Scoundrels
Page 1
Scoundrels
VOLUME ONE
1931-1951
By
Major Victor Cornwall
and
Major St. John Trevelyan
Edited by
Duncan Crowe and James Peak
FOREWORD & DISCLAIMER
We founded Black Door Press in 2016 as an independent publisher specialising in histories, biographies and memoirs.
Within days of opening for business we were sent a manuscript from two elderly gentlemen who claimed to have been decorated officers during the Second World War and then operatives in a peculiar type of secret service up until the 1980s. These memoirs, contained within a series of letters, reveal a fractious and volatile relationship stretching back 70 years.
After reading them we declined, explaining that we were unable to publish on the grounds of taste, decency, libel risk, commercial viability, the overblown prose style and our general unease.
Sadly this was not the end of the matter. After speaking with the Majors’ legal representative, Massingberd Q.C., we came to understand that by signing for the manuscript’s delivery we’d formed an unbreakable contract requiring us to publish it.
We therefore warmly welcome our new authors to the Black Door stable.
We are legally obliged to state that:
Scoundrels Volume One is the sweepingly tragic, emotionally devastating, heartfelt, uplifting and profound memoirs of two of England’s greatest unsung heroes, Major Victor Montgomery Cornwall and Major Arthur St. John Trevelyan. Spanning much of the 20th Century, it is an epic tale of love, war, sex, adventure, deceit and murder, centred on the infamous gentlemen’s club, Scoundrels of Piccadilly. And it might just be the greatest story ever told.
Majors Cornwall and Trevelyan will resist all requests for comment on the contents of this work. All complaints and claims for libel should be referred to Massingberd Q.C. at Broadsword Chambers, Middle Inner Temple, London.
Duncan Crowe & James Peak, London, February 2017
Contents
1.An Incident in the Desert
2.Panda Hunting
3.Fuffy, Dear Fuffy
4.The Bull And The Little Austrian Boy
5.Snatch The Gander
6.Scoundrels Club
7.Dead Man In A Coffin
8.The Tackle Chappie
9.Happy Birthday Mein Kapitan
10.The Most Impenetrable Castle In Germany
11.Das Scheisseberg
12.Klunghammered
13.Dambusted
14.Terracotta Warriors
15.The Whore of Heaven
16.The Wolf of Wan Booli
17.Beetle Fight
18.An Attempt on Everest
19.Around the World
20.The Commonwealth Games
Hellcat Manor
Great Trundleford
Devon
26th July 2016
Dear Major,
You may remember that when we last saw each other things were rather fraught, and during the mêlée it appears that I lost my watch.
It was a gift from the Sultan of Brunei, and is of extreme sentimental value. And value.
I don’t suppose you know of its whereabouts?
Yours sincerely,
Major Victor Montgomery Cornwall
Nimbu Towers
Pullen-under-Lyme
Gloucestershire
29th July 2016
Dear Major,
Are you referring to your old Charles Frodsham half-hunter with a three-quarter plate movement, free-sprung bi-metallic compensation balance, diamond end-stoned, with gold cuvette inscribed ‘For Dearest Victor’?
If so then I’m terribly sorry but I have no idea where it is.
Yours sincerely,
Major Arthur St. John Trevelyan
Hellcat Manor
Great Trundleford
Devon
2nd August 2016
Dear Major,
Yes, that was the watch I was referring to. Considering it was thirty years ago your memory of it seems remarkably intact.
How have you been?
Yours sincerely,
Major Victor Montgomery Cornwall
Nimbu Towers
Pullen-under-Lyme
Gloucestershire
4th August 2016
Dear Major,
As you asked I’m very well. Things biff along here at Nimbu. Cacahuete, Bernard-Bernard and I keep ourselves to ourselves, and that’s the way I like it. Despite the circumstances of our house arrest, the last thirty years have been blissfully uneventful. Running the house and grounds is a full-time job.
Carruthers died and the new gardener is a disgrace. I caught him deadheading my Semper Augustus tulips, the bloody fool. I shall replace him in due course.
Thank you for enquiring about my wellbeing. But I wish to make it clear I have no desire to stay in contact with you at all. Frankly, Victor, life’s been interesting enough without you in it.
I must get on. Please don’t write again unless you have good reason.
Yours sincerely,
Major Arthur St. John Trevelyan
P.S. Remember me to Baxter, if he’s still with you, and make sure you keep the grass short in the Bluebell Wood.
Hellcat Manor
Great Trundleford
Devon
6th August 2016
Dear Major,
You’ll be pleased to know that Baxter is in fine fettle and says hello. He’s still as strong as an ox. He walked the perimeter fence for me this morning.
Sorry to hear about Carruthers, although I suppose his death was not unexpected. He was a talented horticulturist and very committed to his work. I once saw him defecating on your courgettes. Fascinating stuff.
I suppose you heard about Pulvertaft? Hacked to death in the jungle by his own porters. If they can find enough of him there may even be a funeral. He was a bloody good man despite his weakness for his friends’ wives. I assume you forgave him for that carry-on with Marjorie while you were hosting the 1974 Meat Raffle?
So, thirty years have now passed and we’re free to do as we please, but I’ve yet to leave the grounds here at Hellcat. I wouldn’t want the Palace knowing I did so at the earliest opportunity. The injustice of it all still makes my blood boil.
On that note, I do have something that may interest you. I’ve had much time to reflect on why things turned out the way they did, asking myself whether there was anything we could have done differently. And each time I come up with the same answer. No. We should be national heroes. Yet they treated us as villains. I don’t use the word lightly Trevelyan, but is that how you want to be remembered? As a villain?
It is my intention to set the record straight. I have begun writing my memoirs and I intend to include EVERYTHING. Can I take it that you will support me in this endeavour?
Yours sincerely,
Major Victor Montgomery Cornwall
Nimbu Towers
Pullen-under-Lyme
Gloucestershire
8th August 2016
Dear Major,
Thank you for drawing my attention to another of Marjorie’s indiscretions. I wasn’t actually aware of that one.
I appreciate your concern about your legacy, and it’s kind of you to worry about mine, but I’m enjoying life here at Nimbu and I can’t be bothered dredging it all up. Besides, the prospect of my story being committed to print by such an unreliable narrator as yourself is
deeply troubling. I can only imagine how one-sided your recollection of events would be.
I should also remind you that even Scoundrels must abide by the Official Secrets Act, and that many other interested parties would come down on you from a great height if you published anything.
Leave it alone old fellow. Life is too short.
Yours sincerely,
Major Arthur St. John Trevelyan
Hellcat Manor
Hogwash. We are the victims of a grave injustice and I for one don’t wish to take it lying down. My legal team has advised me that my life story is my own property, and eminently publishable. And besides, I’m beyond caring at this age. I’ve had a good life, Trevelyan, but I’ve lost the last thirty years of it for having the temerity to save the bloody world!
Anyway, I’ve already started writing. Of course it’s early days, but if my first few chapters are anything to go by then the signs are very promising. It’s an epic tale of heroism, sex and war. Between you and me I think it might just be the best story ever written. The only downside is that you’re in it.
Anyway, be sure to know that you’ll be treated with respect, dignity and honour – where due. That said, this is a warts ’n’ all enterprise, and I seem to remember your arse is covered in them.
My memory isn’t what it used to be though, so I’d find it most helpful if you could cast your eyes over some of the chapters to see if you think I’ve missed anything out. Don’t bother commenting on my prose style. Your critical faculties have been below par ever since you took all those bangs to the head during Snatch the Gander.
Here’s a short excerpt from:
SCOUNDREL
THE MEMOIRS OF
MAJOR VICTOR MONTGOMERY CORNWALL
“Dashing… cavalier… debonair.” Not my words, but the words of a certain Mrs. Gladys Morningdew, the local Reverend’s wife and mother of the woman I intended to marry.
I was sixteen years old, still at boarding school and green around the gills. But I knew, even then, that when a middle-aged woman corners you in her bathroom with nothing more than a silk negligee, a heaving bosom, and the pale line of a missing wedding ring, she’s not there to remind you to wash your hands.
And so my tale begins, tumbling and fumbling in the folds of her flesh on the bathroom floor. An inauspicious beginning, but a moment that revealed so much. Yes, I’d just rogered the Reverend’s wife, but I found that I could look him squarely in the eye, smile innocently and accept my confirmation only an hour later. I was, and still am, an adept liar. Which is why I was such an effective spy.
I have led a life of rare privilege that is barely credible by normal standards. I’ve loved, lost, and killed for my country. And yet for the past thirty years I have been imprisoned in the grounds of my own home, the victim of a gross miscarriage of justice. I have been granted no contact with the outside world. Until now.
This is my story. The story of Major Victor Montgomery Cornwall: war hero, lover, poet, spy, and member of the most exclusive gentleman’s club in the world, Scoundrels of Piccadilly.
That’s the intro done. Do you think it’s an exaggeration to claim that I’m Britain’s biggest war hero? I was wondering where I ranked alongside Wellington and Nelson. Have a think.
There’s more to follow.
Yours sincerely,
Major Victor Montgomery Cornwall
I want to make it clear that I do not wish to be represented in your book in any way. Please do not continue with this lunacy. We’ve all got tales to tell, Victor, but some things are best left alone.
Yours sincerely,
Major Arthur St. John Trevelyan
Hellcat Manor
Great Trundleford
Devon
15th August 2016
Dear Major,
Thank you for expressing your concerns. You’ve been very clear about your position, so consider it noted.
With that in mind, I suggest you remove all breakable objects from arms reach, find a comfortable seat, and pour yourself a large scotch.
This might make for uncomfortable reading.
__________
CHAPTER 1
An Incident
in the Desert
History books will tell you that the Paris to Dakar rally originated in December 1978. This is nonsense. The truth is that the first one was actually in 1950, twenty-eight years earlier.
The first race was organised to settle a petty rivalry between two Scoundrels, Stradivarius Periford and A.W. Hendricks Snr. Periford was the club secretary, an old Winstowlian and a devastatingly cruel man. Hendricks was the former club secretary, an angry fellow who had fallen out with Periford over some trivial matter. I had no time for either of them.
In the wake of their bust-up a challenge had been set: an impossibly long race across the desert. In those days it was not uncommon for members to fall out and set some kind of gentleman’s challenge to settle the dispute. These were often fencing duels, arm-wrestles over poisonous cacti, rival missions to scale the Eiger, expeditions to the South Pole or chilli-eating contests. The tests determined who was the greater man.
It was in this spirit that the Paris to Dakar rally was born. The early race, however, was considerably tougher than today’s lark in the desert.
The event had two stages. Stage one was held at the wonderfully opulent Hôtel de Crillon in Paris. It was a black tie reception for all of the competitors. This was unofficially known as The Cock Fight because it was all about who wore the finest clothing, who had the most expensive watch, and who had the biggest cock. It was about showing off, talking up your chances and intimidating the opponents with tales of bravado.
Stage two was the actual race. The starting line was just outside Algiers on the edge of the Sahara desert. The competitors had to make their way to Dakar in Senegal, over three and a half thousand miles away, with one caveat: motorised travel was banned. That was the one and only rule.
Paris, 1950
The Hôtel de Crillon is one of the most sumptuous hotels in the world, situated on Place de la Concorde at the eastern end of the Champs-Elysées.
In preparation for the race I booked a suite for a week and had been enjoying the world-class delights Paris offered. Logic told me that I should gorge myself on all of the pleasures I would be denied in the desert, and as a result I’d had a spectacular few days, racking up an eye-watering bill on champagne and caviar, and losing a tooth during a ménage à trois with a couple of cancan girls.
Tonight was more serious though, The Cock Fight: the lavish drinks reception that marked the official start of the race.
Before dressing in my finery I called room service and ordered a bottle of the hotel’s finest vodka. Then I thumbed through a selection of my gramophone discs looking for something suitably dramatic. I decided to go for Beethoven’s 3rd, Eroica, for its violent harmonic tension and dissonant chord structure.
My vodka arrived on a silver tray along with an envelope. I tipped the room attendant handsomely, sent him on his way, and locked the door. The envelope contained a note.
Heads up Cornwall. Hendricks Snr has just arrived.
On the back of a rhino.
See you downstairs in an hour.
T.
I registered the warning and began to get dressed in my suit tailored by Gieves & Hawkes. I needed to look my best tonight.
My moustache was varnished with three times the normal amount of lacquer, and sculpted until it was as sharp as a Fairbairn-Sykes commando dagger. My hair had been slicked back and greased with oil distilled from a puffin’s thyroid, giving it an unnaturally lustrous sheen. The effect was stunning, creating an almost petrochemical finish. When I moved my head, the room lights played across it like Aurora Borealis.
I checked myself in the full-length mirror. Rising to my full six foot two
inches of genetically blessed frame, I knew I looked good. I doubted there was a better-looking man in Paris that evening. And if there was, then I would have liked to shake him by the hand, congratulate him, and then join him for an evening of whoring.
Which reminded me. From my suitcase I removed a small vial containing the secretions of a musk deer’s anal glands, and applied it liberally to my face and neck. It was a caustic, spiteful solution that disagreed with my skin, but Baxter had assured me a short marinade guaranteed I wouldn’t be sleeping alone tonight.
To take the edge off the burn I snorted a line of cocaine from the Louis XVI marble table.
After pouring another vodka I stepped out onto my balcony and into the Paris night air. The colourful lights from the Champs-Élysées sparkled in the reflective sheen of the streets, soaked from a recent downpour. The city had never looked so good. I drew her into my nostrils and filled my lungs.
“God I love Paris,” I thought. The cocaine was now accelerating through my bloodstream, heightening my senses. During these moments of drug-fuelled solitude I knew I was prone to hyperbole, even grandiosity, but tonight I didn’t care. I stretched my arms wide and pronounced, “I’m the King of France! I own this city!” A hotel porter looked up at me from the streets below.
His impertinence riled me, so I went to fetch my rifle. I’ll shoot him, I thought. I changed my mind almost immediately. I was just getting carried away with the build-up to the race and a dead porter would be difficult to explain away. My heart was pounding. It felt like it was going to burst from my chest.