Stealing the Crown (A Guy Harford Mystery) Page 4
‘So you became a painter.’
‘Doesn’t everyone in Paris? That’s when I met your friend Guy Harford. Only he’s a serious painter, Ted, a genius – have you seen his work? I’m going to try to get him an exhibition now I’m here in London.’
‘I gather he has his hands rather full at the moment,’ said Ted.
‘Does he?’ Each knew more about Guy than they were saying.
‘So you painted.’
‘And watched. All good painters watch as much as they paint. They sit outside cafés observing – looking inside people, searching inside them, to discover what lies behind the face, what’s hidden in the heart. It’s what makes Guy so good – he’s like a detective that way. If you haven’t seen his pictures, you must.’
‘I will. Get that exhibition going.’
‘We used to bump into all the greats – Derain, Max Ernst. At the Café de Flore we’d see Picasso, he always sat at the same table by the door. But then Guy inherited that little house in Tangier from an aunt, and off he went.’
‘That would have been when?’
‘Six or seven years ago. I think he’d be there still but for . . .’ Nobody talked about why Guy came home.
‘Then you married,’ continued Ted. His article was for The Tatler, whose readers would want to know about the Vanderbilt connection.
‘Yes, dear Erskine, the sweet boy. He was the brother of an old friend from the New York days – Kiki Preston, d’you know her? – but we were too young. Paris was brimming with Americans, I just picked the wrong one.’
‘So now you’re marrying an English lord.’
‘The dearest man alive.’
‘And very rich.’
‘Don’t be coarse!’ said Foxy, not displeased.
‘Who’s a close friend of the Duke and Duchess also.’
‘I really am NOT going to talk to you about the Windsors, Ted. You’re a snake, bringing the conversation back to them all the time.’
‘If it wasn’t for them, you and Hugh wouldn’t have met. Did you know the Germans have captured the Nahlin?’
‘Our love-boat, no doubt you would call it! Yes, I did, as a matter of fact.’
‘That does surprise me,’ said Rochester, not surprised at all. ‘It hasn’t been announced. I was keeping that as a special treat for you.’
‘There are ways,’ said Foxy, her red hair shining in the grey light. ‘The Nazis didn’t get the cocktail shaker, though. It’s in Nassau with the Dook.’
‘Our ex-king, rich as Croesus, pinching a trinket off someone else’s boat? Now that’s a good story, Foxy!’
‘Don’t you dare.’
‘You’re fond of them, aren’t you?’
‘Difficult people. But yes.’
Rochester got up and walked to the window. ‘Not everybody’s convinced we ended up with the right king. The present incumbent is doing his best, and of course she’s a pillar of strength, but . . .’
‘What are you saying, Ted? Kick old Bertie out of the Palace, bring back the Duke of Windsor?’
‘Well, he wouldn’t say no, would he?’
‘I have no idea. But in the middle of a war?’
‘War or no war, the old rivalries go on – think of the Tudors, Foxy. Harry Gloucester fancies his chances too, I hear.’
‘That’s absurd. The man’s a fool.’
‘It’s true, though. Another bomb drops on Buckingham Palace – pouf! – and King George VI is no more. Who’s going to pick up the crown from the rubble?’
‘Princess Elizabeth, of course!’
‘She’s fifteen. Overnight Harry will become Prince Regent – and once he sits on that throne there’ll be no budging him off it.’
‘In the middle of a war?’ Foxy repeated.
‘Who else? He’s the next in line, there’s no other choice. Let me ask you another thing – did you know Edgar Brampton?’
‘Adelaide’s husband? No, not particularly. I only met him a few times. I saw he’d died – you wrote something in the News Chronicle. Poor Adelaide – she was an old friend of Guy’s, you know.’
‘I know.’
‘I get the impression she was rather sweet on him.’
‘I heard Edgar was going to become Gloucester’s private secretary,’ said Ted, uninterested in Adelaide. He had a way of making a question sound like a statement.
‘Really?’
‘Hugh may have heard something.’
‘Well, I won’t ask him, if that’s what you’re after. You journalists are terrible rats – I thought this was supposed to be an article about a sweet old New York girl marrying an English lord whose family goes back – how d’you say? – to William the Conqueror. Instead you’re trying to squeeze private information out of me!’
‘We’re a nation at war,’ said Ted, turning to face Foxy. ‘We’re at war, we glean information where we can. This business at the Palace is unsettling, and the death of Edgar Brampton is a serious loss – he was probably the only one who could restrain Harry Gloucester.’
‘Well, you won’t get anything out of me. Back to asking me about Paris.’
But Ted Rochester’s mind was far from the City of Light.
CHAPTER FOUR
‘Better watch out,’ said Aggie, picking up some fallen petals, eyeing the wilting rose with disfavour. ‘Shall I throw this away? It’s past its best.’
‘No,’ said Guy, after a moment, ‘I think I’ll keep it. Watch out for what?’
‘Topsy. He’s a terror.’
‘Who?’
‘The Master of the Household, dear. You call him Sir Topham Dighton, I call him what I like. Of course, Topsy’s been up at Balmoral since you arrived, but now he’s back you’ll know it. He likes to stick his nose into everyone’s business, then he goes and whispers to the King. A sort of unofficial spy.’
And not the only one, thought Guy. ‘Do I have to report to him as well?’
‘Not really. Just keep on his good side.’
‘I’ll do my best.’
‘I wonder,’ said Aggie, shaking her head. She had a stiff permanent wave and favoured floral dresses.
‘Did you by any chance take Major Brampton’s diary away?’
‘Diary? No,’ said Aggie absently. ‘I expect it got swept up by the chaps who cleaned this place up after . . .’ She didn’t finish the sentence.
‘I don’t think so,’ said Guy. ‘It was still in his bookshelf over by the window yesterday – I noticed particularly. Rather nice green leatherette cover. Now it’s gone.’
‘I didn’t even know he kept one.’
But you did, Aggie, you did – and I bet you know what was written in it. ‘I’m going over to the Guards Chapel to talk to the padre.’
A blue-battledressed footman opened the door without knocking, and with a vague air of condescension nodded at Guy. ‘Harford, is it? The Master would like to see you. Now.’ He turned on his heel and sauntered off, not bothering to shut the door.
‘They get worse,’ said Aggie tartly. ‘That one should be with the Royal Fusiliers in Egypt, but he says his mother’s dying and he’s her only relative. Anyway, off you go. Privy Purse entrance, up the stairs to the first floor, second on the left. I’ll have the tea on when you get back.’
‘Thank you.’
‘Don’t tell him anything you wouldn’t tell your mother.’
Guy marched down some steps and through the byways and corridors which made up the underground village supplying the needs of the royal palace. He passed painters’ shops, wine cellars, food stores and carpentry cupboards, all playing their part in the maintenance of the place. He checked his watch as he reached Dighton’s door; it had taken a full eight minutes to reach his destination. He knocked and entered.
‘Aha!’ barked the silver-haired figure standing four-square in front of a vast marble mantelpiece. ‘The Tanja Man!’
‘Harford, Sir Topham,’ Guy confirmed stiffly. He thought he’d managed to put the Tangier business behind him.
‘City of sandals and scandals. I was there in ’22 with Lord Bute. Aha. I expect you know him.’
‘Well, as a matter of fact . . .’
‘You’re here under a cloud, Tanja Man,’ went on Topsy, not requiring an answer. ‘This is just a friendly warning, nothing official. Do as you’re told, keep your nose clean, and there’s a job here for life. Step out of line, gum up the works, and I’ll have you in the Tower of London cleaning out the latrines.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
‘Aha. You’re dealing with the Brampton affair.’
Guy looked out of the window. The rooks were circling St James’s Park like enemy bombers. He didn’t immediately answer.
‘I said, the Brampton affair,’ barked Dighton.
‘You’d have to talk to Mr Lascelles about that, sir,’ replied Guy, remembering Aggie’s warning. ‘It’s, er, unofficial.’
‘Edgar was my wife’s cousin once removed. We have a family interest.’
‘Absolutely.’ Guy compressed his lips in mute refusal.
‘I warn you, Tanja Man, I require the fullest cooperation from types like you who sneak into the Palace through the back door, shirking their military duty. Hah. Dodging the column.’
‘You’ll see from my medical record, sir, that . . .’
‘Oh, yes, yes, yes! Obviously the dissolute life of a painter in Morocco has rendered your heart completely useless. You should have taken more care, but I suppose all those drugs people take out there . . . Now, get out, and write me a full report on everything you’ve done. Mark it “Top Secret”, make only one copy, deliver it by hand to this office.’
‘If that’s all, Sir Topham . . .’
‘Next Friday morning,’ barked the gnarled old courtier, fishing into a waistcoat pocket for his snuff box.
The long journey back to the Royal Mews gave Guy the opportunity to review his situation. The foul-up in Morocco was hardly his fault, though it suited everyone concerned that he should take the blame. After his arrival back in England and sitting behind a Foreign Office desk for three interminable months when nobody spoke to him, the job at the Palace had been fixed. He may have taken the blame for what went on in Africa, but at least he was being looked after.
Up to a point. He hadn’t been sure when he shut Topham Dighton’s door that he didn’t hear the word ‘scum’ – and now, pushing open his own office door, he was confronted by a bulky figure in Coldstream Guards uniform, one foot on his desk and drinking his tea.
The officer half-rose from his seat, then plonked down again. Artists – painters – did not warrant the courtesy of a formal introduction.
‘Toby Broadbent, Coats Mission. I won’t shake hands.’
Guy looked over the captain’s shoulder and saw Aggie making saucer eyes, as if to say, ‘You’re in trouble.’
‘Been asked by the Master to look you over.’
‘Make yourself at home,’ said Guy, but the irony was lost on the soldier. ‘I’ve just been to see him.’
‘I’ve got your file here,’ said Broadbent heavily. ‘Says you caused a diplomatic crisis in Tangier. The Americans and the French and the Germans and the Spanish all at each other’s throats. Had to be airlifted out, get you out of trouble double-quick.’
‘That’s roughly correct, if a trifle one-sided.’
‘Well,’ said the soldier, breaking into a forced smile, ‘you sound like our sort of fella. We like people who make life difficult for others.’
‘The Master doesn’t.’
‘Ah well, he’s been here since the First War. Failed to move with the times.’
‘Who exactly are you?’ said Guy, unsure whether to trust Broadbent’s sudden switch of mood.
‘Coats Mission. We’re here to protect HM and the rest of the family. Down to the last bullet and the last man. Won’t go into the details, but in case of an invasion it’s our job to spirit them away.’
‘And it’s your job, Captain, to decide whether I might pose a threat to His Majesty?’
‘Can’t be too careful. That’s rather nice,’ he added, pointing with his chin, ‘though I’m not much of a one for art.’
Guy glanced at the unframed oil painting on the wall opposite, a faded memory now. ‘The Grand Socco,’ he said. ‘It’s a kind of souk. Depending on your point of view, either the filthiest place in the world or the most exciting.’
‘Never been to Tangier,’ replied Broadbent. ‘Old Topsy says most of the people there should be in jail.’
‘I daresay he’s right. That’s what makes it interesting.’
Broadbent turned over the pages of the bulky file before him. ‘I see you were recruited by Teddy Dunlop.’
Is this going to be the full interrogation, thought Guy. Are they going to take me away to a darkened room and beat it out of me? Is this forced jollity just a ploy?
‘I wouldn’t say ‘recruited’, it was more a question of being press-ganged. Franco’s men marched into Tangier, and the Foreign Office was caught on the hop. They needed extra manpower quick and I happened to be there.’
‘You’d been living in Tangier for six or seven years?’
‘Yes.’
‘I gather you’d made a reputation for yourself as an artist.’
‘It’s a city built on seven hills. The light there is remarkable.’
‘You made another reputation for yourself, Mr Harford. As possibly the worst spy ever recruited by MI6.’
‘Have another cup of tea,’ said Guy, masking his irritation. He did not like the man’s supercilious tone.
‘So here you are, put on special duties at the Palace – but really, you know, old chap, that’s our area. The Coats Mission is the outfit to protect the Crown, not chaps from civvy street.’
‘I won’t get in your way.’
The sunlight from the window illuminated the medal ribbons on the guardsman’s chest, a tiny riot of colour amid the broad sea of khaki. He’s brave, thought Guy, and confident – but not very bright. I wonder what he’d have done when they came through the door with their guns cocked – would he have tried to shoot his way out? Or do what I did, use his wits?
The captain turned over a couple of pages. ‘Now, tell me about Edgar Brampton.’
‘No thanks,’ said Guy firmly. ‘You need to talk to someone whose office is closer to the Throne Room than this one is.’
‘Don’t muck me about. Our job is to protect HM. We need to know everything.’
‘Not from me.’
The captain pushed his teacup aside. ‘Look, this is a shocking state of affairs. Major Brampton – decent chap, wrong regiment of course but a decent type – killing himself on royal premises. You know there’s a law to stop that sort of thing, don’t you?’
‘I don’t think you can apply the law retrospectively. When a chap’s dead, not even His Imperial Majesty can bring him back to face justice.’
Broadbent’s cheeks went pink. ‘The Royal Verge, dammit!’
‘The royal . . . what?’
‘Wouldn’t expect you to know. Nobody’s allowed to die within royal palaces. The area in and around the palaces is called the Royal Verge. If they do croak, it’s a matter for the royal coroner, not some local quack with a taste for spreading unwanted gossip. Royal coroner sews things up tight and nobody’s the wiser, but he prefers the body off the premises.’ He pronounced it ‘orf’.
‘I find that faintly absurd, don’t you?’ said Guy. ‘I hear a chap was killed when the Luftwaffe bombed this place last year – did they cart him off the premises? Simply because he wasn’t permitted to die within palace walls?’
‘Is that what you’ve done with Major Brampton? Whisked him away somewhere?’
‘I might have.’
The Coldstreamer gave him an icy stare. ‘I don’t take kindly to impertinence. No place for it i
n a royal palace. We’re here to protect His Majesty, we use everything in our power to ensure his safety and well-being. D’you understand?’
‘Perfectly.’
‘This business with Brampton. We need to know. It’s unsettling. We. Need. To. Know.’ He thumped the desk with his fist as he spoke, and Rodie’s rose in its jam jar shed a few more petals. ‘And I can tell you, Mr Harford, you’ll find life pretty uncomfortable until we do. Understand?’
‘Perfectly.’
That’s two enemies I’ve made in a morning and it’s not anywhere near lunchtime, thought Guy – not bad going.
Aloud he said, ‘Will you be coming to the funeral? Next Thursday, Guards Chapel. All are welcome.’
The captain snorted, got up, and banged his way out of the room.
Rupert said he’d forgiven Rodie but he wasn’t sure. He suspected she’d gone back and lifted a small but important piece of jewellery from Edgar Brampton’s safe – he could tell by the smile on her face. And the fact she insisted on buying the drinks.
They were sitting in the back bar of The Grenadier public house just behind Constitution Hill, and Rodie was yapping away about some rich relations who may or may not have existed. She kept on bringing the conversation round to Guy, but Rupe kept deflecting it.
‘Strange that a man like that never married.’
‘Tell me some more about Mrs Elkins and her Daimler.’
‘Does he have any money?’
‘I doubt it. Painters never do. Was it her Daimler, or did you steal it for her?’
‘I could make him rich, Rupe! Think what a great combination we’d make!’
‘Forget it. He likes blondes.’ Rupert had no idea what Guy’s preferences were, but he was embarrassed by the sudden and unexpected burden he’d placed on his flatmate.
‘Here he comes!’ cried Rodie, black eyes shining. The assistant to His Majesty’s deputy private secretary was elbowing his way through the crowd to where they were sitting.