak to anyone else once the meeting was over, except for Chicken and Pussy, who used their agreed cover as a couple of middle-aged ladies to continue to chat.

  In this way it was not breaking the rules, only breaking the spirit of them, for Pussy to remark aloud to Chicken in a small defiant voice: 'I still think I'm right. Of course she's guilty. Youth is simply no excuse.'

  CHAPTER TWO

  No One To Blame But Herself

  princess: wedding scare: Jemima Shore was relieved to find that headline in the Standard which she bought at Tottenham Court Road Tube station. She did not bother to read any further. Another made-up tale about these tiresome nuptials. All the headline meant to Jemima was that the story, her story, was not yet out.

  For Jemima Shore Investigator had just been sacked by Megalith Television. That was the plain truth of the matter, however much lawyers, spokespersons and purveyors of official statements might attempt later to wrap it up, for one reason or another. Undoubtedly Jemima Shore, the star reporter of Megalith, was News (much as Princess Amy getting married was News). Television companies like Megalith were also on the whole News, especially when enjoyable things were taking place, like management coups, or the arrival of so-called hard-faced businessmen and the abrupt disappearance of household names from the company's employment - household faces might be a better phrase under the circumstances. The combination was liable to prove irresistible to the Press: thus Jemima was under no illusions but that her peremptory dismissal would make the headlines when it emerged.

  By the time the train reached Holland Park station, however, Jemima was wondering just why she had been relieved not to find the story in the Standard lunchtime edition. It was after all merely postponing the evil hour. The story had to come out sooner or later. So she bought the late edition from the wooden booth outside the station just to show that she could face it, whatever it contained; it also occurred to her that her flat in Holland Park Mansions might by now be ringed by Press and though that too had to be faced, it was just as well to be warned.

  princess: wedding scare had now been moved to second place in the Standard but there was still no sign of the headline she expected. What form would it take? Could she expect something as mild as jemima quits? Unlikely. Fleet Street had its sources inside Megalith as well as everywhere else. tv star 'sacked' was the best she could hope for, the inverted commas round the word 'sacked' being a delicate protection against the possibility of Jemima suing them just in case the story was not true.

  But the story was true. Jemima Shore spared a wry thought for Cy Fredericks, the recently departed Chairman of Megalith Television. O Cy, O Tempora, O Mores, O Cy, O Cy's mores

  which were not always absolutely open to ruthless inspection. Yet in spite of this, Jemima could not rid herself of a certain fondness for her former Chairman, despite the manner of his abrupt departure from the board which had led indirectly to her own dismissal. It was a dismissal brought about directly by Jemima's public declarations of loyalty for Cy. In short, as the hard-faced businessman had pointed out, more in sorrow than in anger (for he had studied Jemima's ratings on the eve of the interview) Jemima had no one to blame but herself.

  One way and another, Jemima was inclined to agree with that verdict. Why on earth had she agreed to speak up for Cy - at his own urgent request - without paying more attention to the dark, and not-so-dark hints dropped by his knowledgeable secretary Miss Lewis on the subject of Cy's future plans? She had even told the board that she would not continue to work for Megalith if Cy was ousted, believing Cy when he assured her that this was purely a formality, and would enable him to defeat the powers of hard-faced darkness threatening him, without delay.

  And now where were Cy Fredericks and Jemima Shore respectively? Cy Fredericks was somewhere in America with an enormous golden handshake to arm him in a future life which turned out to be remarkably well organized in advance, considering the apparent suddenness of his fall at Megalith. Jemima Shore was trudging back from the Tube to her flat in Holland Park Mansions (dashing white Mercedes sports car, like Megalith, a thing of the past, because, in some mysterious way, like everything else it turned out to belong to Megalith). Redundancy payment if any was certain to be the subject of long, long argument between Megalith's lawyers and her own, just supposing she could afford such a thing. In short, Jemima Shore, like a good many of the rest of England, was out of a job.

  She turned to the inside page of the Standard. Yes, it had to be the day when she read about something else she had been dreading, dreading proudly in silence for several weeks. She found herself gazing at a wedding photograph. But this was no royal wedding, no bride in white tulle and diamonds on the arm of a chocolate soldier in Ruritanian uniform. Where the groom was concerned, Jemima Shore was gazing into the face of a man she knew, no newspaper creation, in fact until recently had known very well indeed.

  'I wonder what happened to his spectacles? He must be wearing contact lenses,' she thought irrelevantly.

  The bridegroom was one Cass Brinsley, a barrister who had been Jemima's steady lover for a period not long enough in her opinion, too long in his. The bride, who was called Flora Hereford, was also a barrister and had once been a pupil in Cass Brinsley's chambers. Jemima angrily reflected that Flora Hereford, wearing a dark high-necked dress with a small white collar, looked extremely pleased with herself. As well she might. After all, she'd been after Cass for years. And now she'd got him.

  lawful matrimony ran the witty caption under the happy couple. Really, the Press these days and their headlines; what with princess: wedding scare almost daily, and now this

  Furthermore: 'What a dull dress to wear at your wedding! I wouldn't dream of wearing anything quite so lacking in style as that,' was Jemima's next uncharitable thought. And then something most unpalatable occurred to her: 'How on earth would I know? I've never been married.'

  Immediately after thinking this, in spite of herself, Jemima found a wave of horrible emotion sweeping over her as she walked down the broad silent street, still clutching the paper folded back at the fatal photograph.

  Unhappiness? Yes, perhaps. Jealousy? Yes, definitely.

  Oh Cass, thought Jemima, Cass, you should have waited. At which point the honest unpalatable voice spoke again in her ear: but he did wait, didn't he? He waited for months, almost a whole year after his declaration in the direction of
marriage, and what did you do? You wouldn't say yes, you wouldn't say no. Cass's very own words.

  It was only after that that Flora Hereford got him. That one-off programme about child-brides in Sri Lanka, the trip he begged you not to make - 'not another eight-week stint without a telephone call' - she could hear Cass's voice now, and her own defensive reply: 'Is it my fault if you're always out when I'm in?' 'But I'm always in while you're away,' retorted Cass grimly. Added to which the programme had never even been shown, concluded Jemima ruefully, and now it never will be. Ah well, no one to blame but myself.

  Jemima Shore decided that these were definitely the most depressing words in the English language. As they resounded in her ears, she took another peck at the photograph, as a result of which honesty once more made her admit that Flora Hereford was really a very pretty girl wearing rather an elegant dress; she was also several years younger than Jemima.

  No one to blame but herself. She had a ghastly feeling that this was turning out to be what Cherry, Jemima's former aide at Megalith, a nubile but tearful lady, would term a crying situation. Was she going to manage to get up the stairs and into the flat before the gathering tears flowed? Jemima reached the flat. As she put her key in the lock, she could hear the telephone ringing.

  For one wild moment - it was something to do with the sheer unreality of that photograph - she thought: 'Cass!'

  Midnight, Jemima's sleek muscular black cat, a smaller version of a leopard, purred raucously at her ankle. In attempting to reach the telephone, Jemima stumbled over Midnight who squawked pathetically and then knocked over a vase of flowers left by Mrs

  Bancroft, her cleaning lady, to cheer her up.

  The telephone stopped just as she reached it. At which point Jemima Shore finally burst into tears. Midnight had just forgiven her, in token of which he leapt heavily on to her lap, claws out, when the telephone rang again. It was Cherry, speaking from Megalith. Jemima gulped as she answered.

  'Jemima, you're crying!.' Momentarily Cherry spoke in a voice of astonishment that anyone bar herself could dissolve into hopeless tears; above all, that legend of invulnerability, Jemima Shore. Then, being a person of much good sense when not in floods of tears, Cherry reverted to her usual brisk tone: 'Good news and bad news. Which do you want first?'

  Jemima gave another gulp. 'All right, here comes the bad news, and it's not all that bad, because it's what you expected. The story is out about you being given the push, this place is like a madhouse, telephones never stop ringing, etc., etc. You can imagine it all for yourself, general flap on about what you will say, and as to that, you can expect the hounds of Fleet Street baying at your door any moment, I fear.'

  'Thanks for the warning, Cherry. You're a brick, as usual. I'll call you when -'

  'Don't you want to hear the good news? Here it comes anyway. You know the Royal Wedding? How could you not know the Royal Wedding? How could any of us not know the Royal Wedding? Well, whatever you may feel about the Royal Wedding, it's an ill wind, because Television United States, no less, tus, that is, are doing a special on it, imagine that, a whole special on our very own British royal nuptials, and they want you to be the anchor person. One of the anchor people. Rick Vancy will be the other.'

  'And you call this good news?' enquired Jemima in a cool voice from which tears had however noticeably departed.

  'Jemima, think of it! Dollars, delights, coverage, work, and Rick Vancy. Don't you adore Rick Vancy? If not, pass him on —'

  'What interests me far more than Rick Vancy, and he interests me only mildly, is why tus is making a special on the Royal Wedding. Any clues?'

  'Oh, I think they imagine there's going to be an incident, you know what Americans are like. An assassination or something like that,' said Cherry airily, 'nothing serious, nothing to bother you.'

  'Cherry, what on earth gave you that idea?'

  'Only that the man I spoke to, some London-based chap with a boyishly enthusiastic voice, kept asking if you had a cool head and could guarantee to keep that same head in a crisis.'

  Jemima burst out laughing. 'Really, Americans! They arc absurd. The idea of anyone, anyone at all, wanting to assassinate poor little Princess Amy, or even the chocolate soldier, unless some aggrieved husband takes a pot-shot. 1 mean, it's a wedding, don't they realize that? Just a wedding, a perfectly ordinary wedding, dolled up in fancy clothes, dolled up in its details mainly by the Press. After all, we've had two of them, royal style, recently, without any trouble at all. Weddings! Really!'

  'Mmm, weddings. On the subject of weddings -'

  'It's all right, Cherry, I saw. Nice photograph. Nice girl.'

  'She has bad legs,' said Cherry loyally. 'Now getting back to the other much more important wedding, Jemima, I really think -'

  'No, Cherry, definitely no. I'm going to have a rest period, a long, long, rest period. Then I'll probably become a probation officer, if they'll have me, and end up Dame Jemima, deeply worthy, with her wicked past in television long ago forgotten. Look, forgive me, we'll talk, there's someone at the door. Pressing the bell and banging, by the sound of it.'

  Actually, there were three people at the door. One was pressing the bell, one was banging and one was leaning so eagerly forward that he fell into the room as Jemima opened it. All three were male. All three were smiling. Jemima took a deep breath.

  Then the telephone began to ring again. More to avoid talking to her three new knights than for any more positive reason, Jemima picked it up. The voice was, in Cherry's phrase, boyishly enthusiastic. The accent was American. The voice had been talking for a few minutes with Jemima making automatic responses, as she wondered exactly how much whisky she (a non-whisky drinker) had in the flat for this particular Press emergency, when she heard the words: 'exclusive interview'.

  'Why me?' Jemima, once again acting automatically, did not repeat the words 'Cumberland Palace' to the waiting ears of the knights of the Press. What she did say was: 'Fifty-five minutes.

  That's a hell of a long time for anyone, let alone'

  More enthusiastic boyish confidences. Then: 'Both of them?' Jemima paused. 'Just her might be better. Or one at a time. It is exclusive? Perhaps you'll tell me just how you worked this magic when we meet.'

  Some time later as Jemima poured the last drops of the whisky into the glasses of her knights, now installed quite cosily in her flat, with no sign of leaving, she was able to remark quite innocently: 'As for myself, I think I'll open a bottle of champagne. If there's one in the fridge. No, I'll keep the one you kindly brought

  for another day, when it's cold, thank you very muchAfter

  all, I really do have something to celebrate, don't I? ... No, not freedom exactly, more like a new life. I'm working on the Royal Wedding. For tus. With Rick Vancy. Didn't you know? Well, of course I had to keep it absolutely quiet from Megalith. This is all strictly off the record, I need hardly say, please keep it to yourselves, at any rate till the public announcement. It would be so embarrassing if it leaked out. You will promise I won't read all about it in the papers tomorrow morning?'

  There was some cold champagne in the fridge. After the first knight had opened it with a flourish, Jemima sat sipping it with a most innocent expression on her face. It crossed the mind of the second knight that her expression was in fact not unlike that of the elegant black cat purring loudly on her lap. The third knight was busy wondering how soon he could get away and telephone his paper from the call box he had noticed at the corner of the street.

  He tried to imagine the headline.

  royal wedding sensation? Yes, why not?

  CHAPTER THREE

  Amy Means Trouble

  Princess Amy, breakfasting in bed at Cumberland Palace, read the headline royal wedding sensation with an agreeable quickening of interest and was correspondingly annoyed to discover that the story actually concerned rival television companies.

  She pouted. When she was alone Princess Amy's pouts made her look sulky if sensual; her full lower l
ip extended and drooped, and her nostrils - perhaps already a little too wide — flared. In public, however, Princess Amy had quickly learnt how to transform 'the pout' into something not so much sulky as sweetly disappointed, and thus rather delightful.

  The Princess was wearing a short cotton nightdress in the form of a man's shirt, trimmed with white lace. The nightdress itself was her favourite colour, known to the Press as Amy Blue ('Amy Loves Blue — and so will you' promised one feature in a woman's magazine). In fact the colour was nearer to turquoise or even green. The open front of the nightshirt revealed Amy's surprisingly large and full breasts - surprising, that is, only because they did not accord with the girlish image the Press were busy imposing upon her, and thus even when discreetly covered up by day or safely moulded in evening dress, generally took observers by surprise.

  The rest of the bedroom, including the narrow wooden four-poster in which Amy herself lay, was decorated in shades of the same colour, something with which even Princess Amy's healthy twenty-two-year-old complexion found it difficult to contend.

  On the walls, a set of watercolours in oval frames showed a series of eighteenth-century princesses - Amy's relations - in white muslin and blue sashes. Their costumes acted as an unintentional reminder of how much more flattering this kind of garb was to a young girl than a turquoise nightshirt.