“Your investiture and the plight of the Midlands clothing business.”
“What?” John fixed a cup of tea and stirred in a drop of cream. “Turn it up.”
Mum aimed the remote and Hamish Fickle’s voice boomed into the room.
“One can’t help but wonder why the crown prince hasn’t taken his oath. Why hasn’t the queen changed the writ? It’s insane to expect a modern man to marry on demand. Is he unfit in some way? Has his wife’s death taken the gusto from him?”
Tuppence, with her long dark hair and vivid blue eyes, gasped. “I think the prince is just fine. He’s recovering. He was devastated when Princess Holland died.”
“Of course, but he’s more than an ordinary man,” Hamish said, smiling as if he were choosing a word or number on a game show. “He lives not only for himself but for us. Should, and God forbid, anything happen to the queen and our crown prince has not sworn his oath, we could face political disaster.”
“Goodness, you sound like a conspiracy theorist, Hamish.”
The man chuckled and leaned toward his host. What a fraud. “I’m saying our monarchy, our very constitution and government, exists through the crown. Should misfortune happen to our beloved sovereign”—he lifted his palm as if to prevent any dastardly scheme from the gods—“and the crown prince has not been invested as our next king, we would literally be without a government, thus ensuring panic and chaos.”
This bit of news appeared to rattle Tuppence, who flipped through her blue notecards, stammering, trying to move on. “Um, well, goodness, we, we… Clothes. Yes, we wanted to talk about the, the…the new clothing…manufacturer that has come into the Midlands. Hamish, as an MP, what do you think of our lovely boutique garment district? Will this large international company destroy our small businesses?”
“I do believe so, yes.”
“He’s a wealth of good news, isn’t he?” John said, sipping his tea, listening as Hamish pontificated about Reingard Industries.
“This new manufacturer has killed the garment industry everywhere they’ve planted a new facility. They promise high wages but soon learn the locals do not know their equipment and thus cannot produce fast enough, so they lay everyone off and bring in their own people. Meanwhile, the manufacturers have suffered with costly production and reduced demand. The question I’m asking is how did this happen? On top of the fact, our own Eloise Ltd. was set to buy the land that Reingard Industries now sits on. And for half the price, I might add. It’s rather a mystery, Tupp.”
“He does raise valid questions,” John said with no shortage of reluctance.
“I hope you get to the bottom of this soon, Hamish.” Tuppence Corbyn seemed even more disturbed than before. “My own grandmother used to have a shop on Ribbon Avenue in the Midlands. It’s gone now and so are the lovely clothes she used to make.” Then, as if flipping a switched, she gathered herself and smiled for the camera. “More with MP Hamish Fickle after this word from Port Fressa Insurance.”
John snatched up the remote and powered off the television. He felt some odd satisfaction as it, along with Hamish Fickle, disappeared into the ceiling.
“He’s elected from one of County Northton’s smallest regions. Midland Garden,” he said. “Why is he on a national talk show? Shouldn’t he be tending the needs of those who elected him?”
“He’s charming,” Mum said, moving to the cart to refresh her tea. “The shows love him. Though I find him a rather small man with a big mouth.” She sat in her chair with a glance up at John. “How are you?”
“I know you didn’t ask me here to inquire of my health.” He sat in the chair opposite his mother. The one where she met with the prime minister, opposition opponents, and international leaders.
“Why not? I’m a mother. The welfare of her son is part of the job.” She bit into a cinnamon-coated puff. “I saw LTV-1 has produced a documentary about our dear Holland and—”
“I know.” He rather hoped she’d not bring this up. He’d been avoiding requests for interviews since January.
“Really? You never said. Did you take part? I’m surprised I wasn’t asked.”
“They made many requests but I declined.” The life he’d shared with Holland, however short, was private, his personal treasure, and he’d not allow anyone to peer inside, disturb his memories.
“How’s Briley?” Mum moved on.
“Fair.” Briley, Holland’s beloved horse, had broken his leg in the accident but the bone didn’t heal well. He’d had a second surgery three months ago but still seemed hesitant to bear weight on the leg. “He’s a fighter.”
“Are you sure you’re not keeping that poor creature alive to—”
“Mum, I would never.” The question caused John to flinch. In the dark of night, he’d wondered the same thing. Was he keeping Briley alive because he was the last living thing Holland touched before she died?
“See to it you’re not.” Mum leveled a gaze at him from across the way. John never realized until now the large gap between the queen’s chair and the guest chair.
“The veterinarian and groom are doing a brilliant job of his care. If either hinted at putting him down, I’d not hesitate.” He’d not allow the ole boy to suffer. “So, what is this meeting about? Briggs left no notes. I feel unprepared.”
“Briggs didn’t tell you because I didn’t tell him. This is a personal visit not Family business.”
“Is everything all right?” John angled forward with a bit of trepidation. Mumhadseemed rather out of sorts lately. Pale. Retiring early. Her voice and countenance lacked her usual steel.
