Stealing the Crown (A Guy Harford Mystery)

by TP Fielden

  The girl’s eyes narrowed. ‘Won’t you come inside, sir? There’s a cup of tea waiting.’

  ‘Please don’t “sir” me, nobody else does. It’s Guy. Or Mr Harford, if you’re on party manners.’

  She blushed slightly and smiled.

  ‘Come along in, I’m going to introduce you to Her Majesty’s Comptroller, Sir Stretford Mariot. He’s waiting for you in the Yellow Drawing Room.’

  The figure waiting to greet him looked like a character from P. G. Wodehouse, with a thin, highly coloured face adorned with a minute moustache. He had a nervous sniff and a handkerchief stuck in his cuff.

  ‘Very good of you to come,’ he said stiffly. ‘There’s tea. Or sherry. Sherry’s Cyprus.’

  ‘Tea, thank you, Sir Stretford.’

  ‘You’re Harford, of course. Tommy told me. I believe you shared an office with Edgar Brampton. I was rather fond of him.’

  ‘Yes. A very sad occurrence.’

  ‘Yes, yes. Yes. I believe there is to be no inquest.’

  ‘I believe not.’

  ‘Quite right, quite right. Least said, soonest mended.’

  I wonder what he means by that, thought Guy.

  ‘Let me begin with an apology,’ said the old dinosaur, pulling out his handkerchief and fluffing his nose with it.

  ‘Please don’t even . . .’

  ‘Her Majesty is not here,’ said Mariot. ‘She was told you were coming but decided there were more pressing matters.’

  Thank heavens, thought Guy. I wasn’t able to get a wink of sleep at the prospect of giving her a dressing-down.

  However, he replied, ‘That’s awkward, sir. I’ve come on the express instructions of the King, with a specific message for Her Majesty to be delivered by word of mouth. When will she be back?’

  Mariot shifted in his chair. ‘You have to understand Queen Mary is a restless soul. She hasn’t taken at all well to country life – she’s lived an almost completely urban existence for the past seventy years. Why, when we were driving here on the first day I pointed out the workers in the hayfields to her and she said, “Oh, so that’s what hay looks like, I’ve always wondered when people talk about it.”’

  ‘Ha ha.’

  ‘It’s true. She is slowly bedding herself in but she gets wanderlust . . . Oh,’ he said, checking himself, ‘mustn’t use a German word! She misses her children and grandchildren, and says she feel like an evacuee.’ Sir Stretford waved his hand at the silk-lined walls and gilded furniture. ‘Though of course all such feelings are relative. When I’m not on duty here, I live in a converted garage.’

  And I live in a flat with a leaking gas ring over the top of Victoria bus station, thought Guy.

  ‘But this does put me in a difficult position, sir.’

  ‘Nothing to be done,’ said the old boy, shrugging his shoulders. ‘You can wait here till she comes back. I gather there’s a bed for you.’

  ‘When will she return?’

  ‘Hard to say. She has no engagements till the middle of next week, so it could be then. I imagine she’s in London with her nose in some furniture shop today. Always her first point of call. Then there’s the bookshops and art dealers and exhibitions. There’s no stopping her!’

  ‘Well, Sir Stretford, I’ve been sent here to speak to her directly.’

  ‘Look,’ said the old boy, reaching for the sherry decanter but then deciding against, ‘you may just as well face the possibility that Queen Mary has disappeared because she knew you were coming. Is this about Queen Ena?’

  ‘Since you put it that way, yes.’

  ‘I’ll have a word. Tommy warned me. Better that you aren’t involved.’

  ‘And then there’s the matter of the sausages.’

  Mariot’s eyes crinkled. ‘Absolutely delicious!’ he chortled. ‘You know, the Duchess here does the most amazing job catering for everybody, but there are never any sausages. I think Her Grace probably feels they’re a bit infra dig, but we in the Household absolutely adore them! Why, only the other night—’

  ‘I hate to put this so crudely, Sir Stretford, but this is no laughing matter. On the information I’ve been given, it appears the queen has broken the law not once, but twice, on matters which could send others who committed them to jail.

  ‘And even that really isn’t the point,’ he went on. ‘If the British public, fighting for King and country and all that, discover that the royal family is breaking the rules, their attitude may be “if they can break the law, why shouldn’t I?”’

  ‘You sound a bit po-faced,’ said Mariot with a laugh. ‘Around this family, nobody tells tales. And what the eye doesn’t see, the heart doesn’t grieve over. Queen Mary has given a lifetime of service to this country, and to the Empire, and if in her latter years she finds it difficult to follow every rule and law some idiot has passed, I think the wisest thing to do is look away and forget all about it.’

  ‘I don’t mind in the slightest,’ said Guy. ‘That was the speech I was given to deliver by Tommy Lascelles, and I’ve done it. I’m sorry it had to be you who received it, but I have to confess I’m glad I didn’t have to tell the queen to her face.’

  ‘Well, you’ve said it. I’ll pass it on, though perhaps not in words which sound quite so schoolmasterish. Let me find some whisky,’ Sir Stretford smiled, and walked over to the mantelpiece and the bell pull. ‘And now to Edgar Brampton – what can you tell me about his passing?’

  Guy gave an edited version of events.

  ‘It’s just that we were in the same regiment – years apart of course – and I rather liked what I saw of him. A kinsman of Sir Topham, of course.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Not a man I care to see a lot of,’ said Sir Stretford, sniffing. The way he talked he might almost be royal himself. ‘But I did see Brampton at my club just before he died, we had a drink together. He seemed rather anxious.’

  ‘I believe he was disappointed in not getting that job with the Duke of Gloucester.’

  ‘It wasn’t that. He was telling me about Lady Easthampton – you know, Gerald FitzMalcolm’s daughter-in-law. Gerald is an old friend, and somehow Brampton knew that because he brought it up in conversation.

  ‘We were having a drink in the bar and he asked if I’d gone to the wedding, and I said yes. Absolute corker of a bride, even if she isn’t in Debrett’s. And young Easthampton was lucky to get her – he’s pretty useless, you know. Needed someone to give him backbone, and from what I saw, she had plenty of that!’

  ‘What did he want to know, if you don’t mind my asking?’

  ‘Come for a walk and I’ll tell you. But first, any other business now we’ve the money-laundering and the black-marketing out of the way?’

  ‘Well, there is one thing . . .’ began Guy doubtfully.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Do you think life here at Badminton might be enlivened by the presence of a parrot?’

  Sir Stretford stood, suddenly and in some agitation. ‘You don’t mean . . . Charlotte?’ he breathed.

  ‘Well, yes, as a matter of fact. Of course, you know all about her. But she’s currently homeless and I thought it might be a nice gesture to reunite her with the queen.’

  ‘Nothing. Could. Be. Further. From . . .’ stuttered the baronet. ‘There’s absolutely not a single bally snowball’s chance in hell of that animal ever coming here – now, or in a century’s time, when no doubt it will still be alive, demanding to know where the bally Captain is.’

  ‘I just thought . . .’

  ‘No, no, no! If you can’t get rid of it, put it in a sack and drown it – stick it in the oven and roast it! Queen Mary absolutely hates the thing! She was forced to live with it all of her married life – all! – that’s forty-three years, for heaven’s sake! The blasted animal interrupted every conversation they ever had and would sit on His Majesty’s shoulder most of the day when they were at home. Even when he was terribly ill, but the worst had passed, the bally bird was back on his shoulder and
the nurses had the devil’s own job. No, Mr Harford, that parrot was a jail sentence to Her Majesty – one from which she has finally, mercifully, been released!’

  Sir Stretford looked around irritatedly for his whisky – the service at Badminton was devoted, but slow. ‘No, Mr Harford, no – it’s now your turn for a bit of penal servitude. I hope I make myself perfectly clear.’

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  The train journey back from Badminton was equally gruelling, the carriages crowded out with servicemen and their kitbags, the air filled with cigarette smoke and frequent off-key bursts of ‘Mademoiselle from Armentières’.

  ‘Tickets please.’

  Guy fumbled in his pocket for the small piece of pasteboard. He’d been promised a first-class ticket, as befits a palace official, but the train only contained third-class carriages and all were stuffed with soldiery as bored and frustrated as he was by the slow progress. Still, he admired their medal ribbons and their tales of derring-do and wondered how long it would be before the doctors passed him fit enough to don a uniform of his own.

  ‘Excuse me,’ said Guy, ‘but do you happen to know if this train stops at Slough?’

  ‘Be surprised if it din’,’ came the guard’s reply. ‘Stopped every other bleedin’ place, ennit? Your ticket says Paddington though.’

  ‘It won’t matter if I get off at Slough, will it?’

  ‘Inky pinky par lay voo . . .’ The raucous chorus drowned out the guard’s reply but Guy took his vague nod to be one of assent.

  The taxi driver was as disinterested as the train guard, and it was starting to get dark by the time he finally found what Guy was looking for, an ugly mock-Tudor house which backed on to the River Thames at Bray. The lawn was unmown, the hedge unkempt, and the flower beds a riot of weeds.

  The front door was open but Guy knocked anyway.

  ‘Yes?’ A man who had clearly only just woken appeared, dressed in a Home Guard tunic, pyjama trousers, and plimsolls.

  ‘My name is Harford,’ said Guy, trying to pitch the tone of this first remark somewhere between apology and assertion. ‘I work for, er, the government. I wonder if you could spare a minute?’

  The man looked at his wrist, but if it was supposed to be wearing a watch it was a disappointment. He turned to look at a clock in the hall.

  ‘If it’s about the tax bill I refer you to my accountant. You’ve no business bothering a serving officer when he’s about to go on duty.’

  ‘No, it’s not about tax. I wonder, may I come in?’ Guy moved quickly forward as the householder opened his mouth to reply. He strode quickly into the sitting room.

  ‘Needs a bit of tidyin’ up,’ said the man unapologetically, trailing after him. ‘The woman stopped coming. Most inconvenient.’

  ‘I take it I am speaking to Lord Easthampton? If so, I bring warmest regards from Sir Stretford Mariot.’ This was a lie.

  ‘Ah, old Rifle-Sling. I wonder what the devil he’s up to these days. He and my pa got up to all sorts of tricks when they were subalterns out in India.’

  ‘He hopes you’re doing well and enjoying life.’ Another lie – Mariot clearly despaired of his best friend’s son.

  ‘Send him my regards,’ said the soldier mildly. ‘Anyhow, I won’t offer you anything. I’m off to do my fire-watchin’ stint. Church Tower, eight p.m. sharp. I seem to have lost my uniform trousers.’

  ‘I don’t suppose anyone will notice in the dark.’

  ‘Ha ha! That’s good! Why aren’t you in uniform? Are you on leave? Or one of those conshies?’

  Why indeed, thought Guy. Aloud he said, quite sternly, ‘As an officer, I trust you understand and accept the terms of the Official Secrets Act?’

  ‘What’s this about?’

  ‘I want to talk to you about Lady Easthampton.’

  ‘Nothing to say. She’s done a bunk. Are you some sort of private detective?’

  ‘I work for . . . the Crown. I’ve been asked to ask you some questions about your wife.’ Another lie – nobody had asked him to ask questions, except perhaps poor Adelaide Brampton. ‘Can you tell me when you last saw her and whether you know her whereabouts?’

  Lord Easthampton was turning over the cushions on the sofa in a vague attempt to find his trousers, but all he unearthed were a couple of empty bottles. He paused and looked myopically at his interlocutor.

  ‘I have no idea, in answer to both your questions. Lady Easthampton has deserted me and left me to rot in this foul hole. I would divorce her but that costs money. And anyway, as I said, I’ve no idea where she is.’

  ‘Do you think she’s still in this country?’

  ‘Last I heard, Hungary is stiff with Nazi tanks after the invasion, so I doubt she’ll have chased off home. I expect she’s living it up in London – she always was one for the high life.’

  ‘Look,’ said Guy, eyeing his watch, ‘we’ve fifteen minutes before you go on duty. May we sit down? I can make a cup of tea if you like.’

  ‘No tea. We share a tot or two of the good stuff on fire watch, just to keep out the cold. I’m holding on for that.’

  ‘This is a very simple inquiry. Certain people . . . er, in authority, wish to speak to Lady Easthampton.’

  ‘What about?’

  ‘Her friendship with an officer, Major Brampton. I hope you won’t mind my saying this, but since you say she’s deserted you, perhaps it will come as no surprise that she initiated a close friendship with this Major Brampton, a man who’s now dead. So can you understand that it’s quite important we find her in order to assist with our inquiries?’

  Heavens, thought Guy, I do sound official.

  ‘I know almost nothing about her,’ said Easthampton. ‘We got married in ’38 after what the gossip columns called a “whirlwind romance”. Come to think of it, that was the last time I saw old Rifle-Sling, at Caxton Hall – the wedding. We couldn’t manage a church because she’d been married before.’

  ‘What did you know about her family background?’

  The young lord paused in the search for his trousers. ‘Came from Budapest in ’34 or ’35. A wonderful-looking woman, I have to admit, even though I hate her guts. Well, she’d had a few boyfriends but I think she rather hankered after a title. I didn’t mind, she was easy on the eye and none of my girlfriends seemed to stick. I like a party, but well-brought-up English gels prefer to go home and get their beauty sleep just about the time I get going.

  ‘Suzy was different. She could match me drink for drink – well, almost – and she made a hit with my pa, which was remarkable. He had some inquiries made about her, silly old fool, but found nothing apart from a few boyfriends after she arrived in London. There wasn’t anything unduly scandalous.

  ‘Anyway, after a week I proposed marriage and she accepted. I had to tell her I wasn’t much of a catch – I mean, the family goes back to King Malcolm so we’ve got a thousand years of history, but I’d been made bankrupt, and the pater was making me sit it out rather than paying off the creditors.’

  ‘Did she have any money herself?’

  Lord Easthampton sat forward. ‘Did she not! Furs and diamonds – everyone said she looked the part – her own car, the works. Anyway, we came to this arrangement. She had a gentleman friend named Zeisloft – a Pole, I think – and he had pots of money. In the arms business, don’t you know. She said it would be of assistance to him if he had a friend who was married to a lord, and he was prepared to pay. He gave me five hundred pounds that day, just like that – no strings, in a nice attaché case from Asprey’s.’

  ‘How generous.’

  ‘That wasn’t the end of it. He then arranged that I be paid a hundred pounds a week for the privilege of being Suzy’s husband, and he was as good as his word. Until she did a bunk.’ Lord Easthampton gazed around vaguely but seemed to have given up the search for his trousers.

  ‘Look,’ he said, ‘my lot are pretty lenient if I don’t turn up on time. What say we go down the pub?’

  ‘I don’t think I
need keep you much longer, Lord Easthampton.’

  ‘Ambrose, dear chap, Ambrose. I didn’t catch your name.’

  ‘Harford.’

  ‘Knew a chap once who lived in Hertford. Kept chickens in his bedroom.’

  ‘Does Lady Easthampton have a London address?’

  ‘Stays with friends, here and there.’

  ‘Can you give me their names? Some of them? One of them?’

  Easthampton dug a cigarette end out from a brass ashtray and straightened it. ‘Do you have a light?’

  ‘I don’t smoke,’ Guy lied. ‘The friends?’

  ‘I only know them by their first names.’

  ‘Mr Zeisloft? Where does he live?’

  ‘The Dorchester Hotel, Park Lane. The way he waltzed around it you’d think he owned the place.’

  ‘So she could be there.’

  ‘My dear fellow, she could be anywhere. I’m bound to say I’m not much interested in that sort of thing, so I don’t mind, but she does have the morals of an alley cat – always off here, there and everywhere with this chap and that.’

  ‘I really do need to find her, Lord Easthampton. A rather distinguished officer has died and she may know something important.’

  A vague look crossed the young lord’s face. ‘Have you any money?’ he said.

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘I said have you any money? It’s a simple question, isn’t it?’

  Guy looked at him with pity. ‘Will ten pounds do it?’ he said, reaching for his wallet.

  ‘Chesterfield House. Chesterfield Gardens, just off Curzon Street. Flat 12A. Send her my regards – I don’t think.’ The future 9th Earl FitzMalcolm, heir to a tremendous fortune and a thousand years of history, reached out for the banknote, tucked it in his tunic pocket and curled up on the sofa. He was asleep instantly.

  Aggie was in her usual acid-drop mood. ‘Topsy wants to see you,’ she said maliciously, even before Guy had reached his desk. ‘In a right old mood, he is.’

  ‘What is it this time? Another parrot? A flock of starlings? Could I have a cup of tea, please?’