Free Your Royal Hostage by Antonia Fraser

a lot of it about at the moment,' said Ione diplomatically. 'Animal Rights is flavour of the month where demos are concerned. Hence the questions. The Cumberland Palace incident didn't help, and I suppose there might just be further demonstrations before the wedding. Coming to which, Ma'am, there is just one thing I ought to tell you -'
    As Princess Amy fished for her white sandal with one toe (the spaniel Happy - or was it Boobie? - thought it was a game), Ione Quentin broke the news of the death of Jean-Pierre Schwarz-Albert. Like the rest of the public, Princess Amy did not find the death - having never known of the life - of a French journalist profoundly interesting.
    'How sad,' she remarked rather absently, at the end of her lady-in-waiting's recitation. 'Does one have to do anything about it? Write to anyone? I mean, was he fearfully brave or anything? Do we watch him on telly all the time?'
    'Oh no, Ma'am, he was French,' replied Ione , in a tone that made it clear that the answer to all these questions was in the negative. Amy kicked her shoes aside again. She yawned. She was still yawning and contemplating the short unpainted nails on her small hand, weighed down by its huge aquamarine ring set in diamonds (true Amy blue) when Ione spoke again.
    'Yes, Ione ? Oh God, why won't my boring nails grow. Look at yours - positive talons. It's not fair - sorry, yes?' 'Just one more thing, Ma'am.'
    Amy groaned. 'More unpleasantness. I know it. You always say "Just one more thing" when it's unpleasant. This is the second "one more thing" in five minutes.'
    'The French journalist had a number of Animal Rights stickers in his pocket,' continued Ione rather coldly; then her eyes fell on her own nails, not particularly long, but neatly painted a delicate pink; her expression lightened. Princess Amy on the other hand gave a little pout.
    'How drear! Actually at our Press Conference? Very drear. How on earth did he get in? I hope he doesn't do it again.'
    'He's dead, Ma'am,' said Ione patiently.
    'Well I jolly well hope there aren't any more like him, frightening Animal Rights people, I mean, among the journalists. They're bad enough as they are, them and their questions.' Princess Amy's pout deepened and for an instant she bore a strong resemblance to the late Duke of Cumberland when some household arrangement had gone awry. 'Now Ione , let's forget about the drear journalists. I'm not marrying them. What did Ferdel say exactly ...?'
    A few miles away Princess Amy's royal disregard for the subject of dead French journalists was not shared by Detective Superintendent Portsmouth (although he might have been more sympathetic to her views on the Press generally).
    'Dead!' cried Detective Superintendent Portsmouth, and then, after pausing as though searching for the mot juste, added impressively: 'As a doornail.'
    'To coin a phrase,' remarked Detective Sergeant Vaillant smartly, and gave another of those sage nods which had caused Pompey of the Yard to mark him down as a bright lad.
    Young Vaillant had however misjudged his moment. Pompey was in an irritable mood, suffering from what he mentally termed royal sciatica since his first bad attack had been at the time of the wedding of the Prince of Wales. On that occasion Mrs Portsmouth had caused him to plant out rows of loyal red and white begonias, interspersed with blue lobelias, in their garden before the season or, for that matter, Pompey was ready. Prince Andrew's wedding had called for backbreaking work with tri-coloured geraniums, more sciatica. Currently Mrs Portsmouth was massing petunias, crimson streaked with white, by the back door for the attack and wishing out loud that nature had created something properly red, white and blue.
    Nothing, as Vaillant well knew, put his superior in a worse mood than being the brawn for Mrs Portsmouth's brains where gardening was concerned; indeed, had he noticed the tiny trace of earth under Pompey's normally immaculate fingernails, he would