A Grave Man

by David Roberts

  The combination of Harvey and Adam von Trott was a heady brew and he feared Verity had found his innate dislike of extremism in all its forms unpalatable. On that first occasion he had taken the Blue Train to the South of France, he had been on his way to Spain in a rather panicky attempt to protect her from unspecified danger. This trip, in the so-called ‘millionaire’s train’, should have been sheer pleasure followed by an easy few days in the sun, a fascinating dinner with the Duke and Duchess of Windsor and then home again to domestic bliss. As it turned out, Verity was not in the mood to enjoy luxury. She was not sullen or irritable but cool and professional, which was worse. He could have dealt with her anger – he often had before – but this unforgiving friendliness, as though he was an acquaintance whom she tolerated rather than liked, was difficult to accept. He attempted to tease her but that merely produced surprised stares or blank incomprehension. He tried to engage her in serious conversation on matters he knew to be important to her – the Munich exhibition of so-called degenerate art, by which the Nazis seemed to mean all modern art; the war in China where the Japanese were behaving with extraordinary cruelty to Chinese civilians; and, on a lighter note, Amelia Earhart’s mysterious disappearance on the last leg of her round-the-world flight from California. Only when he mentioned, unwisely, Churchill’s disappointment at not being offered a position in Neville Chamberlain’s new cabinet did he receive more than a formal response.

  ‘Mr Churchill!’ She spat out the name. ‘Well, you know my opinions of him. If he were in the cabinet, we would probably have declared war on Russia by now.’ She stopped and took a breath. ‘But I won’t discuss him with you because you will only go on about how he will save the world.’

  Edward could have wept with frustration.

  It was a relief to reach Cannes. Lord Weaver had offered them the use of his villa on Cap Martin and, in other circumstances, it would have been the perfect place to relax, make love and soak up the sun. Now, it was unthinkable and they stayed at the Carlton in such splendour that Verity was visibly uneasy. Edward wished now he had never agreed to Joe’s request to accompany her.

  ‘She’ll need looking after,’ he had said, ‘you know, chaperoning. You'll have to stop her making a fool of herself and talking Communist clap-trap to the Duke.’

  Both men had smiled guiltily, knowing how Verity would hate being talked about in this way. Edward had welcomed the chance of being alone with her for three days. Surely, in three days he could woo her back? Now, he knew he was wrong. If it had been a normal quarrel they might have made up their differences in bed but it wasn’t that sort of disagreement. Edward was feeling a little guilty because he had a particular reason for meeting the Duke of Windsor of which Verity knew nothing. Churchill had asked him to pass on a letter to the Duke in which he strongly advised him not to tour Germany and meet the Nazi leaders. Churchill pointed out that such a trip would be a tremendous public relations coup for Goering and Hitler and make the King very angry. Churchill, who had supported the Duke when he wanted to remain king while marrying Mrs Simpson, was still regarded by the Duke as a friend and ally although he and Wallis had been disappointed that he had not attended their wedding in Tours. Despite the Duke’s regard for Churchill, Edward thought it most unlikely that he would take any notice of his advice but it was his clear duty to make the effort to give it him. The Duke was too pig-headed and politically naive to see the use to which he was being put by the Nazis.

  The Duke and Duchess, who had married only a couple of months earlier and might therefore be presumed to be enjoying their honeymoon, were living at the Villa La Cröe in Antibes, owned by one of Lord Weaver’s friends and rivals, Sir Pomeroy Burton. It was a pleasant, shady house with green shutters and delightful gardens. Edward and Verity presented themselves at the villa about six o’clock the next day and were led by the butler on to the terrace where the Duke and Duchess were having cocktails with two or three friends. Edward noted with amusement that Verity made what might almost have been a curtsey and, in happier times, he would have stored away the memory to rib her about it later. His mind was on the tricky question of what he should call the Duchess. He knew the Duke liked her to be addressed as Her Royal Highness even though, at the abdication, this title had been expressly denied her. In the end, to please the Duke, he did use her royal title and was glad he had done so when he saw him smile. For a few moments, he was busy with Wallis who patted his arm and wanted to know all about Verity. It was quite a shock when he suddenly saw that the distinguished-looking man at the other end of the terrace was Simon Castlewood. He was sitting beside a pretty, snub-nosed, bright-eyed girl dressed with just too much care to be English.

  Sir Simon seemed equally surprised to see Verity and Edward, and possibly a little embarrassed, though he tried not to show it. Clearly, the Duke had not bothered to inform him who else had been invited to dinner. The Duchess was charming to Verity in her cool way and took her to sit beside her in a bamboo armchair. The Duke was on his feet mixing a cocktail – something he liked to do himself – and greeted Edward courteously, inquiring after the journey and what the weather had been like in England. There was, of course, no mention of their previous meeting. This had been frosty though Edward had done them a considerable service in retrieving letters the Duke had written Wallis which, had they been published, would have embarrassed them. No one likes to be in someone else’s debt, as Edward knew to his cost. That was all forgotten now and it was clear that he was to be treated like any other casual acquaintance.

  The other guests were Serge Voronoff – a strange-looking man who, the Duchess explained, was famous for ‘monkey glands’ – and the Duke’s most loyal friend and supporter Major Edward ‘Fruity’ Metcalfe. He was less a guest and more a member of the Duke’s entourage. Edward knew him quite well and they shook hands warmly. Metcalfe seemed to greet him with something like relief. As soon as he could, Metcalfe took him off into a corner and explained that all was not well at La Cröe. Since the King had abdicated, he had become increasingly irritable and complained constantly of slights and insults from the English community in Cannes and Monte Carlo as well as from the many prominent visitors to the South of France. ‘He’s so touchy!’ Metcalfe confessed. ‘When he heard the Cutty Sark had been seen in Cannes harbour a week or two ago and the Duke of Westminster had not asked to see him, he wouldn’t eat or sleep for forty-eight hours and, of course, he blames me.’

  ‘Why does he blame you?’

  ‘Because I’m here,’ Metcalfe replied simply.

  ‘And the Duchess?’

  ‘She’s very good with him but the truth is, he’s beginning to bore her.’

  ‘Do they go to the casino?’

  ‘Occasionally, but David always imagines he is being stared at and, of course, he is. What would be worse,’ he said with a grin, ‘is if he weren’t. He’s not quite the figure he was. Last time he ventured out to the casino in Cannes, he was actually jostled by people wanting to get past him to the chemin de fer. The trouble is that there are so many ex-kings here.’ He counted on his fingers, ‘The ex-king of Portugal, the ex-king of Spain, the ex-king of Yugoslavia, the ex-king of Egypt . . .’

  ‘Do they socialize – the ex-kings?’ Edward asked, grinning.

  ‘They all belong to the Cercle Nautique. It’s the grandest club on the coast.’

  At that moment the Duke, seeing them gossiping, came to interrupt.

  ‘What are you two finding so amusing?’ he inquired sourly.

  ‘Lord Edward was just asking me about my white dinner-jacket. I said they were all the rage here but doubted they would catch on in England,’ Metcalfe said smoothly.

  ‘Hmm,’ the Duke said. ‘As long as you weren’t conspiring. He’ll report everything back to Winston, don’ty’know?’

  ‘He will be delighted to hear you are well and happy, sir,’ Edward replied with as much sincerity as he could manage.

  They went in to eat about nine and the food was very good – melon wi
th tomato ice, eggs with crab sauce, chicken with avocado pear salad and an elaborate fruit pudding, and Edward started to enjoy himself. He was very much aware that this was an occasion he would always remember and probably bore his friends with for years to come. The Duke dominated the conversation. He seemed to take to Verity and questioned her closely on social conditions in the cities, a subject on which she could talk for hours. He obviously felt he still had a part to play in England and had not yet thrown off the habits and concerns of kingship. He was lively and well informed and discussed the welfare of the Welsh coal-miners with real passion, saying he wanted to see them clean, healthy and contented. He asked Verity to tell him about the Jarrow March, on which she had reported, and complained that Baldwin had refused to let him meet the marchers. Edward, while appreciating that the Duke was interested in the social conditions of his former subjects, was faintly repulsed by his tone of voice. It was as though he wanted the miners to be clean and healthy in the same way that he might want his dogs or horses to be fit and well.

  Edward talked to the Duchess and soon recalled how charming she could be. She wanted to know all about her friends – some of whom were also Edward’s – and the London ‘season’. ‘I don’t want to spend my life in exile,’ she told him. He had very little opportunity to talk to Sir Simon’s pretty friend but gathered she was an actress and French. She seemed charmed that Edward could speak to her in her own language, confessing that she found the ‘English tongue’ difficult but the men ‘charmants’.

  After dinner, they all rose together and strolled out on to the terrace for coffee and liqueurs. There was no hint from the Duchess that the ladies should leave the gentlemen to talk amongst themselves. It was almost as if she did not like to leave the Duke alone with his guests in case he said something he ought not. When the Duke beckoned to Edward to follow him, he caught the quick glance of warning she shot him. He walked after the Duke into a small conservatory where, standing, they lit cigars and Edward gave him Churchill’s letter. The Duke made no attempt to read it but slipped it in his pocket.

  ‘I know what it says but you can tell them I won’t do it. I won’t give up my tour of Germany. It is incumbent on me to go,’ he said pompously, his voice sounding rather shrill. ‘Someone in authority must go and do what they can to prevent this unnecessary war. I like the Germans and I like what Herr Hitler has done for his country. We are natural allies – Germany and England – Aryan races with more in common than we have with the southern races. We should combine to fight off the threat of Communism.’

  Edward hoped he did not know, or had forgotten, that one of his guests was a Communist. There was something about his use of phrases such as ‘southern races’ that made Edward feel he must have been talking to Sir Simon and he risked saying, ‘May I ask you, sir, what you think of Castlewood’s views on purifying the race?’

  The Duke took the cigar out of his mouth and plucked at his bow tie, a mannerism he had when he was nervous. He looked at Edward as if trying to decide whether he could talk frankly or not. Edward’s expression remained blandly interested.

  ‘I think he is right,’ he said simply. ‘In fact I have agreed to be patron of his Foundation. It is one of the things I shall be discussing with Herr Hitler – one of the ways in which our two nations can cooperate. Herr Hitler has had remarkable success, you know, in freeing his country from the tyranny of the Jewish bankers whose rapacity brought Germany to its knees.’

  Edward was dumbfounded. He had guessed when he saw Sir Simon that he was there for a purpose but he never imagined Sir Simon devious enough to involve the Duke in the Foundation. And what he had said about Jewish bankers! Edward wondered who had taught him to spout such nonsense – Ribbentrop, perhaps. He was a close friend of the Duchess – some even said her lover. The Duke must have seen something in his eyes and, realizing he had been indiscreet, added hastily, ‘Just an idea, you know. I had rather you kept it to yourself.’

  Edward was able to avoid making any promises as they were interrupted by a call from the Duchess, who seemed to sense the Duke was in danger of an indiscretion. The two men walked back on to the terrace, both relieved nothing more needed to be said. It was a lovely, starlit night and the flag bearing the Prince of Wales’ feathers hung motionless from a pole in the garden. Seeing Edward glance towards it, the Duke said, ‘When I became king, they had to take it down as there was no Prince of Wales. So I didn’t see why I shouldn’t have it here.’ Edward thought it was precisely because the Duke could not see why it was in poor taste to fly it here in exile that he had lost his crown.

  At midnight, they thanked their hosts and made ready to depart. The Duke inquired when they were returning to London. Edward said the next day and he noticed the Duke’s left eye twitch as though in pain. He had been in high spirits throughout the evening, obviously happy to be with his ‘Wally’ whose hand he grasped at every opportunity, but he was homesick. He did not like foreigners other than Americans and Germans. His last words to Edward were surprisingly warm, ‘Do come again. We like visitors from England. Never enough . . . never enough . . .’

  ‘What was he doing there?’ Verity asked, as soon as the car had driven away and they were standing in the hotel foyer.

  ‘Sir Simon? He asked the same thing of me. I said you had come to interview the Duke and I had come along for the ride. How did you get on, by the way?’

  ‘I got enough to write my article but I need to think about it. What he said was all right – I mean he seemed genuinely concerned about unemployment, the need to tear down the slums and replace them with good quality housing, but there was something about the way he said it . . . I don’t quite know, but it was as if he was talking about an inferior race. Maybe I am being unfair. He could certainly quote the facts and figures.’

  ‘So what was your general impression of the “royal couple”,’ Edward inquired with studied sarcasm. Her response surprised him.

  ‘I felt sorry for them. Of course, he will live a wasted life now, with nothing to do but drink and idle away his time, but that’s the nature of royalty. If he had been an ordinary man, he might have done something useful with his life. He cares about the poor which is more than . . .’ Her brow furrowed. ‘The whole stupid arrangement ought to be swept away – and it will be soon. Royalty can hardly survive the war when it comes. Ordinary men and women will vote them out and we’ll have a republic.’

  Edward wasn’t so sure but merely asked, ‘You think he would have made a good king?’

  ‘I don’t see why not. As I say, he cares about the working classes. He said he hoped he could bring a little glamour into blighted lives and I don’t say he is wrong.’

  ‘So you’ll write a sympathetic article about them?’

  ‘I haven’t thought what I shall say yet, but I think they have been hard done by. I shall describe what I saw.’

  ‘Did you find out who Voronoff was? I didn’t really speak to him,’ he said, changing the subject.

  ‘Yes. What an odd-looking man! He works at the Beauty Institute. He injects monkey glands into elderly women and they become young and beautiful. Some nonsense like that.’

  ‘Ugh!’ Edward shuddered. ‘What you women suffer to please us men.’ He winced, knowing his joke would not amuse.

  Verity scowled but restrained herself from snapping his head off. Instead she said, ‘Does Jebb know Sir Simon is here?’

  ‘He gave him permission for a brief “business trip” but I doubt he knew he was visiting the Duke and Duchess. I certainly didn’t. She’s a looker,’ he could not resist adding, rather unwisely.

  ‘Who?’ Verity said coldly. ‘The Duchess?’

  ‘No, silly! Sir Simon’s girl. I saw you talking to her. I bet Ginny doesn’t know he’s escorting . . . what is she – a film actress? One can appreciate what he sees in her, of course.’

  ‘Can one?’ Verity’s tone had gone from cold to icy. ‘As a matter of fact, her name is Natalie Sarrault and she is making a film at the Vict
orine studios in Nice.’

  ‘And is she his mistress?’

  ‘Perhaps, I didn’t ask her. But I don’t see what it is do with us, as long as Ginny doesn’t mind.’

  ‘Or doesn’t know. You don’t mind seeing your friend betrayed?’ he added brutally.

  Verity blushed but refused to be drawn. ‘I liked her. In fact, she has invited me to go and watch her filming tomorrow before we return to London. I thought it might be interesting. I think there’ll be time if I start early enough.’

  Edward digested this. ‘Am I invited?’

  ‘Not specially, but I suppose if you want to come . . .’

  ‘No, I think I’ll check up on Montillo’s Beauty Institute. Sir Simon was telling me all about it. Apparently, it’s only a few miles out of town. I asked him if I could look round it and he was suspiciously keen that I should do. He said he couldn’t take me there himself as he has a business meeting with the Duke – which I think involves playing golf at Cagnes – but he would telephone and they would be expecting me. By the way, I very much fear he may induce the Duke to become a patron of his Foundation. It is just the sort of bloody silly thing the Duke would do. He wants to be seen to be doing “good works” and have it reported in the English newspapers.’

  ‘It may be all above board . . .’

  ‘I don’t think so, V.’

  There was nothing more to be said so they wished each other goodnight and went off to their separate bedrooms. Edward would have given a lot to have been able to take her in his arms but that was impossible. Would they never again be at one with each other? Was this stiff politeness all that was left? It seemed so. It took him some time to get to sleep and he awoke with a headache.