Political Death

by Antonia Fraser

  “It wasn’t deliberate, except in so far as Hattie was Randall’s pawn.” Like a few others, Jemima thought. “Randall stole them. Your beloved Randall. And put them back into Hippodrome Square so that Sarah Smyth could find them.”

  Millie ignored the reference to Sarah Smyth. She simply smiled. “Hattie—poor little fool. As if Randall would ever turn to anyone who couldn’t be of use to him. Helen Troy—all the time Helen Troy was waiting for him. And I was a poor fool too, I didn’t know that.”

  “All this, for love.” Jemima took a deep breath. “He wasn’t worth it.”

  “How would you know?”

  “I would know,” said Jemima.

  Millie gave another of her smiles, terrifying because they were mirthless. “Ah, I see. Another rat, like him, only a she-rat.”

  “I’m not particularly proud if it, if that interests you. But it enables me to tell you that he wasn’t worth it.” She went on more fiercely, “Keeping Randall Birley was not worth the casual death of Hattie Vickers. No love affair could ever be worth that. Nothing was worth that, the death of a human being.”

  Millie looked at her speculatively. “About that, you wouldn’t know.” It was a statement, not a question; once again she was almost insulting in her calmness. “I wouldn’t have thought passion was your thing. You’re detached, aren’t you?” She made it sound like a disease, like leprosy, as scornful as Archie was of a “caring” MP. “No, not sex, I don’t mean sex, I’m sure you’re terrific in bed, but actual passion for another human being.”

  Jemima saw no reason to answer the taunt. “What happens now?” was all she said.

  “What do you think? No, don’t worry, I’m not going to kill myself, jump off any balcony. And I’m not going to sit like bloody Patience on a monument, never telling my love. Not for me the life Madre lived—silence, hope, despair, and nothing. I’m going to confess to the police. That’s what I’m going to do. It should be a good scene, shouldn’t it? And the trial even better. I shall tell all. How I did it all, absolutely all, for Randall Birley.”

  Jemima considered her. “Must you? Another ruined life …”

  “How little you know about it. That sort of thing may ruin lives in politics. But in show business, just wait and see … Watch our Randall survive even this and with one bound be free, unlike Burgo Smyth. Randall will be the hero, if you like, of a crime passionel. So much more satisfactory, the theatre than politics, don’t you think?”

  Jemima Shore thought of Millie Swain’s bitter words, as she watched the election results until the early hours of the morning. She had forced Cherry to come around and share a bottle of pink champagne.

  “At least our champagne is pink even if the country is once more turning blue,” she said to Cherry. It was true. Remorselessly the map of Britain went bluish, then bluer. It was not a landslide. The margin was narrow. But it was a victory. Britain remained blue in principle. By the time H.G. was eating his proverbial hearty Scottish breakfast cooked by Miss Granville (did ever a spare man put so much food away?), Helen Macdonald had become the latest in the long list of Labour and Liberal leaders to act the gallant loser.

  As the champagne flowed, Jemima confided to Cherry something of the story, hoping that she was the one person whose gossip Cherry would honourably protect. About Randall Birley, however, she told Cherry nearly everything.

  “You really fancied him.”

  “Yes, Cherry, that’s exactly what I did do. Purely physical, I have to admit. A fantasy fulfilled. But Ned comes back in two days’ time. He’s not a fantasy. And now please pass the champagne. Damn, it’s getting low. No more pink, I’m afraid. Still, it hardly matters now. Oh God, Cherry, there goes poor old Holy Harry.”

  On the screen Jemima saw Olga at defeated Harry’s side, fighting back tears. At least there was no sign of Elfi; she must be safely in bed, sated with chocolate.

  Jemima told Cherry, “Harry Carter-Fox, a decent if pompous Tory, has just lost his seat.”

  An hour later Sarah Smyth also lost her seat on the third recount. Jemima watched her and admired the sangfroid with which Sarah, blonde hair impeccably groomed even at three o’clock in the morning, flashed her strong white teeth in a smile and waved cheerfully. “I’ll be back,” she was saying. Her huge blue rosette was exactly the right colour to complement her smart pale blue jacket. You might have thought that no scandal threatened—or would ever threaten—her family.

  The Right Honourable Burgo Smyth held his seat by one of the biggest majorities in the country. How long he would be allowed to stay there, Jemima wondered. She did not know the careful timing set out by the Prime Minister: Burgo was to resign as Foreign Secretary in a few days “for personal reasons” and give up his seat after a personal statement in the new House of Commons. In the course of time, Harry Carter-Fox, the conscience of the party, would be selected for this seat, with a little discreet pressure from above.

  The next day, around lunch-time, Archie Smyth was elected with a passable majority (although considerably down from that of his more Liberal-minded Tory predecessor). “A new member very much on the right wing of the party,” said the television commentator. There were some Nazi salutes in the Town Hall, and a scuffle when the neo-Nazis were ejected by angry Tory workers.

  Afterwards Archie Smyth telephoned his mother at the house in the country. As usual, Mrs. Dibdin, the housekeeper, answered the telephone.

  “Dibs, I want to speak to Mum. I won, I won, I’m in.”

  “I saw you on telly and told your Mum. Now she’s asleep, fast asleep in her bedroom,” said Mrs. Dibdin. But it was not true. Teresa Smyth was lying awake, not quite sober, but sober enough to be terrified. What was frightening her was the prospect of her son, he too, vanishing from her into the political world. She was as yet unaware that her husband, for better or worse, would be leaving it.

  About the same time Millie Swain went voluntarily to Bow Street police station and made a statement. On this occasion Randall Birley did not escort her as he had done when she attended the coroner’s court. He was busy with Helen Troy, giving a Press conference about the coming film of Twelfth Night. The money was promised; even before the film was made the Oscar nominations were surely halfway there. Yes, thought Jemima, Millie Swain had been right: you could indeed say that show business was more satisfactory than politics.

  Jemima understood anew the force of Millie’s cynical saying when she had a drink with Randall Birley. She asked to meet him, against her better judgment, because there was a question she had to ask, to satisfy her curiosity. Randall agreed to slip away from the morbid excitement of the Press and the unsolved question of what happens to A Hit when its leading lady is arrested for murder on her own confession. (That was certainly A Happening in its own right, as many discovered that they had discerned violence in Millie Swain “ages ago.”) Would Kath Lowestoft take over the part of Viola? Would Suella be given her big chance? Would Helen Troy deign graciously to step on to the London stage in preparation for her role in the film?

  Jemima met Randall in a small, rather dark bar near the Irving, which she liked because its background music was an eternal tinkling Vivaldi rather than something more aggressive. Despite the semi-darkness, she noticed heads—mainly female—turning at Randall’s entrance.

  Jemima asked the question which was still unanswered in her mind. Why had Randall put the Diaries back in Hippodrome Square to be conveniently and secretly destroyed by the Smyths? A plan that had gone wrong with the unexpected and grisly discovery of Franklyn Faber’s skeleton.

  “Why did you do it?”

  “To protect her.”

  “To protect Sarah Smyth?” Jemima thought you might just as well protect the railing in Hippodrome Square. Both seemed to her impregnable.

  “A plot. It seemed harmless enough at the time. Archie Smyth thought it up; he’s the sort of person who loves plots. An overgrown schoolboy. And Sarah went with it, to get rid of the scandal. For one thing there was no question of my
keeping that bag. I had to get it out of the theatre and fast. Millie was—how shall I put it?—in and out of my dressing-room. And my flat.” There was a brief, embarrassed pause.

  Randall resumed briskly, “I broke into Hippodrome Square and deposited the bag. There was an old cat-flap at the back, which I got through by breaking down the wood around it, all fairly rotted. The whole house was rotten, you know.” In more than one way, thought Jemima. But she did not interrupt him. Jemima understood at last the explanation for Joy’s and Jasmine’s presence in Number Nine. Perhaps even now they were resident there, languorously lying on Lady Imogen’s bed, the last inhabitants from the old sad regime.

  “Actually, I rather enjoyed doing it!” said Randall. He began to laugh and then stopped. “Not so funny now, with that poor little girl dead, is it? I never even read them, the Diaries—please believe me. I wasn’t that interested. Hattie tried to tell me things about Millie but I stopped her. If only Millie had accepted that! It’s an awful thing to say but I always knew Millie was, somehow, violent, unstable, beneath that disciplined exterior. That made acting with her—and other things—quite exciting. As for the Diaries, I just knew they contained things damaging to Sarah’s family. That was the point to me: Burgo Smyth and the Smyth twins, no one else. I’ve always helped Sarah. She’s always helped me. We’re allies from way back. Sarah understands me, no questions asked. In my own imperfect way, I suppose I love her.”

  Jemima gazed at Randall’s handsome face. For the first time—freed of her fantasies because they had in a sense been fulfilled—she saw weakness there, or if not weakness, vulnerability. Poor Randall Birley! He who was not Heathcliffe nor Max de Winter but simply the repository of women’s dreams of them. It was an odd thought, but Jemima could imagine the attraction of Sarah Smyth with her certainties; Sarah even had a maternal quality, probably from looking after her inadequate brother for so long.

  “Do you find that surprising?” Randall smiled. “As children we always said we’d get married.”

  “A Tory MP for a wife! Bad for your image,” said Jemima waspishly.

  Randall stared at her blankly. Jemima had the odd impression that he’d hardly taken in Sarah’s independent political career. He had helped her to help her father, but in his narrow concentration on his brilliant career (and it was brilliant, no question about that) he had not considered the importance of her politics any more than he had considered those of Millie Swain.

  It was not a very satisfactory encounter. But after it matters improved, at least for Jemima Shore. Ned actually returned on schedule, as promised.

  “Did anything sort of much happen while I was away?” asked Ned. He did not look at her. It was an odd, awkward question from the normally ebullient Ned. Who told him about Randall? thought Jemima. Someone told him something. Maybe it’s just intuition, his manly instinct. Of course, he’s used to dealing with unsatisfactory witnesses.

  She put her arms around Ned. As a result her voice was muffled as she replied, “Nothing sort of much.”

  Ned turned, and looked at her. “Anything I need to worry about?”

  “Definitely not.” Jemima did not lower her arms. “Listen, Ned, are we going to go back to our old ways and make love right now or are you going back to Singapore?”

  “Actually, both,” said Ned. He sounded more sheepish than uncertain. “I’ve been meaning to tell you. Darling, it’s true that I do have to go back, but there’s this wonderful hotel on this island and I thought, Jemima, you might come too, our long delayed holiday …?”

  “First things first,” said Jemima Shore, tightening her hold. “In other words, Love Conquers All.”

  “Omnia Vincit Amor,” murmured Ned, who prided himself on being a classical scholar.

  The telephone rang. Ned made an instinctive gesture towards it. Jemima stopped him.

  “Leave it. It’s my telephone. And it’s on answer. I know who it is. It’s Cy Fredericks.”

  Sure enough, after a moment, Cy’s mellifluous voice boomed from the machine.

  “Jem, this really is a most exciting proposition …”

  By this time neither Ned nor Jemima was listening.

  For Paul, Harold, Gawn and Doug

  NO MAN’S LAND 1992–3

  Also by Antonia Fraser

  QUIET AS A NUN

  THE WILD ISLAND

  A SPLASH OF RED

  COOL REPENTANCE

  OXFORD BLOOD

  YOUR ROYAL HOSTAGE

  THE CAVALIER CASE

  JEMIMA SHORE’S FIRST CASE

  AND OTHER STORIES

  JEMIMA SHORE AT THE SUNNY GRAVE

  AND OTHER STORIES

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  ANTONIA FRASER’s eight previous novels featuring Jemima Shore Investigator have been mystery bestsellers and the basis for two television series. In addition, Ms. Fraser is the internationally bestselling author of MARY, QUEEN OF SCOTS, CROMWELL, and THE WIVES OF HENRY VIII. Her latest work of historical nonfiction is THE GUNPOWDER PLOT. She is married to playwright Harold Pinter.