Your Royal Hostage (2 page)

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 t
he 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 recentl
y departed Chairman of Megalith
Telev
ision. 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 hea
dlines; 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 Flor
a 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 a
utomatically, did not
repeat the words 'Cumberland Pal
ace' 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 '