Political Death (23 page)

"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.

Antonia Fraser
has written seven previous Jemima Shore mysteries and two books of short stories featuring Jemima Shore. She is the author of three major, internationally acclaimed historical biographies: Mary Queen of Scots; Cromwell: Our Chief of Men and King Charles II and of three highly praised books on women in history: The Weaker Vessel: A Woman's Lot in Seventeenth-Century England; The Warrior Queens: Boadicea's Chariot and her most recent bestseller The Six Wives of Henry VIII. She is married to Harold Pinter and lives in London.