Patrick Jephson - Shadows of a Princess

Instead, they can reflect on the sight of her sons and daughter-in-law continuing her work of inclusion for those with minds in need of healing, or who for other reasons find themselves exiled from society. Perhaps now her detractors will recognize that the princess’s achievements deserve to be remembered happily and often; that they cast a welcome light on her children’s determination, like her, to find new ways to put their royal status to good use for good causes that might otherwise be overlooked.

Remembering Diana gladly is more than just legitimate and timely: it’s also required therapy for the future health of the monarchy, as the focus of national unity and symbol of the best British values. It’s not just about the need to learn from the past to avoid future mistakes, though that neglected skill should be second nature to royal advisers. It’s a principle even more fundamental to the long-term purpose and viability of the ancient royal experiment. It can be summed up in one word – a word traditionally synonymous with the British Crown, exemplified by Elizabeth II’s lifetime of service.

The word is decency.

Yet in some corners of the royal establishment, two decades of spin doctors and a naive fondness for the slippery arts of news management have put the word and the idea at risk. With his coronation plans already the subject of unfriendly speculation, especially on the divisive issue of Queen Camilla, Elizabeth’s successor faces an acceptability hurdle that some courtiers may be slow to recognize. A little perspective from recent history might guide them.

Diana alive was a decency test for the Windsors, which some of them failed; this book gives one close-up view of that failure, especially my part in it. But that failure need not lead to another: a Diana who lives on in the hearts of her admirers worldwide is a test tomorrow’s monarchy can yet pass. Success, as her sons have shown, only needs royal people to rediscover the authentic, uncontrived decency that hallmarked the monarchy’s finest hours in the twentieth century, and which is still its best hope for what may be even more testing times in the twenty-first and beyond.

Leaving aside such lofty thoughts, back in 1987 when this story starts there was no doubt in my mind that Charles and Diana were the best thing to happen to the monarchy in my lifetime. The perfect royal superstar double act. And so they were. Try to keep that image in mind as you read what follows, and draw your own conclusions about what might have been …

Patrick Jephson

PREFACE

For more than seven years, from 1988 to 1996, I shadowed the Princess of Wales. As her private secretary – her closest adviser – I was with her throughout the events leading up to her separation from Prince Charles. I helped her carve out a new life as an independent Princess on the world stage. I watched her struggle with enemies from outside as well as others, more murky, that threatened her from within.

As the darkness finally gathered around her, our paths parted. By then she was standing in her own light, obscuring the way ahead for herself and for many who would have acknowledged her as a global force for good.

Since her death in 1997 I have come to question the credentials of some of the self-appointed guardians of her thoughts, motives and values. It seemed to me that history was recording an image which bore little resemblance to the Princess I knew better than most.

It is common sense, not treason, to believe that the truth will do her no harm now. Neglecting the truth will profit only those who seek to gain, personally, financially or constitutionally, from letting the weeds of misrepresentation slowly overgrow her memory.

Of the many others who shared those years with me, I ask forbearance where their recollections differ from mine. Of the many more who did not, I ask nothing but an open mind. What follows, so far as it lies in my power, is the truth.

Patrick Jephson

PART ONE

IN

ONE

OVER THE TOP

The Princess of Wales was watching the man with unusual intensity. She leaned forward in her chair, anxious not to miss any of the action she had just been promised. Her eyes widened with anticipation.

The man obviously did not know he was being watched, but he was ill at ease, definitely shifty. He seemed to be waiting for someone, and was losing patience. He took a few paces to the left, then a few to the right. He scratched his tangled, dirty hair and looked anxiously up and down the street. I did not like the look of him.

Then a second man appeared, dodging between a couple of pedestrians. If anything, the newcomer was even more nervous. He looked jumpy and his arms made strange twitching movements as he spoke rapidly into the other man’s ear. They seemed to be making some kind of deal because I saw money changing hands, but I could not hear what they said. Suddenly they were walking off together, slipping into a deserted alleyway next to the station. Still they did not know they were being watched.

What happened next made the Princess shriek with a kind of thrilled horror. As we watched, with a final furtive look around, the first man loosened his jeans and crouched forward. There was a look of fixed concentration on his face. For five seconds he did not move. I had just realized he was defecating when his hand disappeared down the seat of his pants and emerged a few seconds later clutching a small package. Quickly he passed it to the other man, clearly his customer. Then, without a backward glance, the pusher adjusted his belt and returned to his position on the street.

The police officer stretched across the Princess and switched off the video with a click. Her hands were still clutched theatrically to her face, the shock of what she had seen still obvious in her eyes as she peeped from between her fingers. She caught my glance and giggled. Obscenity usually made her giggle.

‘Ugh! Talk about a video nasty. I hope you arrested him.’

‘Oh, he’s an old friend, Ma’am. And so are most of his customers. We keep them under surveillance with these TV cameras. Then we move in when we’ve got the evidence we need.’

The inspector stood up and reached for his leather jacket. There was a whiff of aftershave. He looked every inch TV’s idea of an undercover cop. I had noticed the Princess register his star quality as we arrived at his office half an hour earlier. That was good. An attractive male lead always brought out the best in our unpredictable royal performer. ‘If you’re ready …’ he said, heading for the door with an athlete’s easy grace. His amused expression promised further treats in store.

The Princess followed him meekly. Her eyes were demurely lowered, as if to retain the image she had just seen. I knew she was enjoying herself – she was fascinated by the forbidden.

Two minutes later we were outside on the late rush-hour streets of King’s Cross. Night had fallen. It started to rain. Out of the darkness a solitary flashbulb popped. I heard the Nikon’s motor drive as my boss reacted with a loud sigh of exasperation. ‘Oh! Wretched press! They follow me everywhere .’ The plaintive note was easy to hear. Too easy, I thought. You’re overdoing it. But it earned her a sympathetic look from our handsome guide, so that was good too.

As we moved unnoticed into the hurrying crowds, I took up my familiar position slightly behind the tall figure with the expensively casual hairdo. Tonight she was in black jeans and a short, sexy jacket. This was our version of incognito. The Princess of Wales, icon of the oppressed and champion of the socially excluded, was beginning another ‘secret’ fact-finding tour.

Tramping round King’s Cross that night, I felt again the familiar wrench in my gut. It always came when I thought of where the Princess had been and where she was going. The sensation was becoming much more frequent. It was the same feeling you get on a roller coaster as it stops climbing and begins to dive towards the ground.