Corpus

by Rory Clements

  Wilde paused, took a breath. Damn it, he trusted Jim Vanderberg as much as anyone in the world. ‘Strange things are happening out here in the sticks. Have you heard of the Langley murders?’

  ‘Hell, yes. There may not be much in the papers, but it’s big news where it matters. The wires are buzzing, as are the dinner tables. It’s worried people. If the ruling classes aren’t safe, then no one is.’

  ‘So everyone agrees it’s political?’

  ‘That’s what I’m hearing. I was at a banquet last night – influential crowd of diplomats, parliamentarians and industrialists – and there was talk of it being a Bolshevik conspiracy. Who next? That’s what they’re asking.’

  ‘I went to the house where it happened. The evidence would certainly suggest a communist plot.’

  ‘You went there? Why?’

  ‘It’s a long story. I was with a reporter named Philip Eaton and he’s covering it for The Times. Have you heard of him?’

  ‘Philip Eaton? Can’t say I have.’

  ‘He’s been nosing around up here, not just around the Langley case, but there’s something else going on. He was up here as fast as a rat up a drainpipe, before the murders were discovered. Maybe I’m thinking too much: what I want from you is anything you can find out about Mr Eaton.’

  ‘I’ve never heard of him, but I’ll see what I can find. I’ll call you back later.’

  ‘No, I’ll call you. Oh, and one more thing – what do you know about Lord Slievedonard?’

  ‘I know plenty. He has big money and powerful friends. Deals in gold. It’s said he’s manoeuvring to snatch the German gold market from under the feet of the Jewish merchants, buying up their businesses when they’re in a hurry to leave the country. I’m told he has the dimensions of a whale.’

  ‘Or a Goering.’

  ‘That’s right, and similar politics to Fat Hermann, too. Known to be well to the right. I’ll find out what I can.’

  *

  ‘I won’t push him,’ the prime minister said. ‘We all know the King will have to go, but we must afford him the courtesy of going in his own way. We owe him that much.’

  Papers were shuffled round the Cabinet table. The atmosphere was tense. ‘But this nonsense of his,’ the minister seated directly opposite Baldwin said, ‘this request to address his subjects on the wireless . . . he’s taking us for fools.’

  ‘Well, he won’t be doing that, of course. Anyway, you have my position.’

  ‘Give him an ultimatum. Give him until midnight tonight: marriage to Mrs Simpson or the throne. He can’t have both.’

  Stanley Baldwin sighed. If he were to admit the truth to himself, he would have to say that he had never felt so alive. This crisis was the high point in his life. After this he could step down and enjoy his retirement. But until then, the business would be conducted on his terms. ‘No,’ he said. ‘There will be no ultimatum.’ He gazed round the table and met the eyes of every man who made up his government; none demurred. ‘Now, go to your constituencies and sound them out. I want to know what the ordinary men and women of this land are thinking now they have read the details in their newspapers. Where do they stand? It will make no difference to our handling of the affair, but it will tell us what reaction we can expect – and we can make preparations accordingly. We do not want civil war, gentlemen.’

  *

  The Rudge Special had been pushed over. Wilde cursed out loud. He knew it had been Braithwaite: a last, spiteful act. Should have kicked the little bastard’s balls harder. He righted the heavy machine, dusted it down with his handkerchief and inspected it. The tank was dented and there were scratches, but otherwise it seemed sound.

  The morning was full of much-needed colour, with brilliant winter sunshine, and the wind had dropped as he rode down to the college. At the porters’ lodge, he checked his pigeon hole, but it was empty. In his rooms, Bobby was brushing out the grate. He stood up, putting a hand to his aching lower back.

  ‘You’re in pain.’

  ‘Gets worse at this time of year, Professor Wilde. Means the weather’s about to turn. Me back’s never been the same since that fall.’

  ‘Dangerous beasts, horses. How did our boy Winter Blood fare?’

  ‘Hasn’t run yet, sir. The race is tomorrow.’

  ‘So my five shillings is still intact. I suppose that’s some sort of good news.’

  Bobby had managed to straighten himself out and was standing upright. ‘Would you like a cup of something, sir?’

  ‘No, no, I’m not staying. But I wondered whether you’ve had any more thoughts about where a man could get dope in Cambridge?’

  ‘I tell you what, sir, I did know a man as took the stuff. Jockey, he was. Placed in the Derby one year, but he got this problem with his neck. Terrible pain from a fall. He said the heroin kept him going when other men might have chucked it in. Mind you, he lost his edge in a finish. The dope did that, I think.’

  ‘So where did he get it from?’

  ‘As I recall, a Newmarket trainer gave it him – and the trainer got it from one of his owners who happened to be a doctor. But that was a while back, I’m afraid.’

  Wilde sighed. ‘So a crooked doctor?’

  ‘Maybe, sir. Maybe not. Not sure of the law myself.’

  ‘Well, it’s given me something to think about.’

  *

  Sophie Gräfin von Isarbeck kissed Dorfen farewell. He had slept for ten hours, then taken a shave and a long hot shower before sitting down to the Dorchester’s best bacon, eggs and fried bread.

  ‘So, Sophie,’ he said as he put down his coffee cup. ‘The time, the place.’

  ‘Soon, Hartmut, soon.’

  ‘If you fail . . .’

  She nodded. She understood only too well. The Führer’s favour could come and go like sunshine on a showery day. She sighed and touched Dorfen’s arm tenderly. ‘The meeting will happen within the next three days. They must meet. Baldwin cannot give the Duke of York the keys to the kingdom without a final meeting. When that is about to happen, I will know. I promise you. I understand these people, Hartmut. They are meticulous in matters of propriety and procedure, even as they throw out one king and install another.’

  Dorfen kissed her again, full on the mouth. She was rather ordinary to look at, he acknowledged, even though he had always been as bewitched as the rest. He had no idea how she did it, but she drew men in and held them. Women, too . . .

  ‘What did he say to you, Hartmut?’

  ‘I was summoned to his apartment, in Prinzregentenstrasse. Teatime.’

  She smiled. ‘The pink cakes.’

  ‘He was making polite conversation with that awful blonde English girl and one or two others.’

  ‘I loathe her. So do the English.’

  ‘He asked after my mother, then he mentioned the way we did for Roehm at Bad Wiessee. The Night of the Long Knives. With one carefully planned operation, he said, we had turned the Sturmabteilung from enemies into sworn vassals. In a few hours and days, he had made his position unassailable. Then he showed me newspapers from around the world with the story of King Edward of England and his courtesan. Von Ribbentrop had told him that the King would be deposed – that we would be losing Germany’s greatest British friend. It was a conspiracy that had to be prevented. And he said it could be prevented. A great leader did not always need to go to war. A pinprick of blood, he said, a whisper of thunder. Just like Bad Wiessee. And I understood exactly what he meant.’ Dorfen began to laugh.

  ‘We will make it work, Hart.’

  ‘We will.’ He began to push her back towards the bedroom. ‘But now, I want to make love, Sophie.’

  ‘Pah! Nonsense. You are too young and beautiful for me.’ She shooed him away with her plump little hand, then pressed the button to summon the lift. She gave him a last kiss.

  When she was alone she called her butler. ‘I am expecting Major Middlemass in ten minutes. Admit him to the anteroom and give him coffee, but tell him I am e
ngaged on an important international telephone call. If he becomes agitated, say nothing, but let me know. Do not let him go.’

  ‘Very well, your ladyship.’

  ‘And after twenty minutes, you will intimate that my call is from Mrs Simpson.’

  The butler bowed.

  ‘Oh – and more coffee, Hansi.’

  CHAPTER 16

  Major Harold Middlemass was a senior member of the royal household, an aide-de-camp in the private office of the Duke of York at his principal home, Royal Lodge. A large man from an old family, his nerves had been shot to pieces at Passchendaele. He had previously worked for Clive Wigram, Private Secretary to the late King George, but he had been shunted aside because the new King, Edward, could not bear to see the tic in his left eye and the shaking of his left hand, the result of either shellshock or a stroke. No one was sure which.

  At one stage Middlemass had hoped to leapfrog to the job of Private Secretary to Edward, but that had gone instead to the next in line, Alec Hardinge, and Edward handed on his disappointed aide to his younger brother, like some old unwanted toy. Middlemass had been devastated at being passed over but now he knew that he had had a lucky escape. It was Alec Hardinge who had to endure the company that Edward kept.

  Hardinge despised the louche lifestyle of the new King; he had confided his feelings to Middlemass on more than one occasion. There were few people to whom a member of the royal household could pour out their hearts, but Hardinge knew that Harold Middlemass would provide a sympathetic ear and never betray a confidence.

  In fact, Middlemass soon found himself enjoying the company of the Duke and Duchess of York and their sparkling little girls, Elizabeth and Margaret Rose. His role might not have been as senior or as important as he might have hoped at this stage of his career, but there were compensations. The duchess was intelligent, knowledgeable and charming. The job was neither demanding nor stressful and he had time on his hands for outside interests, including the very special service provided by the Gräfin.

  ‘Come in, sir,’ her butler said with a low bow. ‘Her ladyship is taking an international telephone call but will be with you presently. Can I bring you some refreshment, major? Coffee, perhaps?’

  ‘Thank you.’ He looked at his watch, gritting his teeth to try to prevent the inevitable spasm at the corner of his eye. ‘I thought she wanted to see me. I’m afraid I can’t wait long.’

  ‘No, indeed, Major Middlemass, but you are expected. I know that her ladyship is most anxious that you stay.’

  The telephone call summoning him here had been unusual and unwelcome. Indeed, it had never happened before. Prior to this, it had always been Middlemass who initiated the meetings, when his need became too great and he could no longer contain his craving. And when it was all over, and he went home to his wife, he always experienced the same desolation and shame and vowed to himself that he would never go to Sophie von Isarbeck again.

  As he waited in the grand but rather overblown apartment, the tension in his chest rose with every passing minute. The blood was pumping in his ears, the way it did in the war when he waited for the whistle – the whistle that sent you over the top into the murderous fire of the enemy machine guns. He felt as if he was stranded at a crossroads with vehicles hurtling at him from all directions; his life was about to be destroyed by an oncoming carriage, and he did not know which way to leap.

  The coffee cup was empty. He rose from the white sofa and walked to look at the Adolf Ziegler painting on the wall. It depicted two naked women, muscular and not in the least beautiful, the ideal of German womanhood. Why on earth did Sophie have such a ghastly work on her wall? He consulted his Garrards wristwatch again. It had been a fortieth birthday gift from old King George and was his most prized possession. Twenty minutes. The bitch had kept him waiting here twenty minutes. Damn it, he had a lunch appointment at Rules.

  The butler came back in. ‘I’m sorry you are being kept waiting so long, sir.’ He lowered his voice conspiratorially. ‘I think her ladyship is talking with you know who.’

  ‘I don’t know who,’ he snapped irritably.

  ‘The American lady. The call came from Rouen in France. Very hush-hush.’

  ‘Ah, Mrs Simpson.’

  ‘Indeed, sir.’

  ‘Well could you pass a note to the Gräfin. I’m going to be late for an appointment. I only agreed to dash in and out.’

  But then the inner door opened and Sophie was standing there, her soft face beaming, her arms wide. She waved the butler away with a little flick of the fingers. When he had gone, she turned once more to Middlemass. ‘Harold, darling! Come and kiss your nanny. Have you been a good boy?’

  ‘Sophie, I really—’

  ‘Now, now. You don’t want to upset nanny, do you?’

  ‘Honestly, Sophie, I’d love to stay but I’m meeting people for lunch.’ He held the shaking hand in his pocket. The tic at the corner of his eye fluttered madly.

  ‘Little boys who run away make nanny cross. You know that, don’t you, Harold? Yes? Come and kiss your nanny.’ Her voice was firmer now. She held out her perfect, peach-smooth cheek and touched it with her plump little finger. ‘Here, Harold. Kiss me just here.’

  He bent down and kissed her cheek. He very much wanted to defy her, but he knew he couldn’t. There was nothing to be done.

  ‘There, now you are your nanny’s favourite boy again.’ As she spoke, she exaggerated her southern German accent. ‘So tell me, Harold, why have you come here today? Do you not know I am busy?’

  ‘I came because you asked me to.’

  ‘Ah, yes, so I did. So many cares, I become forgetful. Indeed, yes. Please, come through to my study.’ She put her forefinger in the air. ‘Now I recall, I have a favour to ask of you. I promise I won’t keep you long. Unless, that is, you wish me to perform any special services.’

  He glanced at his watch again and his whole face shook. Beads of sweat were gathering on his forehead.

  ‘Please, Harold, don’t make it so I have to punish you. I will keep you five minutes, no more.’

  He followed her through to the study.

  ‘I have just had a very long telephone call with Wally Simpson. She is unhappy, Harold. Very, very unhappy. That awful Baldwin man is putting the King in an impossible position. He must either give her up or surrender his throne. Did any monarch ever face such a demand? His people love him, but Baldwin is a spiteful man who wishes him harm. Even Louis the sixteenth was not treated worse.’

  ‘I don’t think Edward is going to be guillotined.’

  ‘Wally believes the humiliation will kill him. I am sure that you of all people understand such things, Harold. She is at her wits’ end. I could not stop her crying.’ Sophie von Isarbeck picked up a manila envelope from her desk. ‘And so her friends must do what they can to ease the pain. And I am her friend, Harold. Perhaps her best friend after the King himself.’

  ‘What has any of this to do with me?’

  ‘She wishes some information from the Duke of York’s camp. He is back from Edinburgh, is he not? That is where you come in. It is clear to Wally that Baldwin will have a meeting with the duke in the next two or three days. If the prime minister is to force an abdication, then he must be certain that his chosen successor is in place. For that, he must have the duke’s solemn word that he will accept the throne, even though it breaks his elder brother’s heart. Can you imagine a younger brother doing that to his elder sibling, stabbing him in the back like that? It is tragic, Harold. And so before the metaphorical knife is thrust, the conspirators must finalise details. Baldwin and the duke must meet – and it must be a secret meeting.’

  ‘But, Sophie, I don’t see how I can help. If Baldwin has his mind set, there’s nothing I can do to prevent it.’ He could not take his eyes off the large manila envelope. He knew what was in it; how could he not?

  ‘Of course not, darling. But you can tell me when and where this secret meeting is to take place. The precise time and location. Wall
y Simpson is desperate for this information.’

  ‘Why? It is no business of hers.’

  ‘Ours is not to reason why. She is the King’s friend and you have taken an oath of allegiance to the King, so you must do all in your power to assist him and the woman he loves. Therefore, you will find out this information and you will bring it to me – and I will pass it on to Wally Simpson.’

  ‘I can’t do it.’

  ‘You know what is in this envelope, Harold?’

  He nodded.

  ‘Would you like to see it?’

  He shook his head. ‘No.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘No. Please, Sophie. Don’t.’

  ‘You are a naughty boy, Harold.’ She laughed and slid the photograph from the envelope. It was foolscap sized and very sharply defined, taken with a high-quality Rolleiflex camera. It showed his face clearly, horribly clearly. He was naked in the bath here in this apartment, lying on his back, his prick erect; above him, squatting barefoot on the edges of the bath, was the Gräfin, her skirts raised, pissing down on him, holding the end of a riding crop to his chin. Her face was turned sideways and her hair fell about her cheek, so she was not identifiable from the photograph, but he most certainly was. The Carl Zeiss lens had captured him as decisively as a gin trap round a polecat’s leg. Every pore, every follicle, every splash of urine on his face and chest, every detail of the humiliation and horror.

  In the photograph, his eyes were wide in shock, startled by the flash. The photographer had appeared from nowhere and had disappeared as quickly. Harold Middlemass had known that this photograph would be used against him one day. He had considered taking his life, but even that would not solve the problem – for the thought of being dead when that photograph was still in existence brought no comfort. What if his wife or children saw it? What if the Duchess of York saw it? How would his family cope with the shame? It would be their last and abiding memory of him.