Your Royal Hostage

by Antonia Fraser

  Non-violence as a policy was hard to sustain in view of the death of the detective; and there were other details to take into account, deaths which not only bit into the very structure of Innoright but also demonstrated clearly that the criminal cell had in fact been closely involved with the central organization. The death of Monkey a.k.a. Edward James Arthur Monck mbe was one such example, which together with the revelations concerning his participation in the cell, caused the keenest anguish among the members. Generous and kindly, if some might say endowed with an over-managerial manner, Mr Monck had after all been one of the founders of Innoright.

  On the other hand, from another point of view, Monkey's death did answer one question: the question of whether he had been involved in the abduction itself as well as in its organization. Princess Amy was understandably unable to state whether he had actually driven the getaway car, but Monkey, in a carefully explicit note to the police, laid down his own actions; at the same time regretting the death of the detective and 'the discourtesy to hrh Princess Amy'.

  Monkey gave much thought to the manner of his death: it was after all to be his last plan. When the news of Princess Amy's rescue broke, he considered at first a last meal in South Eaton Place, a fine Burgundy (but no meat-eating: dying was no time to desert one's principles) and a host of fine pills which he prudently kept by him. Many dreams were over, dreams of Lamb (what had become of her? Under arrest, poor child), dreams of a world made safe for the innocent, were over.

  He would go to join Cynthia. As a Catholic of his own particular variety, Monkey did not rate such an action as a sin: once again — as with the detective's death - joining Cynthia was the end to justify it. Monkey was in the process of writing a last note of command for Carmencita - 'Do not enter the library. E.J.A.M.' — when the appropriate last plan was revealed to him. Cocking an eyebrow, at his most agreeably simian, Monkey destroyed the note. Carefully he attired himself in his City clothes, dark pin-stripe suit including a blue handkerchief in his breast pocket, an umbrella - and a bowler. The umbrella and blue handkerchief indicated postponement and the bowler signified after all the final abandonment of the Underground Plan; and with Monkey's death on the electric rails of the Underground just outside Sloane Square station, it could be said that the final abandonment of the Underground Plan had taken place.

  Fox died too, adopting the same solution as Monkey (which would have pleased the latter: at the last, Fox was obediently following his lead in a way that he signally failed to do on the night of the abduction). Fox's choice of death-place was Tottenham Court Road Tube station - Fox being aware that the lead of the costumes from Leaviss made it only a matter of time before the police reached him. All his emotions were by this time bound up in his dread of parting from Noel, which was how he viewed the prospect of long imprisonment. It was ironic that the dog Noel, who had nothing of his master's death wish, used his notorious cowardice to pull back at the last moment from the drop, and thus survived the experience. So that Fox's last wish of a death together with Noel, like his wish for a free kingdom of the animals, was not to be granted.

  The police did reach Mrs Charity Wadham a.k.a. Chicken quite quickly, but Mrs Charity Wadham made no attempt to kill herself. She saw absolutely no need. Chicken was reached via a number of routes: not only her appreciation of Ignazio Dorati but her condemnation of Zeffirelli's film on the stairs leaving the Royal Opera House was recollected by one witness, who had turned to look at her: the witness in question had particularly enjoyed the Zeffirelli film of Otello. Most telling of all, the abandoned saris were found wrapped round Chicken's score of Otello - a substantial mistake on Pussy's part but perhaps she had been unconsciously jealous of Chicken's paraded knowledge of the opera during its performance. What with Chicken's condescending remark concerning Zerfirelli and her score-book, she had certainly paid dearly for this knowledge. There were plenty of finger-prints there to identify Chicken with the score-reading Indian woman, even if one of Chicken's teaching associates to whom it had once belonged, had not recognized the score.

  Two questions in all this remained unanswered. The identity of the second 'Indian' woman, the masked 'cruel' woman who had guarded Princess Amy, assuming that they were one and the same person, remained officially unproved. Chicken resolutely refused to say anything on the subject; in fact she refused to make any statement at all, refused a lawyer (one was assigned), refused to consider her defence and merely announced her determination of pleading 'Guilty' and accepting her sentence whatever it might be. Chicken was confident in herself that she would never talk, never break, despising Monkey and Fox for their abject solutions. How like men! Women were so much stronger when it came to the point.

  Chicken gave no trouble on remand in prison, however; was pleasant, respectful, nice to the young girls who were her fellow inmates: even if they were not particularly nice back to her since she was held to have laid hands on Princess Amy, by now a genuinely popular folk heroine. It was a consolation that the problems with her diet gave her opportunity to administer well-turned little lectures on the cruel treatment of battery hens. Vegetarianism proving a far more sympathetic subject, Chicken somewhat redeemed herself. Even in Holloway, thought Chicken, once a teacher, always a teacher.

  The charges against Chicken were serious enough but she was not, so far as the police were concerned, on a charge of murder or even of conspiracy to murder since it was accepted that she had not been present at the incident in the Royal Box. So, one way and another, Chicken was confident of holding out, serving her sentence - for the cause. Setting herself up to be a model prisoner, one day she would emerge — and work for it again with equal determination, or perhaps even greater strength, forged by the iron years of martyrdom in prison. But she would not trust men - men like Fox with their ineradicable and fatal tendency to violence - next time.

  So the question of Chicken's accomplice, of the sixth conspirator, for want of definite proof remained officially open.

  That meant that Pussy — for the time being - went free. There was nothing specific to connect her with Chicken in the absence of the latter's hoped-for confession. The witness who remembered Chicken's disparaging comment on Zeffirelli's film had no recollection, and maddeningly was not even sure if Chicken had had a companion, although he admitted that the remark could hardly have been made to the blank wall of the staircase. Like Chicken, he had been in a hurry.

  Princess Amy never saw fit to mention the characteristic smell of lavender water which had linked Pussy to her hated governess; along with many other details of that horrendous time, she had suppressed it. In any case, such olfactory evidence would surely never have stood up in a court of law. And Pussy had been careful to keep her gloves on during her period guarding the Princess.

  No, the police wanted proper evidence to arrest Mrs Pussy Moscowitz and in their patient way they were convinced that with time they would get it. In the meantime they were watching Pussy.

  That left Pussy free, like the rest of the world, to watch the Royal Wedding. She could either watch it on television in the flat dominated by huge pictures of Caro-Otter or maybe, as Pussy

  put it to herself, with one of her malevolent smiles, she would take her place among the crowds: 'To see how the little Madam is getting on.'

  Another question which remained unanswered was the question of the killer of Jean-Pierre Schwarz-Albert a.k.a. Tom. It was the subject of yet another conversation between Jemima and Pompey, this time in the Groucho Club where Pompey sat nursing a whisky and showing a gallant appreciation of the various literary luminaries by whom he was surrounded.

  'Anita Bainbridge!' he exclaimed at one point, 'I must tell my wife. One of her real favourites.' Jemima thought it best not to intervene. Then more sombre matters occupied them.

  'It's all very well the shouting and the cheering, and the gutsy little Princess - and my word, she is gutsy - but I've still got my case,' complained Pompey. 'Work to do. I can't fit my murder to Taplow, the photographer; the li
ttle costumier is a possibility, just as he always was, except that the hotel is adamant he couldn't have got where necessary with the dog. The woman they're holding for abduction, the teacher, Wadham, will say nothing except she's guilty of the abduction but that she abhors violence.'

  'Pompey -' said Jemima slowly. 'There's another woman of course. I've been thinking about it, working out a theory. Testing something I said to you a long time ago. That murder and now the Royal Wedding still to come. Tell me about the police watch. Who are they watching?'

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Living Doll

  The problem, Jemima speedily realized, was to find a language of lyrical freshness which had not been used before; or was not being currently used by all the other hundreds and thousands of commentators upon the Royal Wedding of Princess Amy and Prince Ferdinand. Since the problem rapidly proved insoluble (what could you say that wasn't almost audibly being said in other television studios close at hand?) Jemima decided not to try and solve it. Instead she gave herself up to the enjoyment of the occasion; or to be precise, wished to give herself up to it. It was still impossible to disregard completely, in one part of her mind, the implications of her last conversation with Pompey and she trusted that Pompey himself had not disregarded them. All this was, however, for another day - or she devoutly hoped it was.

  In the meantime journalistic tasks, the very reverse of humdrum, awaited her in the more-or-less plastic studio erected by tus on the roof of a building at an angle to Westminster Cathedral, tus's studio-in-the-sky jostled with those of other famous American tv stations. On the narrow stairs which led up to the roof from the main building, a mock-Georgian office block, Jemima was amused to encounter other British notabilities ranging from the truly notable to the notable-for-being-notable who would give their own confident Best-of-Britain commentaries to be beamed around the us. She hoped she could still count herself amongst them despite her recent sacking from Megalith.

  Among historical experts, Susanna Blanding was there, of course, notebooks, red books and all; her role was actually to crouch beneath the semi-circular simulated studio table at which Jemima sat, bemicrophoned and be-earplugged (to receive what was another form of royal command - from the producer) along with Rick Vancy. And along with Curt. The latter's perpetually sleepy stance had been abandoned overnight for a bright-eyed look which was almost disconcerting; his eyes positively glittered with innocent enthusiasm, and preppy, Jemima supposed, was probably the right word for the clothes in which he was now attired. This alien image - if not to the us, but then Curt would not be seen on camera - was in marked contrast to Rick Vancy's studiedly quiet British attire and Jemima" s own sharply elegant emerald-green Jean Muir jacket (all that would be visible of her, she devoutly hoped, since she was wearing training shoes for long-term comfort, which could hardly be said to accord with her tight black skirt and sheer dark stockings.)

  As usual, Susanna's own wardrobe did not bear thinking about. Taken all in all, her crouching position, with a noiseless electronic typewriter to tap out news flashes and hand them up from below to the team, reminded Jemima of that of a crusader's dog carved at the end of its master's tomb. It was by now quite clear that where Susanna was concerned Rick was the crusader.

  For the time being, Jemima had better things to think about than Susanna's potential problems in this direction. Other wardrobes claimed her attention, notably that of the Royal Family about to come on view, described in a series of Press releases evidently composed by the various designers involved, and accompanied by illustrative sketches. Where the sketches were concerned, Jemima would come to see them as an endearing triumph of hope over experience; that is, when she got her first glimpse of the dignified but, dare one say it, ever-so-slightly dumpy incumbents of the dresses and compared them to the slim long-necked swans of the artist's imagination. At the same time the Keatsian language entranced her, words like azure and malachite abounded where, contemplating the reality, it was difficult not to conclude that humbler words such as blue and green would have done just as well.

  Jemima found that her mind was still half distracted by those other nagging fears: but she must put them aside, this was not the time or place, if only because Jemima, not being a natural fashion journalist, knew that she needed all her concentration to interpret the Keatsian language to American viewers (waking up after all to an extremely early breakfast by us time). At this moment the final Press release was handed to her from below by Susanna. This was the one everyone had been waiting for: the Press release, the sketch, the dress itself....

  The sketch now before her showed in effect an enchanting doll. On the evidence of this, Jemima had no difficulty in believing that Princess Amy bridal dolls would be bestsellers for many years to come. As for the fluttering Princess Amy blue bows (the traditional 'something blue') which were depicted nestling at the shoulder and somewhere in the endless bouffant train (eighteen feet long: six inches longer than that of the Duchess of York, the Press release proudly proclaimed), those belonged perhaps more to the world of the chocolate box. Jemima also had no difficulty in believing that chocolate boxes, mugs, plates, thimbles and so forth, depicting Princess Amy in all her bridal glory, would also be bestsellers for many years to come.

  All the same, why shouldn't poor little Princess Amy look like a living doll if that was how she wanted to look? Given her ordeal, which had so nearly ended in her being not so much a living doll as a dead one. It was time to think again about her own personal language of lyrical freshness. What about some historical and artistic comparisons? Winterhalter, Greuze, Gainsborough: these were names to conjure with and she only hoped that Susanna Blanding, somewhere in her copious notes, had had the forethought to conjure with them.

  Jemima gazed down at the little television monitor flush with the desk before her. The only public alteration to arrangements made at the instigation of the police, was to have the bride leave from one of the other royal palaces in The Mall, as other royal brides had done in recent years, instead of from Cumberland Palace itself, which being sited in Regent's Park, involved a far longer and less controllable route. The crowds in The Mall were quite as deep as Jemima remembered from shots of other weddings involving members of the Royal Family closer to succession. The abduction, however distressing for its subject, had undoubtedly been good for business: that is, if you had the temerity to regard the public attendance at a Royal Wedding as a form of business.

  She could see numerous placards being held up echoing the theme of the celebrated buttons: amy means i love you, now occasionally altered to amy means i adore you, and there were balloons, and here and there paper hats of Amy blue bearing the same message. Then there were some new-style placards bearing the allusive message: amy not animals. Jemima learnt later that a few rash protesters had emerged bearing placards which read on the contrary: we love animals not amy.

  Regrettably if understandably, these small groups were manhandled by the crowd and forced to disband, their placards pulled apart; equally regrettably perhaps, there was little or no interference from the police during these scattered episodes. The police, standing with their backs to the route facing the crowds (an innovation at the wedding of the Prince of Wales), maintained an impassive stance. They were watching of course: watching not only these - the few - who proclaimed their animal rights' sympathies but watching for those who might share these sympathies without proclaiming them.

  There were no Innoright posters, placards or buttons, no Innoright balloons or paper hats. The sad-eyed logo was signally absent from the proceedings. Pussy, having reached a decision to attend personally instead of making do with television - 'to see the little Madam one last time for myself, as she put it - took care to wear nothing and carry nothing that might connect her with Innoright. Weddings of healthy young women generally made her feel physically sick with rage when she thought of Caro-Otter who would never have a wedding, but for the time being she knew she must subjugate her revulsion.

  Pussy in
stalled herself on a small portable seat near the front of the crowd in the piazza of the Cathedral. It was not, to be honest, that she had arrived all that early to achieve such an advantageous position: just that Pussy, heavily pressing, was a difficult force to resist when it came to having her own way. Her present desire was to watch the wedding from a convenient spot at the bottom of one of the stands in the piazza, amid the crowds but not swamped by them, and she achieved it.

  Pussy took out a plastic box of sweet pastries and proceeded to lick round the chocolate coating of one. She needed sweetness, and sustenance. Pussy, unlike some of those near her, did not offer to share her pastries with the policeman in front of them. Pussy, watched by the impassive policeman, and watching him, licked resolutely on.

  Jemima, from her perch roughly above Pussy's head, studied the order of events and the official programme with its seemingly endless list of coaches and carriages and cars and mounted escorts and so forth and so on. (No official mention of armed escorts and so forth and so on, although one would imagine that in view of recent events the practice at recent royal weddings of substituting policemen for various bewigged coachmen on the boxes of the coaches would scarcely be abandoned at this one.)