Stealing the Crown (A Guy Harford Mystery)

by TP Fielden

  ‘Whisky awaits,’ said Rupe, pointing. ‘How did it go?’

  ‘A hell of a day. Kicked around like a football all morning, and then the Markham Street business this evening.’

  ‘They get the body into the house OK?’

  ‘There was an air raid on so everyone was indoors.’

  ‘Did they remember to bring the wooden leg with him?’

  ‘Ha ha, very funny.’

  ‘Who gets to discover the body?’

  ‘The palace police. They’ll have been worried when he didn’t turn up for work, if you get my meaning.’

  Rupert scratched his jaw. ‘But surely that’s a job for the Metropolitan Police?’

  ‘They do exactly what they’re told when it comes to the Palace.’

  ‘I suppose,’ said Rodie speculatively, ‘once the body’s been found and they’ve taken it away, the house will be empty?’

  ‘Don’t even think about it!’ snapped Rupe. For heaven’s sake, she’d had the emeralds already!

  Rodie gave an angelic smile and looked up into Guy’s face, begging his blessing. ‘Nobody would notice, would they, darling?’ she breathed. ‘If I popped in for a look-see? Nobody would mind?’

  ‘Are you completely mad? My colleague’s dead, he has a grieving widow, and his children have lost their father. And you’re thinking about burgling his house?’

  Rodie’s features slammed shut. ‘Don’t you know there’s a war on?’ she snapped. ‘If a bomb hit his house there’d be nothing left anyway. Have another drink and loosen up.’ She got up and made her way towards the bar.

  ‘What happened this morning?’ asked Rupert.

  ‘Hauled over the coals by a senior courtier, then interrogated by the army. This is off the record, Rupe?’

  ‘Of course. Was it the Coats Mission lot who questioned you?’

  Guy sat back in his chair in wonderment. ‘I thought you worked for the GPO. I can’t imagine how you could possibly know such things. And by the way, don’t take that answer as a confirmation.’

  ‘At the Post Office we don’t discriminate,’ said Rupert with an enigmatic smile. ‘We push letters through anybody’s letterbox, be they high-born or low.’

  Guy scratched his head. ‘Everyone seems anxious to know what I’m doing about Ed Brampton. I don’t get it.’

  ‘I take it you’re not telling everyone.’

  ‘Nobody. Apart from you, the postman,’ grimaced Guy, ‘and that’s probably a treasonable offence. Old Topsy Dighton threatened me with the Tower of London.’

  ‘He’d know all about that. Several of his family, over the centuries, have parted company with their heads there.’

  ‘You do seem to know a lot about my business. I must remember to ask about yours.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Rupert, a wry smile flitting across his face. ‘Stamps, parcels, mailbags, that sort of thing. Sealing wax and string. All very dull really.’

  ‘Just tell me this. Why are we suddenly graced with the presence of Miss Rodie Carr? She’s done her job, must we now celebrate with her? I mean, I’m delighted she got us into Ed Brampton’s house – though I’m still mystified as to why the keys didn’t work – but must she now follow us about like a puppy?’

  ‘She’s very decorative. In her peculiar way.’

  ‘And completely without scruple. Back in Tangier, people could be many things – and they were, Lord knows – but I don’t think I’ve come across such a trickster. So completely without a moral compass.’

  ‘She’s a rare and valued asset. You have no idea the hell of trying to find, in the middle of a war, a burglar you can trust.’

  ‘Trust?’ said Guy, as the black-eyed Rodie eased her way through the crowd, back to their table. ‘Trust? Look at her!’

  They both did. There was something about the way she walked, balancing a tray of drinks, twisting and turning and deftly avoiding the sharp elbows and sudden lurches a late night in an air-raid pub can occasion, which gave her tiny figure immense authority.

  And then there was her face. Guy could see what Rupert meant.

  ‘It’s not late,’ Rodie said, a little flushed as she plonked the drinks down. ‘We could go dancin’. Get a taxi down to Hammersmith Palais’ – she said it ‘Pally’ – ‘and pick Lem up on the way. Make it a cosy foursome.’

  The two men looked at each other. Guy raised his eyebrows to Rupert, and Rupert spoke for them both.

  ‘I don’t think you quite understand,’ he said. ‘Guy works for . . . well, you know who he works for. Lovely as you are, Rodie, he can’t be seen with people like you, people with a criminal record.’

  ‘I never went to jail!’

  ‘Only because it was a first offence. And how many have there been since then? Don’t you see?’

  Rodie looked like a three-year-old who’d dropped her ice cream in a puddle.

  ‘Snobs,’ she said bitterly. ‘You’re just snobs, the pair of you! You don’t mind usin’ my God-given talent to do something which should rightly land you both in the dock – but you can’t be seen out dancin’ with me.’

  Rupert nodded genially. ‘The way of the world, Rodie, the way of the world. Now, why don’t you hop away and pick some nice gentleman’s pocket?’

  CHAPTER FIVE

  It’s remarkable, thought Guy, how resourceful people can be in wartime. It was only a few short hours since he’d overseen the carting of poor Ed Brampton’s body back into his Chelsea home. Now the body had been ‘discovered’, the next-door neighbour squared, the place tidied up, and the dead courtier taken away again to a place of rest prior to the final oblations.

  Now Guy was back in Ed’s drawing room, sitting with Adelaide over a cup of tea.

  ‘There’s no sugar. Sorry.’

  ‘I prefer it this way.’ The usual wartime white lie.

  ‘The King wrote to me, a very charming letter. I was surprised – Ed worked at the Palace for ages, but their paths never crossed.’

  ‘HM has a reputation for graceful behaviour.’

  ‘The point being that His Majesty is a very jealous sort, and I never expected such a kind gesture.’

  ‘Jealous?’

  ‘Oh yes. Ed, you know, and the Queen. There was a terrible fuss over Kenneth Clark.’

  ‘The Keeper of the King’s Pictures?’

  ‘Handsome, but an exceptionally vain man. Used to go around the place saying, “She’s in love with me” – meaning Her Majesty. And for all I know she may have been – he’s a frightful show-off and ladies’ man, and she’s a bit susceptible. But there was an explosion one night at Windsor, the King got into one of his rages and there was all hell to pay.’

  ‘Good Lord. Biscuit?’

  ‘He really is jealous. It didn’t help that Clark could barely conceal his contempt for His Majesty – an exceptionally stupid man, I think he said. So one way and the other he was probably Public Enemy Number 1 at court.’

  ‘Same old story with Ed, then?’

  ‘Well, Guy, I was surprised, I must say. Whatever went on between Her Majesty and Clark, everyone knew that Ed had a tremendously soft spot for her. No, actually I’d say he was in love with her. And probably it showed, he was such an idiot. And if I – who never get invited to the Palace – knew all about it, you can be pretty certain the King did. Anyway, I thought it was a lovely gesture and I shall treasure his letter.’

  Guy got up to pour more tea.

  ‘You know, there are a lot of question marks around Ed’s death, Adelaide. I wonder how much you know – or want to know, come to that.’

  ‘Of course I want to know – he was my husband for twelve long years. He’s dead, we don’t know how or why. I’m his wife, for heaven’s sake!’

  ‘I’ve been told to keep my trap shut.’

  ‘And that includes me?’

  ‘Apparently.’

  ‘It’s disgusting.’ She thought for a moment. ‘OK, here’s the deal – I’ll tell you about the Duke of Gloucester if you tell me about what’s been g
oing on here. In my house.’

  Guy thought guiltily about the break-in, the search through the rooms, the rifling of Ed’s papers, the missing emerald brooch, and whether some resourceful hands had since put it back in the safe. ‘I’m stuck,’ he said. ‘Under orders, not sure how much I should say except that really I should say nothing. What do you want to know?’

  ‘Did he kill himself?’

  ‘That’s a difficult one.’

  The widow looked up fiercely. She had a fine face, almost a perfect English rose with her thin blonde hair and pale complexion, though war, or something, had robbed her of her bloom. But her cornflower eyes were still magnetic.

  ‘You’ve just given me the answer,’ she snapped. ‘Ed was a brave man and a good soldier. Granted he was a fairly useless husband but that’s not the point – his life shouldn’t end this way, in mystery, skulduggery, tossed away like a dead game bird. This story about him cleaning his gun . . .’

  ‘Look at me,’ said Guy. ‘Look at me, and promise you won’t repeat this. Can I trust you to do that, Adelaide?’

  ‘All right.’ She screwed up her face as if awaiting a slap. ‘He was killed?’

  ‘Probably.’

  ‘I knew it.’ Her hands were twisting in her lap.

  ‘The Palace works in mysterious ways. He was found in his office. Pistol on the floor, that’s all I know. Next thing, his body is whisked away and brought here. Can’t have a suicide – or whatever it is – on royal premises.’

  ‘I knew it! I knew it, when I walked into this house. There was no sense of . . . violent death, d’you know what I mean? It may sound silly but I can sense these things, Guy. I knew it didn’t happen here.’

  Quite a lot did happen here though, thought Guy, after he’d gone. Including pinching your family jewels.

  ‘So what happens now?’

  Guy looked at his tea, untouched, going cold. ‘Ed will be given a hero’s send-off at the Guards Chapel. You will be the grieving widow. The Palace will send its best men to bid him farewell, and that’ll be that.’

  ‘Will the best men include that odious snake Dighton?’

  ‘The Master? I imagine so. Wasn’t he related to Ed?’

  ‘In a vague sort of way. He got Ed the job at the Palace. You know, Ed was wounded so badly in the First War he found life difficult – he’d been reduced to being a Kleen-e-ze salesman. Selling shoe brushes door-to-door. If it hadn’t been for Daddy, we shouldn’t have had a roof over our heads.’

  ‘Poor man. I had no idea.’

  ‘Dighton saved Ed’s bacon – but then never let him forget it. He’d have Ed doing all sorts of dirty jobs for him – spreading rumours, blackening people’s names, all sorts of things that were absolutely against Ed’s own principles. He was very upright, Guy.’

  ‘You could tell that at a glance.’

  ‘Topham Dighton is not. I suppose he thinks it’s his job to protect the Crown, but actually he’s not much more than a jumped-up hotel manager for Buck House and Windsor Castle – he just loves intrigue, and of course he’s been there so long nobody can get rid of him. I think the King detests him.’

  ‘Well, I daresay you’ll put on your best smile for him at the funeral.’

  ‘Naturally. There are the school fees to think of – I expect the Privy Purse to cough up for those.’

  She’s tougher than she looks, thought Guy.

  ‘And then that’ll be the end of the matter, Mr Courtier? My husband?’

  ‘Strictly speaking, yes. My orders are to close the whole thing down as soon as possible. He’s had a good write-up in The Times, and that should be enough to satisfy most people’s curiosity.’

  ‘Nobody seems very curious about the pistol. The one that killed him, the one he didn’t own.’

  ‘No, they don’t. What can I say, Adelaide? It’s not a time for questions.’

  ‘Did you like him, Guy? You shared an office with him, even if only for a few short weeks.’

  ‘You and I have known each other since our schooldays, we’re the same generation. Ed was that much older, it was difficult to get to know him. I was surprised to hear you’d married.’

  ‘He was a wounded hero. I took pity on him. Did you like him?’

  ‘We were very different people. I’ve never been in the army.’

  ‘What I’m trying to say is – did you like him enough to want to do something about this or are you just going to let it go? Are you going to turn your back on what happened – in his office, with somebody else’s pistol – are you going to let somebody murder my husband and get away with it?’

  ‘Well,’ said Guy uncomfortably. ‘When you put it like that . . .’

  The women sat in comfortable companionship, two aliens caught by war in an elegant apartment overlooking Grosvenor Square. ‘I preferred it when Joe Kennedy was still here,’ said Foxy Gwynne, looking out on to the US Embassy. ‘Sociable, a wonderful ambassador. Gave great parties, did a remarkable job in preparing for the war. I’m not sure about the new man.’

  ‘Kennedy didn’t think much of Britain’s chances, though – that was the big strike against him. I saw Winston just before he became Prime Minister, he was talking hot and strong about what he called “our special relationship”.’

  ‘Naturally. His mother’s American.’

  ‘So Kennedy didn’t fit in any more, he had to go.’

  ‘What’ll happen to Kick? I heard she’s going to marry the Marquess of Hartington.’

  ‘Joe made her go home with him, but she’ll be back – she’s fallen in love with England.’

  ‘And with a man who one day will own half of it!’

  ‘While your future husband owns the other half!’

  Foxy Gwynne laughed and rang the bell. ‘What’ll you have?’

  Mrs Granville Lee Welch Kendall Cody III, a very rich woman by virtue of a succession of shrewd marriages, smiled and said, ‘If this was New York I’d be ordering a Manhattan, in honour of Lady Randolph Churchill.’ Her diamonds glittered in the lamplight. ‘As it is, I suppose it’ll be the usual gin and orange. Though it’s disgusting, isn’t it? Sticks to your teeth.’

  ‘Oh, go on. You love being in London, Betsey, in the thick of it.’

  ‘Granville has important work to do here.’

  ‘And you have important people to see.’

  ‘Oh, George!’ she laughed. ‘He’s like a puppy dog, follows me about wherever I go. Writes me letters, sends me flowers. I’ve never been wooed by a prince before.’

  Wooed, thought Foxy, that’s a good one. After all those husbands.

  ‘He’s bored though,’ said Betsey. ‘Thinks he’s undervalued. I keep telling him he’s doing a grand job, but he wants more. Says he’s snipped enough ribbons to last a lifetime, made the same stupid speech a thousand times, wants something that’s a bit more of a challenge.’

  ‘He’s extremely popular.’

  ‘He knows that. But, darling, he said to me, “All that handshaking. It broke my father’s hand once. And the Duke of Windsor’s. It’ll be my turn next.” He wants to get away from the crowds and do something more political – he’s very keen on forging Anglo-American relations.’

  ‘Well, he seems to have put that into practice with you, Betsey. Quite energetically.’

  ‘Ha ha! I’m giving a dinner for General Knox again next week – will you and Hugh come? I daresay my young princeling will look in – I want him to meet the general.’

  ‘That would be lovely, let me know when. Now, in return, I want you to think about my friend Guy Harford.’

  ‘I don’t think I ever met him.’

  ‘He’s only just back from Tangier. Working at Buckingham Palace now in some tiresome job which I think will only cause him headaches in the long run, but Betsey, he’s a gifted painter. You have so many friends here – is there a gallery you know which might stage an exhibition of his work?’

  ‘Harford, did you say? Tangier?’

  ‘Yes, does it ring a bell?�
�

  ‘It does now. Wasn’t there a dreadful schemozzle – everybody threatening to shoot everybody else, even though it’s neutral territory? I had General Montgomery to dinner the other night, he made a terribly good story out of it.’

  ‘Sounds like Guy!’

  ‘It was a complete disaster. Tangier’s supposed to be neutral, a place where the Allies and the Axis meet, in the same way those soldiers played football with the Germans in the First War. Finely balanced diplomacy, Monty called it, with everyone trying desperately hard to learn everybody else’s secrets while at the same time not putting a foot wrong. Unique in the world. Until your friend Guy went and did that.’

  ‘What exactly is the “that” that he’s supposed to have done? He’s never said.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know,’ said Betsey evasively, ‘I can’t have been listening.’ She was looking across the room at her sable coat, relic of a bygone age, slung across the back of a chair. She shivered. ‘These British summers, darling. Sometimes I wish I was back in Charleston.’

  ‘No, you don’t! You’re the queen of London, the biggest socialite our mighty American nation has ever produced. You reign supreme, and you love it.’

  ‘Amazing what good a few ol’ greenbacks can do in times of trouble!’

  ‘You make everybody happy with your parties. And now there you are, helping your prince find a better job for himself. Selfless! May I ask, does Granville know about him?’

  ‘Oh darling, he’s so busy with his airplanes and his diplomacy and his hands-across-the-sea. No time for romance.’

  ‘Your prince on the other hand . . .’

  ‘No time for anything else, Foxy!’ Her laugh tinkled across the room.

  ‘So can you help Guy?’

  Betsey flapped her eyelids at her friend. ‘Are you two . . . ?’

  ‘Certainly not! I’m engaged to be married! It’s just that he needs a boost. The Tangier business took it out of him rather and, really, he shouldn’t be reduced to pen-pushing at Buck House.’

  ‘I’ll see what can be done,’ said Betsey. ‘And now I want to talk about Wallis and David.’

  ‘Yes?’

  It was an unspoken competition between the two well-connected women – Foxy had known the Windsors longer, but did Betsey know them better? The age-old one-upmanship among those close to royalty was no different in wartime England than it had been in Tudor times.