Political Death

by Antonia Fraser

  It was Randall, putting his arm around Millie, who performed the introduction. “Darling, have you met my cousin Sarah Smyth?” He then put his other arm around the blonde woman’s black-velvet-clad shoulders. “Sarah Smyth MP. The greatest ornament to the House of Commons, the only real ornament—”

  “Don’t be silly, Randall. There aren’t any MPs at present. Parliament’s been dissolved. There’s a government and ministers but no MPs to bother them.” It was said with a smile that made Millie think unpleasantly that Sarah Smyth must have attended the Virginia Bottomley school of charm. “I’m just a candidate at present, a candidate taking a night off to come and support the family on stage.”

  Millie felt sick. She was acutely aware that the Safeways bag containing Burgo Smyth’s letters, to say nothing of those Diaries, was in this very theatre. Things got no better when Hattie Vickers poked her head around the door.

  “Randall, Millie, see you six o’clock tomorrow.” Then: “Great show. Fabulous reception. Come to think of it, see you all at the Café Royal.”

  “Come on Hattie, celebrate.” Randall handed her a glass of champagne. Hattie blushed and shook her head. She had a mass of springy light brown curly hair and a skin almost exactly the same colour. Whatever the genetic mix which had produced Hattie, the effect to Millie’s eyes was far more appealing than Sarah Smyth’s cool Englishness. She hoped Randall agreed with her.

  “Later,” said Hattie, with a sidelong glance at Sarah Smyth which seemed to indicate that she shared Millie’s feelings. “I’ve got work to do. And Millie, I locked all that stuff up—” She held up one of the keys on her large jangling key-filled ring.

  Millie interrupted her. “Randall, I’m not coming to the Café Royal. You can explain.” She could not resist adding, although it was not necessarily what she wanted just then, “See you later.” As she went, she could hear Betsy Wright’s voice explaining, “The most ghastly thing happened to her only last night, her mother went and …”

  Not only had Sarah Smyth not congratulated her on her performance, reflected Millie, unless praise for her boots was intended to be symbolic, but she had not said anything about Madre’s death. Didn’t she know? Surely MPs, or rather candidates, watched the news obsessively? Was the fact that Sarah Smyth did not comment a good sign or a bad sign? All the anger and disgust—and fear—that Millie had experienced, came back.

  About the same time as Millie Swain took a taxi back to her Islington flat—it was after all a first night and the weather was still terrible—Olga Carter-Fox was having a family conference. It was a conference of two (occasionally joined by her seven-year-old daughter Elfi, who loved to make appearances to impart tidings of her nightmares). The other person present was the man she too sometimes secretly thought of as Holy Harry, thanks to Millie’s pernicious influence, but was otherwise her husband of ten years, Harry Carter-Fox, Member of Parliament for the West London constituency of Bedford Park in the last three parliaments and now its prospective candidate.

  The conference had to be broken off from time to time not only to escort Elfi (“I dreamt I had no Mummy and Daddy”) back to bed, but to watch the news programme Latest. Harry had done a pre-recorded interview on his favourite subject of social policies, on which he held, for his party, strongly liberal views. Every time the presenter showed signs of turning to a new item, the Carter-Foxes turned the sound up hopefully, before turning back to their increasingly agitated conversation.

  “We’ve got to do something—wait, Olga, I think this really is it—no, well, dammit, this is getting seriously late, everyone will be going to bed—as I was saying, you should never have let Millie take the Diaries. I’m sorry, darling, but you know what Millie is like. Definitely not to be trusted, and I’m not just referring to her politics, or to the fact that she’s an actress. There’s something terribly unreliable about her quite apart from those two things. Like your mother.”

  Momentarily Olga was inclined to defend Millie against the charge of being like Madre but at that instant the unmistakable image of Harry Carter-Fox filled the screen.

  “Pensions in a perfect world proliferate,” he began; it was not an ideal sentence for a man who was visibly nervous and had a slight stammer on such occasions. As Harry leant forward gently and revealed the small bald patch in his hair, Olga’s thoughts strayed and went down dark paths. She did after all know what her husband was going to say, having rehearsed it with him at some length. When Burgo Smyth came on the screen just after Harry, looking particularly suave (no perspiration for the Foreign Secretary) it was Olga who snapped the set off.

  “Jolly good, darling,” she said, “that showed them all right.” But the sight of Burgo Smyth had soured Harry’s mood once more; he had been unconsciously and rather touchingly smiling at his own face on the screen.

  “Olga, we’ve got to do something,” he repeated. “You know, this could be political death for me, absolute ruin to my career, if things get out. Whatever did or did not happen in the Faber Case, that’s thirty years ago. It’s monstrous that one’s reputation should be put on the line now.” Olga noticed that Harry was trembling.

  “I’ve done something already and I’ll do something more.” Olga spoke in her calmest voice, the one she had developed to pacify her mother. “There’s no question about it, Harry, you come first.”

  CHAPTER 5

  LIFE-THREATENING

  Jemima Shore wrestled with her conscience as she re-read the obituaries of Lady Imogen Swain, which she had cut out and collected. These were quite plentiful—ex-society beauties made for nice pictures in obituary columns—but short. “BEATON BEAUTY DIES” was a typical headline about a time in the late fifties when Lady Imogen had been chosen by Cecil Beaton as one of the ten most beautiful women in Britain. She had been the daughter of some obscure impoverished peer whose title died out when he was killed in the war leaving no son. One got the impression that being a beauty had been Lady Imogen’s profession, and her professional success had greatly declined over recent years.

  One question was answered: who was Swain? He had been a backbench MP, handsome but not rich, whom Lady Imogen had chosen for “romantic reasons” when as Debutante of the Year she could have married a wealthy duke—at least according to the obituary column of the Daily Mail. One of the papers reproduced that same photograph of Imogen as a bride which Jemima had seen in Hippodrome Square. In this version, Robin Swain, dark and slightly saturnine, lowered over his tiny new wife. Even then, Imogen Swain’s heart had ruled her head. How sad that this “ideally happy” marriage had been terminated so quickly by his “illness and premature death”—in those days, presumably cancer—when his daughters were mere babies.

  There were no scandalous references even in the tabloids and no hint whatsoever of Lady Imogen’s connection to the Faber Mystery. The truth was that Imogen Swain (unlike Margaret Duchess of Argyll) had never featured in a divorce case, had never been publicly castigated by a judge so that the Press could salaciously print his verdict on her character. So Imogen Swain was, in a sense, unknown to history, marginalised like so many women in the past whose moral and social worth had doubtless been far greater. When the mainspring of her life—her love for Burgo Smyth—had been broken, for reasons which were still obscure to Jemima, Imogen Swain had somehow ceased to exist. “Love as a woman’s whole existence.” Yes indeed.

  Yet judging from Jemima’s interview with her, and from the single Diary which she had read, Imogen Swain had known a lot about one of the great recent British mysteries, the disappearance of Franklyn Faber, at the moment the jury were considering their verdict. Thirty years later, due to a combination of circumstances—age, senility and drink—she was preparing to reveal what she knew. (Those references to “lots of naughty secrets” and “my side of the story … my true confessions.”) Then Imogen Swain had died. Convenient? Yes, certainly. Suspicious? Jemima reviewed her thoughts on the subject. She had to admit that, to the outward eye, the death of Lady Imogen might be tra
gic but was hardly surprising. On a stormy night an ageing woman, after a drink or two, for some reason went up to the top of her ramshackle house (to fix one of those windows?) and toppled from the balcony.

  Jemima picked up another newspaper, one which contained a report of the finding of the body in the area by a neighbour, one Mrs. Humphreys, who had evidently lived alongside Lady Imogen for some years and had a fair idea of her habits. (“She looked like a baglady half the time but always so gracious, even if she was sometimes a little, well, confused.”) Mrs. Humphreys spoke graphically of her discovery: how the loud mewing of a cat had attracted her attention, how she had looked down, how she was horrified, absolutely horrified, etc., etc., poor old lady, poor cat or rather cats (for there were two of them, but only one outside the door mewing), what would become of the cats? For the time being, Mrs. Humphreys would of course oblige.

  Jemima sat up suddenly. One cat was found outside the door in the early morning. It was mewing to get back in so it was not intended to be outside, there was no cat-flap for re-entry. How did it get there? She remembered the daughter’s hostile voice on the telephone: “No, I won’t let out the bloody cats.” However sozzled or just plain gaga Lady Imogen had been when Jemima left, she still remembered to warn her against letting the wandering cat—Jasmine, yes—out of the house. So it was presumably Jasmine who had succeeded in getting out.

  Who was it who had let Jasmine out? Surely not the daughters. Regan and Goneril they might be, but one of them had been sufficiently aware of the problem to mention it in advance on the telephone. Lady Imogen had expected another quite separate visitor. Jemima had clearly understood that from the second telephone conversation, the one that had brought tears to Lady Imogen’s eyes. Whoever that visitor had been, and to this Jemima had no clue, it was logical to suppose that he or she must have let Jasmine out of the house. In which case, was it equally logical to suppose that Imogen Swain had not given her usual warning on the subject? And if not, why not?

  Jemima wrestled with her conscience: she knew she probably ought to do something about the single Diary in her possession, even though Imogen Swain had pressed it on her, “It’s yours. I give it to you. It’s yours.” To this unease was now added a new unease about the remarkably convenient timing of Imogen Swain’s death. But of course there was no proof that Lady Imogen had genuinely been in fear of her life, beyond her ramblings towards the end of their conversation, when she had drunk a great deal. All that paranoid talk about people who wanted to kill her; lonely old people did succumb to these notions. Then Jemima remembered the existence of Lady Imogen’s original letter of application for the “Memories” programme. Hadn’t that made some rather odd reference? Cherry must have it in the office and here she was in her flat. Jemima Shore blessed the inventor of the fax machine, and Cherry, who had made her install one at home.

  The letter, when it arrived by fax, came together with a drawing of some “wicked” shoes which Cherry had just bought. “Life-threatening,” Cherry had added. It was not clear whose life Cherry was referring to; Jemima hoped it was not her own. Most of Imogen Swain’s letter was innocuous, although Jemima did note how the bold black handwriting had deteriorated: it had become larger yet much less legible since Imogen Swain wrote the earlier Diary. One phrase however was remarkable under the circumstances: “Since I don’t know how much time I have left,” wrote Lady Imogen, “for safety’s sake I hope you will respond quickly.” The first part of the sentence might refer to fragile health, not uncommon in people who responded to a request for “Memories,” but the phrase “for safety’s sake” was surely a little strange.

  Jemima sighed. Perhaps she ought to speak to the police. What she wanted to do was to read the rest of the Diaries. She promised herself that before long she would contact her old friend Detective Chief Superintendent John Portsmouth, a.k.a. Pompey, of the Yard, and a senior member of the Royal and Diplomatic Protection Unit. In the meantime she looked up the number of the Henry Irving Theatre, where she knew that Millie Swain was playing to rave reviews (“A young Vanessa and we’re not referring to her politics”—Evening Standard).

  Jemima read again the account of the inquest where Millie Swain had given evidence. There was a photograph of her, so tall and straight that Jemima could see the Redgrave reference, but Millie Swain was quite dark, beetle-browed in fact, in Shakespeare’s phrase, where her mother had been fair. She was photographed with the supporting arm of that rising star Randall Birley around her. Millie had spoken calmly but sadly of her mother’s increasing confusion. Since the postmortem provided evidence of a deal of alcohol in the blood, the coroner was not disposed to question that. But one thing did give Jemima Shore a special pang, as no doubt it did to Millie Swain. When asked by the coroner to suggest what might have drawn her mother up to the nursery floor—so long disused—Millie had replied, “Recently my mother had begun to have a rather dislocated sense of time. Sometimes she thought we were still up there, my sister and I, still children up there.” She added, “She probably went up to see if we were all right. My mother was frightened of storms: the odd thing is that we weren’t—”

  The coroner, a kindly man, passed on to his next question. In any case, the level of alcohol in Lady Imogen’s blood was sufficient to convince him that she would scarcely have been in a competent condition when she ascended to the top floor of the house. Since the window was open to the balcony from which she fell—and still banging a little when the police examined it—it was possible that Lady Imogen had gone upstairs to fix it in the exceptionally windy conditions of that night. In general, the coroner went out of his way to deal tenderly with Millie Swain and her sister Olga Carter-Fox.

  Millie Swain spoke of the need to sell the house and move their mother to what she called “sheltered housing.” How her mother had seemed to accept this, which was made inevitable by Lady Imogen’s deteriorating condition. “Not exactly life-threatening,” (that phrase again, thought Jemima) “but not far off it.” Harry Carter-Fox, past and presumably future MP for Bedford Park, provided identification of his mother-in-law.

  Lady Imogen’s doctor was perhaps the only unsatisfactory witness (although the coroner treated him, too, kindly) since he admitted that he had not attended his patient recently. Lady Imogen had apparently been reluctant to admit what she called “strange men” to the house, even in the hours of daylight.

  “Latterly she lived very much in the past,” said the doctor, without expanding further. Jemima wondered whether Lady Imogen had also talked to her doctor about one not-so-strange man from the past: Burgo Smyth. However the other daughter, Mrs. Olga Carter-Fox had smoothed that one over. She had been on the verge of providing her mother with a woman doctor when the tragic accident occurred.

  Jemima Shore left a message for Millie Swain at the Irving to call her and on reflection, another for Olga Carter-Fox, whose MP husband was democratic enough to be in the London telephone book. Jemima felt restless. Having her curiosity frustrated was not an experience she enjoyed; she liked to be able to take action. Besides, the rainy weather had finally given way to something more like spring. How pleasant for the politicians! Recent pictures of them on television, members of all parties in wellies and macs, had made them look more like a series of judges at an agricultural show than candidates at an election. It occurred to her that a discreet pseudo-jog in the direction of Hippodrome Square might produce some interesting results, especially if Mrs. Humphreys was around.

  As a matter of fact, Jemima Shore detested jogging, which made her feel quite unfeminine—talk about life-threatening! She much preferred the solitary sport of swimming, otherwise playing tennis with (or against) her current boyfriend. But she kept this unfashionable view strictly to herself, with the exception of Cherry, whose splendid anatomy made her too a natural enemy of the jog. Nevertheless, Jemima found that a “jogging” track suit and trainers often provided a reassuring camouflage for an investigation. Of the people she interviewed, no one had so far asked wh
y, alone of all joggers, Jemima Shore still had a cool, pearly complexion, and hair untouched by sweat.

  Hippodrome Square had changed its aspect since her last visit. It looked quite romantic in the spring night; under the street lamps, Jemima could see some early daffodils. One could imagine that the shadows and trees of the square gardens concealed young lovers (although a locked gate and bars actually made that unlikely). Several of the houses were brightly illuminated since it was not particularly late; smart lights at the well-painted front doors, lighting up those chained-down bay trees she had noted on her original visit. Then there were the houses ripe-for-development, dark, with perhaps one light on in the basement and a big white For Sale notice wired up somewhere. And lastly the houses in the process of joining the bay-tree club with their scaffoldings, on which flapped dark cloths and scruffier builders’ boards.

  Number Nine would of course be in darkness unless the daughters had left on the odd precautionary light. What would happen to it now, she wondered. A sale, a profitable sale, and then perhaps another private hotel like the trendy Hippodrome, especially if various houses could be run together. Jemima stopped short. There was indeed a light on in Number Nine, more than one. She had not realised there were so many light bulbs left in the house.

  Had she got the wrong house? No, there was the number, and Number Seven, Mrs. Humphrey’s house (she lived in the ground floor flat) beside it. How strange! Jemima hesitated. Was it really so strange? Houses lived on, even if their owners died, or rather in the case of Number Nine mouldered on. For the house looked no more appetising now than when Lady Imogen’s arm had emerged from a window brandishing the key.

  Jemima continued to stare, mesmerised, at the yellow windows. It was noticeable that not one curtain was drawn, supposing the curtains upstairs were still viable: she doubted whether the tattered drawing-room curtains would have covered very much. She began to count them and calculate: the first floor and its balcony, where she had last seen Lady Imogen gazing forlornly into the gathering storm. The row above, from which the key had been flung, must be the bedroom floor. Above that was the so-called nursery floor with its own little balcony. She remembered Millie Swain at the inquest: “When we were children, there was netting over the balcony to stop us falling over. But over the years it rotted away and my mother, not using the top floor, never had it replaced.”