A Royal Affair

by Allison Montclair

  “Then it seems strange that he should want to lease the place, doesn’t it?” asked Sparks.

  “Maybe. I’ve never been the villa-leasing type myself, so I don’t know why anyone else would go to the trouble. It might have been his way of funneling money to the family when they were hard up while still maintaining appearances.”

  “And what did that have to do with Talbot going back to Corfu?”

  “Talbot went back on Mountbatten’s behalf to make sure the place was still worth leasing.”

  “Talbot went on Mountbatten’s behalf? Not for the Crown?”

  “Talbot was out of the Service by then,” said the Brigadier.

  “But why would he be the one to go back for Mountbatten?”

  “No idea.”

  “Were you still in Rome then?”

  “I was.”

  “Were you aware of Talbot’s journey to Mon Repos?”

  “He came through Rome on his way there. We dined together.”

  “And he said nothing about why he was going to Corfu?”

  “Just that he needed to make sure the place was livable before Mountbatten leased it.”

  “He went all that way for that trivial purpose, and you never thought it peculiar?”

  “Let me think—was there anything else happening in Italy in twenty-six that might have been taking up more of my attentions? Oh yes. I vaguely recall a fellow named Mussolini and the rise of the Fascists. So, yes, Talbot’s housekeeping expedition didn’t raise any significant alarms amidst the constant clanging already around me.”

  “Did he pass through Rome on his return?”

  “He did not. The next time I saw him, he was a stalwart man of railways and electric companies.”

  “Yet you brought him back to train the lads.”

  “He was a clever chap. I thought he’d be useful.”

  Sparks paused for a second, collecting her thoughts.

  “Constantine Torgos was at his funeral,” she said.

  “What of it?”

  “Torgos was our link to the Greek Resistance during the recent war. He worked with us. Not with me personally, but I knew who he was. What was his connection to Talbot?”

  “I have given you everything you need, Sparks,” said the Brigadier, rising to his feet. “More than you are entitled to. I won’t be wasting any more time with this.”

  “Sir? May I say one more thing?”

  He stopped.

  “Go on, Sparks,” he said wearily.

  “I fully expect to outlive you by several decades,” she said.

  “Impudent woman. Is that all?”

  “No, sir. What I wanted to say was that despite that, I am glad that you still consider me worthy of flowers at my funeral.”

  “More than worthy, Sparks,” he said. “I hope you stay in touch. We may yet find a mission you’d consider taking.”

  “How is Andrew?” she blurted out.

  “Can’t tell you, Sparks. Good luck with the investigation.”

  He walked away. She read the paper until she heard the Bentley start up behind her.

  Well, hardly likely he’d tell her about Andrew, she thought. An ex is an ex is an ex, especially the spying sort. It would be nice to know that he was safe, though.

  She folded up the Guardian and walked to the office.

  * * *

  Gwen waved a piece of paper at her triumphantly when Iris walked through the door.

  “I’ve located one of the lady’s maids!” she crowed.

  “How on earth did you manage that?”

  “Well, the family settled in Paris after they left Corfu. I have a friend who has an aunt who was married to a French automobile tycoon during the twenties, and she is an invaluable gossip when it comes to la société Parisienne. It turns out that her lady’s maid was a second cousin or something—”

  “All right, I accept the bona fides of your investigation,” interrupted Iris.

  “This involved a great deal of work,” said Gwen indignantly. “And we have to justify our information if we are going to act upon it.”

  “You’re right, I’m sorry. Go on. Second cousin of the tycoon’s wife’s lady’s maid or something, you were saying.”

  “Yes, I think—” Gwen glanced at her notes. “Lost my place for a moment. Right, there it is. So, her lady’s maid was a second cousin to the young princesses’ maid, whose name was Cécile Berteuil. She left their employ when they all got married, which happened within a relatively short space of time. She married a French chauffeur named Armand Bousquet.”

  “Where are they now?”

  “In England! They are employed by Harold Cockerell and his wife, Felicity. Cockerell’s in steel manufacturing or something and has a house in Sudbury.”

  “I wonder if she knows what Princess Alice left behind in Corfu.”

  “She might, she might not. But even if she doesn’t, she might know the whereabouts of Princess Alice’s personal lady’s maid.”

  “Well, that’s progress. Certainly more than I’ve made today.”

  “Did he see you?”

  “He did. He wasn’t happy about the purpose of my call, but that was to be expected. Here’s the important bit: Talbot went back to Mon Repos.”

  “He did!” breathed Gwen. “That’s stupendous. When?”

  “In 1926, on behalf of Dickie Mountbatten, who was intending to lease the villa from Prince Andrea.”

  “Dickie Mountbatten? Princess Alice’s brother?”

  “And Philip’s uncle. Now, in 1926, Philip is only five, and our Lilibet is a babe in arms, so I don’t think there was any long-term intrigue in place for matching them at that point.”

  “No, of course not. But how did Talbot end up being Mountbatten’s representative? How did they even know each other, unless—It had to have been Alice who made the connection.”

  “Or Andrea. So, let’s put this together. The prince cannot return to Greek soil, which means neither can Alice. They need money, so brother Dickie steps in with a way to subsidise them while letting them save face. Alice sees an opportunity to regain the missing whatsit, and gets Talbot to undertake the mission for her.”

  “Then why wouldn’t he have simply returned the whatsit to her?” asked Gwen. “Mission accomplished, end of story.”

  “Maybe he decided to blackmail her instead,” said Iris.

  “That’s terribly unchivalrous for a Knight Commander of the Royal Victorian Order, I must say.”

  “Spies are not always chivalrous,” said Iris. “I know that from firsthand experience.”

  “Could it have been something other than blackmail?” asked Gwen. “What if he kept it for sentimental value once he secured it? Or kept it safe for the princess?”

  “Many things are still possible. But we have now made the possible … well, not real, but less impossible. Now, let’s check the train schedule to Sudbury.”

  “No,” said Gwen.

  “No? Why not?”

  “Because we have appointments this afternoon, as you very well know.”

  “We’ll break them,” said Iris blithely. “Duty beckons, one must put the country’s interests—nay, the Queen’s interests, before one’s own.”

  “No,” repeated Gwen. “First, one does not break an appointment with one’s psychiatrist. Second, one does not break a promise made to one’s friend to go to said psychiatrist.”

  “One doesn’t?” whined Iris. “What if one is having second thoughts about the whole idea?”

  “It’s perfectly natural to be frightened the first time,” said Gwen.

  “How long before you got over your fear of him?”

  “Oh, he still terrifies me,” said Gwen. “When he stops, I will be cured. Or completely bonkers. I doubt that I will be able to tell the difference.”

  “It’s good to have goals,” said Iris. “Could we at least call this Cécile Berteuil Bousquet and see if she’s available to speak to us?”

  “I was waiting for you to return bef
ore making the call,” said Gwen. “I thought you might want to handle this one, given that I’ve been making calls under my own name.”

  Iris held out her hand. Gwen passed her the number. Iris dialed it.

  “Hello,” she said. “Is this the Cockerell residence? Is there a Mrs. Bousquet there? Oh, Madame Bousquet, forgive me. Might I have a word with her? Yes, I’ll wait.”

  Gwen watched as her partner subtly shifted character. It was evident in the body language. Iris was seated on the edge of her chair, leaning forwards, her eyes focused on some unknown point—well, more likely the dart board opposite her.

  “Hello, Madame Bousquet? This is Mary McTague from the Telegraph. No, the newspaper. Yes, that one. Do you read it? Ah, pity. In any event, I’m with the Society section, and we’ve just learned that you were with Prince Andrea’s family when they made their exciting getaway from Greece back in the twenties, is that right? It is! I am so glad I’ve found you. Would you be available for a brief interview, say, tomorrow morning? No, we don’t pay for our interviews. Not officially, anyway. I’m not saying I might not be able to give you a little something for your time, but remember that I’m just a lady journalist trying to get a story—they don’t pay us very much. I’ll bet you make more than I do … Really? Well, then we’re both vastly underpaid. Yes, I agree, the class system is unjust. When? You’re available when Mrs. Cockerell goes on her missions of mercy? Ten thirty will be fine. I will see you then.”

  She hung up.

  “How much do lady journalists make?” asked Gwen.

  “No idea,” said Iris.

  * * *

  The waiting room at Dr. Milford’s office could have been a waiting room for anyone or anything, thought Iris. A stockbroker. A solicitor. A torturer. She envisioned the psychiatrist seated at a desk inside a dungeon, or whatever one would call a dungeon on a well-lit ground floor of a Harley Street office, replete with coiled leather whips and arcane iron flensing instruments hanging from the walls. The waiting room gave no indication of such infernal purpose, however. She sat on a straight-backed wooden chair, the two comfy couches being occupied by several young men, all but one of whom were in uniform. The exception, who nevertheless was of their age and bearing, was wearing a gray two-piece demob suit. One of the sleeves was flat and pinned to his waist to keep it from flapping around.

  She filled out a questionnaire on a clipboard provided to her by the receptionist who guarded the thick door that separated them from the inner sanctum sanctorum, into which Gwen had disappeared twenty minutes earlier, shoulders thrown back, deep breath taken. She never talked to Iris about her visits, other than that she was making them, and this was the first time that Iris would be seeing her directly after having her psyche fumigated. She wondered what Gwen would be like. She imagined her friend as being temporarily softened, like moulded plastic fresh out of the oven, still pliable until the hard outer shell re-formed in the harsh cold air of the world.

  She wondered if that softening would take place with her. If she could be reshaped into something more—

  More what?

  She wasn’t sure what she wanted to be.

  She supposed that was what she had come to find out.

  There were stacks of old magazines piled about. She searched for one Gwen assured her was always there, the centenary issue of the Illustrated London News with Princess Elizabeth on the cover. Their client, even if the princess would never know The Right Sort Marriage Bureau was on the case. She thought about what it might have been like had the princess actually walked through their doors, looking for a real husband, rather than being paired with some minor impoverished royal who fit all the external parameters for a princely consort. Who would she match with the heir presumptive from amongst their ninety-six single men? Maybe Mr. MacLaren. He looked like a prince, even though he was a banker and a banker’s son. He was tall, with a courtly bearing, and had served with distinction in the Black Watch, First Battalion. He had shown up in their office for his first interview in dress uniform, complete with kilt and tam. And a very dashing eye patch, courtesy of the Battle of the Bulge.

  Let’s see if the Royal Navy can match that, she thought.

  Yet it was churlish of her to belittle the young princess. Elizabeth could have escaped to safety in the country, but she had remained in London. They all did, living through the Blitz with their subjects. Royalty imposed its duties during wartime, and they accepted them without qualm, even taking, what was it, nine bombs to the Palace? The Queen said she was glad they had been bombed. Something about being able to look the East End in the face.

  Although Iris doubted they’d let Elizabeth marry an East Ender.

  Maybe Margaret?

  No.

  She got up and returned her paperwork to the receptionist who began making up a file. Iris retook her seat.

  “Would you prefer the couch, Miss?” asked the one-armed civilian. “That chair looks uncomfortable.”

  “I’m fine, thank you,” she said, giving him a warm smile. “And thank you for your service. Thank all of you.”

  There was a group of muttered responses from several of the lads. None from two, who stared blankly across the room, seeing things the others didn’t.

  The door opened, and Gwen emerged, dabbing at her eyes with her handkerchief. She saw Iris looking at her with concern and smiled weakly.

  “It’s all right,” she whispered as she sat next to her.

  “But—”

  “I’m fine.”

  The receptionist went into the inner office with Iris’s file, then returned.

  “Miss Sparks?” she called.

  Iris sat unmoving, looking at her friend’s tears. Gwen reached over and patted her hand.

  “Be brave,” she said. “Drinks and cake, remember?”

  “Right,” said Iris, getting to her feet. “Here goes nothing.”

  She strode to the door and knocked.

  “Just go in,” said the receptionist.

  Iris opened the door. It was heavy, and the other side was covered in maroon leather padding.

  There were no implements of torture in the room. At least, none visible. On the right was an examining table, with a scale on one side and a sphygmomanometer on a stand on the other. On the other side of the room was a long couch.

  Dr. Milford sat at a desk, reading Iris’s paperwork. He motioned to a chair in front of the desk without looking up.

  “Be with you in a moment,” he said. “Please take a seat.”

  “You made my friend cry,” said Iris. “Don’t even think about trying anything like that with me.”

  “Trying what, Miss Sparks?” asked Dr. Milford, looking at her for the first time.

  “Whatever it is you do that makes people cry.”

  “You never cry, Miss Sparks?” he asked.

  “Do you?”

  “Yes. Please take a seat, and we’ll start properly.”

  “What if I want to be improper?”

  “You’re taking an aggressive approach for our first meeting, I see.”

  “And that bothers you.”

  “Merely observing,” he said, getting up from his desk. “Take your jacket off and sit on the examining table. I want to take your vitals.”

  “You cannot, sir, take from me anything that I will more willingly part withal,” she said, removing her jacket and draping it over the back of her chair. “Except my life, except my life, except my life.”

  “We’ll talk about suicidal tendencies later, Lady Hamlet,” he said, removing a stethoscope from a case on the desk. “Up on the table, unbutton your blouse, and roll up your sleeve, please.”

  She complied. He listened to her chest and back, had her breathe deeply, then put the sphygmomanometer cuff on her upper arm and inflated it with a rubber bulb, making the mercury rise in the cylinder next to her while holding a pocket watch in his other hand. They watched the mercury drop together when he released the pressure.

  “On the high side,” he sa
id. “How long has that been going on?”

  “Since the war ended,” she said.

  “You may dress,” he said, sitting down and jotting the information in her file. “Oh, step on that scale first.”

  She stepped on the scale, concealing her dismay as he slid the last weight further to the right than she had hoped.

  I was wrong about the instruments of torture, she thought.

  “Have a seat, please,” he said. “Now, for the basics. Age?”

  “Twenty-nine.”

  “Education?”

  “Bachelor of Arts Title, Cambridge.”

  “Parents both alive?”

  “Yes.”

  “Together?”

  “No.”

  “Separated or divorced?”

  “Formally divorced in thirty-two. Separated—well, it was a slippery slope. He came home less and less, then not at all. By that point, it was hard to notice that he had moved out.”

  “I doubt that very much, but we’ll explore that in time. Married?”

  “No. A couple of close calls.”

  “Interesting remark from someone in your line of work.”

  “Yes, isn’t it?” said Iris smiling brightly. “I bet you think you’re the first ever to say that.”

  “Sexually active?”

  “Yes. One might even say overactive, but we’ll explore that in time, too. Won’t we?”

  “If you like. Longest relationship?”

  That caught her up short. She had never considered that question.

  Andrew. It was Andrew, damn him.

  “I suppose my previous one,” she said. “On and off for a while, then very much on for a longish time, and then off. Maybe two years and a month, overall.”

  “When did it end?”

  “Last month.”

  “Why?”

  “He was married. It wasn’t going anywhere. It wasn’t—it probably wasn’t a good idea.”

  “I see.”

  “I’m dating a gangster now,” she said cheerfully, watching his reaction closely.

  “A gangster?”

  “He’s the head of a gang, therefore a gangster. A spiv from the East End.”

  “Have you become involved in crime yourself?”