by TP Fielden
PRAISE FOR STEALING THE CROWN
‘A dazzling mix of fact and fiction from one of Britain’s leading royal commentators’
—Andrew Morton
ALSO BY TP FIELDEN
The Miss Dimont Mysteries
The Riviera Express
Resort to Murder
A Quarter Past Dead
Died and Gone to Devon
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Text copyright © 2020 by TP Fielden
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Published by Thomas & Mercer, Seattle
www.apub.com
Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Thomas & Mercer are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.
ISBN-13: 9781542017374
ISBN-10: 1542017378
Cover design by Ghost Design
For
Rachel and James Liddell
CONTENTS
CAST OF CHARACTERS
Life is a...
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
AUTHOR’S NOTE
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
CAST OF CHARACTERS
GUY HARFORD – artist, Buckingham Palace courtier, reluctant spy
RODIE CARR – burglar, blackmailer, black marketeer
FOXY GWYNNE – American socialite, former Jean Patou model in Paris
RUPERT HARDACRE – Guy’s flatmate, employed by the General Post Office
EDGAR BRAMPTON – assistant private secretary, Buckingham Palace
ADELAIDE BRAMPTON – Edgar Brampton’s widow
ALAN ‘TOMMY’ LASCELLES – deputy private secretary to King George VI
SIR TOPHAM ‘TOPSY’ DIGHTON – Master of the Household, Buckingham Palace
AGGIE – Buckingham Palace clerk (secretary)
TED ROCHESTER – gossip columnist, News Chronicle newspaper and Boulevardier
BETSEY CODY – rich American socialite in London
VISCOUNTESS EASTHAMPTON – suspected Nazi spy
TOBY BROADBENT – member of the King’s personal bodyguard
Life is a dream, but the dream is true
—Sadhguru Jaggi Vasudev
CHAPTER ONE
Outside, the streets around Piccadilly were awash with debris from the recent raid, the air tainted by the smell from burst gas mains, the gutters running with water from the fire hoses. The gradual destruction of a once-great city and the terrible news from abroad had the effect of altering personal behaviour. These days, through the patina of good manners could be seen the slow decline of ancient values, and in dark corners, in the refuges of the night, a new order was growing at an alarming rate.
Down steps still covered with plush carpet and behind heavily curtained doors, two women dawdled over the remains of their second sidecar. Both were startling to look at – the blonde in a lightly padded Betty Grable sort of way, her dark-haired companion undeniably beautiful but looking slightly odd with her old-fashioned Eton crop.
Their jewellery was expensive but big. Their clothes looked new and their high-heeled shoes were clearly still at the breaking-in stage – each had taken one off under the table. They spoke in carefully modulated tones, caution governing the delivery of their vowels.
‘Another, Lem?’ It was now past seven o’clock.
‘No thanks, Rodie. Time for a dip.’
‘No swimming pool here, ducks.’ She knew perfectly well what her friend was getting at but never passed up an opportunity to tease.
‘Nooo,’ said the woman, who answered to Lemonade but preferred to tell people she was Claudia. ‘The other. Do a bit of work.’
‘Remember your manners, girl! You’re in The Ritz now.’
Upstairs, the permanent residents of the fabled hotel, from King Zog of Albania to Mrs Keppel, famous mistress of King Edward VII, were preparing to move from their observation posts in the Palm Court into the dining room. An unofficial order of precedence marked their journey, with the king and his family slightly ahead of the bulky seventy-three-year-old who’d made her fortune from doing what comes naturally. Others of lesser blood followed at a discreet distance.
But down in the Basement Bar, life moved at a livelier pace, with white-jacketed old men circling like ballet dancers. Many had served here in the First War, retired, and now were hauled back for a second round of duty. For each the same rules applied: first establish the customer’s place in the pecking order, then remember what they drank.
‘Thank you, Your Grace, three pink gins. And Your Lordship, another whisky with water on the side? Sir Henry, one moment if you please . . .’
The two women idly watched this courtly dance while exchanging pieces of essential information. In their line of duty, it was vital to keep on top of the latest developments – shifts in personnel, changes of location, fluctuating tastes and desires, who’s suddenly rich and who’s dead.
‘Can’t hang on much longer,’ said Claudia. ‘You can stay here all night if you want to but I’ve got work to do.’
‘Dippin’? You can forget it – it’s your first time in The Ritz, Lem, you don’t know the rules. Sit down!’ Rodie grabbed the hem of her friend’s skirt.
‘Right time of night,’ insisted the other, rising again. ‘Most of these boys have been here since the sirens went. They’ve drunk their fill – an’ a few more.’
‘Listen to me, Lem!’
‘No, I want to get on. I’m meeting the boxer later.’
The woman called Rodie looked around the lofty room, its ornate plasterwork as yet undamaged by the bloody conflict outside. Certainly, if you were in their game this was the right place: at the bar, at the tables, lounging round the fountain down the other end were men from the better regiments – the Guards, Dragoons and Hussars – with just a sprinkling of Royal Navy and RAF types as well. Few of them existed on their service pay, and none of them polished their own shoes. They were rich.
‘Sit down, Lem, and look at me. You’re talented, you’ve got the looks, but you’ve got to learn – you don’t dip the Ritz Bar.’
‘Don’t be soft,’ said Claudia, taking out her powder compact. ‘They’re just waiting to give it to a girl like me.’ In a certain light she was remarkable-looking, and knew it.
‘That’s where you’re wrong. Use your eyes – your eyes! What do you see?’
‘A lot of rich men, and a lot of rich women.’
‘Notice anything else?’
‘Good-lo
oking. Rich,’ repeated Claudia, joyously flapping her eyelashes, taking in the room.
‘And . . . ?’
‘I don’t get you.’ Only half-listening, she was thinking about the bruiser from Deptford.
‘Notice something about the way they’re sitting?’
‘Nicely. Very nice deportment, no slouching – like you always tell me.’
‘And . . . ?’
‘Don’t follow.’
‘Oh, Lem. The men are sitting with the men, the women are with the women.’
Claudia put down her compact and looked around as if for the first time.
‘Oh,’ she said. ‘So . . .’
Her voice trailed off in a mixture of incomprehension and disbelief. The two sidecars had fogged her usually sharp perception.
‘These people belong to a club you and I will never join,’ said Rodie. She gazed into the innocent face, waiting for the fog to clear. ‘And this bar is where they like to come. To be amongst their own, bless ’em.’
‘What the two-and-sixpence are we doing here, then?’ snapped Claudia. She’d progressed nicely from shoplifter to pickpocket on account of her looks, her nimble brain, and her ability to move quickly. But despite the dress she was wearing tonight, despite her colossal appeal, despite the age-old surroundings of London’s smartest hotel, she still looked like a kid on the make.
‘You’ve got a lot to learn,’ said Rodie, smiling at the pianist. She was always thrilled when he nodded and played her favourite tune.
‘Might still work, though,’ said Lem, ever the optimist. ‘I look nice, don’t I? Bourne and Hollingsworth, this dress. Seven guineas!’
Rodie ignored this. ‘Look,’ she said, nodding her head. ‘That man over there. He’s called Colonel Cutie. Works in the War Office. Comes here every night looking for young officers. Not all of them are homo, but a lot of them want to get on – make sure they get the right posting, get shifted to a better regiment. Some of them want to do something daring, others want the opposite. The colonel fixes all that. And in return, of course . . .’
She looked kindly at her pretty blonde friend and shook her head. ‘These chaps aren’t much use to a girl like you, Lem. You can switch your headlights off.’
Through the crush emerged an athletic-looking figure in a tight-fitting civilian suit. Ignoring the blonde completely he looked down angrily at Rodie.
‘It was you, wasn’t it!’
‘Don’t know what you mean, Rupe.’
She clearly did.
‘Guy Harford found a red rose in his office this morning. And a kiss chalked on his desk.’
Rodie burst out laughing.
‘It was you, wasn’t it?’
‘What makes you think that?’
‘Just the bloody damn-fool thing I’d expect from you. You fall in love with him when you’ve only known him two minutes, and to prove it, you go and do something like this.’
‘He’s gorgeous!’
‘For heaven’s sake, Rodie, what can you be thinking of? Breaking into Buckingham Palace? Burgling a courtier’s office? Defacing royal property? Are you mad?’
‘You look quite handsome when you get angry. Give us a kiss.’
‘I should never have introduced you!’
‘Darling,’ said Rodie. ‘He’s lovely. He’s single. And,’ she added, waving her arm at the serried ranks of uniforms pressed against the bar, ‘he’s not like any of those. He’s a painter, an artist – just think of those eyes!’
‘You burgled Buckingham Palace. If they find out, it’s Holloway for you – three years minimum.’
‘Does he know it was me?’
Hardacre stared at her in disbelief. ‘Know? Know? How many burglars do you think Guy’s met? Let me be more specific – how many female burglars do you think he’s met? Female burglars who said within ten minutes of meeting him, “I think I’m going to marry you”?’
Rodie was pleased with this. She turned to Claudia, but despite the urgent word of warning, her friend was extravagantly waggling her eyebrows at a captain in the Life Guards. He stared back, bewildered.
‘Pay attention,’ said Rupe sternly, ‘because this is embarrassing for me. Guy has one of the most sensitive jobs in the country, and your damn-fool high jinks could land him in terrible trouble. And what about me? What’s he going to think of me for introducing you?’
‘It was a piece of cake, Rupe. I didn’t even have to go over the palace wall, just walked in when they weren’t looking. You know there are half a dozen gates into that place, they don’t all have a guardsman with fixed bayonet standin’ around. And, honestly, the locks on those royal doors! They should be ashamed of themselves!’
‘Did you take anything?’
Rodie looked indignant. ‘Take anything? Why would I do that?’
‘Because, my dear, you just burgled your way into the greatest treasure-house in the country. It would be against your religion to come away empty-handed.’
‘I did it for love.’
‘You did it for the hell of it. You’re a terrible show-off.’
There was a pause and then Claudia rose from her seat. ‘I think I’ll go and try my luck anyway,’ she said absently.
Her fingers were itching to get inside those soldiers’ pockets.
‘Golden days, Guy.’
He nodded vaguely – no point in revisiting the past, it was gone. In Paris they’d been close but that was long ago, the memories now were coated with dust.
‘Strange to see you dressed like this,’ she said, tilting her head. ‘With your hair short and shoes on your feet. Clean fingernails, too – I hardly recognise you these days.’
‘Goes with the job,’ he said, shrugging his shoulders. ‘Just like the other did. It won’t always be like this.’
‘How is the job?’ The American was trying to get her old friend to talk. ‘The new apartment? What’s fresh down at the Palace?’
They were sitting in semi-darkness across the other side of Piccadilly in the Berkeley Hotel. Their glasses were empty, the conversation hushed. The terrible onslaught from above had ceased but the relief that they were still alive had yet to register.
‘On the whole, I’d rather be in Palm Beach,’ said Foxy Gwynne jokily. ‘The service is a little more attentive there. And no planes flying overhead after dark – on the orders of the Governor.’
Guy managed a laugh, and they turned to watch the waiters self-consciously slinking back to their duties. The air-raid sirens had an irritating habit of interrupting the cocktail hour, but while the staff followed orders and disappeared down to their bunker, idiots like Guy Harford and Foxy Gwynne would sit it out, eking out their drinks, hoping the all-clear would come soon.
Across the sprawling bar of The Berkeley there were a few other such couples, battle-hardened by a year of aerial attack and determined to ignore the bombers, or maybe just ready to die. The so-called spirit of the Blitz was not always what it appeared.
‘You know I always thought you’d stay on there, in Montparnasse,’ Foxy said, urging him to talk. ‘You were stuck on Nina, admit.’
‘She preferred Lydia. And anyway, it was you I wanted.’
‘Sorry, Guy, that was never a possibility.’
‘It might have been. When I painted your portrait.’
‘Pas du tout, I just eyed you that way so the picture would be interesting.’
She looked at him differently from the way he looked at her. What he saw was a vision untouched by war, a light bob of her head tossing away the fear as if it were a fly in summer; the merest irritant. She was every artist’s dream of the perfect model.
She, in turn, saw a changed man. Gone were the baggy linen shirts, the long hair, the paint-splattered fingernails, the languid drawl. In their place was a man in standard courtier kit of black jacket and waistcoat, striped trousers – though his tie was, she thought, set deliberately awry and with a clumsy knot even a sailor couldn’t have invented. Despite this, he looked smooth, urbane, organised
.
With a vague air of apology their waiter wafted over to pour fresh cocktails. They’d ordered them an hour ago but Hitler had intervened.
‘How are the wedding plans?’ Guy didn’t care much, but he didn’t want to talk about the past.
‘Beginning of December. I won’t send you an invitation.’
‘I may be in foreign parts by then, anyway.’
‘Not with that dodgy heart of yours, darling. And anyway, I thought you’d had enough of abroad.’
‘You can never tell.’ He was always irritated when people reminded him of his infirmity, and especially if they mentioned the disaster in Africa. He shifted in his chair as if preparing to go.
Foxy laid a hand on his sleeve. ‘Not yet. There was something you were going to tell me.’ She settled comfortably back in her chair as if there wasn’t a war on. She was dressed in Schiaparelli, a faint green silk which looked almost white in the low light, accentuating the glorious red crown of her hair. A waft of something tantalising hung in the air.
‘It’s Edgar Brampton. He shot himself.’
‘Ed? I can’t believe it, Guy – why on earth? Where?’
‘In his office. Well, our office really.’
‘In the Palace? In Buckingham Palace?’
Guy shrugged. ‘I daresay if it comes to an inquest, which I very much doubt, he’ll have been found elsewhere. At home, perhaps. Or in a wood somewhere.’
‘This is ghastly, Guy!’
‘Yes, a dreadful shock – terrible. All I can say is I’m glad I wasn’t the one who had to tell Adelaide.’
She nodded. ‘It would have been awful for you, she’s such an old friend.’
‘I wonder how she’ll take it. Heaven knows why she married him, not her type at all.’
‘Wait a minute,’ said Foxy, suddenly grasping the significance of what he’d just told her. ‘What do you mean, he’ll have been found elsewhere?’
Guy shrugged. ‘A slight rearrangement is felt necessary.’
‘You mean he’ll be found off the premises, so to speak?’
‘Perhaps. I couldn’t say,’ he replied, looking round the room. There was nobody near enough to hear their conversation.
