As Jemima’s mind’s eye was busy seeing the small, hopeless figure tumbling down, something surprising happened. The light in the top window went out. A few minutes later, the lights went out on the next floor. And so on down. Jemima felt she was tracking the progress of the unseen hand as it descended; sometimes the delay was greater, sometimes shorter, but the downward darkening progress was remorseless. There was an eerie moment when a flicker of light—a torch?—could be seen through the fanlight of the hall. Jemima remembered the missing bulb in the hall. That too was extinguished.
Jemima was still standing there when the door of Number Nine opened and a woman came out of the house. The street light was not close and there were of course no chic carriage lights outside Number Nine (or Number Seven for that matter) but the woman looked to be youngish. Jemima’s heart leapt. What luck! One of the daughters! It had to be. Millie Swain was presumably at this moment striding about the stage of the Irving Theatre in her trousers or exchanging loving kisses at the final curtain with the charismatic Randall Birley (Jemima had just seen his remake of Rebecca and fallen mildly in love). In any case, from her photographs Millie was tall and dark. So it had to be the other one, married to the MP.
Jemima took a deep breath. Nothing ventured … MPs’ wives had to be on the look-out to please the public at this juncture in the election. The polls, which had been making the two parties neck and neck for so long, were now allowing Labour to inch ahead.
She had begun, “Mrs. Carter-Fox, I’m Jemima Shore, please forgive me for bothering you—” before Jemima realised that the woman was not alone. And the fair young man behind her was definitely not that worthy but inarticulate do-gooder Harry Carter-Fox, the terror of the political talk-shows since he was always available, always eager, yet never able to get his admirable sentiments into a communicable form.
The woman, equally fair, but with the air of being slightly older, stared back at her. “I’m afraid I’m not Olga Carter-Fox,” she said. She spoke calmly and pleasantly, as though she had been trained to put people at their ease, despite a natural instinct to suppose they were somehow in the wrong. “I’m Sarah Smyth. Do you remember? We met on that pilot programme for ‘Women: Why Ever Not?’ ”
Jemima groaned inwardly. Sarah Smyth had mentioned one of her few conspicuous failures, and Jemima decided, unfairly, that it was typical of this archetypal polished career-girl Tory, still in her eighties shoulder-padded suit, to bring the subject up. It was true that the title of the programme had been a hostage to fortune: the New Cherry had criticised it from the start as being too negative. But the memory of those headlines above the hostile reviews still haunted her (they ran the gamut from JEMIMA: WHATEVER NEXT? in the Daily Mirror to WOMEN: WHATEVER FOR? in the Spectator).
“I’m so sorry. Idiotic of me. It’s just that, I assumed, coming out of this house—I visited Lady Imogen just before her death—I assumed, that as it now belongs to her daughters and I’m trying to get hold of them—”
It was Sarah Smyth who brought this uneasy rush of explanation to an end. She raised her eyebrows. Even in the half-light Jemima had to admire the fine arch which nature (presumably) had given her; they were dark eyebrows too so that either Sarah Smyth had darkened them skilfully or she was one of those infuriating blondes who had been granted dark eyebrows and eyelashes as well as flaxen fair hair. Probably the latter, thought Jemima gloomily. Then Sarah Smyth gave a smile, which was clearly intended to be comforting but did not comfort since it revealed maddeningly perfect white teeth.
“Oh by the way, this is my brother Archie. Jemima Shore.” Sarah Smyth paused. “Jemima Shore Investigator.” She gave an unmistakable emphasis to the third word. “Is that right? Do you like being called that? And by the way, may I say too what a smashing track suit! Is it your own or do you have it made specially for work?”
The two of them, so neat, blonde and handsome—if you liked the type—gazed at Jemima. She was irresistibly reminded of Wagner—Gunther and Gutrune perhaps in Gotterdämmerung, the brother and sister who had brought poor dumb old Siegfried to perdition. Archie Smyth smiled. He had exactly the same smile as his sister; otherwise their main likeness was in their colouring. Neither bore any resemblance to their father, and Jemima felt that she must be looking one way or another at the image of Burgo Smyth’s wife, the despised “Tee” of Lady Imogen’s Diary.
“Oh, but the house doesn’t belong to Lady Imogen’s daughters. At least technically it doesn’t.” Sarah Smyth revealed her level white teeth again. “It belongs to my father. Lady Imogen left it to him in her will. Didn’t you know? No, after all, why should you?” Another intensely reassuring smile, and Archie Smyth, his arm by now around his sister’s shoulders, smiled too.
CHAPTER 6
“I COULD HAVE KILLED HER”
You have to understand that this whole thing could ruin him—my father, our father. I could kill her. Or rather I could have killed her. It’s lucky she’s done it herself.” In spite of the angry words, Sarah Smyth’s poise was unruffled even when she took a swig (no other word would do) of whisky. They were in the bar of the Hippodrome Hotel. They had all three, Jemima and the Smyth twins, adjourned there after that odd, uncomfortable encounter outside the house at Number Nine. There had been a brief conclave between the twins. After that the adjournment had been at the suggestion of the Smyths, or rather at the suggestion of Sarah Smyth. For the time being, Archie’s role seemed to be limited to smiling, or rather grinning, and agreeing with whatever his sister said.
After a short while, Jemima decided that on the one hand Archie was abominably lacking in all the attributes important to her; on the other hand he had a kind of native cunning which would—in her totally unprejudiced opinion—make him an excellent Conservative MP. Sarah Smyth was another kind of animal altogether; it was fascinating that she gave the impression of being several years older than her twin: a question of seriousness perhaps. “As a matter of fact I am four minutes older, but I’ve decided it was a long four minutes.” Sarah Smyth’s comment was one that Jemima was certain she had made before.
Jemima’s judgment on the Smyths’ respective characters, was formed when the earnest face of Harry Carter-Fox filled the small television screen in the corner of the Hippodrome bar. (In Jemima’s opinion, its presence was an unwelcome concession to the election, now a week away, in a place where normally you swam in glass and unreality and fashion.) Harry Carter-Fox, the stereotype of an honest man who happened to be fighting a marginal seat, had been allowed on to the party political broadcast in order to take part in the current Tory conjuring trick—whereby it was going to be convincingly demonstrated that higher taxes and lower benefits meant that everyone, especially the poor, would be much better off. Although the sound on the set was low, it was not low enough. Harry Carter-Fox could still be heard holding forth on “the philosophy of pensions” and some figures followed.
Sarah Smyth listened intently as though the broadcast were directly given with her approval in mind. Occasionally she gave a telling little nod; once or twice her lips (surprisingly full, even voluptuous in such a blandly perfect visage) tightened as if the pupil had made a mistake. Archie began by groaning aloud.
“The Carthorse! Christ, no, we can’t listen to the plonking Carthorse, we’ll all go to sleep.” After a minute he muttered: “Pensions, schmensions,” and lastly: “The philosophy of what? Is he serious?” Then something in his sister’s attitude got through to Archie and his expression changed to one not unlike that of Harry Carter-Fox himself, in which decency, righteousness (and a touch of self-righteousness) could all be traced.
“Good old Carthorse,” pronounced Archie Smyth as though speaking for the first time. “Party needs people like him. People who care!” He made caring sound an esoteric activity, like archery. “Big heart and all that. Voters like it. I like it,” he added generously.
“Big heart and impeccable private life.” Sarah Smyth’s tone had something slightly acid about it which could hav
e been aimed at her brother. “Olga Carter-Fox is one of the nicest wives, so totally unlike her unspeakable mother. It often happens that way, doesn’t it? And there’s an adorable little boy, or is it a girl? A very happy marriage. Voters like that too. No scandals about Harry Carter-Fox.” She sighed. “What a relief.”
“So far my sister has a constituency for private life,” said Archie Smyth. “So that takes care of that.”
Sarah ignored him. “And that brings me to my point, Jemima,” she went on. “Look, turn that TV off, will you, Archie? I’ve had enough of Harry Carter-Fox. He got all those figures wrong by the way; those were the Labour Party figures. Still I don’t expect anyone will notice, least of all in the Labour Party itself, let alone the Liberals! That idiotic woman they’ve selected to combine the two never even took her A-Levels.”
Sarah Smyth took an even bigger swig of her whisky. “Scandal, yes, plenty of it. And a close-run election. The polls are becoming torture for both sides as they seesaw up and down twice daily. Personally, I’d ban them. Anyway, we don’t want it to touch Dad. This whole thing, the will, that ghastly old woman and her stories could ruin him. And lose us the election. He’s Mister Clean, isn’t he? And he is Mister Clean, it’s all true. The past is the past. The one member of the government everyone trusts, apart from Harry Carter-Fox, that is.” Jemima wasn’t sure whether this was intended to be a joke. “You have to understand that this whole thing could ruin him—my father, our father,” she ended.
Jemima had not expected her to be quite so direct, nor was she prepared for what Sarah said next. “He did give evidence at the Faber trial and yes, as far as we know he did have an affair with Lady Imogen. But that’s thirty years ago,” said Sarah fiercely. “Why should it all be dragged up now? What is it all to do with politics, let alone government now, the problems which we all have to face in this country and abroad, which are—”
Archie interrupted her. He had gone slightly pink, “Just because that dreadful old bat lost her marbles and started making threatening calls, telling the newspapers about it, or trying to, Dad’s paid the price. He was young then but he’s paid the price and he doesn’t have to pay it twice. Or rather Mum paid the price. For him. You say you could have killed her, Sarah, but I could have cheerfully strangled her. I wish I had.”
“Our mother found the situation very difficult to cope with.” Sarah spoke with extreme care. “She doesn’t go out much these days. As you know, she never travels with Dad, doesn’t act as his hostess, never has done, just lives quietly in the country.”
“Oh come on, Sarah, don’t be so mealy-mouthed. We’re asking Jemima to be open with us, to tell us what the old girl said to her. So don’t let’s try to be tactful. Jemima had better know the truth. Mum drinks. People do. She does. She probably drank a bit even when she was young—look at Uncle Pel, permanently blotto, and I believe our grandfather died of drink. But she certainly drank a hell of a lot more after the Faber Case. All those whispers about Faber visiting her in Dorset, she helping him to disappear, all nonsense of course, just inventions, rumours. But not helpful.
“She’s still a great person on a good day. And she doesn’t need any of this. This shit—the Press and all that all over again. I put that above Dad’s fucking career, election or no election. So, are you going to tell all about it on television, Jemima?” The pinkness of his smooth skin was quite intense.
To her surprise, Jemima was moved, but why should she be surprised? Part of the idiocy of an election was the way people became demonised. Until now the Smyths, to say nothing of their secluded mother, had been lay figures to her, and not particularly sympathetic ones. Now she saw them all as potential victims of this mischief from the past. But she also made careful note of the reference to Teresa Smyth, the “clever, clever Tee” of Imogen Swain’s Diary, and now apparently drunken, drunken Tee. Another victim, like Imogen Swain herself. How ironic—if you like—was the fact that both the women in Burgo Smyth’s life had ended up destroyed, whereas he had prospered. This had to be considered later.
The laws of libel had prevented even the most scurrilous accounts of the Faber Mystery from dwelling a great deal on the character of Teresa Smyth. It was apparent from her son’s attitude that in certain circles the rumours had been far stronger in that direction than Jemima had realised. In a way Teresa Smyth too had been marginalised, written out of the story much as her rival Imogen Swain had been: two invisible women. But Teresa Smyth at least must have been happy to be invisible. Jemima wanted to get back to her flat and rethink one or two things.…
“Of course I’m not going to put it on TV!” she exclaimed. “Whatever that means. I’m an investigative reporter, not a muck-raker. Lady Imogen wrote to me in answer to an advertisement about memories, I went to see her. That was it.” But that wasn’t quite it, whispered the voice of conscience. You’ve got that Diary still, haven’t you? Lady Imogen gave it to you. And you know about the other Diaries, you know about their father’s letters, don’t you?
Jemima decided to go for honesty, or at any rate limited honesty. “Look,” she said, “I did see Diaries and I saw letters though I didn’t read them. I assume they were from your father because they were on House of Commons paper.”
“Not necessarily so,” Sarah pointed out in her gently reasonable voice. “There is her own son-in-law.”
“The Carthorse!” chimed in Archie eagerly.
“This letter began ‘My beloved’—”
“That settles it,” said Archie cheerfully. “Definitely the Carthorse. What a devil. He was bonking his mother-in-law.”
“Shut up, Archie. OK, Jemima,” went on Sarah, “I grant you: they were Dad’s letters. I do know there were letters.” She hesitated. Why did Jemima have the impression that Sarah was about to lie, or at any rate not tell the whole truth. It was that compassionate politician’s face, yes, that was it, the expression which said sadly, “I so much regret that I am about to deceive you.” Archie too looked uneasy, making Jemima wonder how much of his buffoonery was deliberate, another form of political deception, on a level with his sister’s.
“She spoke about the letters on the telephone to Mum,” said Sarah firmly. “She rang up our mother too, did you know that? Oh God, I could have killed her all over again for that.” Somehow this time the outrage was just a touch affected. “She talked about the Diaries and I guess, from one or two things Mum said, she also talked about Faber. Then there’s the Press. She somehow got in contact with the Mack McGees and talked about her True Confessions. Nothing … very specific, I gather. And Mack McGee is a decent enough fellow for a Press tycoon and Mrs. McGee is a real sweetie. Between ourselves Mack McGee tipped off Dad. All the same—”
“A word at a City banquet,” interrupted Archie. “Both of them in their white ties. ‘Fly, Foreign Secretary, all is known.’ Except I suppose it was in a Scottish accent. ‘Och aye, Foreign Secretary.’ ” Sarah frowned. “The Establishment at work, right,” finished Archie triumphantly.
“We need those letters, and we need the Diaries too,” said Sarah. “Or rather we need to know where they are.”
“Search and destroy,” muttered Archie.
“As far as we know, they’re not in the house any longer.” Sarah stopped. She showed her first real sign of discomposure since they had met.
“You looked,” said Jemima neutrally.
“A purely casual inspection. Why not?” It was the polished Sarah again. “After all it’s technically Dad’s house—not that he will keep it of course. And we wondered, Archie and I, whether you might speak to them, the daughters …”
“We thought we’d hire you, Jemima Shore Investigator and all that.” Archie produced his boyish grin again. “What are your rates? You could get someone to fax them to us.”
I could unleash the New Cherry on Archie, thought Jemima grimly, but I won’t. Instead she spoke in a tone of gentle reasonableness to equal that of Sarah Smyth.
“Olga Carter-Fox is a friend of yours.
Surely—”
“Not exactly a friend. I didn’t quite say that. More of a colleague’s wife. And that’s the problem. It could seem that one was leaning on her, on him, on Harry. Particularly with Dad’s position. Arm’s length is better I think. The other sister, the actress, Millie Swain, I’ve met her briefly. Somehow she’s not a very sympathetic person. One of those left-wing actresses always handing in unnecessary envelopes at Number Ten for the benefit of television—”
“Millie Swain, is that the one our famous cousin Randall is having an affair with?”
“That’s not the point, Archie.” Sarah sounded irritable. “Although I must say I think affair is perhaps too strong a word.” Jemima had a feeling that Sarah Smyth, married to her constituency as she might be, still had time for her famous cousin. And who could blame her? Jemima, who had no cousins or close relations of any sort, would make do with Randall Birley for a cousin if she were able to choose one.
Archie, whether to tease or not, pursued the matter.
“I mean, he could speak to her. No, not on stage, exactly. In the interval or something. When they’re in the wings. Always lots of hanging about in Shakespeare, I remember from school. Good preparation for the House of Commons!” This time Sarah glared at her brother.
Finally, Jemima did agree to try to find out what had happened to the Diaries (and letters) from one of the Swain sisters. She did not see fit to mention that finding out where one of them was would be remarkably easy.
Political Death Page 6
