This was manifestly not a popular statement with the rest of the cast. As a matter of fact, of those who were registered to vote in London, and intended to use their vote, a good proportion was probably going to vote Labour, especially given the new alliance with the Liberals. But there was an uneasy feeling that a political discussion at this juncture was disrespectful to Hattie.
It was also distracting. But Charley Baines decided not to be distracted. “Supposing not the lethal homeless, nor even that well-known brute, the single mother,” he went on, daring anyone, including Millie, to interrupt. “Supposing it’s one of us?”
“I think that’s absolutely appalling—” Alice Martinez was trembling as she spoke. But Charley was relentless.
“You see, I’ve been thinking about the keys. Whoever did it knew exactly what to do about the keys.”
“Which was?” The curt question came from Randall.
“You told us the theatre was found locked. So the murderer must have known enough to lock the Stage Door from outside and then post the keys back in. The cleaners presumably had their own keys.”
“How do you know all this? While we’re on the subject.” There was something unpleasant about Randall’s tone.
“I know it because Hattie and I were good friends. And once, she got spooked about locking up and I went with her. And she explained it all to me. That’s how I know about the Stage Door too, because I told her she shouldn’t do that, it could be dangerous.” Charley’s voice began to break. “And it was.”
He pulled himself together and, in a truculent tone to match Randall’s, added, “And I spent Saturday night in Joe Allen’s till far too late, getting completely pissed, as any one of a hundred people, who were not similarly pissed, will tell you.”
“It’s still appalling—” Alice began once more. This time it was Kath who interrupted her.
“I just have to say this. I do. It’s true that Hattie was worried about something, very worried. Oh God, I can’t believe it,” she wailed. “You see, Hattie was this terrible worrier about things, she did have a therapist, but if the therapist was away—it was because she hadn’t got a family, not a real one, her adoptive parents were both dead, and she felt too insecure to look for her real parents—”
“But not too insecure to talk about it,” put in Charley rather sadly.
“Honestly, Kath, what’s this got to do with it?” asked Randall. “I’m sorry, I know you’re upset, God knows we’re all devastated, but sooner or later we’ve got a show to do.”
“Kath, you must tell all this to the police,” said Alice more gently.
“I will! I will! But I wanted you all to know in case someone else remembers, remembers anything at all.”
“I don’t even begin to understand what you’re saying” came quite loudly from one of the men in the cast.
“Hattie was frightened. That’s what I’m saying. She knew something that frightened her.” Kath turned towards the director and star.
“Randall, don’t you know what it was? I have this feeling—”
“You’re upset, Kath, it’s understandable that you have feelings, this feeling and that feeling,” was all that Randall said. He still did not sound friendly.
“I don’t know what it was,” went on Kath. “She never quite got round to telling me; several times I thought she would but she always backed off. And yes, I will tell all this, all of it, to the police,” Kath ended sullenly. “And anyone else who’s interested.”
Millie Swain moved to Kath’s side and hugged her.
“We all need to do something positive. That’s the only way. We’ll have a sort of benefit. On election night. We’ll take a collection for Hattie. We’ll give it to something she would like. In her name. I don’t care what the management says. Fuck the management.”
“Save the Whale?” suggested Alice. “She had this sticker.”
“Bosnian children?”
“Something to do with adoption? Adopting Bosnian children. That would be positive.”
“Shelter—the homeless?” But there was undeniably something awkward about that last suggestion, and shortly afterwards the meeting broke up.
Jemima Shore’s meeting with Pompey of the Yard at the Groucho Club was more satisfactory in the sense that drinks flowed (whisky for him, white wine for her) and the atmosphere was, generally speaking, cosy, unlike that at the Irving Theatre. Nor did Pompey deplore, as he had done in the past, what he called Jemima’s feminine instinct. Jemima preferred to call it simply her instinct, or, if he preferred it, an imaginative quantum leap of the mind.
The forces of public feminism, or the enquiring mind of Mrs. Pompey, or some combination of the two, had taken their toll on Detective Chief Inspector John Portsmouth. Quite a time had elapsed since he had first collaborated with Jemima, over the case of a missing child, in which a television appeal had played a beneficial part. Experience had taught them to trust as well as respect each other. In some cases a nod was as good as a wink; in other cases, more explicit confidences had to be made, but each knew they would not be betrayed. In short Jemima was, in Pompey’s opinion, close to being “one of us.”
“It’s possible,” said Pompey judiciously after he had listened to the scenario outlined by Jemima: the connection her instinct or her leaping mind had made between the various aspects of the Faber/Swain Case. His expression did not change when she referred to the discovery of the skeleton at Hippodrome Square. He merely bent forward and picked up his glass. For the time being Jemima did not mention the name of the Foreign Secretary in connection with the discovery, merely reporting what she had seen with the Smyth twins, which in any case would shortly be the subject of a statement to the local police. But she had the impression from Pompey’s watchfulness that he might—in his capacity as a senior member of the Royal and Diplomatic Protection Unit—have some inkling of what would shortly happen to an equally senior member of the government.
“There is a connection,” went on Jemima, “there has to be. Three deaths, one a long time ago, two more recently.”
“A thing I can tell you,” pronounced Pompey, glass (once more empty) in his hand. “I’ve done my checking. The old woman—did she fall or was she pushed? The answer, so far as the police are concerned, is that she fell. Nothing suspicious there. No telltale injuries incurred before death, of the sort you have to find if somebody gives somebody else the heave-ho. No telltale fibres, nothing. She could have staggered and fallen, she could have wanted to fall and then staggered, but there’s absolutely no evidence of a shove.”
“Suicide? The inquest didn’t say so. Accidental death was the verdict.”
“Difficult to prove and not much point in proving it. A lot of alcohol in her body, late at night, stormy, low balcony, confused old lady. Death wish is maybe a better way of putting it. And by the way, her family is not without connections. Son-in-law an MP, that do-gooder who’s always bellyaching about us poor policemen: don’t want to tangle with him. Holy Harry, they call him.” Pompey was unaware that Harry Carter-Fox’s pious nickname was something the police shared with his irreverent sister-in-law, Millie Swain.
“Ah. No murder, then, not on that occasion. Apparently.” Jemima paused, then, “The Diaries,” she said more forcefully. “Pompey, the clue has to be in her Diaries. And where the hell are they? Hattie Vickers had them, lost them, but had probably read them and that must be why she was killed. I have this strong instinct—no, Pompey, no cracks—” Pompey looked at her reproachfully. “They must contain the clue.”
“The girl in the theatre, now that was murder.” For the time being Pompey would not comment on the Diaries. He had accepted that Jemima was about to hand over her copy of the single volume she had retained, even though it had been a gift from Lady Imogen, and that she did so of her own free will, having come to the conclusion that it contained evidence related to the case of Franklyn Faber, something which had apparently not occurred to Jemima before. “No question about that,” continued Po
mpey. “No suicide there. Plenty of bruises, not all caused by her fall. I’ve talked to a mate on that one, which was altogether trickier than finding out about the death of the old lady.”
“Originally a good many people stood to lose from those Diaries,” Jemima murmured. “Listen, Pompey, you know the real Smyth connection.”
He looked at her sharply. Jemima gazed back with her most guileless expression, the one that would have been familiar to followers of her television programmes, when Jemima was bent on eliciting a particular answer from an unwilling celebrity.
“I just meant the fact that Burgo Smyth inherited Hippodrome Square under Imogen Swain’s will, although I believe he’s planning to give it back to her daughters, or at least not take up the bequest, whatever it is you do in those circumstances. But, as you know, the young Smyths had the key. I suppose Olga Carter-Fox was too frightened of Burgo Smyth, thinking of Holy Harry’s career, to object. The young Smyths hardly wanted news of their father’s affair being broadcast.”
Jemima stopped. “My God, Pompey, that must be it. What Sarah Smyth said to me that night. She was in mid-search. The treasure-hunt they kept talking about. The Diaries must be back there.”
“Put by exactly who?”
“At this point I’ve no idea. Sarah Smyth must know. That scary Archie Smyth must know. When I find them, and when I’ve read them, I’ll know. But I’m beginning—” Pompey looked at her directly.
“Jemima—”
The guileless expression returned. “I’m beginning to realise the importance of the Diaries, was all I was going to say.”
To herself, Jemima was thinking: a treasure-hunt and Randall Birley. Who had the perfect opportunity to get hold of Lady Imogen’s lethal packet? Randall Birley could all too easily have got hold of the key: borrowed or stolen from Hattie, who adored and trusted him.
“When you find them?” countered Pompey. “I think I’ll have another whisky if you don’t mind. And is that Edna O’Brien over there? Otherwise Mrs. Portsmouth will be most disappointed. So far it’s been a thin evening, literary-wise.”
“That’s Jeanette Winterson,” said Jemima, hoping to honour her promise to Pompey. After all the literary-minded Mrs. Portsmouth had to be placated, she recognised that, but at the same time, mischievously, she did not mind baffling her old friend.
She had mistaken her man. “Ah, yes,” said Pompey knowledgeably, “Oranges Are Not the Only Fruit. Mrs. Pompey loved the series, bought the book. Actually she gave a talk about it at her group. It’s called Another way of looking at things.’ ” Then he turned his attention back to the problem in hand. “Now, tell me, tell me honestly please, just how are you going to find those Diaries?”
“Pompey.” Her voice was as urgent as she could make it, the guilelessness abandoned. “My hunch is that the Diaries are somehow back there, in Hippodrome Square. The last thing I want to do is obstruct the police, in fact, in that traditional phrase, I really do want to assist them in their enquiries. I’ve been frank with you.” Well, she had—at long last.
“Help me, help me now,” Jemima begged. “Give me the contact. Make the call. Help me to get into Hippodrome Square. Yes, I can get the right authorisation. After all, the interested parties—all four children, Swains and Smyths—have at one time or another implored me to find the Diaries—” And the letters, if they still exist, she added mentally. But that was too complicated to add to the equation at this point. Cherry had checked on copyright for her; the copyright of the Diaries rested unquestionably with the Swain sisters as Imogen Swain’s legatees, whereas the copyright of the letters rested with Burgo Smyth, still very much alive if beleaguered. It was only their physical possession, the objects themselves, which belonged to the Swains (because they happened to have ended up in the keeping of their mother).
Jemima thought, If he asks for another drink, the answer’s yes.
Pompey asked for another drink.
CHAPTER 16
DECISION NIGHT
It took Jemima Shore three days to get the relevant permission to enter Number Nine Hippodrome Square—until Thursday night, in fact. For several interested parties in the matter of Imogen Swain’s Diaries, it was important that this was Polling Day in the British General Election of March 1993, the decisive day, in the phrase generally preferred by the morning’s Press.
DAY OF DECISION was the headline for the Daily Express (who ran an opinion poll reporting neck-and-neck results, with the Tory neck slightly ahead, but appeared to have tired at last of the phrase “neck-and-neck” in its headline). The Daily Mirror, arguably more democratically, blared out, YOU DECIDE! above another neck-and-neck poll also with the Labour-Liberal Alliance just slightly behind. The Sun preferred a shorter message, or at any rate shorter words; YOU TELL US! The Sun also announced that for its special Election Issue, the price of each copy would be slashed to 5p “in celebration.” It was not clear yet what the Sun felt it had to celebrate.
The weightier papers could not resist the opportunity of giving the government a good talking-to, despite the fact that their owners favoured the Tories by inclination. This was assessed as a cheering phenomenon by the Labour-Liberal Alliance, on the grounds that anything that was not against them was for them; more impartial observers were not so optimistic. Mack McGee took the unusual step of writing a signed article in the Telegraph, a paper he did not actually own, about government responsibility and the preservation of moral standards (which meant family standards in any Tory newspaper). But the rumour in the corridors of McGee’s own group, was that Mrs. Mack McGee was behind the articles; maintaining her rigid Presbyterian standards even in the luxurious atmosphere of the south, and worried by Helen Macdonald’s unmarried status.
“Why hasn’t the Labour lassie got a husband?” she was supposed to have enquired plaintively. Cherry reported this story to Jemima. She said it had to be true because it came from Dulcie, a young woman who sometimes served at the McGee dinners in Westminster Place. These dinners were always popular because they were deliciously cooked by Mrs. Mack herself, and Dulcie, who was part of Cherry’s growing female network, nearly always had something interesting to report.
“You remember Dulcie, Jemima, Cy fancied her, asked her to Glyndebourne without realising she was the person who served his office lunch, just thought she was a rather glamorous young woman who happened to be passing by with a portion of Chicken Kiev …”
“So what happened to the Chicken Kiev?” snapped Jemima. She could not help envying Cherry’s extraordinary contacts while constantly benefiting from them herself.
“Oh, they took the whole thing with them to Glyndebourne in the car. Cy thought it was a miracle, an instant picnic. Miss Lewis was furious.” Cherry mentioned the name of Cy Fredericks’s personal secretary. A recent attempt by Miss Lewis to get free of Cy’s demanding employ by marrying a man in Australia had ended in disaster when Cy continued to telephone her with his needs regardless of her marriage—and regardless of the difference between British and Australian time; Miss Lewis had returned in a distinctly sour mood.
“Did anyone at the McGees have the guts to point out that our male Prime Minister is also unmarried?” asked Jemima, realising that she could not win any discussion about office politics with Cherry.
“Yes, someone did. The Prime Minister himself pointed it out. H.G. was there, trilling away about his trees, according to Dulcie.”
“And what did Mrs. Mack say to that?”
“Said ‘Hoots, mon’ if you believe Dulcie, dug H.G. in the ribs—this may actually be true—and told him she was working on it with his sister. ‘It’s never too late for a man (or mon),’ she definitely said that.”
“Sexist,” said Jemima bitterly. “Two leaders, both alike in dignity, both unmarried, and look how differently they’re treated. One needs to be married, to have her very own Labour Denis Thatcher, whatever that would be, and the other doesn’t. After all, nobody has ever dug up an atom of scandal about Helen Macdonald.”
/> “Not even us.” Cherry was tactless enough to remember the preliminaries to Jemima’s first interview with the Labour leader.
If you were thinking of moral turpitude, there was of course the question of Burgo Smyth. Even at this late stage, Jemima felt the struggle within her surge up again, as decency fought with the instincts of investigative journalism—and, more importantly, the instincts of a Labour voter. Yet it could not be right, could it, to pillory Burgo Smyth for an adulterous affair thirty years earlier? The tacit cover-up of Franklyn Faber’s death which followed from that adultery was another matter and for that he would now be ruined, when he should have been ruined then. But since this was Polling Day, it seemed that Burgo Smyth would be ruined following the General Election …
This might be the Day of Decision for the country, but Jemima had made her decision early on Sunday morning and had stuck to it. The electorate would vote on policies (in so far as they ever did) not on the personal shortcomings of the Foreign Secretary. It was just irritating to hear of Mrs. McGee’s denigration of the admirable, pristine albeit unmarried Helen Macdonald under the circumstances.
The last Party Political Broadcasts on television had taken place in the preceding days, after some extraordinary wrangles as to how much time the Labour-Liberal Alliance should be allowed. Helen Macdonald, in her last broadcast, was thought by her supporters to have done extremely well (“anything that’s not against us is for us”) although even loyalists were divided on the wisdom of her fireside chat with her eleven-year-old goddaughter on the grim educational future awaiting her under the Tories. (“Why a godchild, for God’s sake? It just rubs it in that she doesn’t have children of her own,” was a typical comment. Others would have sagely preferred a godson: “OK, OK, so she doesn’t have one, but surely one could have been found, mixed race would have been helpful there.”) Of the Tories included in the last broadcast everyone, including Labour supporters, had to agree that Burgo Smyth was the star. Dignified, charming, fatherly without being condescending on this occasion, he had definitely improved his act. When on earth had he made the programme, wondered Jemima. Whenever it was recorded, his appearance, in contrast to H.G.’s over-whimsical, lacklustre approach, was another pill for Jemima to swallow.
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