The King's Prerogative

by Iain Colvin

  ‘Perfect. In the Ruddicot?’

  ‘The Ruddicot’s dead on a Monday, why don’t we meet in L’Aperitif?’

  ‘Sounds good. Okay, see you at eight.’

  ‘Great. Just remember it’s a school night though, don’t go trying to get me drunk on Millisle Mindbenders.’

  ‘Em, okay, I’ll be on my best behaviour.’

  Claire put the receiver down and winced. Why had she said that? Bloody hell, Craig was her best friend’s wee brother. Plus she was a respectable English teacher at the town’s respectable secondary school. There was a line to be drawn on any number of levels. Oh, bugger it, she thought on reflection. He was tall, good-looking and funny, and she had a massive crush on him. What else mattered? She thanked Grace and headed out towards the staff room. Grace gave her a look that said ‘I knew it’ and went back to her paperwork.

  There was no shortage of drinking establishments in Stranraer and each had its own clientele. Some, the ones situated next to the bookmakers, were usually filled from opening to closing time with cigarette smoke and hardy regulars. Others were the haunts of local residents, local meaning those who lived within two blocks of said hostelry. For Craig and his friends, there was a circuit of half a dozen pubs they frequented on a regular or semi-regular basis. These were the Ruddicot Hotel (Friday night), the Royal Hotel (live band on a Saturday), and as the mood took them, the Stag’s Head, the Downshire, the Grapes, the Burns, and the Coachman’s, depending on who was out, what entertainment was lined up, and which pubs happened to be flavour of the month. For those evenings requiring an added element of sophistication, the place to go was L’Aperitif. Run by the same Italian family since just after the war, the restaurant served fabulous food and their small cocktail bar was famed for the delicious liquid concoctions dreamt up and served by Massimo, the maitre d’ and host. Craig walked into the bar and looked around. The room was just about big enough to cope with customers who arrived early and fancied a pre-dinner drink, or those who wanted to take their time over postprandial coffees, ports or brandies. Craig was inwardly pleased to see that only two of the six tables were occupied, by the look of things by couples waiting to be shown through to the restaurant. There was no one propping up the bar or sitting on the four barstools lined up to his left. Massimo came through from the restaurant, saw Craig and shook his hand.

  ‘Hello Craig, nice to see you my friend. I’ll be with you in just one second.’

  He escorted one of the couples through to their table then returned to the other side of the bar.

  ‘Now then, I didn’t see your name on the bookings for tonight. Just in for a drink?’

  ‘Yes Massi, just catching up with a friend. Can I have a pint please. Lager.’

  ‘Coming up.’ Massimo selected the ideal glass from a shelf behind him and poured Craig’s drink.

  ‘Sixty-five pence please, Craig.’

  Craig handed over the cash, picked up his glass and walked over to a seat as far away from the bar as he could, which took all of eight strides. He took the letter from the zip pocket of his jacket, unfolded it and read the contents for the hundredth time. It had been Helen who suggested asking Claire for help but Craig wasn’t sure if she was being sarcastic at the time. After all, just because Craig had developed a bee in his bonnet didn’t mean that someone coming to it cold would share his enthusiasm. He’d hummed and hawed for two weeks and eventually decided to do something about it even though he still wasn’t sure if he’d look like an idiot. He looked up as Claire walked in. It must have started to rain again because she carried a small brolly and was shaking it as she made her way to the table. Craig noticed that under her coat she wore a red satin dress with a high collar, in a Chinese-style print. Maybe she’s going on somewhere else after meeting me, he thought. He looked down at his jeans and jumper and felt decidedly scruffy. He smiled as she approached the table.

  ‘Hi Claire, what can I get you?’.

  ‘Gin and bitter lemon please.’

  Craig bought the drink and returned to the table.

  ‘Thanks for coming out on such an awful night.’

  ‘It was either this or marking so believe me this was the better option. Anyway, you sounded very cloak and dagger on the phone earlier, what did you want to ask?’

  Craig considered his words for a moment.

  ‘I don’t know if Helen ever told you much about our grandad, about what he did during the war?’

  Claire had built herself up to expect a totally different conversation and was somewhat taken aback at this non sequitur, but to her credit she didn’t show a trace of her disappointment. She now wished she hadn’t worn her glad rags on a wet Monday night though.

  ‘I can’t remember if she did or not to be honest. Is that what you wanted to ask me about?’.

  ‘Yes. Maybe it’ll be easier if I gave you the potted family history.’

  ‘Okay.’ This was becoming weird, thought Claire.

  Craig moved forward in his seat.

  ‘Well, my grandfather used to be a farmer. A ploughman to be exact. During the war he lived and worked at a place called Floors Farm near Eaglesham. He was in his forties at the time so he wasn’t called up. Anyway, one night in 1941, a plane crashed near the farm and my grandad was the first on the scene. To cut a long story short it turned out to be a big deal and … well, actually, maybe it would be quicker to let you see these.’ Craig produced the newspaper cuttings and passed them across the table. Claire was by this time convinced that she had been transported into a parallel universe but she reasoned that she was here now and she enjoyed Craig’s company even though he seemed oblivious to her charms, so she took the cuttings and dutifully read through each. After a few minutes of silence she looked up and met Craig’s stare.

  ‘Okay, I get the picture about your grandfather. It is a pretty remarkable story I agree. I assume you want to tell your grandad’s story and get it published? Well, I’m flattered, but I don’t think I’m the right person to do it justice, but if you like–’

  ‘Oh no, no, sorry Claire, I haven’t finished. My grandad left me a memento from that night, it was a wallet that was given to him by Hess himself, for his hospitality.’

  ‘His hospitality?’

  ‘Yes. Hess hurt his ankle in the crash, or rather, when he baled out before the crash. My grandfather helped him to his cottage and sat him down by the fire until the Home Guard came along and took Hess into custody. Hess gave him the wallet as a thank you.’

  ‘And you now have the wallet?’

  ‘Correct. He used to show it to me when I was a wee boy and tell me the story that went with it. He always made it into a big performance for my benefit. Anyway, when I took the wallet home after my grandad’s funeral, I found this hidden in the lining. No one realised it had been there all these years.’ He gave Claire the letter and waited till she read it before continuing. ‘If that letter is what it appears to be, then it throws the whole story upside down. These press cuttings…’ Craig picked up two in particular which were dated three weeks after Hess’s arrival. ‘These press cuttings say that Hess came to Scotland on a crazy whim, that Hitler disowned him saying he’d had some kind of brainstorm. That he just up and left on some mad scheme to try to convince Britain to make peace. But…’

  ‘But this letter not only suggests that he was expected, but that he was expected by the Royal Family.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘Jesus.’

  ‘My thoughts precisely.’

  They studied each other’s faces for a long moment. ‘I’ll get us another drink,’ said Craig and he went back up to the bar.

  Claire found herself caught up in the moment, the gears in her head turning furiously as she tried to process a dozen thoughts at once. Craig came back with their drinks.

  ‘But hold on,’ said Claire. ‘This has to be a prank.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘There’s no way the Royal Family would expose themselves like that. Britain was at war for heaven�
��s sake’.

  ‘I’ve been thinking about that for the past fortnight. What if it had been a genuine peace offer? Maybe the only way Hess would make such a journey was if he was given a guarantee in advance that he would be received as the peace envoy he claimed to be. Maybe a letter of safe conduct was that guarantee.’

  Claire caught his thread.

  ‘That might explain why it was hidden. Maybe Hess didn’t actually intend to use it because it would cause embarrassment to the King. The fact that it had been written and given to Hess at all was sufficient proof that his flight wouldn’t be in vain.’

  ‘That’s what I think.’

  ‘Wait a minute though. Why did Hess have it on him if he didn’t intend to use it?’

  ‘Pass. I don’t know. I can’t work that out.’

  ‘Which brings us back to the question of whether it’s genuine or an elaborate practical joke.’

  ‘It does.’

  ‘Are you sure this is the wallet Hess had with him?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I mean, could your grandfather have bought the wallet and created the story around it because it was such a good story? You said yourself that he liked to make it into a performance.’

  ‘Why would he go to those lengths? And even if he did, why would he conceal the letter inside? That particular letter. And who is, or was Lieutenant-Colonel William Spelman Pilcher?’

  ‘Do you know what would be useful?’ asked Claire.

  ‘What?’

  ‘If we could find someone who could authenticate the letter.’

  Chapter 4

  Tuesday 15th February, 1983.

  It was twenty past three when Craig looked at the clock on the wall above the Ledger Desk. It was ten minutes until the branch was due to shut its doors and then with luck only another ninety minutes or so before they’d be finished for another working day. That was one of the things he liked about working at the bank; the hours were pretty good. Normally he’d be out by half past five, apart from the late sessions on a Thursday when the branch reopened at four-thirty and stayed open till six. It hadn’t been all that busy today so Craig had cleared a backlog of filing and was now finishing off some letters.

  ‘I will therefore be grateful if you would sign and return the attached bridging loan application form at your earliest convenience. Yours sincerely, etc., etc.’

  He clicked the Dictaphone off, took out the small tape cassette, and went through to the secretaries in the back room. Jacqui and Jeanette were busily typing away, plugged in to their own bigger versions of the handheld recording machines. The combination of the earphones and typewriters had the effect of making them look like a pair of piano-playing doctors complete with stethoscopes. Jacqui saw Craig come in and took off her earphones. She was the same age as Craig and, having just returned from her honeymoon, she still had the flush of the newlywed about her.

  ‘Uh oh. Here’s trouble.’

  Craig smiled. ‘Me? Never.’ He produced the microcassette with a flourish as if he was a conjurer producing the ten of hearts from thin air. He dropped it in Jacqui’s in-tray. ‘Ta-da!’.

  ‘Wow, wonders shall never cease,’ she said, for Jeanette’s benefit.

  Jeannette stopped typing and took off her earphones too. She was the senior of the two secretaries and this was her domain. She was in her late fifties, with short, stylish grey hair, and Craig thought of her as his second mum. She looked at her wristwatch with an equally theatrical wave of her hand.

  ‘Well Jacqueline, would you look at that? Mr Dunlop has honoured us with his correspondence before five o’clock this evening. I do declare I might have to go and lie down.’

  ‘You two are hysterical, do you know that? Did no one tell you that sarcasm is the lowest form of wit…’

  ‘And is not appreciated in the best of circles,’ chimed the ladies in unison. They all laughed.

  Craig walked backed through to his desk. One of his colleagues pointed at a telephone lying off the hook. ‘Phone call for you, Craig.’

  ‘Thanks Sheena.’ He picked up the receiver. ‘Craig Dunlop speaking’.

  ‘Craig, it’s Claire.’

  ‘Oh hi, Claire, how’s things? Had any more thoughts since last night?’

  ‘I have funnily enough, yes. I’ve just phoned a lecturer I used to have at Strathclyde Uni. Brian Irving his name is. I had him for a couple of terms when I was there. I phoned him on the off-chance because he teaches political science and I thought that he could point us in the right direction. Well it looks like we’ve aroused his curiosity and he said he’d help us. He’s keen to speak to us and to find out more about the letter.’

  ‘Fantastic! How did you leave it with him?’

  ‘I assumed you’d want to speak to him sooner rather than later so I took the liberty of saying we’ll phone him again tonight. I don’t know what your plans are?’

  ‘I’ve got absolutely no plans tonight. That sounds brilliant. Do you want to come round to mine later?’

  ‘Tell you what, I’m using up the remains of a curry tonight, why don’t you come round to mine once you finish, we can demolish it and then phone Brian.’

  ‘Excellent. Helen’s told me about your famous Ruby Murrays, I’m honoured.’

  ‘You haven’t tasted it yet. Okay, see you about six. Don’t forget to bring the letter. You know where, don’t you? Bayview Crescent. Number fourteen.’

  ‘No problem, see you then. Oh and Claire?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘My pleasure.’

  Craig put the phone down, got up from the desk and went over to the office photocopier. He’d brought the Hess letter with him to work because he thought it might be useful to make some copies of it to save wear and tear on the original, and it meant he could also give Claire a copy of her own. As he started up the machine and waited for it to produce the Photostats, he thought about the conversation with Claire and decided that he liked her. Maybe one day he might pluck up the courage to ask her out properly. But on reflection he knew he probably wouldn’t. Not in the foreseeable future at least. Maybe eventually, after he’d got Fiona out of his system.

  Jacqui brought through the letters for Craig to sign at a quarter to five. Craig did so, made sure the correct attachments were clipped to the correct letters, stuffed them in window envelopes and gave them to David, the office junior, to frank and post. He fetched his coat from the staff room, said goodnight to the few members of staff still finishing up and made his way round to the front office just as the manager, Mr Grant, opened the main door on his way in.

  ‘You getting off, Craig?’

  ‘Yes Mr Grant, unless you need me for anything?’

  ‘No, no, not at all. Football tonight?’

  ‘Not till Thursday.’

  ‘Jolly good. Have a good night then.’

  ‘You too, sir.’

  Craig stopped at the Coopers Fine Fare on the way home for some beer and wine to take along, and went home to pick up the wallet. He was about to go back out when he saw that the rain had started so he phoned a taxi and went to freshen up in the bathroom. Five minutes later he saw the mini cab pull up outside. He locked up and jumped in the back seat.

  Just over a mile away Claire had learned her lesson from the night before and had decided that a pair of jeans and a baggy top were appropriate attire. When she opened the door to let Craig in, she remembered that he’d come straight from work and now she was the one who was underdressed. Well done hen, she thought.

  ‘Come in, don’t stand there getting wet.’ She stood back and ushered him in.

  ‘Hi, sorry I’m late’, said Craig and gratefully stepped inside.

  ‘Your timing’s fine. Here, give me your coat.’

  ‘Thanks. I brought something to drink.’

  ‘You’re a saviour, well done. Come through to the kitchen and talk to me, the curry’s nearly ready.’

  Craig followed her through a narrow L-shaped corridor t
o a kitchen at the far end. It was small but had enough room for a small table and two chairs. On the cooker, two pots were simmering away, and Claire opened the oven to check on some naan bread that was warming up.

  ‘Take a seat,’ said Claire and handed him a corkscrew-cum-bottle opener. ‘And you’re in charge of the drinks.’

  ‘What do you fancy?’

  ‘A glass of wine, please.’

  Craig opened the bottle of wine and chose a beer for himself. He poured a glass for Claire and handed it to her as she stirred the curry.

  ‘So what’s this Brian like?’

  ‘He’s very clever, as you’d expect. I always felt a bit in awe of him. But the reason he sprang to mind is that he always encouraged you to challenge him and ask questions.

  Craig took a sip of beer. ‘That and the fact that he teaches political science. Not much use if he taught home economics,’ he offered.

  Claire laughed. ‘Well yes, obviously. Grub’s up.’ She dished out a bed of rice on two plates, and ladled two scoops of steaming hot curry on top of each. She fetched the bread from the oven and they sat down.

  ‘What did he say when you called him?’ said Craig in between mouthfuls. ‘This is delicious by the way.’

  ‘Thanks, it’s my piece de resistance from my uni days. Well after the usual pleasantries and chit-chat I asked him if he had a special interest in World War Two mysteries. When I mentioned Rudolf Hess, I heard him audibly groan on the line. Apparently there are more conspiracy theories swimming around Hess than there are for JFK, the moon landings and Jack the Ripper put together. I told him the story about your grandad and he made polite noises but I got the feeling that he’d heard it all before.’

  ‘But the letter changed his mind?’

  ‘Not at first. When I told him you had a wallet and there was a letter in it, I almost thought I could hear him scoff at how gullible I could be. But when I said that the letter was hidden in the lining, and I gave him the gist of what it said, he went quiet for ages. I thought I’d got cut off, but then he asked me to repeat what I’d said. I did, and he asked if I had the letter in front of me. I said I didn’t but suggested I could get together with you and we’d phone him back.’