Nor become disoriented. Best keep to the wall. She placed her left hand on the bed and worked her way around to the wall, then followed it, fingers of one hand only lightly touching it, the other outstretched to find any impediment. Two steps, three steps, twenty steps . . . at twenty-five she found a small table against the stones. She moved her fingertips across it now. A vacuum flask, a bottle. She took another step and her feet met something that moved, clanking slightly. She bent.
A chamber pot. At least it smelled clean. Its implications though were frightening. She was meant to stay here until she needed to use it, and perhaps more than once. She smiled grimly. She would see about that.
Back to the table. A plate, with what felt like a tin, perhaps containing sandwiches or cake, and a bowl of apples.
She crept onwards. At forty-eight paces she met the corner, turned and in two paces found shelves holding what felt like bottles of wine. That confirmed her hunch of darkness, clamminess and smell. This was a cellar, and not presumably in the building she had gone to, for a modern apartment block would not have this flagged floor. But it was still possible.
Eight shelves she could reach, more above. She tried yelling ‘Help!’ again, more to evaluate the echo than in the hope that anyone might respond, even if they were listening. The lack of sound from outside — traffic, birdsong — indicated that the walls might be soundproof. Or, possibly, that this was four am and sound might return with dawn. Even light, perhaps, from windows too high to see.
She doubted it.
She counted two hundred bottles exactly along the shelves until she came to a door, small, with a lock, but a firmness when she shook it that indicated it was bolted on the other side. She put her ear to the door — dusty and unpleasant — but could hear nothing, which made her further suspect this was a cellar at least partially underground.
She kept on moving. Another corner and then, eventually, the bed again. The centre of the room might contain other objects. Possibly, later, she would investigate. Not now. Instead she found her way back to the table. The bottle contained water. She tasted it, found it water-like and so presumably undrugged, and drank half of it. The Thermos contained a hot and creamy chicken soup, its taste so comforting and familiar that for the first time she began to cry.
She wiped away the tears; used a little of the water to wash her hands, then took sandwiches and soup and an apple back to the bed. She felt the apple carefully, but it didn’t seem to have been nibbled by rats. Had she only imagined the scratchings?
Hunger returned, as did the need to use the chamber pot. Well, it must be faced some time. She used it, then placed the apple core in a corner of the room. If she left a core there each time she ate an apple it would be one way of marking time, assuming that the rats didn’t eat them and that she would be here for more than one day.
Which was likely. She forced herself again to think calmly.
Item seven: if they had been going to kill her, she would be dead now. A body was far easier to hide than an enraged countess with a loud voice and a demonstrated ruthlessness sufficient to shoot her enemies.
Item eight: if she had been removed to leave the way free for Wallis Simpson — and, presumably, the reinstatement of her complete control of the king, and even a public announcement of his intention to marry her — she could be here at least a week, possibly months. Months in darkness, the rats crawling over her face as she slept.
No. Think of good things. Rose and Danny, who would be safe and happy: Daniel and Lily would see to that. They would say she had influenza, perhaps, and so must stay away in case she gave them the sickness.
And people would be looking for her. James and his entire organisation would be looking for her. If Hannelore was a double agent, Dolphie and his henchmen would know this. If she was not, then Dolphie might just believe that she was what she had appeared to be — an old friend of the king, a widow of an even older friend, one who had ambitions perhaps to be a king’s mistress or even, just possibly, a queen.
Egg and cress sandwiches and smoked salmon. This was an indulgent gaoling. Ironically the luxuriousness of the salmon made her angry. Good. Anger drove away the tears. She put the tin and the Thermos back on the table, found her way back to the bed and closed her eyes. It must be night, because she slept . . .
Chapter 34
Titles have a strange effect. They are meaningless, of course, unless earned, in which case the deed matters more than the reward. Some who are born to them rarely think of them. Others, with exactly the same exposure, find them one of the most vital elements of their lives.
But there is something about the word king that unites almost everyone. (I did say almost.)
Miss Lily, 1936
LONDON
Hereward’s back was a little straighter as he announced, ‘His Majesty is on the telephone. He wishes to speak to Lady Vaile, Miss Lily.’
Lily stood. Poor Mrs Goodenough. She had been dreaming up menus to tempt a king. Venison had featured largely and her brochette of salmon, and her curry puffs and a special bombe involving imported Australian passionfruit for dessert . . . ‘I will speak to him.’
Lily followed the butler into the hall. Her scars ached. England in autumn. She had forgotten how the cold seeped into one’s bones, even in a house where central heating had been installed and fires were kept burning. Or perhaps it was her heart that ached. Sophie!
‘Your Majesty, this is Lillian Vaile, Sophie’s sister-in-law speaking. I am so very sorry — Sophie is unwell. Food poisoning, I suspect.’
‘But I need her now!’ The voice was petulant and also, just slightly, frightened. ‘She must come to supper!’
‘May I be of help, Sir?’ Lily smiled, so that the smile would appear in her voice too. ‘This must be a nightmare for you. I can manage crumpets and honey as well as Sophie.’
‘Matters are too . . . delicate. Sophie must speak to the Australian president, or whatever title the wretched man has . . .’
Lily did not correct him. ‘She will do so as soon as she can.’
‘That isn’t good enough!’
‘Sir, wait till tomorrow, or possibly the day after —’
‘But I don’t know what to do! Everyone is advising different things. Sophie would know what to do —’
A voice in the background. A woman’s voice, abrupt, demanding. His tone changed. ‘There is no time. A king should not have to wait on a colonial’s food poisoning.’ The phone clicked.
Lily looked at the receiver for a moment, then replaced it, picked it up and asked for James’s number. ‘James? Our friend just called. He was angry and I think being very firmly pushed.’
‘Things are moving. I gather Simpson is leaving for France tonight.’
‘All is going far faster than you anticipated.’
‘Yes, the final act may be in the next few days, though I will try to delay it as long as I can. Lily, Sophie needs to be here!’
‘I know,’ said Lily softly. ‘We can only hope that Hannelore can find out more. I do trust her, James.’
‘After all she did to you?’
‘She did what she believed was right. She will do so now too. But I think, at last, she sees more clearly what the right might be.’
‘I had better call Winston. He has to know we are letting a possible German agent be part of this . . . Be ready.’
‘Yes.’
‘Lily, are you crying?’
‘Yes.’ She put the phone down, unable to say more.
She had loved many people in her life. She still did — her children, Green and Jones; Misako, her first teacher; the late Dowager Duchess of Wooten, her first friend. But she had not loved them the way she loved Sophie.
Would she have become involved in James’s world if she had known Sophie earlier? But that was impossible, for Sophie had been a child then. Someone like Sophie?
Lily managed a smile. There was no one like Sophie.
Hannelore, she thought, whatever you know of love and fr
iendship, do your best now. Find Sophie for us. Find her quickly, before it is too late.
Chapter 35
A pimple? Dear child, I would like to say one outgrows them, but even I have not reached that stage yet. No, do not pick at it and do not cover it in caked make-up. Hold an ice cube over it to lessen the inflammation and then, at the last minute before you go down to dine, cover it with a thin paste of powder and water, as thin as possible, with the lightest touch of powder over it.
Miss Lily, 1908
‘A visitor to see you, Mr Lorrimer. He did not give his name.’
And yet his butler had announced him, and his intuition was invariably correct. James would not have employed him otherwise.
‘Please show him in.’
An Englishman, one James vaguely recognised, not because he had met him in person but from a photograph; this man had sat on the platform at one of Mosley’s fascist meetings. ‘Excuse my barging in, old chap.’
James neither stood nor made a polite rejoinder. He waited.
‘I have a message for you.’
‘A message can be written.’
‘This, perhaps, is best spoken.’
‘They can also be conveyed by telephone.’
‘With operators listening in?’ The man smiled. He was tall, with the shoulders of a former rugby player, the weathered face of a fox hunter, the accent heard on the playing fields of no, not Eton, or even Harrow, but one of the more minor public schools. Forty perhaps, seeing change both in himself and the world, and not liking it.
‘The message?’
‘You are missing something. If there is publicity in any way, that publicity will be returned five-fold.’
‘I don’t quite apprehend your meaning.’
‘Really? They told me you were bright. I will be plain then. The person you cannot find is safe and will stay safe and will be returned safe. Let me also say that she is in a place where none of your men will find her. But if there is anything whatsoever in the press, or any repercussions politically, regarding her . . . absence, she will be disgraced, and her family too.’
‘I do not see how.’
‘And I have no intention of telling you what is planned. In fact, I don’t know, nor have I any need to know, so there is no point interrogating me or following me.’ He smiled. ‘Though I expect you will do the latter anyway. But I promise you, whatever is planned will be enough to destroy the countess and her family and friends, and those associated with her in other ways, as well.’
‘Thank you for your clarity of expression,’ said James drily.
The man smiled with genuine pleasure. This was possibly his greatest moment as a fascist, even if only as a delivery boy, and he had obviously decided to enjoy it. ‘I will show you this, for a start.’
He reached into his coat pocket and drew out a small photograph. James took it, aware that it was unpleasantly warm from the man’s body heat.
It showed Sophie, head on a pillow, with a newspaper showing today’s date and headlines next to her. Her eyes were shut, her breasts were bare. Her mouth smiled as if in ecstasy. One arm was flung across her bare waist so he could see not just the pin prick in the arm but the hypodermic in her hand.
‘Shall we say that others will be even more graphic? They have not been arranged yet, but you can imagine what they might show. With men, or even women . . .’
James stood. ‘You unmitigated bounder.’
The man’s face and voice were cold now. ‘No. I am a patriot. I will even leave you this photograph as proof of good faith.’
However, there would be copies. But James knew that mentioning that fact might make things worse, might even tempt this fool into obtaining one for himself as a permanent memento.
‘Nothing else has happened yet. She is asleep, and did not even know that the photograph was taken. No one need know about it. And if you keep your silence there will be no need for other photographs or . . . imaginative activity. Or for publicity. The choice is yours.
‘You can now give those orders to have me followed. But I will have no further contact with anyone involved in this for months if not years to come. Even if you try to see who may have given this to me you will find it a very difficult trail to follow, but I will give you a little help so you don’t waste your time.’
He smiled again. It was such a normal smile, the smile a man might give inviting guests to his home, or greeting a sister. ‘The envelope in which this came arrived by mail, with no return address. The envelope it came in has been burned. Though of course you may prefer not to believe me, and send an agent in to sift my wastepaper baskets. Good day, Mr Lorrimer. I will see myself out.’
He left. James rang the bell to make sure that the man was followed, even though, almost certainly, he had told the truth, or at least as much of the truth as he had been told. A gullible man, like so many British fascists, not realising the Third Reich they worked for would, given the chance, destroy the power and privilege they currently enjoyed as wealthy Englishmen.
Following him would give them nothing. But there were others being traced. And, inadvertently, the visitor had given James a new idea.
‘She is in a place where none of your men will find her.’ But James Lorrimer had never solely relied on the capabilities of men. He rang for his butler. ‘I wish to make a phone call. A Mayfair number . . .’
Chapter 36
Grace and beauty are never frivolous, if they are used to make a harsh world more bearable.
Miss Lily, 1916
LONDON
Hannelore sat, her back two inches from the chair — even Miss Lily’s training and the informalities of post-war life had not eradicated those years when a prinzessin must sit erect and straight-backed. Her face was pale, which might have been from shock or worry about Sophie, or shock and worry about the ramifications to her if she was implicated in Sophie’s kidnapping. ‘And you suspect Nazi agents?’
Lily waved away Daniel’s angry retort. James was absent — it seemed wiser to have as little direct contact as possible between him and Hannelore. ‘Can you think of a more likely explanation?’
‘No. It is very likely. Miss Lily, I can ask my uncle where Sophie is — it will be understandable that I am distressed, as her friend. I may learn a little. But there is no reason for him to tell me where she has been taken. I can only promise that I will find out what I can.’
‘The most useful information will be who has taken her.’
‘You mean if it is my uncle?’
‘Sophie vanished in Mayfair, early in the morning. Could she have gone to your flat?’
Hannelore looked startled. ‘I was out of town till last night.’
Lily nodded slowly. ‘Even when Sophie vanished there were people about — certainly enough for someone to have witnessed her being shoved into a car. It is likely that she either got into a car willingly with someone she knew or, for some reason, went into a house or business or apartment building, though there seems to be no reason why she should have gone into any of those as her own errand was urgent.’
Lily noticed Hannelore did not ask what the urgent matter was, which meant she knew, suspected or, possibly, was too worried to care.
Lily forced her breath to calmness. I am the lotus flower unfolding, she thought. I am the petal as it rests upon the water. ‘If your uncle knows where she is, if you can persuade him to check on her welfare, he can be followed.’
And if her judgement was wrong, she had made sure that Sophie would not be found if . . . until . . . the Nazis decided to release her. For now Hannelore could warn her uncle he would be followed, was even now being watched.
‘You might also ask your doorman if he saw anything large being carried out of your apartment that day — a rolled carpet, perhaps, or even a woman who appeared to be ill or drunk being helped to a car.’
‘The police cannot do this?’
‘Not without implicating you.’
Hannelore stood, once again her posture perfect, bu
t she rose with grace, not the stiffness of her Saxe-Coburg–Gotha heritage. ‘I will go to him now. If he tells me where Sophie is, I will come back here at once. If he knows where she is and says he will visit her, I will call and use the word “yes” in conversation. If not, then I will say “no”.’
‘And if he knows, but will not promise to check on her welfare?’
Hannelore’s flower-like face suddenly seemed older. ‘Dolphie is a good man. I no longer believe in the cause he works for — or perhaps I should say I do believe in it, but have seen aspects that he is blind to that I cannot, will not, support. Dolphie loved Sophie once. He is still that Dolphie and she is still that Sophie, despite the years between. I think — I am almost sure — he will make sure that she is safe.’
‘Almost sure’, and from a niece who loved and trusted her uncle possibly far more than he deserved.
Almost sure was not enough. Yet it was all they had.
Chapter 37
German Almond Crescents
Ingredients
1 cup butter
1 tsp almond or vanilla essence
1 cup ground almonds
¾ cup castor sugar
2¼ cups plain flour
2 tbsp icing sugar for dusting
Optional: ground cinnamon for dusting
Method
Beat sugar and butter till soft. Very gently mix in the other ingredients. Take pieces of dough the size of a small walnut and roll them gently into a crescent shape. Place on a greased and floured baking tray. Bake at 200°C till very slightly browned at the edges. Remove at once — do not overbake. Dust while still warm with the icing sugar or icing sugar mixed with cinnamon. Do not move from the tray till they have cooled as the warm ones are brittle.
Store in a sealed container in a cool place for up to a fortnight.
‘Hannelore!’ Dolphie stood up from his desk. His first office at the embassy had been little more than a cupboard. This one looked out on trees and a park, and contained not just three leather armchairs but a sofa, mahogany sideboard and glass-fronted bookcases with a copy of Mein Kampf, personally signed, in a prominent position.
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