by TP Fielden
Rupert leaned back in amazement. ‘But, Guy, you weren’t employed by them!’
‘As far as they were concerned, I was. What’s more, when I got to Whitehall, instead of apologising for getting me into this mess, they claimed I’d done it deliberately. “How can we possibly trust the word of someone who appears to live so well on no money? Who have you been seeing, who have you been talking to? Are you a double agent, like everyone else in that fly-infested hole?” All that kind of nonsense! I didn’t want to leave Tangier, Rupe – it’s my home, for heaven’s sake – but I had no choice. And once I was in the hands of MI6 or the Foreign Office, or whatever you want to call it, I was their property.’
‘Reliant on them.’
Guy sighed. ‘Yes. Then after a bit they realised it wasn’t my fault. They’d made a huge fuss, threatening me with jail or the firing squad, whichever was my preference, but now they didn’t know what to do. So instead they offered me a job. I had no money – everything I had was back in Tangier and I’d come home to a country at war and with no idea what to do with myself, so I said yes. They found me this flat and . . . wait a minute, Rupe . . .’ Guy’s voice faltered. He paused for a long moment before speaking again. ‘The thought has only just occurred. I was given this flat by the Foreign Office . . . but they said I would have to share it.’
His flatmate smiled and shrugged his shoulders. ‘It was lucky that I was just looking for a place myself at the time. We . . .’
‘You know,’ said Guy slowly, ‘the timing – it seems strange. Your suddenly turning up like that. Almost as if you’d been sent by somebody to keep an eye on me. Spy on me. Now, why on earth should someone in so lowly a position like me need to be kept under observation?’
‘I wouldn’t put it quite like that,’ replied Rupert smoothly. ‘But you certainly need looking after. You shouldn’t be allowed out alone at night.’
The great hall of the National Gallery in Trafalgar Square echoed mournfully. Stripped of the great paintings of Van Dyck and Velázquez, Holbein and Raphael, its walls were now bare but for the occasional token canvas, and its grandeur seemed suddenly overblown and pointless.
Gas masks over their shoulders, Foxy Gwynne and her American friend paid their shilling entrance fee, filed in between the gilt-topped marble pillars and sat down. They were there to hear the great Myra Hess play her lunchtime concert.
‘Mrs Churchill,’ whispered Betsey Cody, pointing. They could just see the back of a stern, angular hat belonging to the Prime Minister’s wife. ‘Randolph came to dinner the other night – what a bore that man is! But he gave me an idea.’
‘And the Queen,’ interrupted Foxy, also pointing. ‘With that supercilious Sir Kenneth Clark practically sitting in her lap!’
‘From the look on her face, I don’t think she minds in the slightest.’
Both twisted their heads round as they waited for the great pianist to ascend the platform. Myra Hess’s lunchtime concerts were an oasis of calm and a celebration of normality; the sandbagged room with its uncomfortable canvas chairs was crammed with civilians, uniforms, and a sprinkling of schoolchildren.
‘Oh,’ said Foxy, ‘and over there, Guy’s spooky friend Rupert something-or-other.’
Betsey looked at the roneoed concert programme and wrinkled her nose. ‘Scarlatti. Bach, Schubert, Brahms,’ she said in a bored voice. ‘Why not something livelier?’
‘Cole Porter? Noël Coward? I don’t think she plays those. We can go to the Café de Paris for that.’
Betsey shot her a look.
‘Oh, Lord. All those dead, an absolute tragedy – you forget so quickly these days!’
‘Not me. I lost a few good friends that night.’ Both women, recalling the bomb which had demolished the restaurant only weeks before, pushed out their chins and looked straight ahead as the famous pianist took to the stage, a uniformed man following to turn the pages for her. The music began.
They lingered once the concert was over, wandering back to the entrance through a series of abandoned side galleries where empty gilt frames hung eerily on the walls.
‘I had a thought about your friend Guy,’ said Betsey. ‘You asked about an art gallery, and my dear rich friend Mr Gulbenkian will provide it. He has a share in a gallery off Piccadilly and was going to show Rex Whistler’s war paintings, but with Rex off with the Guards in France, he’s had to resort to a load of prints in the window which nobody’s interested in. I told him about Guy’s portrait of you – it truly is magnificent – and Gulbenkian said, “That’s what we need! We need faces – wartime faces. Famous faces and private faces – war workers, ARP people, the ladies in the East End with their hair in curlers. And the smoke-blackened firemen – as well as the rich and the famous, of course. Nobody’s done a show like that, and it’ll make your friend’s name!”’
‘Well, I don’t think he has many portraits at his disposal. He left most of his work in Africa.’
‘He’d better get cracking, then!’ exclaimed Betsey. ‘He could start off with Pamela Churchill. She was there at dinner with Randolph the other night – the life and soul of the party, my dear, dazzlingly good-looking. They say the Prime Minister envies his son more than a bit!’
They laughed.
‘And if Guy did a good job of Pamela, who knows – maybe old Winston would let him into Number 10 to paint him as well.’
They paused at the top of some marble stairs. ‘I don’t know,’ said Foxy guardedly, ‘he did that portrait of me because, well . . . let’s say he has to be inspired. He doesn’t usually do portraits, more huge seascapes and skyscapes.’
‘Are you saying he’s not a portraitist?’
‘I’m the most famous person he’s painted,’ laughed Foxy, ‘and nobody knows who I am.’
‘Famous Paris model! Soon to be the Countess of Sefton!’ Foxy sensed that, despite her riches, her friend was envious of this last part.
‘This is very sudden. He’s working flat out at Buckingham Palace just now and there are some odd things going on there, Betsey, only I can’t say what.’
‘Well, Gulbenkian was very clear. He’s keeping the prints in the window for the summer because it’s not a time when people want to wander round galleries. But come the autumn he wants an exciting new show. Don’t say I don’t try hard on your behalf! Invite us both to dinner next week.’
‘I won’t do that,’ said Foxy. ‘Hugh wouldn’t like it – Guy, I mean.’
Betsey raised an eyebrow. ‘OK, well, tell you what I’ll do. I’ll invite Guy and Pamela – Randolph’s going back to war and she’ll be at a loose end. If she likes Guy and he can see a portrait in her, then he’ll have got off to a flying start.’
‘The poor lamb,’ said Foxy. ‘He came away from Tangier in such a rush he didn’t even bring his brushes with him.’
‘I daresay the Lord will provide,’ said Betsey confidently. ‘And there’s a room we don’t use in the roof of our apartment – that can be his studio if he hasn’t got one of those either.’
‘You are generous, Bets!’
‘And why not. Only one thing.’
‘What’s that?’
‘Pamela Churchill. Guy’s not to fall in love with her like he did you. She’s taken.’
‘Well, obviously. She only got married a couple of years ago. And there’s the baby.’
‘No, no, you don’t understand. She’s got a boyfriend, darling. Name of Harriman.’
‘Averell Harriman? President Roosevelt’s special envoy? He’s old enough to be her father!’
‘Anything’s better than that beastly Randolph, darling! But just in case – because she is a bit frisky – you just tell Guy to behave himself.’
‘Poor lamb,’ sighed Foxy. ‘And he’s so in need of love.’
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The train steamed slowly to a halt with a squeal of brakes and an angry puff of smoke, but though the carriages were full, Guy was the only person to alight on to the small platform. There were no signs to iden
tify this anonymous stopping-place, but the guard put him right: this was Badminton.
The journey had been long and uncomfortable, but had provided plenty of opportunity for Guy to go over his meeting with Tommy Lascelles the previous day.
‘Treason!’ the courtier had barked, angrily polishing his spectacles.
‘Beg your pardon, sir?’
‘Treason, Harford, treason! That’s what the newspapers will call it if it ever gets out.’
‘Sorry, sir, I don’t understand. Who has . . . ?’
‘Communicating with the enemy is a treasonable offence, Harford. Surely you know that!’
Guy started guiltily. Was the whole business with the Count of Paris and Mussolini now about to rebound on him? Hadn’t he gone through enough anguish with the dust-up over the American spy and the Nazi general’s mistress?
‘The Count of Paris is both our enemy and our ally, sir. It’s a difficult situation . . .’
‘Paris? I’m not talking about Paris!’ snapped Lascelles. ‘It’s Queen Mary I’m talking about, Harford. The King’s mother!’
‘I don’t quite follow.’
The courtier calmed down a little as he reset the spectacles on his nose. ‘Of course you don’t, dear boy,’ he said. ‘Come and sit down. Cup of tea?’
‘Er, well . . . thank you.’ Guy fingered his collar uncomfortably.
‘I am sending you on a mission which requires tact, diplomacy, and an iron will. Are you equal to that?’ The old boy was leaning forward with an earnest look on his face.
‘Of course,’ said Guy, thinking, why me? I’m the one who does the parrots and the laundry – great missions requiring grown-up thinking aren’t assigned to people like me. Unless . . .
‘The matter,’ said Tommy, offering the sugar bowl, ‘is both simple and highly complicated. In a nutshell, it may be said that Queen Mary has been breaking the rules and communicating with the enemy.’
‘Good Lord.’
‘She doesn’t seem to realise that the articles of war apply to her as much as they do to everyone else. That, of course, is understandable – in her time she has been empress of half the world, as well as queen consort in these isles – she’s a woman to whom nobody has ever said no. She is decent, honourable, committed to this country winning the war, and believes in doing her bit. It’s just that nobody can tell her that she’s got to stop writing to her German relatives. It won’t do, Harford, it just won’t do!’
‘Who’s she writing to?’
‘All sorts. She’s related to half of German royalty, and to many more who are not royal. Heaven knows how she gets the letters away from these shores – pigeon post, I shouldn’t wonder – but she does. There’s a coterie of friends who are so devoted to her they’ll do anything – including, in this case, risking imprisonment and disgrace – to accede to her wishes. It’s got to stop, Harford!’
‘Surely His Majesty . . . the King . . . he’s her son – can’t he have a word with her?’
‘I don’t know how effective that would be. He may be king, but to her he’s just another of her sons. He’s not the one to tackle her.’
‘Well, sir, surely you yourself . . .’
Lascelles looked at him sharply. ‘I maintain a professional distance,’ he said defensively. ‘I can’t be seen to be accusing His Majesty’s mother of treason.’
‘But you just have, sir.’
‘Don’t be more of an idiot than you already are,’ came the withering reply. ‘My job is to choose the best path out of this mess and to ensure its success.’
And to keep yourself out of the mire, thought Guy. But he replied, ‘How can I be of help?’
‘Good chap. I want you to go down to Badminton and give her a personal message. Committing it to paper would be too risky, it has to be verbal.’
Too risky for you, thought Guy. The paper trail would lead straight back to your office if the plan comes unstuck.
‘And I’m to say?’
‘Stop it. Stop writing to these people. Respect our wishes, don’t damage your son’s chances of a successful reign. Don’t allow people ever to say, in the middle of war, “one rule for the royals, another for us” – that’s a sure way to fire up a revolution.’
‘Forgive me, sir, but aren’t I a bit junior for this?’
‘You’re young. You’re . . . personable. She has a soft spot for chaps like you. She likes paintings. You can talk to her about paintings if you like. Anything to get her to see how stupid this is. I mean . . .’
‘Yes, sir?’
‘Look, I really shouldn’t mention this, but it does illustrate the point. Have you heard of Queen Ena of Spain?’
‘Of course.’
‘The late king’s first cousin. He was very fond of her. He would have been appalled to learn she was literally kicked out of the country at the outbreak of war.’
‘I didn’t know about that, sir.’
Tommy rattled his teacup. ‘She’s one of us, really. Only, she’s not. Granddaughter of Queen Victoria, of course, born at Balmoral. Made the mistake of marrying the King of Spain, a most undesirable type.’
‘How so?’
‘A womaniser. A very unsteady figure. And, of course, throneless since the rise of General Franco. Queen Ena and the king parted company some time ago and she came back here to live in London before the war. But booted out, as I say, by the Foreign Office at the outbreak of hostilities. A complete disgrace.’
‘Why, if she’s a member of our royal family?’
‘Forget that. Because of her marriage, she’s a Spanish citizen – so she’s neutral. But her parents were both Germans – so she’s the enemy.’
‘Ridiculous.’
‘That’s war for you. Anyway, she’s currently in Rome – enemy territory – and Queen Mary is writing to her. Worse, Queen Ena is short of cash and Queen Mary has arranged for her to be paid money from here in London via Switzerland. That, to forestall your next question, is in flagrant contravention of our currency laws. You can’t write to the enemy, Harford, and you sure as hell can’t send them money!’
‘I really don’t see what I can say that will help change her mind.’
‘She needs a short sharp shock from someone with the guts to deliver it. Someone she doesn’t know. With her, unfortunately, familiarity breeds contempt – or something like it – therefore no courtier she knows would be able to make the slightest impression on her. She’s a wonderful woman, make no mistake, but in certain circumstances, a nightmare.’
‘I’ll need the list of names of people she’s written to, and some idea of what she’s been saying.’
The old courtier pointed to a file on his desk. ‘Read it in the anteroom and memorise. It doesn’t leave my office.’
‘Very well. When do you want me to go?’
‘Tomorrow. They’ll be expecting you.’
‘Thank you.’ Guy rose to leave.
‘One other thing,’ said Lascelles, motioning him to sit down again. ‘This sausages business.’
‘Sir?’
‘It’s got totally out of hand. I’ve had the Judge Advocate General here warning of the colossal public reaction there’d be if it ever got out – worse than writing to the enemy, worse than illegal money deals. Sausages! He’s beside himself with rage.’
‘Sausages?’ blinked Guy. ‘I don’t think I . . .’
Lascelles explained.
‘Now, when you go down to Badminton and talk to Her Majesty, I want you also to warn her of the dangers arising from members of the royal family breaking food regulations.’
‘Food regulations,’ said Guy, shaking his head in disbelief. Parrots, laundry, now sausages – what a job.
‘There’ll be another word for it if Fleet Street gets hold of the story. “Royal family and the black market”, they’ll say. “Queen uses her position to stock up on sausages”.’
‘Is she still doing it?’
‘No. The RAF officer in question has been exiled to the snowy wastes o
f the Yukon. If he doesn’t freeze to death, he’ll die of boredom. I doubt anyone else in his outfit would be foolish enough to follow suit, however much they might love the royals. But you have to din it into Her Majesty’s brain that rules are rules, Harford. If our royal family can’t behave properly in a crisis, what hope is there for the rest of the country?’
‘Badminton House, sir?’ The immaculately uniformed driver gave Guy a snappy salute and a wink. ‘For Her Majesty, is it?’
What have I let myself in for, thought Guy, as he slid into the passenger seat of the jeep. He gazed idly as the vast stone mansion gently rolled into view, but its grandeur was lost on him – he could only think that nobody in the whole royal apparatus had the nerve to tell off Queen Mary and neither did he. But while the cowards hid behind the Buckingham Palace railings, here he was.
‘Loverly voo, sir,’ said the driver as they reached the curve in the drive. He must have said it a hundred times before.
‘Yes,’ said Guy. Please turn this car around and take me back to the station.
‘Been quite busy since ’Er Majesty got ’ere. She loiks gardenin’ a lot. If I was you, sir, I wouldn’t volunteer for any gardenin’ work. You’ll come to regret it.’
The jeep drew up by a side entrance and a pretty secretary came out to greet him.
‘Mr Harford? I hope you didn’t have too bad a journey.’
‘No, no.’
‘The Palace weren’t clear whether you’d be staying, but there’s a room made up in the East Wing. It’s a bit cramped around here these days.’
‘No,’ repeated Guy, his eye travelling around the parkland before returning to his host. ‘There’s a late train. My business won’t take long. Queen Mary . . .’
