Your Royal Hostage (21 page)

'The idea is: it's pledged, it will be done.'

'And you're talking about the
government'
he snorted. 'Government pledges! Where have these people been living? Who on earth believes
government
pledges? Now I know they're seriously crazy.'

The patience in the voice of the very senior policeman was by now almost saint-like: 'No, not the government. The Monarch. Not likely to break the royal word, given in public. That's the idea. In the meantime, shouldn't you be seeing about those snipers, there's a good chap. I must get back to the Home Secretary. Now why didn't they think of grabbing him?' The very senior policeman sounded quite wistful.

As a matter of fact, when J
emima Shore succeeded in getting through to the right quarters - 'I have, or think I have, some information about a certain missing person' — the Home Secretary proved to be her chief problem too. That achievement of the right quarters was itself only performed with the help of Pompey -desperately sought and found at home on garden duty. It was illogical, Jemima realized, to be disappointed that the whereabouts of the 'missing person' were already known; even if those whereabouts had not been known for very long. In another way she found she was relieved that
Ione
Quentin's story was not a total fantasy produced by an overworked brain: and that too was illogical.

'Acting on information received,' was the only eludication she received. 'I am afraid we are not authorized to tell you any more at the present time.' Information received: who? Clearly not
Ione
Quentin. But who? A traitor in the ranks — the ranks of Innoright?

It was when Jemima pressed the claims of
Ione
Quentin, accompanied by herself, as an intermediary, that she found the image of the Home Secretary conjured up against her, an image which was defeated by the unexpected aid of a psychiatrist. This expert on sieges suggested that the calming presence of
Ione
, as the Princess' lady-in-waiting, was in itself desirable. Cumberland Palace, in a situation where everything seemed wrong, could see nothing particularly wrong with that.
It even gave Major Smylie-Porte
r a vague feeling of relief that
Ione
should be involved. The family were beyond thinking of matters in those terms. As the Duchess of Cumberland kept to her darkened room, Amy's sisters, the vivacious Princess Sophie and the melancholy Princess Harriet, inhabited the Vienna Drawing-Room with their amiably undistinguished husbands - Scots and French respectively. Were any of them safe? In their distracted state, the sisters took refuge, as it were, in fears for their own children. The Vienna Drawing-Room was made into a kind of redoubt, at least in their imagination.

Thus the great ballroom picture, in its ornate golden frame, which had only recently formed the background to Amy and Ferdel's interview, now looked down upon the golden heads of Amy's little nephews and nieces: Jamie and Jack and Alexander, Isabelle and Chantal and Beatrice. All six of them owed their presence in London to their appointment as pages and bridesmaids at the Royal Wedding.

The Princesses had not the heart to interrupt the excited games of the children as they raced in and out of the famous silk and gilded 'Vienna' furniture. Ferdel, smoking heavily - a habit which came as a surprise to his future sisters-in-law - hardly appeared to notice them, even when baby Beatrice, the smallest and blondest, clasped him round his dark-blue trouser leg.

'I love you,' she cried, gazing up at him. Ferdel smiled rather vaguely in her direction as though she was some importunate dog - or rather puppy.

Little Jamie, sensing the abstraction of the grown-ups and seeking to turn it to his advantage, asked loudly: 'Mum, why can't I wear my kilt at the wedding instead of that silly page's suit? It makes me look like a girl. I want to wear my kilt,' he concluded in an even more stentorian voice.

'I think that is a skirt -' piped French Isabelle in her know-all way till she was shushed by Prin
cess Harriet. But when Princess
Sophie, normally a stern mother, responded by bursting into sobs, even Jamie was abashed. Putting his finger in his mouth,
a
gesture he was thought to have abandoned, he ran over to his father who was sitting in the window (wondering in point of fact whether it would be bad taste to ask for
a
dram of whisky so early).

'Come on, old chap,' said his father gently, disturbed from his reverie. He drew Jamie on to his lap. 'Let's be specially nice today, shall we? Mum's having -' He paused.'- a specially difficult time,' he ended rather lamely.

All in all, the attendance of Jemima Shore upon
Ione
Quentin, at the latter's suggestion, passed almost unnoticed in the devastated community of Cumberland Palace. It was in this way that Jemima found herself travelling in a police car, beside
Ione
, through the bedecked streets of London - bedecked in a way that seemed particularly bizarre to Jemima, since the decorations were all for a wedding that seemed at the moment peculiarly unlikely to take place.

There were displays in the shop windows: brides in numerous guestimates of Princess Amy's wedding dress, ranging from the super-frilly to the super-sleek. Prince Ferdinand for the most part had to make do with Ruritanian-type uniforms: since no one was quite clear just what he could wear at the ceremony. The
cognoscenti
knew that a European Catholic wedding involved a white tie and tails; but a sombre baffled statement from Cumberland Palace had not made it quite clear whether this would be the case at Westminster Cathedral. Maybe, as more than one shop-window dresser decided, one could let the imagination roam? As a result, Jemima was whirled past various wax dummies of Prince Ferdinand, bending over the hand of his fiancee, and wearing a variety of white, green and even pale-blue uniforms, which would not have disgraced the male lead of an operetta.

'We're still in a kidnap situation,' said the policeman who appeared to be in charge to Jemima; he spoke, in a seemingly offhand manner, from his position in the back seat between the two women.
Ione
Quentin's outward demeanour was impassive but Jemima noticed she had twisted a small white handkerchief so tightly round her wrist that it had the look of a tourniquet.

'A kidnap situation?' It was Jemima who asked the question;
Ione
did not — or could not — speak.

'A kidnap situation, not a siege. That is to say, we know where she is, but they don't know we know. We'd like to avoid a siege, if possible. Just get
her
out quietly' - a pause and then some emphasis - 'All the same, we have marksmen in place.' Another pause, 'Naturally.'

'Naturally,' echoed Jemima.
Ione
still said nothing. Then she murmured something desperate, and Jemima, turning, saw that there were tears in her eyes. Jemima realized that what
Ione
had actually said was: 'Marksmen.' She added more distinctly: 'She may be killed.'

The policeman gave her a slightly cold glance. 'Miss Quentin, it is our sincere aim that no one should be killed. Not even the killer.'

'The killer?' repeated Jemima.

'Detective-Sergeant Fitzgerald, who was shot in the Royal Box whilst attempting to prevent the abduction, died in hospital shortly before you telephoned. The person or persons we have reason to believe are holding HRH ...,' still that pause, then:'... are wanted on a charge of murder.'

After that there was silence in the car and even when they arrived at the edge of the Covent Garden backwater, where operations were being directed from a hidden police command post, Jemima said very little.

Ione
Quentin, twisting the tight white tourniquet, said nothing at all.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

End of a Fairy Tale

Princess Amy woke up first. It took only an instant for the horror to return: an instant in which she realized that the curious dark object next to her, lying on the pillow beside her, was a masked head. For a moment she thought - some battered but beloved toy of her childhood; then reality, terrible reality, flooded in.

'I must not cry.' Sayings of the past came back. That governess, the cruel one: 'Tears don't help.' Her father, overheard saying gruffly to her mother: 'Now Henriette, here's my handkerchief, you know I can't bear to see a woman cry.' (What long-forgotten peccadillo had he committed to make her mother cry?) She braced he
rself. One of her wrists was tie
d to Beagle's and the other to the bed, but her ankles were not tied. She gave a tentative wriggle.

Beagle was awake immediately at that; her movement must have disturbed him. He had not in fact intended to fall asleep at all, not only for reasons of security (although Lamb was guarding the house downstairs) but also to have time to reflect, to savour ...

'I want to see your face,' said Princess Amy. She spoke softly but urgently as she struggled in vain to sit up until Beagle cooperated by sitting up with her. Then she had to lean awkwardly against the wall until he bent to release her other hand.

'No, not to identify you,' she went on. 'You know why. I want to
see
you.' She had the impression it had been removed at some point in the long night - but then darkness had surrounded her, had surrounded them both.

There was a long pause while the other figure on the bed, still disfigured, appeared to consider her proposition. Then Beagle took off his mask. In the eerie morning light filtering through the heavy shutters, Princess Amy stared at him. Then she put up her newly freed hand and touched his cheek. It was in no way a tender gesture, more an enquiry or a gesture of exploration.

'Recognize me?' he asked. There was something almost pleading about Beagle's question. 'Amy,' he added. The Princess dropped her hand.

'How should I recognize you?' she asked coldly.

'We've met before. We played together. You once gave me a toy dog for Christmas, black and white spotted. Somewhere I've still got it.'

Amy's expression showed quite clearly that she feared, apart from everything else, she now had to cope with madness.

'Oh don't worry, Your Royal Highness.' This time Beagle spoke with something of his old familiar and sardonic tone. 'I don't expect you to remember. You must have played with so many people. And given away cart-loads of spotted toy dogs. I'll end the dreadful suspense. I'm Josh Taplow these days, Jossie when you used to know me. Jossie Taplow the chauffeur's son. That's right, Taplow who used to work for you and now works for His Highness Prince Ferd
inand, your oh-so-noble fiancé.’

'I
do
remember,' said Amy slightly incredulously. 'Jossie Taplow.
Ione
said something the other day. Didn't you have long hair? And you were dressed -' She stopped.

'Like a girl. But of course I'm not a girl. Explains a lot, no doubt. And I expect that toy dog explains a lot too, an early love of animals, even when stuffed.' Beagle laughed. It was not a pleasant sound.

'So your
father's
involved —*

'Oh, don't blame him, Your Royal Highness. He's been blamed enough already. Principally by my mother. She
is
involved in a way: not that she knew everything. But she's always backed me up - unlike my father who at one point chose to term me the rotten apple. Charming! As a result I haven't spoken to him for years.'

Princess Amy said nothing.

Beagle went on almost eagerly: 'This place is actually in my mother's name, you know, so as to keep it
really
quiet. No links to me. And it is
really
quiet, isn't it, Your Royal Highness? As I was saying, I'm sure the shrinks will blame my mother for everything, including setting up this flat, if they ever get hold of me.'

Since the Princess was still silent, Beagle turned her face towards him. 'So what do you think of all that?' he asked.

‘I
think - I'm sorry for you,' said Princess Amy slowly. It was not true. She was not in the slightest bit sorry for Beagle; all her energies in that direction were occupied in trying not to feel sorry for herself. But it occurred to her, if only she could keep calm and think
straight,
that there must be some kind of advantage to her in this weird conversation. Jossie Taplow! Princess Amy did not even remember him as clearly as she had pretended; that had been mere instinct, keep the man talking, don't give up, don't despair. But a recent casual remark by her lady-in-waiting about dressing little boys as girls had stuck in her mind because
Ione
had connected it to her nephew Jamie's repeated complaints about the girlish nature of his page's suit.

'Boys as girls! It's all wrong.' All wrong indeed.

'Yes, I'm sorry for you,' she repeated more strongly.