Political Death

by Antonia Fraser

  “What country, friends, is this?”

  The lines, which Millie had been saying for so long, suddenly had an ominous ring. What country were they all getting into after so long? She, Olga, Harry—for him it was indeed possible to feel sorry, MPs being what they were. And Burgo Smyth? What about his children, no longer children, of course, very much adults and political adults at that? Those twins. Sarah Smyth had been elected to the Commons last time, and Archie Smyth was standing at this election. And the rest of the politicians? Horace Granville, the Prime Minister? Now, were they all to be plunged back into this grim Illyria?

  Millie, used to being the strong one to her younger sister, longed desperately for some dispassionate advice. She would hardly have time to consult Randall before she left for Hippodrome Square; besides, he always had so many visitors backstage (predominantly female). And she was treading cautiously there, didn’t want to involve him too closely in her strange background.… Originally Millie had not been sure that their romance would outlast their season at the Addison. It was not so much the effect that Randall tended to have on women generally—Millie honestly did not believe that he encouraged poor Hattie—more that there was something so concentrated (or should one say ambitious?) in Randall. Thus Millie could not imagine him involved with an actress in a production other than his own. Now that they were at the Irving, she would have to see. Yet increasingly she knew that she was becoming desperate to keep him, could no longer easily bear the thought of losing him.

  The fact that she was older than Randall—just a few unimportant years—was not the point. It was in any case impossible to tell the ages of the various bubbly blonde girls who crowded into the small room (why always blondes? wondered fierce, dark Millie). But Millie had to admit to a certain jealousy about the women, invariably pretty, who were said to be Randall’s cousins, or else at Oxford with him, in some cases both. Of course Randall was entitled to have cousins, sacks of them: Millie knew that he came from a vast network of relations. She could also understand that Randall with his glamour and success provided a focus for a series of people not otherwise distinguished by anything but birth. But Millie’s childhood had been different. If she had any cousins on either side, they had never come forward to claim the Swain girls. And she had not been to Oxford.

  The transfer of this “sixties” version of Twelfth Night from the Addison Theatre on the fringe to the Irving Theatre in the West End had been, to say the least of it, unexpected. Millie was aware that Randall’s rising reputation as a romantic actor had been a principal element—and he was very romantic, true sexiness on and off stage, how the public loved it! Of course, let’s face it, they also loved the fact that Randall had not only been to a famous public school although he was very very careful never to refer to it (thus, in the opinion of his enemies, having it both ways). But it did enable critics so minded to make knowing allusions. Of his Orsino for example the Daily Telegraph noted, “A Duke in whom we can, mercifully, for once believe …”

  As for herself, her Viola turned out to be the part of which actresses dream, the one that hiked her into another dimension. To begin with, the costume suited her wonderfully. Her long legs, her height, were natural advantages in a trouser suit. And Randall was tall enough for the height, which had sometimes been a problem, not to matter. Further than that, Millie knew that she was giving the performance of her career. Even the linkage to Randall was helpful: talk of the new Branaghs and “that kind of rubbish” as Millie put it, still put no one off. Whether it was love for Randall, or just plain sex with Randall, she knew that she had somehow flowered. Or had done so in the limited arena of the Addison. Now she had to do it again in the West End.

  Madre could not be allowed to ruin this chance. She had ruined Millie’s childhood; that was enough. Some radical solution must surely present itself. As Millie Swain headed for the stage, hampered by her voluminous Pop mackintosh, she remembered Olga’s opening words: “Today of all days. I could kill her!” Yes, Millie knew the feeling.

  CHAPTER 2

  TRUE CONFESSIONS

  The first-floor drawing-room of Number Nine Hippodrome Square was a handsome room, thought Jemima Shore—or rather it had once been a handsome room.

  She was sitting opposite Lady Imogen Swain on a sofa which sagged heavily. The grime on its cover was so ingrained that Jemima could not imagine what the original pattern had been. The surface of the tapestry stool beside her, on which Jemima had gingerly perched her glass, had been reduced to threads. There were rugs which were covered with dark sticky-looking stains—Jemima shuddered to think where they came from. The curtains of the tall windows looking into the square, like the covering of the stool, hung in tatters. Had they been made of chintz or taffeta? Once again, impossible to tell. Naturally the window panes were filthy.

  In a way, the walls were the worst of all. For one thing, large lighter spaces on the dirty paint indicated where pictures had once hung. And then there were the cracks.

  “My God,” thought Jemima, “look at those cracks, was there some earthquake in West London … this house is simply not safe.” An enormous and grandiose marble mantelpiece—one of the few pieces that had defied decay—was the focus of the room. “I should not care for that to fall on me. The wind is terrible tonight, they say there’s going to be a storm. It could blow the house down. And I’m on the first floor. How could anyone live like this? The daughters—how could they let her live like this?”

  At that moment two huge black-and-white cats pushed their way into the room. One padded towards Imogen Swain, tore at her skirt with its claws as though for exercise, then settled plumply in her lap. The other cat looked up at Jemima with an imploring expression. It was the size of a small dog. It gave some long exploratory scratches at her hem (my Valentino! thought Jemima, never mind if it was bought in a sale) before settling in its turn in her lap. So there were the two of them, in this cold, filthy, ill-lit, high-ceilinged room with only two predatory cats to warm them.

  Jemima noticed that Imogen Swain, unlike most cat owners (unlike herself for example), did not ask her visitor whether she minded a cat the size of a dog flumped on her lap.

  “Joy and Jasmine,” murmured Lady Imogen, “for my favourite scent and my favourite soap, rather sweet, isn’t it? I’ve tried washing the girls in Jasmine but they didn’t like it.” The girls? What girls? Take a grip, Jemima, she means these vast felines. Lady Imogen started to stroke the cat which had a raucous purr commensurate with its size.

  “You see, Jemima—I may call you Jemima? I feel I know you from television—” She leant forward, so that her little wrinkled monkey’s face came alarmingly close to Jemima’s. “You see, Jemima, I know all about it. Lots of naughty secrets. It’s time for my side of the story. My true confessions at last. I know where the bodies are buried. Funny phrase!” she laughed. “Well, I really do know. That’s why I’m telling you, Jemima. A lot of people would like to shut me up. But they can’t shut me up, can they, once I’ve told you? I’ll be safe.”

  It was not exactly what Jemima Shore Investigator had come to hear; the maudlin true confessions of a former society beauty who had once—a very long time ago—known some famous people. There were a few faded but extremely large photographs (of Imogen Swain) visible at strategic points in the room. Nothing demonstrated more the ephemeral nature of beauty. One showed her as a bride, huge eyes and rosebud mouth, ravishing even under an unflattering veil; another as a bewitching young mother with two dark-eyed rather sullen children. That woman was gone forever and should be allowed to rest. Really, in raising people’s expectations of fame, the tabloids had a lot to answer for! Guiltily, Jemima Shore added to herself “and television too.”

  There had been a series of political scandals recently. The government, in calling a general election, had stoutly denied that there was any connection between these scandals and its decision to go to the country within a year of the previous election. The ostensible reason was the economic crisis and the s
winging rises in taxation which had followed, contrary to electoral promises. All of this was true enough.

  Nevertheless a nervous and (to outsiders) rather exciting atmosphere prevailed on the subject of political scandals generally. The most unlikely people seemed to have got the idea that they could get in on the act—be rich and infamous, if you like. At least, that was the politest interpretation of Lady Imogen’s surprising behaviour. Another possible explanation would involve Alzheimer’s disease, or some other form of senility.… For heaven’s sake, what were her family up to, letting their mother ramble on like this? One daughter was married to an MP: she should have a sense of family responsibility, considering how politicians of all parties went on about the subject.

  Should Lady Imogen be living here at all? Apparently she lived alone: that is to say, there were no signs of a companion, maid or whatever. No one had even come to answer the bell which Jemima had rung for a long time. The wind rustled the sparse leaves on the trees in the square and scudded across the doorstep. Jemima shivered. After a while, a skinny arm in a lacy sleeve, ending in a hand on which a ring glinted, had emerged from an upper window. Wordlessly, the invisible owner of the arm had thrown down a key which rattled on the steps at Jemima’s feet. (It missed the basement area by a few inches.) For a moment Jemima felt she had strayed into some confused fairy story, where Rapunzel met the witch of the gingerbread house … then she wondered, more practically, at the trust of Lady Imogen (presumably) who had not even bothered to establish her identity.

  Yet surely money could not be a real problem? If not an ancient parlour maid or a decrepit butler, there could at least be some kind of live-in help, an au pair, a student in need of accommodation, someone. Number Nine Hippodrome Square, admittedly extremely run down, was an enormous house. It must be worth a fortune, even if Hippodrome Square was not one of the fashionable West London squares, given that it lay north of Holland Park Avenue, closer to the upper reaches of Ladbroke Grove. But most of the houses had an air of considerable prosperity.

  Jemima had parked her car in a space on the other side of the square, trusting it would not rain before she returned. As she walked around, she noted bay trees outside one palatial doorway—three houses had been discreetly adapted into a block of flats. Their pots had been secured by chains but they were bay trees for all that. A little way outside the square, in effect in Ladbroke Grove, there was of course the new and chic Hippodrome Hotel, another set of houses run together. Jemima’s company, JS Productions, sometimes used the elegant small restaurant and its patio when the weather was hot and their finances were flourishing. Since the hotel was near but not too near, its presence must have a favourable effect on property prices, thought Jemima. There were also a few houses in the square with builders’ boards up, where development was probably on the way. Yes, one way or another, Number Nine had to be worth a packet.

  JS Productions was a company which Jemima had recently founded with her former PA at MegaTV, and now partner, Cherry Bronson. (Cherry’s consciousness had been permanently raised by seeing the film Working Girl: as an example of life imitating art, she now ran JS Productions with great energy; only her fabulous dipping necklines showed a certain lingering attachment to old-fashioned values, Jemima sometimes thought, although she was far too frightened of the New Cherry to say so.) The company had been founded to package the longstanding and successful series of social enquiries, Jemima Shore Investigates, and sell it back to MegaTV. How Cy Fredericks, Jemima’s former boss at Megalith, had groaned!

  “My little Jem, you too betray me …” His attitude was that of Caesar being stabbed by Brutus. In the subsequent negotiations it was Cherry rather than the more soft-hearted Jemima who had struck the right deal. She was helped by the fact that Cy insisted on treating her as an exotic stranger (“Your wonderful raven-haired Miss Bronson”) and had somewhat lost his head over her at lunch at the Ivy at a critical moment in the negotiations—although Cherry had worked under Cy at Megalith for ten years.

  The new series of Jemima Shore Investigates was considering various aspects of old age: one programme was, roughly speaking on the subject of “Memories”. Lady Imogen Swain was among those who had answered an advertisement put out by Jemima for potential interviewees, hence Jemima’s presence at Hippodrome Square. But Jemima had been unprepared for the flood of revelations—inventions?—now pouring forth from her hostess. Most surprising, and indeed disquieting, of all was the involvement of the Foreign Secretary. Jemima Shore had never met Burgo Smyth. But looking at him on television, she had found herself, like most women, susceptible to his distinguished-older-man’s looks, his courtesy, and above all the vitality he exuded. It was difficult to connect him with this sad, vindictive little monkey hissing away about her memories in the wasteland of her ruined drawing-room, difficult to believe that they were only five years apart in age.

  At the same time Jemima did not find Lady Imogen totally unappealing. This was against her better judgment. But the sheer outrageousness of what she was saying had a mad courage about it, although Jemima had no doubt it was the courage of the fantasist.

  “You see,” said Lady Imogen solemnly, “he was the great love of my life.”

  In the present political climate, how could Lady Imogen really hope to rake up a thirty-year-old affair with the Foreign Secretary—which is what she seemed to be intent on doing—and emerge without great humiliation on her part? The election was a mere two and a half weeks away. On second thoughts, even the tabloids might hesitate to run this one, given that Lady Imogen was certainly no bimbo offering enticing photo-opportunities.

  It was now quite dark, and outside the lights of the square beckoned. She must get out of this depressing drawing-room, this house with its creaks and its rattling windows, make an excuse and leave … Imogen Swain interrupted this line of thought. She had by now manifestly drunk a great deal: whisky by the look of it, and not much water.

  “No wonder they want to kill me,” she said, with a slight giggle. “Because what I want to give you is the real story of the Faber Mystery.”

  “The Faber Mystery?” repeated Jemima. “But I made a programme—” She thought, “And Burgo Smyth turned down my request for an interview. Some pompous secretary replied, ‘Mr. Smyth has for many years made it his practice to decline all interviews on this subject.’ ”

  “Exactly!” Lady Imogen was childishly delighted, adding to the general impression of unreality. “And you got it all wrong. Everyone has always got it wrong. They were meant to get it wrong. But little me knows the truth, always did. And now I’m going to tell everyone all about it—on your programme. Then of course they won’t kill me, because there won’t be any point.”

  She hesitated, fluttered her eyelashes, and gave a smile which just lifted the corners of her curly lipsticked mouth; in spite of the garish lipstick the smile made Jemima realise what men must have seen in Imogen Swain. The connection with the old faded photographs of the society beauty was visible. “Burgo won’t like it, my Burgo, will he? That pompous face! But when he comes round, I’ll do just what he likes.” What followed was quite a vivid description, slightly palliated by the soft voice in which it was delivered. Jemima felt deeply embarrassed.

  “When did you last see Burgo Smyth?” she asked hastily. She might as well get that straight. If Lady Imogen was capable of telling the truth.

  “Oh, Burgo, he came round last night.” Imogen Swain stroked the big cat—Joy? Jasmine?—complacently. “Teresa’s in the country. With the children.” She made a little moue; like the cat, she was purring. Then Imogen Swain’s expression changed. All the incongruous flirtatiousness had gone.

  “No, no, that’s not true, is it? Of course he didn’t come round last night. He never comes here now. Someone came round. But it wasn’t him. Someone’s going to come round tonight. But it won’t be him. I’ve got to live in the real world, that’s what my daughter Olga says.” She made it all sound very bleak. “Do you know my daughter Olga? Sometimes
she’s so cruel to me.” The cat gave a plaintive mew as if in sympathy. “That’s all a long time ago, isn’t it? Teresa won, didn’t she? She’s got him forever now, hasn’t she? Poor mousy Tee. Clever, clever Tee.”

  “Lady Imogen, when did you last see Burgo Smyth?” Jemima Shore, the practised interviewer, used her gentlest tone. Instead of answering, Lady Imogen fished underneath her dilapidated chair and took out a plastic bag.

  “These are my Memories, my True Confessions,” she said. “And I’m going to give them to you. My Diaries, his letters. All very secret. And then you’ll know just what to ask me about on television.” She flung the plastic bag rather clumsily in Jemima’s direction, and some of the contents spilled. Jemima saw a couple of smallish navy blue leather books with gilt edges to the pages. The one at her feet was stamped in gold with the initials IMS. A letter fluttered out. The House of Commons crest set in an oval at the top was unmistakable, especially to Jemima Shore who had once had an unhappy affair with a married MP and had received letters on that paper. Her heart gave an irrational thump.

  At that moment the telephone rang. Lady Imogen did not answer it, although it stood on the table at her side, the only modern artifact in the room. Jemima wanted to pick up the Diaries or perhaps the letter … it was tantalising. She could read the words “My beloved” and that was all. Instead she politely made a sign indicating that she would be prepared to answer the telephone (if only to shut it up, it had rung for over a minute). Lady Imogen nodded vaguely. The moment Jemima picked up the instrument a female voice began at her, “Madre, will you please answer the telephone? That’s what it’s for, you know, because someone wants to talk to you. Now listen, we’re both coming round tonight to discuss things. And Madre, it’s no good not answering the bell, I’ve got a key. No, I won’t let out the bloody cats. That’s all.” The caller rang off.