Honourable Intentions

by Gavin Lyall

  But then Jay came smiling past the crowded early-lunch tables and stood a moment looking down at O’Gilroy. “My loyal colleague. Where were you when the fun and games started?”

  “Listening. And following ‘Mrs Langhorn’.”

  “Oh well.” Jay sat down. “I suppose somebody had to.”

  “Are you all right?” Ranklin demanded.

  “Never better. I actually shot someone under the very eyes of the police and they said ‘Thank you’. There, I bet that’s never happened to you.” He smiled at O’Gilroy. “Interesting thing, though: they were from the Sûreté Générale, not the Préfecture. Do I hear the merry clash of competition there?”

  “Probably,” Ranklin said, wondering if this was good or bad for their cause. Either force might now act hastily, but that itself should distract them from the Bureau’s doings.

  “They took me down to the Quai des Orfèvres,” Jay continued, “and I had to sort-of-explain who I was to excuse following that woman. But mostly, they were wrathy about one of their chaps getting plugged, and I think they’re going to use it as an excuse to do something drastic. But they showed me the door before I found out what. Funny people, rozzers: when you don’t want to be there they hang on to you, but once you start getting interested, they heave you out. Still, I’ve got the name of a chap there who might be useful . . . Should we pool everything we’ve got?”

  Ranklin nodded and said: “First off, the woman isn’t Mrs Langhorn. I don’t know who, perhaps just an Englishwoman of a certain class living over here and down on her luck. But it more-or-less confirms the gang have the real Mrs Langhorn under control: they wouldn’t send a fake unless they knew the real one wouldn’t turn up. Anyway, I presume this fake went off to report what I said about their conspiracy coming unravelled in London.”

  “D’you think it is?” Jay asked.

  “It isn’t all going as they planned . . . anyway, O’Gilroy knows where she went.”

  So O’Gilroy told about the barge. When he had finished, Jay said: “So that’s as far as we’ve got? Are we any closer to stopping this runaway train you spoke of?”

  Ranklin shook his head sombrely. “Not that I can see. But I’d like to know where Dr Gorkin is. I think the La Villette end is being run by the café proprietor, Kaminsky, but I still fancy Gorkin as being the brains behind all this.”

  Jay lounged elegantly back in his chair and tapped the table-top with a coffee spoon. Given half a chance, he enjoyed being a boneless dandy. “Are we hypothesising, then, that Gorkin came up with the strategic plan and then relied on the apaches from the Deux Chevaliers to do the dirty work? And when he was without them in London and things went wrong he rounded up some local thugs, sight unseen, and they turned out to be less competent?”

  “Something like that. But sorting that out isn’t our concern. We should he worrying about what Gorkin’s going to do with what he knows now.”

  O’Gilroy said: “If we’re really looking for him, there’s the office of Les Temps Nouveaux, and an intellectual anarchist café on the left bank near the Boul’ Mich’.”

  Ranklin decided: “You two try and trace Gorkin without him knowing. Meanwhile, I promised St Claire I’d report back to him. I shan’t tell him anything, but I don’t want him having any more clever ideas.”

  Jay said: “If you can’t stop runaway trains, you can always try blowing them up.”

  “We’ve only been in Paris about five hours and already shot one man. Let’s try and leave it at that.” But something Gorkin had said, or he had said to Gorkin, was echoing in his head – only just out of hearing. And it had seemed relevant, in an oblique way . . .

  15

  St Claire and Harland were waiting in the lobby of the Ritz, showing signs of having been there for some time and with better things to do.

  “Sorry if I’m late,” said Ranklin, who didn’t think he was and wasn’t truly sorry anyway, “but one of our chaps got mixed up in a shooting fracas down in La Villette. No, I don’t think we’re in any trouble, we may even have made some friends in the police: they credit our chap with saving one of their lives. And yes, the police were following her as well, from right outside here. You haven’t been terribly secretive about all this, you know.”

  St Claire abandoned any lecture he was about to give and said in a subdued voice: “I’m supposed to be over at the Quai d’Orsay approving the arrangement of Their Majesties’ apartments. Perhaps you’d care to come along and tell us what’s been going on as we do that?”

  Again, St Claire was treating him as a brother officer. It wasn’t clear that Harland seconded the motion, but it was the Palace in charge. “Fine. Let me go first. I’ll take a taxi and wait round the corner in Rue St Honoré. You stroll out in five minutes and jump in with me.”

  St Claire looked puzzled. Harland, quicker on the uptake now, said sourly: “This is for the Captain’s sake, not ours. He assumes that anybody watching the hotel knows us, and he doesn’t want to be associated with us. But only in the criminal mind, I’m sure.”

  “They’ve completely redecorated and refurnished these rooms,” St Claire murmured as they were led up the wide marble stairway of the Ministry of Foreign Affairs, “so what they want is admiration, not fair comment. I may manage to get an ashtray moved, but that’s about all. But one of the first things royalty learns is to take what they’re given. The least hint of criticism brings dismissals, ruin, suicide. Ah me, the problems of monarchy.”

  The big double doors were too heavy to be flung open: a flunkey leaned hard and got them to swing apart, St Claire stepped inside and immediately went into well-prepared raptures of appreciation. Ranklin fell into place beside Harland, a few paces behind St Claire and the Grand Whoever who was showing it all off.

  The décor was apparently Louis Quatorze and the furniture First Empire, and to Ranklin it all looked chokingly lush and crowded. But perhaps he was getting seduced by Corinna’s taste, and royalty found this perfectly normal. The air they breathed was almost pure lavender, presumably to mask the smell of paint and wallpaper paste.

  “So the lady in the case was definitely not Mrs Langhorn,” Harland muttered.

  “No. She did head for La Villette as we expected, but for a different address, not the café they use as an HQ.” He had decided not to mention the barge, even to his own allies. “Putting off her followers was where the shooting came in. Luckily one of our chaps does a very good tramp act, and he got through and followed her to earth.”

  “But the police got involved.”

  “That does tend to happen with shootings. But they were anyway. Remember, this whole thing started with someone trying to burn down a police station.”

  “But you said it’s now thought that wasn’t young Langhorn himself.”

  “Well, we think not. It may take a little time for Bow Street and the Paris police to catch up.” If, that is, the Préfecture had ever believed it and weren’t just trying to get Langhorn within the jurisdiction of their thumb-screws, as O’Gilroy believed.

  They were now in the King’s bedroom and staring at the bed: set in an alcove and fashioned like a Roman couch from mahogany, with gilt trimmings.

  “Too many things to look at,” Ranklin muttered. “And too many eyes looking back,” he added, looking at a tapestry of idyllic rural life. “I doubt I’d sleep a wink in this place.”

  “If you tried, it would probably come under the Treason Act,” Harland commented.

  The writing table (it looked like a small desk) had apparently been Napoleon’s, and the symbolism of putting it in an English King’s bedroom could hardly have been accidental. Perhaps His Majesty would carve “Wellington” on it. Alas, probably not.

  They trailed back into the “Green Room” between the King’s and Queen’s bedrooms. This would be where their Majesties met visitors, and St Claire could be more authoritative – though still elaborately polite – about some minor rearrangement. The High Official listened, nodding, and went off to find some
furniture-movers, leaving just a flunkey at the door.

  St Claire sat down in a thick padded-and-buttoned chair. “Protocol,” he sighed. “We could have made the changes ourselves in a couple of minutes. So: I understand you found neither Gorkin nor the real Mrs Langhorn?”

  They also sat; the chairs felt as if they were supposed to be comfortable, and Ranklin said: “My chaps are trying to track down Gorkin and we think they’ve got Mrs Langhorn at a new address in La Villette.” When you thought about it, a barge made an excellent prison, easily guarded and short on neighbours. And better still if the police didn’t know of it.

  “Then what should we do next?”

  “I would prefer it if you did absolutely nothing.”

  “Come now, Captain —” was St Claire beginning to pull rank? “– we can still offer Mrs Langhorn a pension if—”

  “For God’s sake, just don’t make it any worse!” And rank be damned. “You knew we were following this up but you went right ahead having ideas of your own without telling us. It’s only by the grace of God and the Navy that I got here in time to stop you offering a pension to the wrong woman providing she kept quiet about a liaison with the King. Don’t you see that’s exactly the sort of thing Gorkin wants?”

  St Claire looked huffed but mystified. “What d’you mean?”

  “I mean that if he just wanted to publicise the King’s affair all those years ago, he’d have done it a dozen times over by now. But he wanted something more up-to-date and befitting the anarchists’ cause, and we’ve given it him. And he’ll have the royal bastard heir-to-the-throne story as well.”

  “A bastard cannot be heir to the throne,” Harland said firmly.

  “What law says so?”

  “I’m not exactly sure, perhaps it—”

  “But you expect a French newspaper reader to know?”

  St Claire said: “What d’you mean we’ve given it him?”

  Ranklin took a deep breath. “Just think how we – all of us – have behaved since we knew of this claim: exactly how an anarchist would say we’d behave. They gave us an opportunity to prove what a corrupt society we arc, and we’ve gone right ahead and proved it. We’ve concealed facts, nobbled the judiciary, shot a man in Stepney, tried to bribe the key witness. All they need do now is get it published, and that should happen at the beginning of next week.”

  There was a shocked silence.

  Harland said: “But the King arrives on Tuesday . . . They wouldn’t, the French are in favour of this visit, the papers wouldn’t spoil it . . .”

  But his years at the Palace had taught St Claire something about the ways of newspapers. He shook his head heavily. “They might not want to, but they’ll have to – as they see it. Each one’ll suspect that another will, and they daren’t be left behind. They’ll print it . . . But print exactly what?”

  “I can’t say precisely, but all that I said and probably try to blame us for Guillet’s murder as well.”

  “Was that your people?”

  “No. It’ll all be one-sided and a lot of it unprovable, but people will believe it.”

  St Claire said to Harland: “Could we bring a libel suit?”

  The solicitor pulled a long face. “In a French court? And we could only do that after it’s been published. And we’d have to be specific. We might get them to retract some details – months later, if that’s any help.”

  “Then is there nothing you can do to stop the man?”

  Ranklin shrugged. “We might kill off Gorkin, but even if we did, I’m sure he’s thought of that himself and arranged that it would do more harm than good.”

  Another silence, then: “Very well, then, I shall prepare a bulletin we can give to the Press once this appears in print.”

  Ranklin nodded, but sighed as well. “I suppose you have to, but I doubt it’ll undo one-tenth of the damage. The French will still believe Grover is the rightful heir to the throne and that the British government and the Palace were prepared to sanction murder to do him out of his rights.”

  St Claire winced and looked at Harland.

  The solicitor looked grave. “I’m afraid the Captain is most likely right. For better or worse, what the public wants to believe is beyond the reach of the law. Look at Richard III: everybody knows he was a bad hat who murdered the little princes in the Tower. In fact he didn’t, and was quite a good king – probably better than Henry Tudor who rebelled against him and won. But don’t ask me how you can change public opinion after this time.”

  “We’re not trying to refute Shakespeare,” St Claire said crossly, “just stopping some damned anarchist printing libels about our King – and ourselves. Can’t you get an injunction through the French courts?”

  Harland steepled his hands in front of his face; a grave lawyer-esque gesture. However, he then spoiled it by looking at his hands, which made him cross-eyed. “I could try, given clear instructions from you. But couldn’t such a move be seen as yet another example of the Palace manipulating the law to protect itself?”

  Near to boiling over with undirected anger, St Claire got up and strode to the window and stood there, hands clasped behind his back, staring down at the glittering Seine beyond the Quai.

  Harland took out a cigar case, then decided that might cause a Diplomatic Incident, and put it away again.

  It was very quiet in the apartment. The traffic looked busy on the Quai beyond the courtyard and railings, but barely a sound seeped into these high-ceilinged rooms. A good place for a king and queen to get a night’s sleep – if it weren’t for the eyes of those impossibly happy rustics on the tapestries.

  Then St Claire turned from the window and began pacing the room, still with his hands clasped behind his back. His anger had gone, and when he spoke it was in firm and thoughtful tones.

  “Incumbents of the British throne have had what one might most kindly describe as very individual notions of monarchy. So it is the duty of us in the royal household to maintain the ideal of monarchy, no matter who happens to occupy the throne at the time. If I may offer a very crude analogy, one might say that it is our task as minor actors to behave as if the principal player were giving a perfect performance, but not failing to point out any shortcomings . . . And we do our best.

  “But just whose standards should we be applying? I think you, Ranklin, would say instinctively: your own. And you’d be right. Because you’d be talking of your own people, the yeomen and squirearchy, the very backbone of England. Those who live with and from the land, who run their villages and parishes according to real standards. Not the aristocracy; most of ’em just don’t matter. They’ve got private standards of their own that don’t mean a damn to anyone else. At worst they’re animals in a perpetual rutting season, at best they’re just aping the standards of their social inferiors, the squires and yeomanry. Your people.”

  Ranklin couldn’t help but be flattered. But nowadays, he couldn’t help but be wary, too. However, he didn’t have to react; it was entirely proper for him to be tongue-tied by such compliments.

  “It’s your people the monarchy rests on, your standards it should take for its own. Doesn’t always, as we know full well. So by saving the King from his youthful . . . mishap, shall we say? – you’ll be protecting your own standards.

  “Now, I think that Mrs Langhorn herself is the key to this whole matter. Whatever young Langhorn himself says has to be hearsay – am I right, Harland?”

  Harland nodded cautiously.

  “So it’s what his mother says that matters. And if she says nothing, for whatever reason, then the rest is just Gorkin’s vapourings. The views of a man with a known anti-monarchist, anti-authority stance. We tried to settle the matter with money – as you said, to buy her silence. We may well have been misguided. But now, if we’re to leave this in your hands, I hope you’ll bear in mind that it is her silence that we want above all . . . Now, is there anything you want me to do?”

  Ranklin just sat. After a time, he shook his head slowly. “
Nothing. And I do mean nothing. When you get back to the hotel, stay there. Just sit in your room and work on that bulletin – oh, and don’t throw any first drafts into the wastebasket, either. Burn them and keep the only copy in a safe inside pocket.”

  St Claire widened his eyes, then nodded. Ranklin went on sitting there. The man might not despise him, but he certainly wasn’t above manipulating him. However, that might just be habit. You couldn’t order kings around, so you learned manipulation. For example, he had just been inviting Ranklin to kill off Mrs Langhorn. Perhaps Ranklin was a little surprised at St Claire, but certainly not at the idea. That had occurred to him long ago.

  16

  The concierge intercepted Ranklin as he was going into the lodging house to tell him that O’Gilroy and the gentleman were in the café at the end of the street. So he plodded off there instead.

  It was small and gently busy with that sense of cohesion, of customers and waiters in agreement that the place is just right, which marks a good pub or French café. You either try to fit in, or you go away, and O’Gilroy had clearly decided, some time ago, to fit. There was a waiter at Ranklin’s side the moment he had squeezed into the little seat-back-high booth. Almost every table had such a partition, so you could either feel private or lean over the back to chat. Like garden fences, perhaps.

  “What’s going to keep me awake?” Ranklin asked.

  O’Gilroy decided for him: “Un grand café noir et une fine.” His pronunciation was terrible, but the waiter didn’t mind, which suggested how much O’Gilroy had come to belong. Jay offered him a cigarette and then waited patiently.

  Finally Ranklin said: “I didn’t learn anything new, but I hope I put the fear of God into the Palace and stopped them having any more bright ideas. Did you find Gorkin?”

  O’Gilroy nodded. “He’s in that café I told ye of —”

  “A very intellectuel place,” Jay supplemented.

  “– sitting in a corner scribbling away.” There was a moment’s gloomy silence while they thought of what he could be scribbling. Ranklin’s coffee and cognac arrived. He sipped at each and whether either woke him up he couldn’t say. But perhaps they made him feel he should try.