Political Death Read Online Free

it, although Jemima had no doubt it was the courage of the fantasist.
    "You see," said Lady Imogen solemnly, 'he was the great love of my life."
    In the present political climate, how could Lady Imogen really hope to rake up a thirty-year-old affair with the Foreign Secretary which is what she seemed to be intent on doing and emerge without great humiliation on her part? The election was a mere two and a half weeks away. On second thoughts, even the tabloids might hesitate to run this one, given that Lady Imogen was certainly no bimbo offering enticing photo-opportunities.
    It was now quite dark and outside the lights of the square beckoned. She must get out of this depressing drawing-room, this house with its creaks and its rattling windows, make an excuse and leave... Imogen Swain interrupted this line of thought. She had by now manifestly drunk a great deal: whisky by the look of it, and not much water.
    "No wonder they want to kill me," she said, with a slight giggle. "Because what I want to give you is the real story of the Faber Mystery."
    The Faber Mystery?" repeated Jemima. "But I made a programme' She thought, "And Burgo Smyth turned down my request for an interview. Some pompous secretary replied, "Mr. Smyth has for many years made it his practice to decline all interviews on this subject."
    "Exactly!" Lady Imogen was childishly delighted, adding to the general impression of unreality. "And you got it all wrong. Everyone has always got it wrong. They were meant to get it wrong. But little me knows the truth, always did. And now I'm going to tell everyone all about it on your programme. Then of course they won't kill me, because there won't be any point."
    She hesitated, fluttered her eyelashes, and gave a smile which just lifted the corners of her curly lips ticked mouth; in spite of the garish lipstick the smile made Jemima realise what men must have seen in Imogen Swain. The connection with the old faded photographs of the society beauty was visible. "Burgo won't like it, my Burgo, will he? That pompous face! But when he comes round, I'll do just what he likes." What followed was quite a vivid description, slightly palliated by the soft voice in which it was delivered. Jemima felt deeply embarrassed.
    "When did you last see Burgo Smyth?" she asked hastily. She might as well get that straight. If Lady Imogen was capable of telling the truth.
    "Oh, Burgo, he came round last night." Imogen Swain stroked the big cat Joy? Jasmine? complacently. Teresa's in the country. With the children." She made a little moue; like the cat, she was purring. Then Imogen Swain's expression changed. All the incongruous flirtatious ness had gone.
    "No, no, that's not true, is it? Of course he didn't come round last night. He never comes here now. Someone came round. But it wasn't him. Someone's going to come round tonight. But it won't be him. I've got to live in the real world, that's what my daughter Olga says." She made it all sound very bleak. "Do you know my daughter Olga? Sometimes she's so cruel to me." The cat gave a plaintive mew as if in sympathy. "That's all a long time ago, isn't it? Teresa won, didn't she? She's got him for ever now, hasn't she? Poor mousy Tee. Clever, clever Tee."
    "Lady Imogen, when did you last see Burgo Smyth?" Jemima Shore, the practised interviewer, used her gentlest tone. Instead of answering, Lady Imogen fished underneath her dilapidated chair and took out a plastic bag.
    "These are my Memories, my True Confessions," she said, "And I'm going to give them to you. My Diaries, his letters. All very secret. And then you'll know just what to ask me about on television." She flung the plastic bag rather clumsily in Jemima's direction, and some of the contents spilled. Jemima saw a couple of smallish navy blue leather books with gilt edges to the pages. The one at her feet was stamped in gold with the initials IMS. A letter fluttered out. The House of Commons crest set in an oval at the top was unmistakable,