Darling, how is camp life, and do you miss me? Florence quite misses you, you know, perhaps she is in love with you. She keeps on coming into my room to ask what your address is, and what battalion you have joined, and how long you will be training, and who your commanding officer is and all sorts of things. I expect you’ll get a balaclava for Christmas; she is knitting one for some lucky fellow, but I think he must be one of those African pigmies with a top knot by the shape of it.
Oh dear, I do love you, love from your darling
Sophia.
PS. Olga is really putting on a most peculiar act. She lunched alone at the Ritz yesterday in a black wig, a battle bowler and her sables, and pretended not to know any of her friends. Half-way through lunch a page-boy (she had bribed him no doubt) brought her a note, and she gave a sort of shriek, put a veil over the whole thing, battle bowler and all, and scrammed. So now of course everyone knows for certain she is a beautiful female spy. Poor old Serge has been dismissed his Blossom because he passed out and so did it; I hear they looked too indecent lying side by side in the Park.
As Sophia finished her letter Sister Wordsworth came in.
‘Oh, Lady Sophia,’ she said, ‘I forgot to tell you that a friend of yours came to see me yesterday morning. She is joining the Post tomorrow for the night shift, full time. It is lucky as we are so very short-handed on that shift.’
‘A friend of mine – what’s she called?’
‘Miss – I have it written down here, wait a minute – oh, yes, Miss Turnbull.’
‘Gracious,’ said Sophia, ‘you surprise me. I never would have thought it of Florence. She hasn’t said a word about it to me. Can I go now?’
‘Yes, do. I shall be here the whole evening.’
Sophia found herself, for the first time since the beginning of the war, dining alone with Luke. It struck her that he wanted to have an intimate conversation with her, but did not quite know how to begin. Sophia would have been willing to help him; she was feeling quite soft towards Luke these days, he looked so ill and unhappy, but intimate conversations, except very occasionally with Rudolph, were not much in her line.
Luke began by saying that he was going back to the Foreign Office.
‘How about your business?’
‘There isn’t any,’ he said shortly, ‘and I must tell you, my dear Sophia, that you and I are going to be very much poorer.’
‘So I supposed. Well, you must decide what we ought to do. We could move into the garage at the back of the house very easily, and I could manage with a daily maid, or none at all. I should probably have to work shorter hours at the Post in that case.’
Luke, who was always put out by Sophia’s apparent indifference to the advantages his money had brought her, shook his head impatiently. ‘We shall be forced to make various radical economies by the very fact of there being a war. I shall not travel as I used to, we shall not entertain, there will be no question of any shooting or fishing, and you I presume will not be wanting much in the way of new clothes. There is absolutely no need to reduce our standard of living any further for the present. Besides, I should think it very wrong to send away any servants.’
‘Except Greta,’ said Sophia. ‘I wish to goodness we could get rid of her. I simply hate having a German about the place, and so do the others. Mrs Round keeps on saying to me, “Not to be able to talk world politics in one’s own servants’ hall is very upsetting for all of us.” I’m sure it must be. And yet I haven’t the heart to put her in the street, poor thing. It’s all my own fault, I never liked her but I was too lazy to give her notice, you know how it is.’
‘Better keep her on for a time, now she is here.’
‘Oh yes, I know. We must really.’
They ate on in a polite and not very comfortable silence.
Luke said presently, ‘Sophia, I hope you don’t object to Florence staying on here.’
‘Of course not.’
‘She is very poor, you know. I don’t know what would become of her unless we could help her.’
Sophia’s eyebrows went up. She thought that the Brotherhood must really be improving Luke’s character. Hitherto he had despised, disliked and mistrusted people for no better reason than that they were poor.
‘Well then, of course we must help her,’ she said warmly. ‘I wonder – perhaps she would think it awful cheek if I offered to give her my silver-fox coat. I never wear it now, and I know they are not fashionable, but it is extremely warm.’
‘That is very good of you, my dear Sophia, and I am sure if you were guided to share it with her she would be only too happy to accept.’
Sophia stifled the temptation to say that she would arrange for it to come clean at Sketchley’s first.
‘I’m very glad Florence is here to keep you company when I’m at the Post,’ she said; ‘actually she has joined the Post too now, did you know, but our shifts only overlap by about an hour. It’s really very good of her; she is going to do a twelve-hour night shift, simply horrible I should think.’
‘Florence is, of course, one of the people who believed, as I did, that Herr Hitler and Our Premier between them could make a very wonderful thing of world relationships. Like me, she is bitterly disillusioned by Herr Hitler’s treacherous (yes, it is the only word) treacherous behaviour to Our Premier. But like me, she feels that this cruel war is not the proper solution, it can only cause a deterioration in world affairs and will settle nothing. People who think as we do are ploughing a lone furrow just now, you know, Sophia.’
‘What I can’t see is why you think that the behaviour of the Germans has been any worse, or different, during the past few months from what it always is. Anybody who can read print knows what they are like, cruel and treacherous, they have always been the same since the days of the Roman Empire. I can’t see why we have to wait for Government Blue Books and White Papers to tell us all this – oh well,’ she said, ‘what’s the good of talking about it now? I really do feel awfully sorry for you, Luke, as you have so many friends over there and thought everything was going to be rosy.’
‘Don’t misunderstand me,’ said Luke, earnestly, ‘I consider that Herr Hitler has treated Our Premier most outrageously. At the same time, I feel that if the British people had gone all out for moral rearmament and real appeasement, things need never have reached this pass.’
‘The British people indeed, that’s a good one, I must say. However, it’s now quite obvious to any thinking man that our lot in life is to fight the Huns about once in every twenty years. I’m beginning to consider having a baby; we shall need all we can muster to cope with the 1942 class in 1960, who, if there is anything in heredity, will be the most awful brutes.’
Luke, who belonged to the ‘We have no quarrel with the German people’ school of thought, looked wistful, and presently went off to his smoking-room,
Rudolph wrote:
It is exactly like one’s private here. One of the masters gave us bayonet drill this morning – this is how it goes:
‘The first thing we ’ave got to consider is wot are the parts of a soldier? First you ’ave the ’ead. Now, the ’ead of a soldier is covered with a tin ’at, so it ain’t of no good to go sloshing it with a bay’net becos all yer gits is a rattle. Wot ’ave we next – the throat, and the throat is a very different proposition. Two inches of bay’net there, and yer gits the wind-pipe and the jugular. Very good. Next we comes to wot yer might call the united dairies. A soldier’s dairies are well covered with ammunition pouches and for this reason should be left alone, and also becos a very little lower down yer gits the belly. Now it only requires three inches of bayonet in the belly, twist it well, and out they comes, liver and lights and all. Etc. (I spare you the rest of the anatomical analysis.) Now, when pursuing a retreating enemy, you should always make a jab for ’is kidneys becos it will then go in like butter and come out like butter. When the �
� is wounded, you should kneel on ’is chest and bash his face with the butt end, thus keeping the bay’net ready in case you want it to jab at some other — with. You’ve got to ’ate the —s or yer won’t git nowhere with them.’ (Tremendous pantomime.) If it wasn’t so heavenly, I might easily have felt sick.
How are you? If you ask me, I think Florence is more of a beautiful female spy than Olga; I call all this bird-life extremely suspicious. I shall be having some leave soon and intend to conduct a rigid investigation in Flossie’s bedroom. Meanwhile you be on the look-out for suspicious behaviour – cameras, for instance, people lurking on the stairs, false bottoms to trunks and all the other paraphernalia.
I don’t get along without you very well.
Love and xxxx Rudolph.
5
The newspapers suddenly awoke from the wartime hibernation and were able to splash their pages with a story which all their readers could enjoy. The idol of the British people, the envy of all civilized nations, the hero of a thousand programmes, The Grand Old Gentleman of Vocal Lodge, in short none other than the famous King of Song, Sir Ivor King himself, had been found brutally done to death in the Pagoda at Kew Gardens. Here was a tale to arouse interest in the bosoms of all but the most hardened cynics, and indeed the poor old man’s compatriots, as they chewed their bacon and eggs the following morning, were convulsed with rather delicious shudders. The naked corpse, they learnt, surmounted by that beloved old bald head, had been mutilated and battered with instruments ranging from the bluntness of a croquet mallet to the sharpness of a butcher’s knife. This treatment had rendered the face unrecognizable, and only the cranium had been left untouched. His clothes had been removed and there was no trace of them, but his favourite wig, dishevelled and bloodstained, was found, late in the evening, by two little children innocently playing on Kew Green. Those lucky ones among the breakfasting citizens who subscribed to the Daily Runner began their day with
WIGLESS HEAD ON KEW PAGODA,
HEADLESS WIG ON GREEN
Later, when they issued forth into the streets it was to find that the placards of the evening papers had entirely abandoned ‘U-Boat Believed Sunk’, ‘Nazi Planes Believed Down’, ‘Hitler’s Demands’, ‘Stalin’s Demands’, and the reactions of the U.S.A., and were devoting themselves to what soon became known as the Wig Outrage. ‘Wig on Green Sensation, Latest.’ ‘Pagoda Corpse – Foul Play?’ ‘Wig Mystery, Police Baffled.’
When the inquest was held, the police were obliged to issue an appeal to the great crowds that were expected, begging them to stay at home in view of the target which they would present to enemy bombers. In spite of this warning, the Wig Inquest was all too well attended, and the Wig Coroner had a few words to say about this generation’s love of the horrible. Indeed, Chiswick High Road had the aspect of Epsom Heath at Derby Day’s most scintillating moment.
It would be difficult to do better, for an account of the Wig Inquest than to switch over, as they say on the wireless, to the columns of the Evening Runner:
INQUEST ON WIG MURDER
VALET’S STATEMENT
ONLY CURLED LAST WEEK
WAS MURDERED MAN THE KING OF SONG?
The ‘colonel’s lady and Judy O’Grady’ fought for places at the inquest today on the body, which was found last Friday in Kew Pagoda, and which is presumed to be that of Sir Ivor King, ‘the King of Song’. The body was so extensively mutilated that a formal identification was impossible, although Mr Larch, Sir Ivor’s valet, swore that he would recognize that particular cranium anywhere as belonging to the ‘King’.
HIS MASTER’S VOICE
Giving evidence, Mr Larch, who showed signs of great emotion, said that Sir Ivor had left Vocal Lodge to go up to London at two o’clock on Friday afternoon. He had seemed rather nervous and said that he had to keep a very important appointment in town, but that he would be back in time to change for a local sing-song he had promised to attend after tea. His master’s voice, said Mr Larch, had been in great demand with A.R.P. organizations, and Mr Larch thought that what with so much singing, and the evacuations in the Orchid House, Sir Ivor had been looking strained and tired of late. By tea-time he had not returned. Mr Larch did not feel unduly worried. ‘Sir Ivor had the temperament of an artiste, and was both unpunctual and vague, sometimes spending whole nights in the Turkish bath without informing his staff that he intended to sleep out.’
HIS FAVOURITE WIG
‘When the children brought in the wig,’ went on Mr Larch, ‘I thought it was eerie, as it was his favourite wig; we only had it curled last week, and he would never have thrown it away. Besides, I knew he had no spare with him. I immediately notified the police.’ Here Mr Larch broke down and had to be assisted out of the court.
Mr Smith, taxi-driver, said that the old person first of all told him to go to the Ritz, but stopped him at Turnham Green and was driven back to the gates of Kew Gardens where he paid the fare, remarking that it was a fine day for a walk. He was singing loudly in a deep tenor all the while, and seemed in excellent spirits.
A VERY HIGH NOTE
Mr Jumont, a gardener at Kew Gardens, said that he was manuring the rhododendrons when he heard the ‘King’ go past on a very high note.
The Coroner: ‘Did you see him?’
Mr Jumont: ‘No, sir. But there was no mistaking that old party when he was singing soprano. Besides, this was his favourite song, “When I am dead, my dearest”.’ (Music by the Marchioness of Waterford.)
At these words there was a sensation, and hardly a dry eye in court. Some fashionably dressed ladies were sobbing so loudly that the Coroner threatened to have them evicted unless they could control themselves.
Continuing his evidence, Mr Jumont said that Sir Ivor seemed to be walking in the direction of the Pagoda, the time being about 3 p.m.
A WONDERFUL THATCH
Mr Bott, another employee at Kew Gardens, told how he had found the body. Just before closing time he noticed some blood stains and one or two blond curls at the foot of the Pagoda, then saw that the Pagoda door, which is always kept locked, stood ajar. He went in, and a trail of blood on the stairs led him to the very top where the sight which met his eyes was so terrible that he nearly swooned. ‘More like a butcher’s shop it was, and it gave me a nasty turn.’
Coroner: ‘Did it seem to you at the time that this might be the body of Sir Ivor King?’
Mr Bott: ‘No, sir. For one thing the old gentleman (who, of course, I knew very well by sight) always seemed to have a wonderful thatch, as you might say, for his age, but the only thing I could clearly see about the individual on the Pagoda was that he hadn’t a hair to his name.’
Mr Bott said, in answer to further questioning, that it had never occurred to him Sir Ivor King’s hair might have been a wig.
One or two more witnesses having been examined, the Coroner’s jury, without retiring, returned a verdict of murder by person or persons unknown.
The Coroner said there was an overwhelming presumption that the corpse was that of Sir Ivor King.
Next day, the Daily Runner, in its column of pocket leading articles called BRITAIN EXPECTS, in which what Britain generally Expects is a new Minister for Agriculture, had a short paragraph headed:
MOURN THE KING OF SONG
A very gallant and loved old figure has gone from our midst. Mourn him. But remember that he now belongs to the past. It is our duty to say that in the circumstances of his death there may be more than meets the eye. One of our Cabinet Ministers may be guilty of negligence. If so, we should like to see a statement made in Parliament.
Our grief must not blind us to his fault. For remember that we belong to the future.
There was more than met the eye. Sure enough, the very next day it was learned from reliable sources that the King of Song had been a trump-card in the hand of the Government. He had, in fact, been about to inaugur
ate, in conjunction with the B.B.C., Ministry of Information, and Foreign Office, the most formidable campaign of Propaganda through the medium of Song that the world has ever seen. The British and French Governments, not only they, but democrats everywhere, had attached great importance to the scheme. They had estimated that it would have a profound effect upon neutral opinion, and indeed might well bring America into the war, on one side or another. Without the King of Song to lead it, this campaign would fall as flat as a pancake, no other living man or woman having the requisite personality or range of voice to conduct it. It must, therefore, necessarily be abandoned. Thus his untimely and gruesome end constituted about as severe a blow to the Allied cause as the loss of a major engagement would have done.
The horrid word Sabotage, the even horrider word Leakage, were now breathed, and poor Fred, who was given no credit for having conceived the idea, was universally execrated for not having delivered it. In the same way that the First Lord of the Admiralty is held responsible for the loss of a capital ship, so the death of Sir Ivor was laid at poor Fred’s door. He made a statement in the House that mollified nobody, and Britain Expected every morning that he would resign. Britain did not expect it more than poor Fred expected that he would have to; however, in the end he got off with a nasty half-hour at No. 10. It was now supposed that the King of Song had been liquidated by German spies who had fallen into Kew Gardens in parachutes, and Sophia said ‘I told you so’ to Luke, and hardly dared look out of her bedroom window any more.
Sophia was really upset by the whole business. She had loved her old godfather, and having always seen a great deal of him she would miss him very much. On the other hand, it cannot be denied that she found a certain element of excitement in her near connexion with so ghastly and so famous a murder – especially when, the day after the inquest, Sir Ivor’s solicitor rang her up and told her, very confidentially, that Vocal Lodge and everything in it had been left to her. She had also inherited a substantial fortune and a jet tiara.
The Penguin Complete Novels of Nancy Mitford Page 60
