by TP Fielden
His eye strayed across the room to where Aggie sat, with her no-nonsense spectacles, her subfusc dress and her greying hair. He’d seen her like this most days since joining the Palace staff, but for the first time he looked at her with the question in his mind: Is she a killer? And did she get someone to do the killing for her?
Or was he just clutching at straws? After the briefest of moments he realised the idea was ridiculous – why would she kill this innocent, upright, well-meaning chap just because she was in love with him?
Aggie took herself off to the Stewards’ Room and Guy asked the switchboard operator for a number in the country.
‘Adelaide, it’s Guy.’
‘Hello. I’m just leaving, catching the 3.30. Are you free this evening? There’s something I want to discuss.’
‘Where will you be?’
‘I’m not going to open up the house, I’m staying at the Lansdowne Club – come and see me there.’
‘Tell me this, are you an animal lover?’
‘What?’
‘An animal lover?’
‘Well, you saw for yourself when you came down here, Guy. The place is overrun. Horses, dogs, cats, hens, ducks, more foxes than you can count . . .’
‘Have you ever considered having a parrot?’
Foxy Gwynne and her friend were looking over premises near Trafalgar Square.
‘Granville thinks the President is ready to come into the war, but his hands are tied till after the elections in November,’ said Betsey. ‘I’d like to have a club and headquarters for the American Red Cross up and running once he’s made his declaration. The more we do now, the easier it’ll be later.’
Foxy opened the door into an abandoned billiard room. ‘What’ll we do with this?’
‘Leave it as it is, we can put the bar in the corner. The curtains will do, and nobody will notice the state of the carpet once the place is filled with people.’
‘I do admire you,’ said Foxy. ‘Your vision. And all the money you’re putting into this.’
‘Something had to be done. If our boys decide to fight, there’ll be a hell of a job to do. I’m happy to pay whatever it takes – well, Granville is – but I can’t do it alone,’ replied Betsey. ‘There’ll have to be a fundraising committee. Do you think Lord Sefton will agree to join?’
‘I can certainly ask.’
The two women wandered out to the kitchen area. ‘Well,’ said Betsey, wrinkling her nose at the dusty, cramped quarters, ‘it’ll just have to be sandwiches! Now tell me about your friend Guy.’
‘What’s there to say? He’s bumbling along at the Palace and getting in some paintbrush practice before he does Pam Churchill. Doesn’t leave much time for anything else – and, in case you’re asking, no, he hasn’t got a girlfriend.’
‘Really? You do surprise me, Foxy, a handsome man like that. Anyway, what I wanted to ask is, how’s he getting on with taking up that job with Harry Gloucester?’
‘Oh, I don’t think he’s that keen. You know, he got dumped in the Palace because the Foreign Office didn’t know what else to do with him, and certainly he seems to have impressed Tommy Lascelles sufficiently for the job to be mentioned. But there’s nothing definite so far – I think they’re still in a bit of turmoil after Ed Brampton’s death.’
‘Not a very efficient organisation, then!’ said Betsey dismissively. ‘In Granville’s outfit, the Aircraft Exchange Commission, they’d have had a replacement in within twenty-four hours.’
‘I don’t think things work like that at the Palace. And anyway, I’m not sure that Guy sees his future there – you know he’s had this heart problem and is waiting for the all-clear from the doctors, then he’ll join up.’
‘He won’t, if the Palace want him.’
‘As I say, I don’t think he’s particularly enamoured of the Duke.’
‘Well, he should be!’ hissed Betsey, turning suddenly to face her friend. ‘He’s supposed to be helping me with the Gloucesters, and in return I’ve got him that art gallery exhibition he so hankers after. One good turn deserves another!’
Foxy stepped back, astonished at the sudden change in her friend. Betsey, normally so relaxed and laissez-faire, appeared to be extremely angry – and over something of such little consequence.
‘I don’t think you can expect him to shackle himself to Harry Gloucester just because you found him a place for his exhibition, Betsey. Be reasonable! And anyway, why do you care?’
The society hostess clapped her hands together. ‘If I take someone under my wing,’ she said grimly, ‘it is for a purpose.’
‘Does that go for me too?’
Betsey ignored this. ‘I’ve asked Guy to arrange for Granville and I to go stay with the Gloucesters in the country. The invitation hasn’t arrive,’ she snapped imperiously. ‘He hasn’t kept to his side of the bargain.’
‘Well, you know, Betsey, it doesn’t quite work like that over here. The Gloucesters are free to choose who they have as house guests. I know they’re doing their best to invite as many people as they can.’
‘But has Guy actually put our names forward?’
Foxy looked at her friend and suddenly saw her afresh. Gone was the polish and the charm – in its place a dogmatic urgency, anger and frustration. Mrs Cody expected to get what she asked for – no matter whether people were royal or not. It seemed mildly grotesque that she should feel her husband’s money could buy anything, even in wartime.
‘I’m sure he’s doing what he can.’
‘He’d better try harder, tell him, or he can forget the gallery!’
‘I’ll do no such thing!’ said Foxy. ‘Tell him yourself, Betsey. I don’t pass on messages of that nature.’
The other woman’s anger subsided. ‘Let me tell you something, Fox. I want Granville to get on in this war. He’s doing a wonderful job – do you know how many airplanes he’s managed to export from the US, through Canada, for the war effort? That goes against public opinion in the States, you know that!
‘If the extent of his role becomes known, and we don’t come into the war, that could seriously damage his public standing back home. Being close to the royal family gives him a real boost – you just know how us Yanks love the royals!’ she added in a jokey voice.
‘Well, Bets, you’ve done your bit with the Duke of Kent following you round like a lost sheep. And David and Wallis – they’re your chums, too.’
‘But don’t you see,’ replied Betsey in exasperation, ‘the only two who matter now are the King and Harry Gloucester, the top man and the Regent Designate, as it’s so fancifully called. We’d just call it the Number Two. We feel – I feel – we should know Harry and Alice Gloucester socially. We have many things in common and, I happen to know, Harry’s not doing very much at the moment. So what’s the harm in having a nice old American couple to stay for the weekend?’
The harder you push at that door, thought Foxy, the more firmly it’s likely to stay shut. ‘And eventually you hope for an invitation to Windsor or Sandringham?’
‘That would naturally follow,’ said Betsey in lordly fashion. ‘We see no reason why, with all that we’re doing for this country, we shouldn’t be befriended by the King and Queen. So you see, Guy needs to get his skates on – we have an election in November. If it goes the wrong way, you people in Britain are going to have to wage this war all by yourselves.’
‘Don’t forget I’m a Virginia girl.’
‘When you marry your lord you’ll go native,’ said Betsey with a slight sneer. ‘You’re already losing your accent.’
Was she jealous – or was it something more?
‘So you’re not really interested in the Gloucesters,’ said Foxy, nettled. ‘You’re just using them as a stepping stone to pal up with the King and Queen.’
‘That’s where you’re wrong. Harry Gloucester is a vital part of the war effort.’
‘Wait a minute – you just told me he wasn’t doing anything much. Hanging round the Palace, making a
nuisance of himself.’
Betsey looked at her as a teacher might look at an amiable but stupid pupil.
‘The two things do not necessarily cancel each other out,’ she purred. ‘Now – are we or are we not going to take the lease on this dump?’
There was always a bit of a business as to where you put your gas mask when you came indoors. In the sitting room of the Lansdowne Club some had plonked them on their knees, or a side table, others underneath their chairs, others on a hook nearby.
‘I’ll hang them up,’ said Guy. ‘I’ve got some things to tell you.’
She looks much better, he thought; it didn’t take long to get over her husband’s death – is that because war forces you to recover from bereavement that much quicker? Or is it something else?
‘How are things?’
‘The children are with Ed’s sister so I thought I’d take the opportunity to come up to town. Makes a refreshing change,’ Adelaide said.
‘How are they? Have they been badly affected by Ed’s death?’
‘You know, they didn’t see that much of him. Once he went to work at the Palace, it was always the job. They’re all right.’
‘Will you be coming back here permanently?’
‘I’m going to let the house till the war’s over. Would you like it? I’d prefer it to go to a friend and my first thought was you. Peppercorn rent, as they say. You can paint my picture in lieu, if you like.’
Guy was taken aback. ‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘I’m waiting for the all-clear from the doctor, then I hope to join up.’
‘What if there’s no all-clear?’
Guy was jolted by the implication in her question – you’re not getting better, you might get worse.
‘I hadn’t thought of that. Thanks for asking and I’ll let you know,’ he said stiffly.
‘Don’t leave it too long. Any news about Ed?’
‘What do you want to know?’
‘What d’you mean, Guy, what do I want to know? He was my husband, he died in questionable circumstances, I thought you were investigating! Haven’t you heard anything?’
‘Let me ask you something first. When I came down to St Walke, you told me your marriage with Ed was over.’
‘Yes.’
‘That you had never really loved him.’
‘I was sorry for him always. He was a good man.’
‘May I ask . . . have you found someone else?’
‘Very definitely no. I can’t see myself marrying again. I’ve got the children to look after, and my father – he’s not getting any younger.’
‘Boyfriends?’
She smiled slowly. ‘Jealous, Guy?’
‘I think we’re more like brother and sister after all these years, aren’t we?’
‘Not quite . . . but in answer to your question, yes, there’ve been a couple.’
‘Before you moved from London? That’s to say, when you and Ed were still living together in Markham Street?’
‘Good Lord, Guy! You sound like some tuppenny-ha’penny gumshoe, working up evidence for a divorce!’
‘There’s a point to all this, Adelaide. Will you answer the question?’
‘Then – yes. Yes. I did something I regretted, I had an affair with one of Ed’s colleagues.’
‘Who, if I may ask? It’s quite important.’
‘A Guards officer.’
‘If it’s over you may as well tell me – we’ve known each other long enough.’
‘He’s in the King’s private bodyguard – you know, the Coats Mission. Toby Broadbent, d’you know him?’
‘I do. Perhaps too well.’
‘Of course you do. I saw you both chatting after Ed’s funeral at the Guards Chapel. He turned out to be a rotten idea. Another of Topsy Dighton’s errand boys, just like Ed.’
Guy shook his head.
‘It was a mistake. He’s handsome enough – and knows what’s what, which is more than I can say for old Ed – but in the end he was just another toady in thrall to Topsy Dighton. I don’t know what it is about that man which makes grown men topple over backwards to do his bidding; he’s more regal than the King himself. I hated the way he blackmailed Ed into running his errands.’
‘And Toby Broadbent too?’
‘Yes. But it was more than that. He’s a good-enough sort, I suppose, but a bit of a rough diamond.’
‘All part of his appeal, I expect.’
‘I couldn’t possibly say,’ said Adelaide, looking away. ‘But yes, he had to go.’
‘How did he and Ed get on?’
‘Pretty OK, I think. They had drinks a few times in Ed’s club.’
‘And your affair, how long did it last?’
‘Four months. That’s usually how long they go on, isn’t it?’
I wouldn’t know, thought Guy. But I do have in the back of my mind something Aggie told me.
‘I’m going to ask you something you may never forgive me for.’
‘Try me.’
‘Did you get Toby Broadbent to kill your husband?’
Adelaide went white, and for a moment Guy thought she might faint. ‘What?’ she whispered at last.
‘Did you hope,’ he went on, ‘that by asking me to investigate his death, that I’d be so incompetent that I would muck up any proper inquiry that was going on?’
‘No, of course not! What are you saying?’
‘Did Toby ask you to marry him? And you said, because you’re a Roman Catholic, you could only do it if Ed was dead?’
‘No . . . really . . . no! I can’t believe you’re saying this! You’ve known me nearly all my life, you must know I couldn’t do anything like that!’
He recalled Suzy Easthampton’s instruction to look, not for the killer, but for who wanted him killed.
‘Broadbent had the opportunity, the motive, and the means. Most people, if they wanted to kill someone in these circumstances, would have to wait till they emerged on the street – it would be too difficult for them to get past the gate or over the wall.’
Unless your name was Rodie Carr, he thought.
‘But Broadbent could go over any time to Ed’s office without anybody even noticing. Ed was working late the night he died – Broadbent could have seen a light on and wandered in. You said yourself Ed didn’t have a gun, but the gallant captain had access to a whole arsenal of firearms. He joined a unit that’s pledged to fight to the last bullet and the last man to defend the King – those men, Adelaide, are trained killers. And Ed, at his desk, hampered by his wooden leg, would present no challenge at all – a sitting target!’
Adelaide struggled to light a cigarette but Guy did not lean forward to help.
‘You’re so wrong,’ she said, tears starting in her eyes. ‘Except, dear boy, the bit about you not being terribly good at solving a mystery. You are pretty hopeless, aren’t you? I see that now. By the time Ed was killed, Toby and I had split up. It was the reason I moved to the country. Yes, the children would be much safer there, but I’d stayed on in town while Toby and I were an item. In the end, I saw through him – all that Guards officer swagger is very attractive, you know, but at heart he was just a caveman – and yes, he did want to marry me. But when he saw there was no hope, he walked away.
‘And,’ she added with a spurt of anger, ‘the very next week he had another girlfriend! Some woman I’ve never heard of – her name’s on the tip of my tongue but I just can’t . . .’
‘So he had no motive to kill Ed any more.’
‘No.’
‘And you didn’t want him dead.’
‘Of course not! He was lovely with the children and always very polite to my father. He did have that thing about the Queen, which, frankly, was a bit spooky and difficult to live with. And she did like him a lot in return – he was always such a gentleman . . . but no, I never hated him.’
‘Did he know about you and Broadbent?’
‘I’ve no idea.’
‘Aggie seems to think he did.’
‘Oh,’ she said, suddenly ashen-faced again. ‘I wouldn’t have wanted that for anything. Poor Ed! Poor man!’
‘Let’s go and sit in the bar. I’ll bring the gas masks.’
They walked through the Lansdowne Club’s pillared hall, filling up with the pre-theatre crowd, and into the bar where Guy ordered dry martinis. ‘I’m going to tell you now about Ed’s disappearance – but on your honour, Adelaide, not a word to anyone, not even your father.’
‘Do I really want to hear this?’
‘You will. We both know Ed’s death is weird. Weird because we still don’t know whether it was suicide or murder, weird because everybody wanted it hushed up – on the most ridiculous grounds possible. Weird because if it was a murder, there seems to be no motive for it. And a whole lot more weirds as well. And I couldn’t be certain until just now you hadn’t ordered him to be killed.’
Adelaide put down her glass with a clatter. ‘For God’s sake, Guy – “ordering” a killing! This is me we’re talking about! Adelaide Brampton, well-brought-up gel from Oxfordshire!’
‘Anything’s possible, my dear, especially in war. Anyway, I hope you’ll revise your opinion of my detective skills when I tell you this . . .’
And he told Adelaide about Ed and Suzy Easthampton living in the Curzon Street royal residence, undetected, for three months.
‘Then she must have killed him!’
‘I don’t think so, Adelaide,’ said Guy, shaking his head. ‘But the number of suspects is slowly dwindling . . .’
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
‘Aha, the Tanja Man! Walk this way, if you please!’
Guy cursed his luck in meeting Topsy Dighton on the Ministers’ Stairs. Together they progressed at Dighton’s parade-ground quick march through the White Drawing Room and the bow-windowed Music Room, with its colossal dome and chandeliers twice the height of a man, into the Blue Drawing Room. The place was deserted.
