by TP Fielden
‘Surely they’re not going to trundle that huge great body of his back into that tiny little house? With Adelaide and the children there?’
‘No,’ said Guy, ‘they’re in Oxfordshire, been there for the past couple of months – the Blitz and all that. But the Palace has to do something – you can’t have a suicide on royal premises. As it is, he was only found this morning and already they’ve washed the blood off the walls and straightened things up.’
Foxy sucked at her cigarette. It made her cough.
‘Why? Why did he do it?’
Now the all-clear had sounded, the room was filling up with people who’d been caught outside when the sirens started. You could always tell when they entered a room, those who’d been caught near a bomb blast – they walked awkwardly, as if on thin ice. With this steady influx came a rise in volume as the survivors babbled their experiences before swiftly ordering a second drink.
‘Why? I don’t know, Foxy, I have no idea. There was some stupid talk about him and the Queen, but that was just people’s imaginations – I mean, Ed and Her Majesty! Agreed he was handsome and very attentive, but I don’t think they were ever alone together. He’d been in her brother’s regiment, you know – I think that may have had something to do with it.’
‘Good Lord,’ said Foxy. ‘Nobody ever mentioned . . .’
‘That’s because there’s nothing to mention. Ed had the charm when he wanted but I don’t think he was ever the type to misbehave.’
‘But have you thought of this,’ said Foxy, drawing up her legs under the chair, ‘even the merest hint of scandal . . . it could be seen as treasonable.’ War made you accept a loss very quickly, and she was savouring the delicious possibilities of Ed and Her Majesty closeted alone together.
‘Don’t be absurd, Fox,’ he snapped, reaching forward and taking one of her cigarettes. ‘I wish I hadn’t mentioned it. It’s top secret, as you can imagine – I’d rather you forgot all about it.’
She smiled winningly and waved a finger at him. ‘And it’s you who’s having to go round and clean up? Metaphorically, of course – that’s your job?’
He leaned back in his chair. ‘I don’t know, Fox, they had to give me something to do. But they don’t trust me, they keep me at arm’s length. Tommy Lascelles looks down his nose at me, and the only time I see Their Majesties is when they’re going off somewhere and need an extra hand with the bags.’ He drained his cocktail.
‘I thought you were the Palace’s unofficial conduit to Fleet Street.’
‘Well, that too. They give me the jobs nobody else wants to do. I mean, did you know – as an American I suppose you wouldn’t – but there are people there called the Sculptor in Ordinary for Scotland, the Deputy Clerk of the Closet, the Clerk of the Green Cloth, the Purse Bearer, the Mistress of the Robes . . . An impossible list of impossible people! Each with a colossal sense of their own importance, and all of them battling for preferment as if they were shipwrecked and struggling for the last place on the lifeboat.’
‘You’re joking, of course.’
‘If only. There’s the Travelling Yeoman, the Page of the Chambers, the Assistant Yeoman of the Plate Pantry – dozens and dozens of them. D’you want me to go on?’
‘Are you sure you’re not making this up?’
‘Gospel, I promise. But, Fox, they all want recognition. From Their Majesties, of course, but also from beneath. They think somehow they’re of the blood royal. There are dozens of them and I’ve been given the job of separating the warring parties.
‘Oh, and then there’s the fuss over transport. Harry Gloucester is a real nuisance about what kind of car he’s given, and I spend my days arguing with the Crown Equerry over whether it’s the Humber or the Daimler to take him off to see his popsy. Really, Fox, don’t they know there’s a war on?’
‘How many times have I heard that said,’ answered his companion wearily. ‘Let’s have one more, shall we? Then go on to Ciro’s?’
‘No, darling, I have to go back to the office. I’m waiting for a call from Ted Rochester – he said he’d telephone through at eight.’
‘That old warhorse? Is he still alive? I used to see him in El Morocco when we were in New York, oh, donkey’s years ago. Is he still scribbling that column for the Morning Post?’
‘The News Chronicle now. I’m to give him the news about Ed Brampton.’
Foxy looked startled. ‘You’re actually going to tell him that an assistant private secretary committed suicide in Buckingham Palace?’
‘Well, no, not exactly. Accident cleaning his gun. At his Chelsea home. Had hoped to return to war duties and was obviously preparing himself for the off.’
‘With that wooden leg of his?’
‘Most people don’t know about that. First War hero eager to get back into action and so on and so forth. Ted will be thrilled to break the news, and the rest of Fleet Street will follow his lead.’
‘Won’t he know it’s a lie? Won’t he care?’
‘Darling, he’s a journalist. In wartime you take what you’re given and are grateful.’
‘Good Lord, Guy, what a rotten lot! How can you be party to something like that?’
He rose to his feet. ‘Foxy, since you’re about to marry an earl and presumably stay in this country for the duration, you may as well get used to one thing. The sock has been pulled inside out. What was criminal once is now legitimised, what was lawful has now disappeared into a very dark hole and may never be seen again. Nothing’s as it was.’ He took a deep breath. ‘See you at Ciro’s in an hour.’
CHAPTER TWO
In the morning light, Buckingham Palace looked grey and dispiriting. Gone were the bearskins and cheerful red tunics of the peacetime guard; in their place a regiment of Canadians, their smartly turned out but drab battledress doing little to cheer the famous frontage with its tragically ruined face.
Guy Harford walked the length of the black-painted railings, absorbed by the events of the previous day. The morning papers all carried an account of the tragic death of Major Brampton, MC – Ted Rochester’s exclusive in the News Chronicle had been spotted by its rivals and followed up in their later editions. Nowhere was it even hinted that the courtier had taken his own life, nor that it had been on palace premises – nor, especially, was there a breath of gossip about Ed Brampton and the Queen. In a news flow overwhelmed by events from abroad, the story was sure to evaporate within twenty-four hours.
The policeman at the Tradesmen’s Gate nodded as Guy strolled through but didn’t salute. As an artist, not a military man, Guy’s languid bearing did not invite the raising of an arm, so a curt nod sufficed. He wandered into the Royal Mews and unlocked the door to his office.
‘Would you like me to change the water? Your floral tribute?’ It was Aggie, the clerk he shared with Ed Brampton – had shared.
‘No thank you.’ He could sense without turning that Aggie was peering over his shoulder to see if another kiss had been chalked on his desk. It was she who’d discovered the rose yesterday.
‘A note from Tommy Lascelles. I was just going to put it on your desk.’
Guy groaned. The King’s deputy private secretary did little to hide his contempt for Guy – the North Africa business clearly remained fresh in his mind – but on the other hand, he seemed ready to recognise his skill at getting things done. In his pre-courtier days Guy may have been a useless spy, but at the Palace he was swiftly becoming invaluable.
‘What’s in it?’
‘Top secret, it says.’
‘Aggie, you steamed open the envelope. You know what it says.’
She didn’t even blush. ‘You’re in charge of Major Brampton’s funeral. Guards Chapel – one week from today.’
Guy turned to face the secretary. ‘A religious service for a suicide? What will the Lord Almighty think?’
‘The Lord Almighty counts for nothing round here, Mr Harford. Far greater is the word of His Majesty’s deputy private secretary.’
&n
bsp; ‘Does the King know, by the way? About Edgar?’
‘Doesn’t want to.’ It was remarkable, Aggie’s grasp of what was going on.
Guy sat down at his desk. The rose was big and slightly blowsy, deep red and with a glorious aroma, like an overbearing woman’s perfume. He inhaled deeply and opened the buff envelope.
Inside were detailed instructions on how to get rid of an unwanted royal problem.
First, visit the widow, describe to her the sad accident. Reassure her that a pension will be paid and imply, without saying so, that if she asks no awkward questions the children’s school fees would be covered as well.
Next, post an obituary in the smarter newspapers, focusing on Edgar Brampton’s urgent desire to return to combat duties, without mentioning the artificial leg.
Third, liaise with the palace police and the Household Brigade padre to ensure the smooth delivery of a body to the small-scale but fitting military funeral.
Fourth, wrap the whole thing up and dispose of it. Neatly.
Fifth, please tell the Clerk of the Green Cloth to stop telephoning the Palace. And sort out the Duke of Gloucester’s car!
Aggie had gone back to her little office in the anteroom next door. The day was warming up, and through the open window you could hear the approaching drumbeat of the guard detail who’d marched the short distance from Wellington Barracks. Once, there would have been a band, horses, gold braid, shining helmets. Today there was merely an arid crunch of boots.
‘I’d better go and see the old boy. What sort of mood’s he in?’
‘At breakfast he completed The Times crossword in record time. Should be safe.’
Guy wandered out of the Mews and across the gravel to the Ambassador’s Entrance. There were strict rules against palace personnel walking across the inner quadrangle, but it was the quickest route to his boss’s offices. The place was so vast you needed a motorbike to get about.
The deputy private secretary’s office was, in its own way, a sort of Throne Room. Certainly, Tommy Lascelles was as important as any king and knew more about the business of ruling a nation than either the present incumbent or his brothers. Arriving at the hallowed portal, you knocked and waited. After a considerable pause, you might be allowed to enter.
‘The Brampton business, sir,’ Guy began. ‘I think first I should go round to his house in Chelsea. I’m assuming that’s where the body will need to be found?’
‘I have no idea what you’re talking about,’ said Lascelles, tugging at the stiff collar constricting his neck. ‘I believe you know Mrs Gwynne.’
Guy nodded. In an instant he grasped the instructions he’d just read did not constitute grounds for a conversation, and that further negotiations on the disposal of poor Edgar’s body would be conducted through a lesser being. Just like the King, the deputy private secretary knew all about Ed – but didn’t want to know.
‘Mrs Gwynne is, I think, a close friend of the Duchess of Windsor?’
‘I believe so.’
‘Is she in touch with her?’
‘I have no idea, sir.’ This was not strictly accurate – only last night in Ciro’s, Foxy had been describing in hilarious detail the two old friends’ last telephone call.
‘I just want you to know’ – the perfectly manicured moustache bristled – ‘if the Duke ever succeeded in making a friend, he never managed to keep them for any length of time.’
‘Well, I do see . . .’
‘The very devoted service given him by his members of staff he appreciated so little he could only reward them with rank ingratitude.’
‘Yes, I think we . . .’
‘When it came to the parting of the ways, he stood there tragically and pitifully alone. It was an isolation of his own making.’
I wonder what the old fool’s getting at, thought Guy. And how long will this take, it’s awfully hot in here.
‘I just think you should pass that along. We’re trying hard to shut down lines of communication to the ex-king, except through this office. Despite the fact he is in Nassau – when he’s not gallivanting round the United States – every time he hears some new titbit of information he’s sending communiques and telegrams and making a frightful nuisance of himself, insisting he should come home. Much the best thing if he doesn’t know anything. At all.’
‘Are you saying he’s a security risk, sir?’
‘You’re not a complete idiot, Harford, what d’you think?’
‘I . . .’
‘Now, this Mrs Gwynne. I’ve told Lord Sefton to keep his mouth shut but he says it’s his future wife who’s in contact with the Duchess, he has no say over her just now. I don’t know whether he’s being difficult or whether that really is the case, but since you see so much of her, please tell her to shut her trap.’
How did you know I see her? thought Guy. Are you having me watched?
Aloud he said, ‘She’s an American citizen, sir.’
‘She’ll be British soon, once she marries Sefton. Till then, tell her to shut up.’
‘Is that all, sir?’
‘Off you go. I’m busy!’
Guy wandered out. Not for the first time his artist’s eye took in the lavish, theatrical decor of this more public part of Buckingham Palace. It was dressy and extravagant, just right for impressing visiting potentates, but somehow, in the middle of war, pointless and just a bit farcical. Too much paint, too much gilding, you had to have faith for it to work. Shaking his head slightly, he moved quickly down the stairs.
Outside, work continued on repairing the devastation caused by the Luftwaffe’s bombing raid the year before. Cloth-capped handymen leaned on their shovels while others chatted by a tea urn set up in the palace yard. They’re in no rush, thought Guy, so why am I?
The bus growled its way down Buckingham Palace Road towards Sloane Square. Everywhere among the grey buildings of Victoria and the pink-bricked houses of neighbouring Chelsea was evidence of a nation at war, from the tin hats and gas masks to the Anderson shelters and the intense looks on the faces of passers-by. Away from the lethargy of the Palace, there seemed an urgency among the populace to get out and achieve something.
The small terraced house in Markham Street, a white stuccoed cottage in the Chelsea style, was intact, alert, as if waiting for his visit. Palace rules dictated that you left a spare set of keys with the Master of the Household in case of emergency, but when Guy tried the latchkey it didn’t work.
He made his way down the street to a break in the terrace and walked up the back alley, but though he was able to turn the back-door key in the lock, the door was bolted.
‘Can I help?’ barked a military voice. The question clearly did not mean what it said – there would be no help forthcoming from this person, an ancient neighbour who evidently did not like the look of him.
‘Er, I’m a friend of Major Brampton,’ said Guy. ‘I’m sorry to say there’s been an accident.’
‘Oh,’ said the man. ‘Well, you won’t find him here. They all cleared off to Oxfordshire. Can’t say I blame them – I’d go myself if I could.’
‘No,’ said Guy, ‘Major Brampton.’
‘Yes, him too. They’ve all been gone two or three months.’
Guy looked up and down the back alley. A black cat lay on top of a wall but otherwise it was deserted. ‘Look,’ he said, ‘my name’s Harford. I shared an office with Major Brampton at . . . well, I expect you know where he worked . . . but as I understand it, Mrs Brampton and the children went to her father’s home in Oxfordshire while he remained in town. Here,’ he added with emphasis, pointing at the back of the house.
‘You’re mistaken. When Mrs Brampton left, he stayed on for a couple of days. But I didn’t see him after that.’
‘Look,’ repeated Guy, ‘there’s been an accident and I’ve been sent here just to . . .’ But he did not complete the sentence. He’d been dispatched to check the coast was clear so that, if necessary, Ed Brampton’s body could be returned to the house at nigh
t to be ‘discovered’.
No need to share that. ‘I’ve just been sent to see all’s in order.’
‘Hmm,’ said the man, unimpressed.
‘The major didn’t leave a key with you? As neighbours sometimes do?’
‘Do you have any identification?’ said the old boy aggressively. His regimental tie glinted threateningly in the sunlight.
Guy fished out his Buckingham Palace pass. It changed everything.
‘Augustus ffrench-Blake,’ said the man, with the slightest of bows. ‘Fifteenth Lancers. Well, I was in the Fifteenth . . . the last show, don’tcha know. The Prince of Wales came to inspect us. Never seen such a tiny feller.’
‘Key?’ said Guy.
‘Ah. Go back round to the front and I’ll meet you at the door.’
Guy retraced his steps, and by the time he reached Brampton’s house the old soldier was already standing there.
‘Doesn’t work,’ said Guy, after pushing the key in the lock. ‘Are you sure this is the right one?’
‘It’s a Chubb. We have Yale.’
‘Well, it doesn’t work,’ said Guy crossly. ‘He can’t have changed the locks?’
‘I wouldn’t know.’ The old boy was losing interest.
‘May I use your telephone?’
Colonel ffrench-Blake’s house was crowded with gilt furniture and huge mirrors – reminders of a grander past – and hung with oversized oil portraits of soldiers long dead.
‘Adelaide?’ he said into the mouthpiece. ‘It’s Guy Harford. May I come to see you this afternoon? I’ll drive down, could be with you by teatime.’
Though the widow answered, her words were vague. Guy deliberately didn’t ask whether she’d been told the truth about Brampton’s suicide or had been fed the official line. It was better to wait till he saw her.
He turned to thank the colonel. ‘And you’re certain that Major Brampton hasn’t been here in the last couple of months?’
‘Completely. The walls of these houses aren’t that thick – you tend to hear movement. All went quiet a couple of days after the family left. What’s happened to him?’
