The liquid-crystal display shone bright with the image of a paparazzi photograph, slightly shaky with the effect of a gentle Caribbean swell on the long-distance lens, but unmistakably showing Princess Charlotte cavorting on a secluded beach. The tropical colours were brilliant.
'You don't do our Royal Family justice, Tim. She is doing nothing improper. It is not a crime, after all, for a princess to be seen on a beach with a tanned companion, even if he happens to be considerably younger and slimmer than she. Nor does it matter that only last week she was skiing in Gstaad. You simply have no appreciation of how hard the Royal Family works. And I do deprecate the unpleasant British characteristic of envy, that simply because we are sitting here freezing our balls off in January while the country is slipping into recession, we should criticize those who happen to be more fortunate than ourselves.'
‘I fear others won't see it in quite the same noble light as you.'
Urquhart wrapped the car rug more tightly around his knees and fortified himself from a thermos of hot coffee amply laced with whisky. He might feign being a young man while astride Sally, but the cold night air stripped away such pretences with little mercy. His breath was condensing in clouds. ‘I fear you are right, Tim. More lurid stories about how many holidays she's had in the last year, how many nights she's spent in different parts of the country from the Prince, when she last saw the children. The gutter press will read anything into one harmless holiday snap.'
'OK, Francis. What the hell are you up to?'
Urquhart turned in his seat so that Stamper could hear him better above the noise around the stadium. He took another sip of coffee. 'I've been thinking. The agreement on the Civil List expires shortly and we've just begun renegotiating the Royal Family's income for the next ten years. The Palace have put in a pretty tall bid based on what some would say was an unreasonably high forecast of inflation over the coming years. It's only an opening position, of course, something to bargain with, to make sure we are not too mean with them. It would be all too easy at a time of general belt-tightening to squeeze them, to argue that they should share the burdens along with the rest of us.' He arched an eyebrow, and smiled. 'But I think that would be short-sighted, don't you?'
'Give it to me, Francis. Unravel the workings of that devious mind of yours, because you're way ahead of me and I don't think I'm going to catch up.'
‘I take that as a compliment. Listen, and learn, Timothy.' Urquhart was enjoying this. Stamper was good, very good, yet he didn't have the magnificent view of the political lowlands afforded from the window of Number Ten. And he didn't have Sally, either. ‘I keep reading in the press that we are moving to a position of constitutional . . . competition, shall we say, between King and Prime Minister, in which the King appears to have considerable if uninformed popular support. If I squeeze him on the Civil List I shall simply be accused of churlishness. On the other hand if I choose to be generous, it will prove I am fair-minded and responsible.'
'As always,' the Party Chairman mocked.
'Unfortunately, the press and public have a simplistic way of looking at the Civil List as rather like a Royal salary. The going rate for the job. And I'm afraid the media will not take kindly to a family which celebrates a huge pay increase by dashing off from ski-slope to sun-blanched beach while the rest of us shiver. Even responsible editors like our friend Brynford-Jones are likely to misunderstand.'
‘I shall insist on it!' Stamper shouted above the loudspeaker system introducing the players.
'If it appears the Royal Family is abusing the Government's generosity, I fear that would be more of a problem for the King than the Prime Minister. Little I can do about it. Hope he doesn't find it too much of a distraction.'
The pitch was in brilliant floodlight, the teams lined up, the referee ready, the official photographs taken, the stadium noisy with the clamour of sixty thousand fans. Suddenly the chorus of raucous shouts subsided to a conspiratorial rustle. 'God Save The King, Tim!'
As Urquhart stood with Stamper for the playing of the national anthem, he felt warmer. He thought, above the perfunctory singing of the crowd, he could hear the sound of falling branches.
The King's desk was a mess. Books and copies of Hansard were piled along the front edge with pieces of paper sticking out like weeds to mark passages for future reference, the telephone had become submerged beneath a tide of computer print-out bearing the accounts of the Duchy of Lancaster, and an empty plate, which had earlier carried his lunch of a single round of wholemeal bread and smoked salmon, floated aimlessly around. Only the photograph of the children in its plain silver mount seemed immune from the encroachment, standing alone like a desert island amidst stormy seas. Typically, his brow was furrowed as he read the report on the Civil List.
'A little surprising, don't you think, David?'
'Frankly astonishing. We seem to be enjoying the spoils of victory without my being aware we've yet been engaged in combat. It's not what I expected.'
'Could it be a peace signal? There's been far too much gossip about the Palace and Downing Street. Maybe this a chance for a new start. Eh, David?' The voice sounded tired, lacking in conviction.
'Maybe,' Mycroft responded.
'It's certainly generous.'
'More generous than I realized he could be.'
The eyes shot a look of reproach across the jumbled desk. He was not a cynic, he liked to think of himself as a builder who found the best in people. It was one of his most infuriating characteristics, Mycroft had always thought. Yet the King did not disagree.
'It enables us to be generous in return.' The King had risen from his chair and moved to gaze out of the window across the gardens, slowly twisting his signet ring. The new gardens were beginning to show definitive and distinctive form, and he found great solace as his mind filled in the many gaps and created a vista of beauty in front of him. 'You know, David, I've always thought it anomalous, embarrassing even, that our private income from the properties and interests owned by the Duchy of Lancaster and elsewhere remains free of tax. I'm the richest man in the country, yet I pay no income tax, no capital gains tax, no inheritance tax, nothing. And still in addition I get a Civil List allowance of several millions which is just about to be substantially increased.' He turned and clapped his hands. 'It's time for us to join the rest of the world. In exchange for the new Civil List, we should agree to pay tax on the rest of our incomes.'
'You mean a token payment?'
'No, no gestures. The full going-rate on it all.'
'But there's no need,' Mycroft protested. 'There's no real pressure on you, no controversy about it. Once you agree to it you'll never be able to renege. You will be binding your children and your children's children, no matter what Government is in power and no matter how punitive the taxes might be.'
'I have no intention of reneging!' His tone was sharp, a flush in his cheeks. 'I'm doing it because I think it is right. I've been over the Duchy accounts in great detail. Heavens, those assets should provide enough income for half a dozen Royal families.'
'Very well, Sir. If you insist.' Mycroft felt chided. It was his duty to offer advice and sound cautionary notes, and he did not care for being scolded. Even after the long years of friendship he was still not comfortable with the Monarch's flashes of impatience; it's what came of waiting a lifetime yet being in such a hurry, he told himself. And the outbursts were growing more frequent in the few short months since he had been on the Throne. 'What of the rest of the Family? You expect them also to volunteer tax?'
‘I do. It would be a nonsense if the King were to pay tax yet more junior members of the Firm were not. People wouldn't understand. I wouldn't understand. Particularly not after the sort of press they've managed to organize for themselves recently. I know the media are vultures, but do we really have to offer ourselves up on plates ready to be devoured? A lot more clothing and a little more common sense wouldn't go amiss at times.' It was as close as he would come to personal criticism of his own fam
ily, but it had been no secret in the sculleries and laundry rooms of the Palace how incensed he'd been, both with Princess Charlotte's lack of discretion and the media's lack of restraint.
'If you are to . . . persuade them to forgo substantial income, the word needs to come directly from you. You can't expect them to take that sort of idea from me or any other aide.' Mycroft sounded restless. He had been sent before on similar errands to members of the Royal Family. He found that the more junior the rank, the more hostile grew their reception.
The King managed a rueful smile which turned his face down at one corner. 'You're right to be squeamish. I suspect any messenger sent on such a delicate task would return with his turban nailed firmly to his head. Don't worry, David, this one's for me. Brief them, if you will, on the new Civil List arrangements. Then prepare a short paper for me setting out the arguments and arrange for them to come and see me. Separately rather than in a gang. I don't want to be subjected to yet another collective family mugging around the dinner table, not on this one.'
'Some are abroad at the moment. It may take several days.'
'It has already taken several lifetimes, David.' The King sighed. 'I don't think a few more days can matter very much . . .'
The British Airways 747-400 from Kingston arrived ten minutes behind schedule on the approach to Heathrow, unable to make up the delay caused by a picket line of striking passport officers which had stretched around the departure terminal and spilled onto parts of the tropical runway. The flight had missed the pre-arranged landing slot and normally might have had to circle for another fifteen or twenty minutes before air-traffic control found a suitable gap in the queue, but this was not a normal flight and the captain was given immediate permission to land as twelve other flights which had arrived on schedule were shuffled back into the pack. The Princess was waiting to disembark the moment the wheels touched down.
The Boeing had taxied to a terminal in one of the quieter corners of the airport and normally the Princess and her escorts would be driven directly out of Heathrow through a private perimeter gateway. She would be back at Kensington Palace even before her fellow passengers had struggled to the head of the taxi rank. Today, however, the Princess did not drive directly away. First she had to collect the keys of her new car.
It had been a foul few months for all manufacturers of luxury cars and the prospects for the rest of the year looked worse. Trade was tough; sales - and sales promotions - were at a premium. So it had seemed an excellent idea for Maserati UK to offer the Princess a free edition of their latest and most sporty model in the expectation of considerable and on-going publicity. She had accepted with alacrity. As the aircraft drew alongside its arrival gate the managing director of Maserati waited anxiously on the tarmac, keys tied with an extravagant pink bow dangling from nervous fingers, eyeing the clouds. He could have wished for a kinder day, the intermittent drizzle had necessitated copious attention to the bodywork to keep it shining, but there were compensations. The media coverage afforded the Princess in recent days had considerably increased both the size and the enthusiasm of the press contingent lined up beside his car. The publicity value of his shares in the Princess had already increased considerably.
She breezed onto the damp tarmac with a polished white smile and tan which defied the elements. It would take less than ten minutes, a few words of greeting and thanks with the anxious little man in the shiny mohair suit waving the keys, a brief photo-call as the cameras compared her bodywork with that of the fierce red Maserati, and a couple of minutes spent driving slowly round in circles as she discovered the location of the gears and they squeezed off a few feet of promotional video. A breeze, and fair exchange of her time for a growling new £95,000 four-and-a-half litre turbo-charged mechanical Italian beast.
The press, of course, had other ideas, wanting to enquire after her holiday and the whereabouts of her husband and holiday companion, but she was having none of it. 'The Princess will entertain questions only about the car, gentlemen,' an aide had announced.
Why not a Jaguar - because it was American owned. How many other cars did she have - none like this wicked brute. What's the top speed - seventy miles an hour while I'm driving. Hadn't she recently been clocked at over a hundred on the Ml - a sweet smile and a grab for the next question. Would she lean a little lower over the bonnet for the benefit of the cameras - you guys must be joking. The next shower of rain looked imminent and already it was time for a few quick revolutions around the cameras before departing. She climbed in as gracefully as the low-slung bodywork would allow and wound down the window for a final smile at the jackal pack as they closed in.
'Isn't it a bit demeaning for a Princess to flog foreign cars?' a sharp voice asked bluntly.
Bloody typical. They were always at it. Her cheeks coloured beneath her tan. ‘I spend my entire life "flogging", as you so snidely put it. I flog British exports wherever I go. I flog overpriced tickets for charity dinners to help the starving in Africa. I flog lottery tickets so we can build retirement homes for pensioners. I never stop flogging.'
'But flogging flash foreign sports cars?' the voice continued.
'It's you lot who demand the flash. If I turned up in second-hand clothes or third-hand cars, you'd be the first to complain. I have to earn my living the same as everybody else.' The smile had disappeared.
'What about the Civil List?'
'If you knew how difficult it was to do everything that's expected of you on a Princess's allowance, you wouldn't ask such bloody fool questions!'
That was enough. They were goading her, she was losing her temper, it was time to go. She slipped the clutch, a fraction impatiently, for the car began to perform inelegant kangaroo hops towards the cameramen who scattered in alarm. Serve the bastards right. The V-8 engine stalled, the man in the shiny suit looked dismayed and the cameras snapped angrily. She restarted, selected a gear and was off. Damn their impertinence. Back at the Palace after only a week away she would be greeted with a small hillock of paperwork which would contain countless invitations, more requests and begging letters from charities and the underprivileged. She would show them. She would answer all the invitations, accept as many as possible, go on eating the dinners and raising the monies, smiling at the old and the young, the sick and the infirm, comforting those who were just plain unlucky. She would ignore the jibes and go on working hard, as she always did, grinding away through the hillock. She had no way of knowing that on top of the unopened pile lay a brief telling her about arrangements for the new Civil List, and that already copy was being prepared for the morning editions attacking a pouting princess in a brand new foreign sports car who complained she was not paid enough. Misery in a Maserati.
The image of the Princess's glowing brake lights faded from the television as Urquhart hit the red button. His attention stayed fixed on the blank screen for a long time, his half-knotted tie hanging limply around his neck.
'Am I not old enough for you, Francis? You prefer middle-aged nymphomaniacs to good, clean-living young girls like me, is that it?'
He gave her a doleful look. ‘I couldn't possibly comment.'
Sally dug him playfully in the ribs; distractedly he pushed her away. 'Stop that or I'll revoke your visa.' But the warning served only to redouble her efforts. 'Sally! We've got to talk.'
'God, not another of those serious, meaningful relationships. And just when I was beginning to have some fun.' She sat on the sofa opposite him, smoothing down her dress. She put her underwear in her handbag, she'd sort that tangled mess out later.
'There will be a storm about those pictures tomorrow. The headlines will be savage. Alas, it is also the day I've chosen to make the public announcement about the new Civil List. Unfortunate, the announcement sitting alongside those sort of pictures, but . . .' -he smiled a huge, theatrical smile like Macbeth welcoming dinner guests - 'it can't be helped. What I find most distressing is that it will focus attention not only on our hapless and witless Princess but on the whole R
oyal Family. And that's where I need your help, O Gypsy. Please.'
i am a stranger in your land, Sun, and my campfire is small,' she mocked in a deep Southern drawl.
'But you have magic on your side. Magic that can take a family so royal, and make it so common.'
'How common?'
'So far as the lesser Royals are concerned? As common as gigolos on a beach. But not the King, though. This isn't all-out war. Just make sure he's not above criticism. Reflect a degree of disappointment. It can be done?'
She nodded. 'Depends on the questions, how you set it up.'
'How would you set it up?'
'Can I go to the bathroom first?' Her dress was now immaculately smoothed, but somewhere underneath she was still a mess. 'Tell me first, Sally. It's important.'
'Pig. OK, off the top of my head. You start with something like: "Have you seen any news about the Royal Family in the last few days, and if so, what?" Just to get them thinking about the photographs without, of course, being seen to lead them on. That would be unprofessional! If they're such bozos that they've not heard a damn thing about the Royals, you can exclude them as dickheads and deadbeats. Then something like: "Do you think it is important that the Royals set a good public example in their private lives?" Of course people will say yes, so you follow up with: "Do you think the Royal Family is setting a better or worse public example in their private lives than in previous years?" I'll bet my next month's income that eight out of every ten will answer worse, much worse or unprintable.'
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