by TP Fielden
‘I’m sorry to say he has died.’
‘Oh,’ said the soldier, knowing not to inquire any further. ‘Well, I’m sorry to hear it. He was a good fellow – for an infantryman.’
St Walke Episcopi boasted neither pub nor village hall, and the lane leading to it was so narrow Guy passed the turning twice. When he finally entered the village he found a single street pointing towards a large stone gateway. Round a curve in the drive came the sight of a grey-stone Palladian mansion with a pony cart under the portico and two small children playing on the lawn.
Adelaide Brampton greeted him with the wave of a duster. ‘Tea’s ready.’
‘Adelaide, I’m so sorry . . .’
‘I’ll tell you straight away, Guy. It’s a shock, of course it is, but things weren’t going well between Ed and me. If I hadn’t come away because of the bombs, there would have been some other reason.’
‘I’m sorry, I . . .’
‘He was a dear fellow, and brave of course. But not what might be described as a family man. He was married to the job, not to me. I had a call from the Lord Chamberlain’s office, they said the Palace would make all the arrangements – I don’t seem even to be allowed the job of putting him to rest.’
‘I came to make sure you were all right and to let you know about the funeral.’
‘Oh? It won’t be here in St Walke?’
‘Guards Chapel. A week today.’
‘Good of you to let me know, I might have turned up at the wrong church otherwise,’ she said bitterly.
‘I’m sorry, Adelaide, we all do what we’re told. It’s the only way things work in wartime.’
She gave him a cold stare. ‘He was my husband, not theirs. They didn’t even tell me where he died.’
‘Ah. Well . . .’
‘Will he be sent off as a Catholic or as Church of England?’
‘They’re not terribly keen on incense, those chaps.’
‘Well, I don’t suppose it’ll make any difference, he never went to church.’
‘There’ll be a firing party. You know, a ceremonial volley and all that.’
She gave him a sour look. ‘Pretty tactless in the circumstances, since he ended up with a bullet in his head. And isn’t there going to be an inquest? Since his death was supposedly accidental?’
They haven’t even told you about that, he thought. Is it the war – or is it palace protocol – that gives us all such bad manners?
‘I don’t know. So many formalities seem to be dispensed with these days. Can I ask you . . .’
‘Yes?’
‘What were Ed’s plans, after you came with the children to Oxfordshire? Was he going to live at his club?’
Adelaide looked surprised. ‘No – why would he do that when we have a perfectly good house in Chelsea?’
‘It’s just that . . .’ said Guy, ‘I went round there this morning. Saw your neighbour, the colonel. We both tried to get into the house but something had happened to the front-door lock. And the colonel told me that he hadn’t seen Ed since you moved down here.’
‘That’s odd.’
‘Very odd, Adelaide. You don’t mind my asking these questions, do you?’
‘Go on.’
‘In the office, all appeared normal. I wasn’t close to Ed, as you know, but we got on pretty well. He didn’t say he’d moved out of the house. The key he gave to the Master of the Household was the same as the one you gave Colonel ffrench-Blake – but it wouldn’t work. What I’m asking, Adelaide, is where had Ed been for the past three months?’
‘Another woman?’ suggested Adelaide, with a wan smile. ‘But, Guy, I don’t think so. You know who he was sweet on.’
‘Oh, you’d heard that.’
‘He never talked about anybody else. HM this and HM that – I won’t say it was an obsession . . . though maybe it was.’ She shook her head.
‘Still doesn’t solve where he’s been for the past three months.’
Adelaide thought for a moment. ‘There is one thing.’
‘Yes?’
‘We spoke on the telephone, oh, once or twice a week – he’s not a great letter-writer. He was very upset not getting that job.’
‘Which job? He didn’t tell me.’
‘Private secretary to Harry Gloucester.’
Guy raised his eyebrows. ‘Oh? I didn’t know there was a vacancy.’
‘There was. But the powers that be said under the circs they couldn’t allow his name to go forward.’
‘What circs?’
‘Him and the Queen.’
Guy laughed. ‘There’s nothing in that!’
‘Isn’t there?’
‘Oh, Adelaide, he was just a devoted courtier. If she was sweet on him it’ll be because he does – did – his job efficiently and they would sit around and talk about her brother. His regiment, the Black Watch, all that. Nothing more.’
‘Sure?’
‘She’s the Queen, Adelaide!’
‘Mm.’ She looked away. ‘Anyway, he was upset, he thought he could straighten Harry Gloucester out. The man’s a complete chump, you know.’
‘He is the King’s brother. You don’t “straighten out” a royal duke.’
‘You don’t know the half of it. And just think, Guy, if anything happens to the King, Harry Gloucester will be Regent – he will sit on the throne.’
‘That’s not going to happen.’
‘Well, he seems to think it might. It’s astonishing how much he needs protecting from himself.’
‘And Ed was going to do that?’
‘He talked a lot about it. How the King has got the Duke of Windsor wishing he was back on the throne – still trying to throw his weight about even though he’s thousands of miles away. The Queen is always complaining about it.’
Guy nodded. ‘I know.’
‘And then his younger brother just as eager to see if the throne will fit his big fat bottom. I shouldn’t be surprised if he doesn’t sneak into the Throne Room sometimes and just sit there, trying it out for size!’
‘All this backstabbing,’ said Guy, shaking his head, ‘when there’s a war on. Unbelievable.’
‘Tip of the iceberg. Remember, Ed had been in the Palace since the Abdication. You’ve only been there . . . ?’
‘Six weeks. Had to get away from . . .’
‘Tangier. I know. There was quite a lot of talk when you first turned up. What went wrong out there? How did you end up in the Palace? You’re a painter, not a courtier!’
‘It’s a long story.’
‘Well, you can tell me over dinner.’ Adelaide poured more tea, then walked over to the window to call her children in from the lawn.
‘There’s something very odd about all this,’ she said over her shoulder. ‘The Gloucester job was pretty much guaranteed. Then, suddenly, it wasn’t. The Lord Chamberlain’s office . . . they told me he’d had an accident with his pistol.’
‘That’s right.’
‘You’re sure about that?’
‘Yes, as certain as I can be. I didn’t actually see the . . .’
‘It’s very strange, Guy.’
‘Because?’
‘Because he didn’t have a pistol. After he retired from the army, he handed it in. Guy, he didn’t have a pistol.’
CHAPTER THREE
‘So you see, Rupe, it’s a bit tricky.’
‘Why don’t you get the police to do it?’
They were sitting in the flat they shared above Victoria bus station. At the best of times the place was dreary, but once the sunlight had gone it became almost oppressive. The mood was lightened by a few small canvases Guy had managed to salvage in his flight from the ghastly Tangier business. His sunset over the Gates of Hercules was particularly fine – and hung, slightly crooked, over the leaky gas fire.
The rooms were damp and so were the sofas they sat on, but in wartime you do not choose your accommodation; it chooses you. Similarly, you do not choose your flatmates, especially when you’ve
been parachuted back into London with your tail between your legs.
Rupert Hardacre claimed to be a postman, but even at first glance it was easy to see he was more than that. The clothes in his wardrobe, the people he met, the unexplained absences all pointed to something else, and yet, each morning, he put on the uniform and peaked cap supplied by the General Post Office and disappeared at dawn.
Conversationally, much of their individual lives was off limits. Occasionally they would discuss a problem on the tacit understanding that it would be immediately forgotten. In general, their common ground was a discussion of the whisky they were drinking, and how to get more.
‘So,’ prompted Rupe, ‘the police?’
‘Can’t involve them because Edgar’s death simply cannot become a police matter. A tragic accident, no call for Scotland Yard to be poking their noses in.’
‘So what you’re saying is . . .’
‘What I’m saying is my people, the powers that be, want the option of being able to plant Edgar’s body back in his house in Markham Street so he can be “found” there. My job this morning was to make sure there was nothing in the house which would compromise that – but I couldn’t get in. Somebody’s changed the locks.’
‘Why would they do that?’
‘I have no idea, and I don’t care – maybe the lock just got jammed, I don’t know. All I know is – I can’t get in the house, and by tomorrow morning they may well want to plant Edgar’s body there. They can’t leave it too long, after all. Anything rather than it being found on palace premises.’
Rupert stretched his long legs and looked at the ceiling. ‘You’re asking my advice?’
‘Of course.’
‘There’s only one solution I can think of at short notice. But you won’t like it.’
‘Anything.’
‘Rodie Carr.’
‘I don’t . . . really . . . I couldn’t possibly . . .’ Guy spluttered. He could not summon the words to express his horror.
‘She’s the only person I know, and certainly the only one you know, who can get through a locked door just by looking at it. Take what she did getting into your office, and there were police and armed guards all over the place.’
‘No, Rupe, no! She’s a criminal! Come to think of it, how do you even know someone like that?’
‘In my line of work’ – a wintry smile – ‘you meet all sorts.’
‘When you introduced me to her in the pub the other night I simply couldn’t believe it. The woman’s a blackmailer, a black marketeer and a burglar, for heaven’s sake. She should be in jail!’
They’d been sheltering in The Grenadier, hidden in a Knightsbridge cul-de-sac, during yet another bombing raid. The pint-sized black-eyed girl had been in a corner, laughing and having a ball, but the tales she told were not victimless.
‘Look,’ said Guy, ‘I don’t judge anybody. I lived in Tangier for over five years – there are precious few rules there, and no laws to speak of – certainly no morals – but I’ve never encountered someone like her. She’s without a single scruple.’
‘Is that so shocking?’ said Rupe, pouring them both another shot. ‘The world is changing. We live in an age of legalised murder – is what she’s doing worse than that?’
‘And then she said she wanted to marry me!’
‘She’s very beautiful, Guy.’
‘For heaven’s sake. Preposterous!’
‘If the deadline’s dawn tomorrow, she’s your only hope.’
Guy swallowed the whisky at a gulp.
Rodie stood on the self-same step occupied by the ancient colonel only a few hours before, only this time the door was wide open.
‘What kept you, Rupe?’ she whispered, but her big eyes were looking out for Guy. ‘Come on in!’
Markham Street was in complete darkness, but inside the house a small light shone from a candle on the hall table. From down the road a hoarse voice yelled, ‘Put that light OUT!’
‘Get inside,’ ordered Guy, and all three crowded into the narrow hall. He shut the door quickly.
‘Move quietly,’ he warned. ‘The man next door can hear. In fact, why don’t you two just go and sit in the kitchen while I check around? And make sure the curtains are drawn before you switch on any lights.’
The house was roomier on the inside than its cramped exterior suggested. He made his way upstairs aided by the feeble light of a torch and stepped into the front bedroom. The house smelt musty, the air in it still, suspended; it took no time for Guy to conclude that what the colonel said was true – nobody had lived here for many weeks. He had no idea what he was looking for, but, pausing to pull together the curtains, he switched on the overhead light and looked about.
‘Did you think any more about my marriage proposal?’ Rodie had crept silently up the stairs on plimsolled feet and was standing in the doorway dressed from head to toe in black.
‘Your workaday outfit, I see,’ said Guy dismissively. She did look extraordinarily beautiful. ‘Why don’t you get a proper job?’
‘I’m probably better off than you are,’ she retorted. ‘And who’s to say what a proper job is these days? What are you doing sitting behind a desk in that dusty old room in the back end of the Palace? Rupe said you come from Tangier.’
‘Look,’ said Guy, ‘this is no time to be exchanging curriculum vitae. And you can damned well put those down, for a start.’
He’d noticed that in one gloved hand Rodie had a small gilt travelling clock and in the other an ornate silver box.
‘Nobody’ll miss ’em.’
‘For heaven’s sake!’ he hissed. ‘We’re in the house of a man who’s killed himself. We don’t know the circumstances, but it’s a tragedy. To many, he was a wonderful, kind, generous chap, and he’s dead.’
‘Wonderful, kind, generous – and with no need for these any more,’ said Rodie, oblivious to the tragedy which hung over the house.
‘Do you have a brain?’ said Guy. ‘If so, use it! The man who lived here disappeared from this house a couple of months ago. He was coming into the office every day, but he never came home at night. I’m looking for a letter, a note – something – which might tell me where he was when he claimed to be here.’
‘If I were you, I’d try his desk, then,’ snapped Rodie. ‘You won’t find too many clues in a bedroom.’
They went downstairs. Rupe was already in the small room beyond the kitchen which Ed Brampton had used as his study. The desk was open, and Rupe was neatly collating and piling the papers inside.
‘I’ve had a look through but there’s nothing helpful here,’ he said over his shoulder. ‘Couple of unpaid bills, begging letter from his sister, some palace bumf which by rights should never have left his office. That’s about it.’
Guy was astonished. ‘You’ve done all that? You’re not a burglar too, are you, Rupert?’
The man turned round with an enigmatic smile. ‘There are many departments in the General Post Office. Not all of them employ people to shove letters through somebody’s front door.’
‘Well, I didn’t suppose you . . .’
‘Guy,’ said Rupe, ‘do you have any idea what you’re doing here?’
‘Well, since you put it like that, no. I felt I had to get into the house just to make sure all was in order. Then I thought there might be a clue as to where Ed had been staying before he shot himself . . .’
‘You’re sure he did that? Shot himself?’
‘What d’you mean?’
‘Nothing,’ said Rupe, turning back and closing the desk. ‘There’s a small safe in the wall behind that picture.’
‘My turn!’ whispered Rodie joyously, and slid across the room.
‘Wait, wait . . . Hold on a minute!’ said Guy, running his hands through his hair. ‘This is supposed to be a house-cleaning operation, not a full-scale burglary.’
‘Won’t be a jiffy,’ whispered Rodie, her ear against the combination lock. Guy looked on helplessly – as a mission leader he
was a failure, with his two underlings completely out of control, robbing him of all initiative.
The safe door offered little in the way of self-defence and soon they were poking in its murky interior. ‘Are they rich?’ said Rodie, sifting through a pile of small leather boxes. Her nimble fingers were opening the catches and evaluating the jewels within.
‘Come away!’ hissed Guy. ‘That’s private property! This is disgraceful!’
Rodie turned round to look at him and slowly smiled. She was doing it just to irritate him. ‘Don’t you think I look nice in this?’ she teased, stringing a heavy diamond necklace round her black polo neck.
‘For heaven’s sake!’ spluttered Guy. ‘Put it back and let’s get out of here. We’ve achieved the main objective. The rest can wait.’
Rupe led the way.
‘Incidentally,’ Guy said to Rodie, ‘how did you get into the house, as a matter of interest?’
‘That’d be telling,’ she said as she gave him a peck on the cheek.
‘ . . . and a great friend of the Duchess of Windsor, of course.’
‘We won’t talk about that, if you don’t mind.’
‘How are they getting on in the Bahamas? We hear so little these days.’
‘No, Ted, no!’ Foxy protested. ‘You’re interviewing me because I’m marrying Lord Sefton. You’re not interviewing me about my friends. If you were, we’d be here all day.’
They were drinking coffee and looking out of the window at the activity going on below in Hyde Park. The thick turf of Rotten Row had been dug up to make way for trenches, while further away a platoon of troops was hauling down a vast barrage balloon. The drab grey wasteland was dotted with khaki figures.
Ted Rochester took up his silver propelling pencil and dabbed again at his notebook. ‘Tell me about Paris, then.’
‘It was hilarious. In New York I won a competition to become a model for Jean Patou. I thought I was going to be in the movies, but then this came along. He whisked a bunch of us off to France on the Berengaria, we were an overnight sensation!’
‘No surprise, with those looks,’ said Ted. Like all gossip columnists, he could lay it on thick.
‘Well, we certainly put the local girls’ noses out of joint. But after all the press calls and the publicity and the photographers, it became rather boring. I was supposed to walk around Patou’s showroom modelling the gowns for his rich customers, but it was all rather demeaning – such vulgar women. So fat. And the hours, my dear, dawn till dusk – and beyond!’
