Your Royal Hostage (6 page)

'Talking of Princess Chicken,' shouted the questioner from somewhere on the far side of the large room. 'What about the Animal Rights demo outside Cumberland Palace the other day? Have there been any further threats from Innoright or any other Animal Rights group? Aren't you worried about security? What happens if-'

The heckler - for that was the impression these rapid questions gave - was cut short by something, or else the other journalists simply took the opportunity to join in. Jemima had a brief glimpse of him: darkish, possibly Arab she thought. Then a host of questions merged into a babble, in which the words 'security', 'incident', 'precautions' could be d
iscerned. Jemima was just wonde
ring wryly how the imperturbable Major would deal with this one — riot of native troops? - when his voice boomed out extremely loudly across the tumult. He had used the simple expedient of turning his microphone to its ultimate pitch.

'Gentlemen, I beg your pardon, ladies, ladies, gentlemen, one question at a time please. Now the gentleman there, would you wait for the microphone please, and repeat the question?'

A young woman, nicely but plainly dressed, crossed the platform and whispered in the Major's ear. She looked rather strained, but the Major merely beamed again; the expression of sheer good humour on his face made it difficult to believe the irruption had ever taken place.

'Good news,' he said. "Their Royal Highnesses are on their way from the Palace. So we won't have time for very many more unprepared questions. I'm sure you'd all far rather talk to them than an old buffer like me.' he chuckled again and then pointed to where a movable microphone was now installed. This time Jemima had a better view of the questioner: no, not an Arab; in fact his face was vaguely familiar and she wondered if she had seen him recently on television, or had she interviewed him for her programme on child brides? He had the kind of face which was familiar without being memorable.

'Jean-Pierre Schwarz-Albert,' stated the questioner giving the name of a foreign news agency and now speaking quite slowly in a voice without a trace of an accent. 'In view of the animal rights slogan painted on the walls of Cumberland Palace by Innoright,' he emphasized the word, then repeated it, 'Innoright, I wondered what arrangements the Palace was making if there was some form of incident or demonstration on the route?'

'Now I'm sure you won't expect me to give you the full security arrangements made by our excellent police,' replied the Major; he glanced at a piece of paper handed to him by the neatly dressed girl. 'As to the painting, that was an isolated incident of which there will be no repetition. Security has been stepped up at the Palace. Next question -'

As the next questioner - 'Judith Spandau, Michigan
tv
' - began to speak, also on the subject of security, Jemima continued to gaze curiously at Jean-Pierre Schwarz-Albert. He in turn was gazing fixedly at the stage; there was something rather frightening about the intensity of his expression; Jemima shivered. Then she realized that Rick Vancy was nudging her.

'Hey listen, what we want to know is when do they tell us?' he whispered, 'will they bring it to us live? If not, exactly when do we get the news?'

"What news?'Jemima whispered back.

'An assassination attempt or whatever. Will we get full coverage?'

Jemima realized that it was her duty to her transatlantic employers to ask some form of question on this subject. She for one definitely did not expect there to be an assassination attempt, or any other kind of violence shown towards the brid J couple - this was Britain for God's sake, and Princess Amy was scarcely in the position of an American President - but she could see that her conviction was not shared by the rest of her colleagues. Question after question referred to 'live pictures' of something euphemistically described as 'an unexpected incident'. What was actually being asked of course was whether live pictures would be shown of dead people

'Ask him whether Prince Ferdinand will wear a bullet-proof waistcoat in the open landau,' hissed Rick Vancy.

'What about poor little Amy?' countered Jemima. 'Is she going to be left out? Surely I should ask first whether she's going to wear a bullet-proof bra?'

Rick Vancy frowned. 'I guess that's rather tacky, isn't it?'

'I hear they're going to video any kind of rough stuff and show it later when the high-ups have okayed it,' commented Rick's neighbour, a fellow American.

'That could be the next month or
year,
where this bunch is concerned,' groaned Rick.

Jemima stood up. She caught the eye of the neatly dressed girl who had just returned to the platform and realized from her briefing that this was the Princess's lady-in-waiting,
Ione
Quentin, to whom she had spoken on the telephone about her interview. She had not recognized her. Susanna Blanding and
Ione
Quentin, both equally English looking, represented two opposing but eternal types of English womanhood: the one inconspicuous through elegance, the other conspicuous through lack of it. Yet in features they were not dissimilar.
Ione
Quentin for her part looked relieved at seeing a face she recognized, an
English
face, the face of a person guaranteed not to ask awkward questions; she directed the Major's attention in the direction of Jemima.

'Jemima Shore, Television United States —' she began. But it was too late. A further emissary, this time male, equally neatly dressed, had joined the couple on the platform and was in his turn whispering in the Major's ear.

‘I am so sorry Miss Shore, I
am so sorry ladies and gentlemen,' exclaimed the Major, giving Jemima a special beam as he picked up his sheaf of notes, 'but their Royal Highnesses are actually here two minutes early. That's what really efficient security does for you, it whizzes you through our dreadful London traffic. I am sure under the circumstances -'

Jemima, privately rather relieved (after all she had an exclusive interview coming), sat down.

There was a general stir as the royal couple were introduced on to the platform, preceded by a couple of security men solemnly carrying two velvet chairs upholstered in Princess Amy blue. All present stood up, or in the case of cameramen snapped furiously away, jockeying furiously for position at one and the same time. In the hubbub a disturbance on the far side of the room passed quite unnoticed.

No one, naturally, paid much attention to the one journalist who wanted to leave the room just as the royal couple were entering it. Such a bizarre course of behaviour - to attend the Major's briefing and then miss the conference proper — was hardly believable. The cliche, 'all eyes were fixed on the bride', was for once fully justified, as the world's Press goggled happily at Princess Amy in her - thank Heaven — turquoise-blue dress, and scribbled away with equal delight at the sight of the enormous glittering ring displayed on the small plump white hand which rested on her fiance's discreetly dark-blue sleeve. So that afterwards it was remarkably difficult to piece together when it was that the man
who called himself Jean-Pierre Schwarz-Albert had left the conference hall.

Had he taken the opportunity of the royal couple's entrance to elbow his way through the throng? Or had it been slightly later? When Princess Amy was answering questions? (In that attractively modest manner, head drooping slightly, which made her actual voice, clear, upper class, even slightly bossy in timbre, always come as a slight surprise.) His neighbour at the briefing spoke of a note being handed to him, a note which presumably caused him to leave; but in the excitement of the royal occasion, could not be precise as to when the note had been received. Afterwards, when the exact moment became of some import, those who had to trace Schwarz-Albert's movements wearily found that it was like questioning people about an incident which had occurred at the same time as the winning goal in the World Cup. Even if someone was prepared to come up with an answer, you could never be quite sure it was reliable.

'You'd think they were doing it on purpose,' moaned Detective Superintendent Portsmouth of Central Squad, otherwise known as Pompey of the Yard, petulantly, to his youthful-looking assistant Detective Sergeant Vaillant. But Vaillant, knowing better than to speak when his superior was in this kind of mood, merely nodded his head sympathetically and looked as sage as he judged permissible under the circumstances.

CHAPTER SIX

Frightening People

The death of Jean-Pierre Schwarz-Albert, journalist, although a subject of much interest to Detective Superintendent Portsmouth, received curiously little immediate attention in the Press and was not even mentioned on the television news. Perhaps there was something odd about this; or perhaps on the other hand the lack of interest, like the general indifference at the time, was simply due to the enormous attention lavished on the Press Conference given by Prince Ferdinand and Princess Amy.

Certainly the latter event was generally rated — by the media at least - a resounding success. The headline in the
Daily Exclusive
the next morning summed it up very fairly:
amy means we
ALL
love you
. Or as Rick Vancy confided happily to Jemima over a late lunch at Le Caprice: 'She's a real star, that girl. How do they get to train them?'

'The Royals? I don't think they do. It's the luck of the draw. Some of them are just much better at it than others. I agree with you that little Amy is quite brilliant. Ferdy's performance was a bit lacklustre, I thought. Do you notice the way he always looks as if he'd had a very late night?'

Rick considered the point. 'No, I went for that. Same as I liked the bags under his eyes; pointed up her performance. She the fresh young lamb; he the world-weary old wolf. Maybe they planned it that way.'

'Maybe they did,' agreed Jemima cautiously, sipping the champagne with which Rick had declared that they should launch their 
official collaboration.

About the same time, in Cumberland Palace, however, the fresh young lamb was enquiring the whereabouts of the world-weary old wolf with more than a little petulance; Rick Vancy might have been surprised at the abrasiveness with which Princess Amy was questioning
Ione
Quentin about the Prince's message.

Princess Amy was drinking Malvern water (unlike Jemima Shore and Rick Vancy, she had no taste for champagne or indeed any form of alcohol).
Ione
Quentin, looking exhausted in comparison to her employer whose checks continued to bloom pinkly despite - or perhaps because of - her recent ordeal, nursed the sherry for which she had been compelled, slightly embarrassedly, to ask: 'Ma'am, do you think I might -'

Amy stared at her with the huge almost circular blue eyes which made her photograph so well. 'Don't be ridiculous,
Ione
. Have whatever you like. Make yourself a Bloody Mary if you like, the way Ferdel does. And talking of Ferdel -' The famous pout was much in evidence.

Ione
Quentin began all over again: 'An old friend from abroad. Ma'am, a last-minute arrangement. He wasn't able to speak to you personally because of the Press Conference. Mr Taplow came and picked him up, I believe, in the Prince's aunt's car. No, I don't know where they're having lunch. Ma'am. At the flat, possibly?'

Even to
Ione
Quentin the Prince's story sounded pretty thin and she frankly could not imagine - would in fact very much like to have known - why he had suddenly abandoned his fiancee at the last minute, leaving the faithful
Ione
, as usual, to placate. Out loud, however,
Ione
Quentin continued to deliver the message in her usual pleasantly neutral voice. 'You remember Mr Taplow, Ma'am,' she added, as though hoping to distract. 'He was the Duke's chauffeur in the country for absolutely ages. Rather creepy. You used to play with his little girl, funny little thing. No, it was a
boy
with long hair and sort of girl's clothes. Princess Sophie told me she used to tease him -'

'Oh really?' It was clear that Princess Amy was not the slightest bit interested in the Taplows.

'Boys as girls. It's all wrong,' pursued
Ione
, 'as your nephew Jamie would say. He's making such a fuss about his page's suit, isn't he?
When it's so divinely pretty — ‘

Suddenly to Ione's surprise Princess Amy burst out laughing in a way that made her look much younger than her twenty-two years; she had a ringing schoolgirl's laugh (something which the Press seldom heard). 'I say
Ione
, you don't suppose this old friend from abroad is seven foot tall with long black hair like a witch and sports a puma in her luggage and talks like zeez? I read in the
Clueless
that
she'd
arrived.'
Ione
breathed a sigh of silent relief; Amy in this mood helped to make up for the other less enchanting mood which had preceded it.

'What cheek, eh you old doggie?' went on Amy, patting one of the ancient spaniels. It was snuffling at the high-heeled white sandal which Amy had discarded now that there was no need for her to try to level up against her tall fiance. 'Standing me up like that, his dewy bride.'

'You
did
look dewy, Ma'am' responded
Ione
quite sincerely. 'It went terribly well, didn't it? Everybody thought you were wonderful. My cousin Susanna Blanding - she was there - rang up Lydia last night and told her you were wonderful.'

'Susanna Blanding? What was
she
doing there?'

'Oh, she's with one of those amazing American
tv
stations. She's awfully bright, especially about history, always has been. She wrote that book about young princesses down the ages, don't you remember?
Dear and Royal Sister.
She sent it to you. It sold awfully well. And she's always on those quizzes on telly, the brainy ones. Now she's making a fortune out of the wedding.'

'Making a fortune out of one?' But Princess Amy sounded very pleased. Susanna Blanding was evidently a far better note to strike than the Taplows and their son. Then she added in a different voice: 'Lydia - how is Lydia?'

'Going on very well, thank you, Ma'am,' said
Ione
quickly, a shade too quickly. 'But as I was saying, the way you dealt with that dreadful American who kept g
oing on about your self-image —‘

'What on earth was all that about?' Amy pointed her neat little stockinged foot - she had the shapely legs and pretty ankles of some plump women; in fact her whole appearance was an intriguing mixture of things which were notably large (her eyes, her bosom) and things which were notably small like her hands and feet and ankles. 'Was she going on about my lack of A levels? So drear. What does Ferdel care about my A levels? He's never even
heard
of A levels.*

'I think she was going on about your attitude to feminism, Ma'am.'

'Feminism!'
cried Amy in a voice of outrage, 'Whatever will they ask one about next? And I wish they wouldn't keep going on about animals and hunting and all that. Those people are just crazy. I don't hunt, far too terrifying, took the opportunity to give it up when Daddy died. Quel relief! Giving up hunting I mean. Not poor old Daddy. So what's it all to do with me?'

'There's a lot of it about at the moment,' said
Ione
diplomatically. 'Animal Rights is flavour of the month where demos are concerned. Hence the questions. The Cumberland Palace incident didn't help, and I suppose there
might
just be further demonstrations before the wedding. Coming to which, Ma'am, there is just one thing I ought to tell you -'

As Princess Amy fished for her white sandal with one toe (the spaniel Happy - or was it Boobie? - thought it was a game),
Ione
Quentin broke the news of the death of Jean-Pierre Schwarz-Albert. Like the rest of the public, Princess Amy did not find the death - having never known of the life - of a French journalist profoundly interesting.

'How sad,' she remarked rather absently, at the end of her lady-in-waiting's recitation. 'Does one have to do anything about it? Write to anyone? I mean, was he fearfully brave or anything? Do we watch him on telly all the time?'

'Oh no, Ma'am, he was French,' replied
Ione
, in a tone that made it clear that the answer to all these questions was in the negative. Amy kicked her shoes aside again. She yawned. She was still yawning and contemplating the short unpainted nails on her small hand, weighed down by its huge aquamarine ring set in diamonds (true Amy blue) when
Ione
spoke again.

'Yes,
Ione
? Oh God, why won't my boring nails grow. Look at yours - positive talons. It's not fair - sorry, yes?' 'Just one more thing, Ma'am.'

Amy groaned. 'More unpleasantness. I know it. You always say "Just one more thing" when it's unpleasant. This is the second "one more thing" in five minutes.'

'The French journalist had a number of Animal Rights stickers in his pocket,' continued
Ione
rather coldly; then her eyes fell on her own nails, not particularly long, but neatly painted a delicate pink; her expression lightened. Princess Amy on the other hand gave a little pout.

'How drear! Actually at our Press Conference?
Very
drear. How on earth did he get in? I hope he doesn't do it again.'

'He's dead, Ma'am,' said
Ione
patiently.

'Well I jolly well hope there aren't any more like him, frightening Animal Rights people, I mean, among the journalists. They're bad enough as they are, them and their questions.' Princess Amy's pout deepened and for an instant she bore a strong resemblance to the late Duke of Cumberland when some household arrangement had gone awry. 'Now
Ione
, let's forget about the drear journalists. I'm not marrying
them.
What did Ferdel say exactly ...?'

A few miles away Princess Amy's royal disregard for the subject of dead French journalists was not shared by Detective Superintendent Portsmouth (although he might have been more sympathetic to her views on the Press generally).

'Dead!' cried Detective Superintendent Portsmouth, and then, after pausing as though searching for the
mot juste,
added impressively: 'As a doornail.'

'To coin a phrase,' remarked Detective Sergeant Vaillant smartly, and gave another of those sage nods which had caused Pompey of the Yard to mark him down as a bright lad.

Young Vaillant had however misjudged his moment. Pompey was in an irritable mood, suffering from what he mentally termed royal sciatica since his first bad attack had been at the time of the wedding of the Prince of Wales. On that occasion Mrs Portsmouth had caused him to plant out rows of loyal red and white begonias, interspersed with blue lobelias, in their garden before the season or, for that matter, Pompey was ready. Prince Andrew's wedding had called for backbreaking work with tri-coloured geraniums, more sciatica. Currently Mrs Portsmouth was massing petunias, crimson streaked with white, by the back door for the attack and wishing out loud that nature had created something properly red, white and blue.

Nothing, as Vaillant well knew, put his superior in a worse mood than being the brawn for Mrs Portsmouth's brains where gardening was concerned; indeed, had he noticed the tiny trace of earth under Pompey's normally immaculate fingernails, he would not have risked his smart remark or anything like it but would have confined himself to the nod.

'Given the state of the city, I'm inclined to think that it was done on purpose to annoy us,' went on Pompey, giving Vaillant a malevolent look. 'To coin a phrase as you would put it. Certainly someone did something on purpose. To put it another way, a good many people did a good many things on purpose, leaving us poor critters to figure out who did which to what."

Vaillant knew better this time and merely nodded.

'For example the late Mr Schwarz-Albert did a good many things on purpose. Including painting Cumberland Palace red.'

'We're sure of that, are we, sir?' enquired Vaillant in his most sympathetic manner. Pompey ignored him.

'So what was he doing stone dead with a souvenir paper-knife in his back in the corner of the lounge of the Republican Hotel?'

Pompey spoke in a tone remarkably close to a groan, something that Vaillant ascribed to his physical condition rather than to any faintheartedness over the case. 'Answer me that one. Was he about to transfigure the lounge with violent red pleas for animal rights when he was struck down by someone with an even more violent dislike for Animal Rights activists? He was struck down -' as Vaillant leant even more sympathetically forward - 'and with one of these. Sharp little buggers.'

Pompey reached in a drawer and drew out a paper-knife similar to those presented to the avid Royalty-observers at the Press Conference. At the time the knife, surmounted by Princess Amy's
cypher in blue, had seemed yet another example of royal journalistic kitsch; now, looking at it, Vaillant felt that the strong slender blade had assumed an altogether more sinister aspect.