He did consider passing a note in with the toast, but concluded that would be far too risky.
And anyway, it does seem rather unlikely that Arabella Brightly-Smythe would dare to do anything foolish in the open, in front of the cameras. The little idiot, if she is so intent on seeing her lover, is far more likely to approach quite openly through the front gates of the castle and therefore be apprehended before she causes any unpleasantness. All Sir Hugh and Dougal Rathbone know, and this information came via one of Lovette’s men, is that she was seen leaving The Grange in Belinda Hutchins’ red Jeep at eight o’clock yesterday morning, but after that they lost them in the lanes.
On hearing this Sir Hugh was not pleased.
Security men lie in wait at The Grange to inform them if the women return.
In spite of a general alert put through the regular channels, nothing was seen of the Jeep after that, but that might well be because they couldn’t give a reason for the apprehension of these two innocent women, and Special Branch haven’t the facilities to watch all the roads except in high priority cases. The one helicopter employed for the task was greatly hampered by morning mists.
Nevertheless, as soon as they learned for certain that Arabella had fled the coop and found sanctuary with her friend, the two discreet Civil Servants felt duty-bound to fly at once to Scotland and form a warning presence beside the Prince in case the need should arise. This all based on nothing more than Dougal’s intuition.
‘She’s always maintained that she won’t rest easy until she has seen and spoken to James. In my opinion, and because I know the young lady to possess a simple and stubborn personality, I would venture to believe that—’
‘Do get on with it, Dougal. You are not making a banquet speech now.’
‘I think she will try to see him in Scotland, and church is just one of a number of regular activities which everyone knows takes place while the Family are resident here.’
Sir Hugh was nonplussed. He downed his third gin and tonic since take-off. ‘But would her friend agree to such a flamboyant gesture, especially if she’s been told of the danger Arabella believes she might be in? Of course we must hope and pray that this friend, Belinda, this dated pop-star’s floozie, is a little more sophisticated and will assume at once that Arabella has let her imagination run riot this time.’ He turned to Dougal with a worried look and the lines in his noble brow seemed more deeply etched than ever. ‘Surely nobody in their right mind would believe such hysterical suggestions?’
‘We don’t even know for certain that Peaches suspected our plans. Perhaps she just ran away in despair after hearing about the engagement, fled to her friend for comfort and nothing more sinister than that. Perhaps they’ve gone away for a few days to take Peaches’ mind off her present miseries. Shopping or something girlie.’ Dougal eased off his shoes. His feet tended to swell in enclosed atmospheres, especially where there was also tension. ‘That scenario is more than likely. We mustn’t think the worst.’
A stewardess went by with a smile and Sir Hugh, after giving Dougal’s socks a disgusted sniff, lowered his voice and murmured, ‘We have to think the worst, that’s our job.’
‘But we can hardly warn anyone else without letting the cat out of the bag.’
‘That is precisely why we are going up there ourselves. And you are the only one who can identify them both.’
‘I feel like a spiv,’ said Dougal, whose star, up until now, had been in speedy ascendancy. ‘Somebody seedy out of the Singing Detective. I mean, what the hell do we think we are going to do if we see Arabella in the vicinity? We haven’t the necessary powers to arrest her. We can only use persuasion and she’s already turned her nose up at that.’ They should never have messed with Lovette. With an inner emptiness that frightens him, Dougal knows he will take the blame for all this, although he considers himself not only the younger but the more dominant, the more capable man of the two even though he is only an assistant on probation. Sir Hugh is dutiful and competent but decidedly unremarkable and has risen to his present position by virtue of seniority and family influence rather than brilliance, just the sort of archaic type who does the Family no favours.
‘Leave all that to me,’ said Sir Hugh, inspecting his tray of plastic luncheon, that same old breast of chicken with the blob of hard bread sauce. And could this really be called fruit salad? ‘You’ve caused enough trouble already. I, of course, have nothing to fear. My hands are perfectly clean.’
To which poor Dougal, with his smelly feet, said nothing.
The crowd murmur their disappointment. A romantic lot, they had hoped to see the new royal Princess-to-be this morning; they have brought special posies with which to mob her but word goes round that she is resting in Mustique and will be out of the country for a month until the excitement dies down. But it looks as if the Prince is here, and his two older brothers—a full hand, how wonderful, well worth turning out for.
There’s a hush of wonder as the Queen steps from her car, that familiar little foot sticking out, so neat, so noble, so royal. And doesn’t she look wonderful in that powder-blue hat, how it suits her, and look how reverently her gallant husband takes her arm. Oh, this is what it is all about, on a gentle, British summer morning with the birds singing sweetly in tune with the old church bells on the breeze.
Everyone smiles. Everyone waves, and the genuine happiness is infectious; even the policemen on duty wear smiles on their chiselled faces, every bit as catching as yawns. With equal solemnity the other Family members alight from their various cars and join Her Majesty in a little, familiar procession towards the old archway astride the doors of this unassuming church. The minister of Craithie himself, who is also a domestic chaplain, is at the door with a benevolent bow and a handshake and it is he who leads the way into the comparative dark of the church, down the aisle and towards the Family pew at the front.
The congregation plunge with great feeling into: ‘Now thank we all our God, with hearts and hands and voices.’
Doesn’t the youngest Prince look handsome! Those left outside still call a soft, ‘Congratulations, Your Highness,’ remembering how sweetly shy his look seemed to be as he passed them, one more fleeting memory to take home and treasure for ever. How virile he looked, and how manly. There’s bound to be children from that union even if his eldest brother, poor man, is finding it hard. How needlessly cruel the press have been. Why, any young man worth his salt needs to sow his oats. Pity his bride-to-be wasn’t with him, but next time, perhaps, if they keep coming one day they are bound to be rewarded by a sighting of the grand Lady Frances herself. They will hang around and chat until the Family come out and cheer them on their way back to the castle and Sunday lunch.
The bell rings out a single knell as Communion is celebrated inside.
Some people take out their sandwiches and Thermos. Others, strangers, several Americans, take photographs while they are free to walk about. Some children make daisy chains sitting on the grass, or scratch pictures with sticks in the dust, whiling away the time as quietly as they can.
Sunlight and shade. Below them is a blanket of mist. Feet crunching on pine needles. The bright light glistens on the mountain crests. It is such a sleepy Sunday morning you can almost smell beef roasting. One hour later, as the crowd forms again, as the double doors start to open, a figure is seen flitting through the outer fringe of the woods. It’s as much as the security men can do to contact each other, let alone move fast enough to stop her.
It is a stricken tableau.
‘Jamie! Jamie! Help me, please,’ the figure cries hysterically, hurtling down the pathway and immediately chaining her wrist by a bicycle padlock to the brass ring on the stout church door.
‘Get back! Get back!’ Somebody cries out frenziedly.
‘There could be a gun!’
‘Assassination!’ calls an agitated member of the crowd who will be interrogated afterwards.
And suddenly there is action.
The chaplain pau
ses in his tracks and stands with his arms outstretched, warding off Satan himself, a crucifix in laundered white at the door of the church, mirroring the original behind him on the altar.
He is pushed to the ground and trampled on by the feet of a dozen security men trained in anti-terrorist tactics who desperately press their way past him. When they have gone he is left with the girl, his old head raised in astonishment capped with a floss of fuzzy white hair. ‘What the hell…?’
Peaches has peaked ten seconds too soon.
‘Where is he?’ she screams, doubled up with pain and fear. ‘Where is Jamie? Oh dear God, tell him to come outside and talk to me, I beg you, I beg you!’
The chaplain, from his uncomfortable place on the ground, unavoidably in direct eye contact with this poor, misguided soul, can only look into her terrified eyes and murmur with feeling, ‘God forgive you, my child, whatever it is you have done.’
The Royals are safely inside and the door banged shut.
Eyes are on stalks. Mouths hang open. Never has anyone seen anything as dramatic and unexpected as this. The nerve of the woman! And at church, too! Desecration! Cameras are whirring, not only the press, but every person in the crowd is hoping for a saleable picture, a good one might pay them thousands. So far, though, it is much too confusing to work out exactly what is happening.
The girl, still chained to the door, is now surrounded by plain-clothed men. Revolvers drawn, they form a ring round her and the fallen vicar. All that can be clearly heard, above the buzz of excited voices, is the clear, piercing cry of: ‘JAMIE. JAMIE. JAMIE. I am carrying our child.’
Hello, hello. What can this mean? Then someone must have muffled her mouth because the sound peters out and is heard no more. From within the unholy scrum only the vicar’s arm can be seen forming a wavering cross.
‘You moved too soon,’ says the girl they call Belinda Hutchins, sitting beside the saboteur’s bed in a private room at the hospital. She’s furious. ‘You moved a good minute too soon. I told you to wait, but you would go. You wouldn’t listen to my advice.’
‘Would you mind leaving Miss Brightly-Smythe with us for a moment, Miss Hutchins?’
‘And who might you be?’ Belinda shouts at Sir Hugh, raising her fists as though to strike him. She is restrained by a waiting guard and taken away down the hospital corridor, still shouting absurdities behind her. ‘I’ll know exactly who is to blame if anything bad happens to Peaches! I’m warning you, I’ll not keep quiet. I’ll go to the press, I’ll spread it around, I’ll tell everyone what you did and you’ll be hounded until you confess… I’m not without influence… Everyone knows my face, it’s on the Tube, people will listen to me and I know all about you and your little ways,’ she shrieks at the sheepish Dougal.
What fresh hell is this? Sir Hugh raises his eyebrows forlornly and shakes his head at Dougal.
‘Miss Brightly-Smythe has been tranquillised in order to calm her down, and she is pregnant,’ says a stiff-faced Sister, ‘so if you would go easily with her. I’ll be right outside the door should you need me,’ she mouths to her patient.
In view of the mass of publicity it was imperative to bring the creature here, there was no other option. Requests for information about her condition are being faxed and telephoned every few minutes. The hospital switchboard has ground to a halt.
If only, if only the half-wit hadn’t shouted out that damning phrase: ‘I am carrying our child.’ A phrase quite likely to touch the heart of a nation. If only video cameras had never been invented. Until then she was merely another hysteric who could have been protesting about anything, from low wages to rail privatisation to cod wars. The Palace machine could have dealt with it, polished it, obliterated it.
Already she is public property.
This is quite dreadful. After they have spoken to the wench they have been summoned at once to the presence of the Queen’s own Private Secretary, a Knight of the Bath and the most important person in the Household, in a meeting with the Press Secretary (who is flying to Scotland immediately), and various security chiefs. Naturally they will deny all plans to facilitate a miscarriage. Nobody must know about that little trick. The only people aware of that appalling truth, apart from Sir Hugh and Dougal, are Lovette and his blessed bent doctor.
But after they understand the unhappy situation, his superiors will be in agreement on two firm fronts. One, they have badly mishandled the issue and two, the truth must never come out.
The girl is tearful and still shaking. Lying in bed with the sheet at her chin she looks no more than a misused child only minus her teddy bear, Beppo. ‘What does Jamie say? Is he coming to see me?’
Damn and blast. Turn the wretched record over! Dougal goes to sit beside her. He tries to take her hand but she jerks it away. ‘I haven’t spoken to Jamie,’ Dougal admits sympathetically. ‘So I don’t know what he is going to do.’
‘I made things worse, didn’t I?’ sobs the stupid Peaches.
‘Well, you certainly haven’t made matters any easier,’ Dougal gently agrees.
‘He must have heard me!’
‘I am sure he did. Everyone heard you. But that’s what you wanted, wasn’t it?’
‘No.’ She looks at him surprised. ‘I only wanted to speak to Jamie, and this seemed the only way. But I bungled it. I didn’t even see him… five hundred miles and I never even saw his face.’ She tries to sit up on her pillows but the drug has made her sleepy. She slips down in the bed again, limp, all energy gone. ‘You should have let me speak to him earlier then none of this would have happened.’
Dougal tries to be reasonable. ‘I knew it wouldn’t do any good.’
‘It wasn’t that.’ She looks at him oddly, bites her lip and glances at the door. ‘You had other ideas, didn’t you, Dougal? The private clinic, for example. You might think I’m stupid but I’m not that blind. What would have happened to me if I’d kept that appointment? After you had aborted my baby, what would you have done then? You pretended to be my friend and all you were doing was trying to harm me, you and your horrible friend.’
Sir Hugh stands back in the corner of the room, trying to hide, beside the ventilator.
Dougal laughs out loud. ‘What an imagination, Peaches! You should have been a writer. What on earth put these ludicrous ideas in your head? You sounded pleased when I told you about the clinic…’
‘I didn’t know about the engagement then. And you didn’t tell me either. You must have known all about it but you kept it from me—’
‘Only because I was concer—’
‘Rubbish! The only thing you two were ever concerned about was defending Jamie’s reputation and saving your own skins and your office overlooking Constitution Hill! That’s what you are paid for and that’s what you were doing. You didn’t give a damn about me, about how I felt or what I wanted. You must have been laughing at me all the time, and still are, especially now that I’ve played the only hand I had left and Jamie still hasn’t come.’
‘Nobody’s laughing at you, Peaches. Least of all me and Sir Hugh. But they certainly will start laughing if you tell them those mad ideas of yours. They’ll probably not believe you knew Jamie, either.’
Not the right thing to say. Arabella goes red in the face.
‘They’ll have to believe me if I go and have tests.’ She tries to sit up again and this time she succeeds. She stares at Dougal with hate in her hard blue eyes. ‘I am prepared to do everything now, everything my friends always said I should. Why should I suffer just to defend a way of life which is archaic and ridiculous anyway?’
‘Be sensible, Arabella, please, before you do anything you might regret.’
‘Ah, so you’re threatening me now, are you, Dougal? Shall I call the Sister in and tell her what you are saying? You can’t hurt me in here and I know that very well, not with everyone knowing about me, and aware of where I am. While I am here I am safe, quite different from that sinister clinic you were going to take me to. I can speak to who I like, ev
en the press should I wish to do so. So this is my last request of you, and you either carry it out or I will take the necessary actions to defend myself and the future of my child. I want Jamie here, by my bedside, by ten o’clock tomorrow morning. I shall arrange to speak to the Daily Mirror reporter at eleven sharp. The only way I am prepared to cancel that is if I see Jamie. Now do you finally understand?’
Not quite so sweet, not quite so innocent, just as I thought, thinks Sir Hugh.
Dougal looks round at Sir Hugh, who nods reluctantly. Somehow they’ve got to try. Something has to be resolved or all hell will break loose and it will be instant dismissal for both of them. His doughty wife, Lady Constance, will leave him and his friends will stop phoning. He will lose his Grace and Favour residence and his future will be forever blighted. This doomed affair has turned into a living nightmare and may even get worse and descend into a fog of horror.
A blessing they’ve done away with Tower Hill.
Damn damn damn and damnation.
THIRTY-ONE
Flat 1, Albany Buildings, Swallowbridge, Devon
NOW MISS BENSON KNEW there would be a fuss, but had absolutely no idea of the furore Mrs Peacock’s simple act of protest would cause. Every so often, when the coast is clear, she sends gleeful reports to her neighbour by raising the floorboard under the carpet and kneeling down beside the bath.
Mrs Peacock also seems bemused by the national interest she has evoked, and the tremendous sympathy. She would be aware of most of this without Miss Benson’s help because not only does she watch her flat on the local news quite regularly, but it is now featured on the national bulletins, too.
And everyone she has ever known appears to have an opinion.
It is Frankie she feels so sorry for. Frankie, who has been inadvertently turned into a caricature of the bad and negligent daughter. When this is all over, Frankie will never forgive her mother. The serious papers which Miss Benson kindly sends down the chute are sympathetic and rational; it is the tabloids that shout such cruel headlines with the high-minded, morally righteous bent. It is, Irene supposes, mostly the middle classes who do tend to dispose of their aged parents. Tabloid readers often haven’t the wherewithal and thus get lumbered with them at home as the State is so reluctant to pay. Perhaps this section of the community have more of a right to be pious.
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