Political Death (12 page)

Then there was Archie Smyth. It was no doubt reversely sexist to regard the man of a couple as a more likely killer than the woman. Jemima in her investigations had had experience of female as well as male murderers. Nevertheless, it was a primitive response to cast suspicion on Archie as the perpetrator of the deed (if there had been a perpetrator; if there had been a deed). Of course she had no proof that Archie had been present. Sarah's admission of her presence had come about as a result of Jemima's guesswork. The most damning aspect of the whole affair (from Sarah Smyth's point of view) was that Sarah had not reported her late-night visit to the house to anyone. But you could argue that meant genuine innocence, plus a natural wish for non-involvement in something potentially scandalous.

Non-involvement! Every politician's dream to be untouched by scandal and present an immaculate family-man (or woman) face to the electorate. The theory was that this unspotted personal reputation was essential, otherwise the electors would rise up in indignation and cast whoever it was into the outer darkness. As a result, again and again politicians marched to their doom with personal behaviour in striking contrast to their pious public sentiments. Looked at from another angle, of course, such behaviour simply proved that they were human like everyone else.

Currently, Burgo Smyth bid fair to be in that long line of politicians marching to their doom. Originally Jemima had felt sympathetic to him on the subject of the ancient sexual scandal being resurrected. Now she wondered. Old scandals were one thing, old murders were quite another: for peccadillo read crime. Her mind leaping ahead, Jemima wondered why on earth Burgo Smyth would have wanted to kill Franklyn Faber. Surely the damage considerable had been done by the trial before Faber died?

"We're there," said Sarah Smyth. "Archie, park the car discreetly, will you?"

The Foreign Secretary's residence in Carlton House Terrace was curiously impersonal, although Burgo Smyth must have occupied it for long enough. Perhaps it was the lack of a woman's touch, pondered Jemima. She gazed at the Foreign Secretary, admiring quite dispassionately the image he projected of dignity based on integrity. Presumably this image was about to be shattered.

"I didn't kill him," repeated Burgo Smyth, rubbing his naked eyes once more. "But, yes, that is Franklyn Faber. What remains of him and just at present, please don't tell me. I'll save you the bother of wondering, is it? is it not? Too late for that, or it will be shortly. Yes, it is Franklyn Faber. You have there the solution to the Faber Mystery." Smyth managed an ironic smile in the direction of Jemima Shore: "You must wish that this grisly discovery had taken place before you did your programme."

The smile faded. "I didn't kill him, but yes, I did know he was dead. That's my crime. And it was a crime, of course, concealment of a death, a body. I knew quite enough about the law to know that. Even then. And since then," the faint, ironic smile returned, "I've even had a stint, a short stint, as Home Secretary."

"Dad, I can't believe I'm hearing this!" exclaimed Sarah. She looked white with shock; her strong hands, whose large size was at variance with her general trimness, were clenched together. "You mean you knew what had happened to him, you knew all along. "Jemima, who had recently looked up Sarah's biographical details, remembered that she had studied law, and had been an aspiring barrister before she got into Parliament. Even though company law was her special interest, as Jemima recalled it, Sarah would still appreciate all too keenly the legal consequences of what her father had done.

"It was an accident, and an accident at which I wasn't present." Burgo Smyth was now speaking with his habitual authority. "This is not the moment for further details, although they will certainly come, have to come. All you need to know for the present is that it was an accident. Frank came secretly to her house the house, the house you have just left. There was an accident; he fell; he tripped, fell down that staircase to the cellar on his way to fetch some drink. She called me. I did it, she and I did it, together we hid the body. That's all you need to know."

"But Dad, for Christ's sake." Archie looked if possible even more devastated than his sister. "We've bloody well got to know a lot more than that. For example, who else knew about this? Were there witnesses? We need to help you, protect you, cover this up' His voice died away.

"I don't think so, Boy," said Burgo gently. "I made a terrible decision thirty years ago. I've got to pay for it now. I think you'll find that's the case."

Nobody looked at Jemima Shore. There was no need. Jemima knew that Sarah Smyth, for all her maddening values (just because of these maddening values) was not the kind of character to cover up anything like this, even to protect her beloved father. About Archie, there could be more doubt, fairly or unfairly, but then it was not up to Archie Smyth.

"So you did it, that terrible thing, which is going to ruin you, to protect her? asked Sarah fiercely. Her eyes glistened as though she was about to shed tears of anger or frustration.

"Oh Sarah, I did it to protect us all, even you and Archie, certainly Mum and of course myself. Think of the scandal. Dead man, centre of a controversial case, found in my mistress's house. My precious political career. Worth saving or not? History will judge. In the meantime you can judge. I had such belief in myself, my destiny, in those days. Saviour of the country and all that. I saved myself, if you like, in order to save the country. How long ago it all seems!"

Burgo Smyth had not offered any of them a drink. Perhaps he thought it was too late or too early. She knew he did not drink spirits doctor's orders and his favourite champagne would have been inappropriate. A cup of coffee might have been nice. She thought Burgo Smyth himself could do with some stimulant.

Saviour of the country! He hadn't exactly been that, supposing that such a person could exist in these modern, allegedly peaceful times. He had been a thoroughly decent and responsible Foreign Secretary, and a shortlived Home Secretary, too liberal for most members of his party. Could you balance that against the deliberate concealment of a dead man, the hoodwinking of his country's justice? Of course, in human terms, you could say that the issue turned on the grief experienced by Franklyn Faber's family or friends. There had been no wife, that was certain, but what if there had been a girl friend or, as seemed more probable, a boy friend, what about his or her feelings? Suspense could be even more damaging than certainty.

"It was madness," said Burgo Smyth. He spoke as if considering some knotty point of international diplomacy. "Of course I regret it passionately now. In fact I regretted it quite soon. But we'll talk about it, you Sarah and Archie and I, another time. Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow, I've no doubt."

He pointed at the Sunday newspapers. "They're on my trail of course. You knew that. She took to ringing up the papers, names she remembered I suppose. Let's face it, it's never all that difficult to get through to the Press. She even paid a call on the McGees. But of course the Press don't know about this what shall we call it this twist."

Archie turned to Jemima. He found relief in belligerence. "You're one of them. So what are you going to say about all this?"

"I'm going to make my statement to the police, not the Press," replied Jemima sharply, 'and please remember that I came to Hippodrome Square at your express invitation."

"Cut it out, Archie." Sarah turned back to her father. "What happened after that? I must know. Did you go on seeing her? All the time, all our childhood, when poor Mum was so dreadfully unhappy? All the time you were making love to this woman, this murderess well, maybe she was a murderess, you say you weren't there, Dad, not in the house at the time..."

"She wasn't a murderess. And no, I never saw her again," he replied sombrely. "Not after that night. It was part of the bargain, you see. We could never meet again. Too dangerous for us both. There had never been any connection between them: Imogen and Frank. No public connection at least. We had to take advantage of that."

"So you left her to it?" In spite of herself and her genuine desire to be neutral, Jemima knew there was criticism in her voice.

If you want to put it like that, yes. For both our sakes, we never met again, never in private. And we avoided the sort of occasions where we might have met in public. But sometimes, of course, I did catch a glimpse of her at parties, big parties given by your relations," he gestured towards his children 'on the rare occasions Mum wanted to come up from the country. At first it was agony to see her. Then I steeled myself. I was busy. Threw myself into my career, as they say. No more affairs, ever. All that was over. If I neglected Mum, it was for politics, nothing else. The pain dulled. It went away."

"Did it go away for her?"

Burgo Smyth looked at Jemima. He put on the spectacles which he had been turning in his hands and contemplated her as if she had been some random questioner at a foreign affairs conference. He was wearing his celebrated paternal expression. "Probably not. Women are different, aren't they? More romantic. More steadfast. Don't you agree?" It was almost as though Burgo Smyth was about to give vent to that traditional smooth answer of the politician, "I'm so glad you asked me that question."

Jemima wanted to say, They used to be. When they had nothing else to think about. Have you ever considered that? Your wife was driven to drink, first by your infidelity, then by your coldness and separateness; and still I understand she loved you. Lady Imogen had a broken heart at the end of your affair and so did you. But she also had a broken life. And you didn't." In short, it was back to Byron and love which for a man was a thing apart, and woman's whole existence. Things were different for Jemima Shore. Ned Silver, watch out... But these were the small hours of the night. This was no moment for Burgo Smyth to be instructed in the different emotional responses of the liberated career woman. Instead, Jemima asked this she could not help, this was the ineradicable interviewer in her "How did you feel when the calls started coming? From Lady Imogen. All those years later. You had once been in love." It was impertinent. It was irresistible.

Burgo Smyth stared at her from behind his reinstalled de fences his spectacles. What he said surprised her. It was a quotation she herself knew well.

'"But that was in another country," said the Foreign Secretary, '"And besides, the wench is dead." Those lines have always haunted me. That's what I felt when Imogen started all the crazy calls. The woman I had loved was dead long ago. Webster, I fancy."

It was in fact Marlowe. Was it only just over twenty-four hours since she had been happily quoting those lines to Randall Birley at Gino's? She knew it was time to go away and leave the stricken Smyth family to work out their plan of action... Ye Gods! the election! The full enormity of what was going to happen to Burgo Smyth struck Jemima as she walked away from the Foreign Secretary's residence, down the empty Mall. It was also, presumably, going to happen to the Tory party. Could something like this, revealed about the nation's favourite father figure, persuade the dithering electorate to make a definite choice, in the opposite direction? Jemima passed a police car. Its two occupants looked at her with impersonal attention. In spite of that, she felt she must continue to have some fresh air. Another police car went past her at a slow pace. There were one or two lights on on a high floor of Buckingham Palace. This was one scandal-at-the-top which would leave its inhabitants unscathed.

Jemima felt utterly chilled by what had happened, but she was well into Knightsbridge before she hailed a taxi to take her to Holland Park Mansions. She had time to ponder on the coincidence of the Foreign Secretary quoting Marlowe. She also had time to reflect that the wench in question Lady Imogen was well and truly dead now, not just in the romantic imagination of Burgo Smyth. The Faber Mystery was at least partially solved; the Swain Mystery had deepened. What a strong motive Burgo Smyth would have had for killing Imogen Swain! Jemima knew him to be a ruthless man, not so much because all politicians were ruthless (her general conviction) , but because he had already carried out one colossal deception, and lied and lied and lied, and shown a bland uncaring face to the public. Had he carried out a second and even more daring crime to rid himself of this unhappy incubus from his past? Jemima shivered.

When she opened the door of Holland Park Mansions, Midnight was crouching on the carpet in front of her, imitating a sphinx. And the telephone was ringing. Jemima looked at her watch. At this hour even Cy Fredericks would not dare, unless he was in Los Angeles, eight hours behind, in which case he would dare all right with that indifference to other people's sleep (and time zones) that was, in Jemima's opinion, one of his least lovable characteristics. But Cy Fredericks was not in Los Angeles. He was in London, getting ready to play a prominent part in the annual David Garrick Awards ceremony on Sunday night.

Which is actually tonight, thought Jemima.

It could only be Ned. She picked up the telephone just as the answering machine got there too. That meant that all Ned's sweet nothings would now be recorded. She decided not to point that out to him. She would have a passionate cassette to add to her collection of passionate faxes.

But it was not Ned.

"Jemima, thank God you're there!" said a man's voice. "I thought it would be the dread machine."

Jemima wanted to say, "Actually it's both of us," but she had no chance.

The voice swept on, "I feel so awful about tonight, awful for me that I missed your company." It was only at this point that Jemima recognised the voice of Randall Birley, since he had never bothered to announce his identity. "I couldn't explain properly because it's all a little delicate about this film. And I just had to meet the great Helen, and I couldn't say so with people around."

"Helen Macdonald?" Jemima had not figured Randall Birley as at all political, unlike Millie Swain, but perhaps he had been persuaded by Millie to do a commercial for the Labour-Liberal coalition. (In which case what about his devoted cousin Sarah Smyth?)