on her approach to officials and customs brokers there. Lady Bostock had not found the necklace inher luggage when she arrived three days ago from London Gatwick on a Virgin Atlantic flight. It had gone into an inner flap of her case and she had only noticed it today. There was no connection between the discovery of the jewels and her husbandâs decision to end their holiday so abruptly and fly home today. An illness in the family was the cause. She and Sir Martyn would show their gratitude in every way they could if the contents of the brown paper bag could be handed in to Customs and they could leave on tonightâs scheduled flight â¦
And so, as the Bostocks climbed out of the black car (which had been driven at exactly the same speed as any other journey to the airport) â and after Sir Martyn had paid the agreed hundred dollars, they pushed their way in through the crowd awaiting check-in at the airport, to find they must wait their turn before a suitable official could be entrusted with the emeralds.
As they stood in line, paper bag clutched to Lady Bostockâs bosom, a small boat with a half-conked-out engine came ear-splittingly into Vieux Fort harbour and tied up at the wharf.
A slight, small woman wearing a lavender tweed skirt, flip-flops, a T-shirt with a picture of Gros Piton across the front and âLove from St Luciaâ printed below, stepped out of the boat on to the quay.
A battered-looking jeep drew up and the oddly-attiredladyâs escort, a man in his thirties, waved to the driver; then, without needing to give details of their destination, the couple were driven to Hewanorra Airport.
Arrival of the Incoming Flight
The Queen may have suffered criticism â of her role as a mother, of her voice and of the extent of her fortune â but no one could say of her that she lacked pragmatism and an ability to adapt to new circumstances as they presented themselves to her.
It had been obvious, especially after the agonising discomfort of a second night at the back of the Rum Shop, that the plan to live in a modest villa by the edge of the sea in a Commonwealth country had got off to a bad start. Her house was a hole in the ground; she had been robbed and left destitute; and hearing French spoken on the beach had reminded her of her dread of the new President of France, with his own form of pragmatism, this including, in his role as President also of the EU, the introduction of new laws unfriendly to the monarchy. It would be a relief to return to the country where, despite her German ancestry, the Queen was seenas the epitome of Englishness. Once home she could shore up the weakening realm, and rally the people who believed her to be a fixture that would last forever. She would be in Britain in time for the Opening of Parliament â and, for the first time since leaving the country, she thought of the Duke, walking beside her through the Lords assembled in their scarlet and gold robes. The Dukeâs finger, as so often on state occasions, would lie lightly on his sovereignâs white-gloved hand. The thought was oddly comforting.
The Rastaâs rickety boat with its ear-splitting engine had charged along the southern coastline of St Lucia for two hours before the conurbation that was Vieux Fort, its harbour and wharf, came into view. Austin Ford, who sat in the prow and gazed sulkily out to sea, was as deep in thought as his soon-to-be erstwhile client, Mrs Gloria Smith. It had been annoying that his employer Mr King, who Austin imagined would offer tea to the English lady and her escort, had said the meeting could not take place: Austin had set himself the task of finding the stolen Cambridge emeralds and had worked out how much he would ask Mr King to pay (in US dollars). His determination had been to demand a payment in advance from the King, who was the perfect buyer, obsessed with emeralds and, as far as Austin was concerned, a man of fabulous wealth. The payment
And so, as the Bostocks climbed out of the black car (which had been driven at exactly the same speed as any other journey to the airport) â and after Sir Martyn had paid the agreed hundred dollars, they pushed their way in through the crowd awaiting check-in at the airport, to find they must wait their turn before a suitable official could be entrusted with the emeralds.
As they stood in line, paper bag clutched to Lady Bostockâs bosom, a small boat with a half-conked-out engine came ear-splittingly into Vieux Fort harbour and tied up at the wharf.
A slight, small woman wearing a lavender tweed skirt, flip-flops, a T-shirt with a picture of Gros Piton across the front and âLove from St Luciaâ printed below, stepped out of the boat on to the quay.
A battered-looking jeep drew up and the oddly-attiredladyâs escort, a man in his thirties, waved to the driver; then, without needing to give details of their destination, the couple were driven to Hewanorra Airport.
Arrival of the Incoming Flight
The Queen may have suffered criticism â of her role as a mother, of her voice and of the extent of her fortune â but no one could say of her that she lacked pragmatism and an ability to adapt to new circumstances as they presented themselves to her.
It had been obvious, especially after the agonising discomfort of a second night at the back of the Rum Shop, that the plan to live in a modest villa by the edge of the sea in a Commonwealth country had got off to a bad start. Her house was a hole in the ground; she had been robbed and left destitute; and hearing French spoken on the beach had reminded her of her dread of the new President of France, with his own form of pragmatism, this including, in his role as President also of the EU, the introduction of new laws unfriendly to the monarchy. It would be a relief to return to the country where, despite her German ancestry, the Queen was seenas the epitome of Englishness. Once home she could shore up the weakening realm, and rally the people who believed her to be a fixture that would last forever. She would be in Britain in time for the Opening of Parliament â and, for the first time since leaving the country, she thought of the Duke, walking beside her through the Lords assembled in their scarlet and gold robes. The Dukeâs finger, as so often on state occasions, would lie lightly on his sovereignâs white-gloved hand. The thought was oddly comforting.
The Rastaâs rickety boat with its ear-splitting engine had charged along the southern coastline of St Lucia for two hours before the conurbation that was Vieux Fort, its harbour and wharf, came into view. Austin Ford, who sat in the prow and gazed sulkily out to sea, was as deep in thought as his soon-to-be erstwhile client, Mrs Gloria Smith. It had been annoying that his employer Mr King, who Austin imagined would offer tea to the English lady and her escort, had said the meeting could not take place: Austin had set himself the task of finding the stolen Cambridge emeralds and had worked out how much he would ask Mr King to pay (in US dollars). His determination had been to demand a payment in advance from the King, who was the perfect buyer, obsessed with emeralds and, as far as Austin was concerned, a man of fabulous wealth. The payment
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