Stealing the Crown (A Guy Harford Mystery)

by TP Fielden

  ‘Help me with this, from what you know. I’m talking about Lady Easthampton. My feeling is that, whatever it was between them, it wasn’t romantic. Am I wrong in that assumption?’

  ‘I have no idea, Mr Harford.’

  ‘Yes you do. That she was using him to get to something far bigger. Am I wrong?’

  ‘I couldn’t possibly say.’

  ‘But now you’re suggesting that Ed’s death could be due to no more than the breakdown of his marriage, caused by Mrs Brampton having an . . . affair . . . with someone else.’

  ‘He felt betrayed when she took the children to the country.’

  ‘Nonsense. It was the proper thing for her to do.’

  ‘She did have somebody.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  Aggie looked at him but didn’t answer.

  ‘Whatever the answer, it’s probably in Ed’s diary, I assume. Which is why you’ve hidden it.’

  He said this more as a smokescreen, to get the thought out of Aggie’s mind – if it had ever entered – that it was Rodie who’d burgled the office. But her face said nothing.

  A sudden thought struck him. ‘Is it the case that you and Major Ed were having an affair? And that actually you know a great deal more about his death than you’ve let on? Is that what it is?’

  Aggie burst into tears. Just then the telephone rang.

  ‘Mr Harford?’ inquired a woman’s imperious voice. ‘I wonder if you didn’t get the message from Mr Lascelles? He will see you now.’

  ‘Ah, yes,’ said Guy, wrestling with the handset while offering Aggie his handkerchief.

  ‘That means now, Mr Harford!’

  ‘Go easy, I’ve only got one can of this stuff, I don’t know if it’ll get round the room.’

  ‘Where did you get it from? There’s a war on, you know.’

  ‘Oh, really, is there? There’s a wonderful man called Digger, he’s the porter on the Tradesmen’s Gate at the Palace. Possibly the nicest chap in the whole place. Even the King says good morning to him – that’s rare for below-stairs. Knows everybody, can get anything.’

  ‘Black-market, then, is it?’ Rupert sniffed as he ladled out the battleship-grey paint into a tray.

  ‘Certainly not. It’s what’s left over from painting the guardroom. Going begging. I had to cover these walls before I could get started. Too confusing to work in.’

  They were in the smaller room of the Tite Street studio, a space covered from top to bottom in the previous tenant’s daubs and experimental sketches and patches of colour. It took an hour or two to finish the job and the paint did not quite go round.

  ‘It’ll do,’ Guy said. ‘I’ve got some bottles of Mackeson, or we could go to The Surprise for a pint.’

  ‘Both,’ said Rupe.

  ‘Good. I want to talk to you about Ed Brampton. And Topham Dighton. And Suzy Easthampton – the works, really. It may take some time.’ He levered open two bottles of stout.

  ‘If I could, I’d drop this investigation,’ he continued. ‘I’ve done all I’ve been asked, and achieved the required result – that’s to say, nothing. My boss Tommy Lascelles is quite content – he wants to forget Ed Brampton ever existed. But I’m being pushed around by Dighton, and to a lesser extent by the man from the Coats Mission. They’re both egging me on to find out things they can’t find out themselves. I explained to you about Dighton’s part in the English Mistery. He’s prodding me, I think, because he wants to know if Ed ever blabbed about the Mistery. If it got out, he’d be arrested and a lifetime of devoted royal service would end in disgrace.’

  ‘We’ve got our eye on the Misters,’ said Rupe. ‘Collectively they’re a dangerous force, but as the war wears on, they seem to be retreating into the backwoods. Less of a threat.’

  ‘Even so, one of the King’s most senior and trusted courtiers meddling in political plots . . .’

  ‘Agreed.’

  ‘Against the Prime Minister.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Who he welcomes with a glass of brandy when he pops into the Palace for his weekly chat with the King.’

  ‘Mm.’

  ‘I can’t help wondering,’ Guy went on, ‘whether there’s something more – that Dighton, having got Brampton to do his dirty work, wanted to shut him up.’

  ‘You mean, have him killed?’

  ‘Stranger things have happened. The trouble is, we don’t know how Ed died, apart from a gunshot wound. Was he murdered, did he commit suicide, or was it truly an accident? Without a post-mortem, without an inquest, we’re completely in the dark.’

  He poured more beer before continuing. ‘So that’s Dighton as a suspect – murder. Against that, the clerk in my office, Aggie, thinks Ed killed himself because his wife was having an affair – so it’s suicide. Beyond that is the vaguest possibility that she herself did it, because Ed was devoting himself to Suzy Easthampton. And then there’s Lady Easthampton – an enemy agent, I think we can take it, though hardly a dangerous one. Probably the most lethal thing she’s come up against are the cocktails in The Savoy. So you see, it’s a maze.’

  ‘Why go on, then?’ asked Rupert. ‘Now we’ve painted this place out, won’t you be spending your spare time preparing for that exhibition?’

  Guy unrolled a brown paper parcel and took out a handful of brand-new paintbrushes. Then he reached behind his chair and lifted out a blank canvas, turning it one way and then the other, inspecting the way the late-afternoon light bounced off its surface.

  ‘Between you and me, Rupe, I believe I have my first commission – Pamela Churchill, the Prime Minister’s daughter-in-law.’

  ‘That’s a catch. How did you manage that?’

  ‘A friend of Foxy’s – a rich American called Betsey Cody.’

  Hardacre’s eyes flicked momentarily. ‘Have you met her?’

  ‘Not yet. I’m going to dinner with her tomorrow night. She’s a great patron of the arts, I’m told.’

  ‘Well done. But extraordinary that she should pick you out to shower with her patronage.’

  ‘Isn’t it? I’m so delighted, I can’t tell you. She has a great deal of money and likes to make as many people happy as she can. But of course, no doubt part of that is what the other hostesses are doing – Emerald Cunard, Sybil Colefax, Mrs Greville – all busy making names for themselves by being agreeable to the right people.’

  ‘And you’re the right person, Guy? Don’t get me wrong, but there are dozens of portrait artists out there – why you? To paint Winston Churchill’s daughter-in-law?’

  Guy was opening a box filled with tubes of paint, breathing in their heady aroma. ‘Mm? Oh, she saw my portrait of Foxy on the wall and said she liked it.’

  ‘Have some more beer and come and sit down,’ said Rupert.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I want you to forget I told you this, but we’re not sure about Mrs Cody.’

  ‘Not sure – what do you mean?’

  ‘Just – not sure. Listen carefully, if you will, to what’s going on when you go to dinner. It could be a great help.’

  Guy plonked down his beer glass. ‘What’s this? After Dighton and Lascelles and the Coats Mission, I’m being sent off on another wild goose chase? And by my own flatmate?’

  ‘I see you’re getting the hang of this work,’ answered Rupert smoothly. ‘Nobody’s asking you to do anything special, just keep your ears and eyes open. You’re good at that.’

  ‘And what about Lady Easthampton, what am I supposed to do about her?’

  ‘Did you go dancing with Rodie?’

  ‘Yes. Much against my . . .’

  ‘And?’

  ‘She agreed.’

  ‘Agreed what?’

  ‘To sit. I need to get my hand in again before I have a go at Mrs Churchill. She has a . . . marvellous face. Problem is I can never exhibit the finished picture – if it’s discovered I’m associating with her, I’m for the high jump.’

  ‘How high can you jump, Guy?’

 
‘What do you mean?’

  ‘She’s up in court tomorrow morning. Bow Street. Burglary, use of explosives – she could be going away for a very long time.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I need you there at ten o’clock.’

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  ‘The plan, Your Worship, was to break into the Toller and Maschler warehouse at Elephant and Castle, drag out the safe from the warehouse office and drive it away. The means of execution had been arranged some time beforehand, it was just a case of waiting for a particularly heavy air raid to cover their movements.’

  The magistrate looked down without surprise at the bewigged lawyer in the well of the court.

  ‘Yes?’

  The prosecutor adjusted his glasses and carried on. ‘You will recall we had that lengthy air attack the other night, Your Worship. Thompson, Bates and Murphy were sitting in the lorry waiting for the fourth member, the woman Carrigan . . .’

  Guy, wedged anonymously in a corner of the public gallery, looked down at the diminutive figure standing in the dock. Her face was white, her Eton crop dishevelled. Completely absent was her customary fighting spirit.

  The light in the old courtroom somehow diminished all four accused, looking worn and fragile as they did in their cheap clothes. Who would imagine that only two nights before they’d been pumped up with adventure and bravado, poised on the brink of a successful blag?

  ‘Thompson was recently dismissed from his Air Raid Precautions post but retained his uniform and tin helmet, so that his presence on the street would go unremarked,’ the prosecution lawyer went on. ‘He had learned from a factory hand that the security guards changed their shift at two in the morning, making this the best time to break in.

  ‘Carrigan, who was to do the breaking and entering, had had a key made from a wax mould which would open the gates. They waited until the air raid was at its height – and the street empty – before they made their move.

  ‘You will hear, Your Worship, that when the time came, Thompson drove forward. Carrigan, who, as we shall learn, is not inexperienced in these matters . . .’

  A small man sitting alongside the prosecutor rose to his feet, saying, ‘Your Worship . . . I really don’t think . . . er, prejudicial . . .’ before sinking ineffectually down again. The magistrate ignored him.

  ‘Continue, Mr Simkins.’

  ‘Sir, Carrigan who has, er, some expertise, forced a window, then jemmied the main warehouse door open from the inside. Within moments they were all inside the office, manhandling a huge safe out to their lorry.

  ‘But, Your Honour, we have Herr Hitler to thank for their apprehension. As they emerged from the warehouse, a high-explosive bomb dropped in the yard and they were blown off their feet. When they picked themselves up and dusted themselves down, they discovered the bomb had destroyed the gates and turned the lorry upside down.’

  Two of the three men accused looked on with boredom, their countenances indicating this was a hole they’d found themselves in many times before. The third, Bates, had become engrossed in the activities of a shorthand writer wearing a tight-waisted dress and was paying no attention. Only Rodie appeared to have the slightest interest in the proceedings.

  ‘The three men had their safe, but no means of transporting it away. They attempted to escape. The fourth accused, Carrigan – looking up – saw that the nightwatchman had been caught in the blast, which had, quite extraordinarily, thrown him up on to a high ledge. Somehow she managed to get to the injured man and prevented him from falling to an almost-certain death, given his other injuries, and stayed with him until the fire brigade arrived.’

  Just for a moment the magistrate looked down with interest into the dock. Rodie gave him a wink, and he glared at her before looking away.

  ‘That act of selflessness, I am obliged to call it, Your Honour, will no doubt have cost this woman her liberty and she must have known it would. The police arrived at the same time as the fire brigade and she was handed over. The other three were apprehended a few hundred yards away trying to steal a van to make their getaway.’

  After this opening statement, the proceedings rumbled on in the usual torpid manner of magistrates’ courts. At the lunch break, Guy waited outside in Bow Street until the lawyer, Simkins, emerged.

  ‘Might I have a word?’

  ‘Who are you?’ said the barrister aggressively. Prosecutors are rarely accustomed to a friendly face in or near their place of work.

  ‘Guy Harford, Buckingham Palace,’ said Guy, who had never introduced himself that way before. He handed the man his palace entry pass, surprised at the impact it made.

  ‘Good Lord,’ said Simkins, stuttering slightly. ‘How unusual. How . . . how . . . can I be of assistance?’

  ‘May we walk? Do you have a couple of minutes?’

  ‘But of course, of course!’

  Gas masks over their shoulders, the two men strolled past the Opera House into the Covent Garden piazza, a few flower stalls still dotted about the place but with the vegetable stalls cleared away for the day.

  ‘Miss Carrigan,’ said Guy. ‘A most impressive piece of heroism.’

  ‘In other circumstances, she might find herself receiving a medal,’ agreed the lawyer. ‘How she got up on that ledge I do not know, she’d had to have been very courageous as well as agile.’

  ‘May I take you into my confidence?’

  ‘Of course, of course.’

  ‘Strange as it may seem, and it will seem strange, Miss Carrigan is undertaking work on behalf of the Crown.’

  ‘Yes, I do find that strange, Mr Harford. She’s a burglar.’

  ‘That is undeniable.’

  ‘The men she was working with are called the Jellied Eel Brigade. I learned that this is a joke,’ the lawyer went on, ‘which indicates they may have some acquaintance with gelignite, while also paying tribute to their favourite supper. Had not Mr Hitler beaten them to it, no doubt they’d have created a bang or two themselves the other night. I really can’t picture that sort of behaviour being condoned by His Majesty.’

  ‘I think you’ll find King George is a most enlightened man,’ said Guy smoothly. ‘In these unusual times, and especially since the Palace was bombed, he has come to realise it takes many different types to weave together the fabric of the nation.’

  ‘How can I be of assistance, Mr Harford?’

  ‘It’s really more of an inquiry than any kind of request, you understand. As you yourself have outlined, Miss Carrigan has exceptional skills – rare skills. She had been given the task of utilising those skills on behalf of the Crown.’

  ‘The King wants her to go and burgle someone?’

  Well, yes, thought Guy – in a manner of speaking, he does.

  ‘Nothing like that,’ he reassured Simkins. ‘But there’s nobody else who can manage the task she’s been given. You might say she’s unique.’

  Simkins looked down at his well-polished shoes. ‘And what, ah, advice is it you are seeking?’

  ‘Have you ever been to the Palace?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You should, you should! Quite a remarkable place. Lots to see. And a chance, sometimes, to sit on the throne.’

  ‘Good Lord!’

  ‘Unofficially, of course.’

  ‘Of course, of course!’

  ‘I’ll arrange it. His Majesty will be away for a few days – can’t say where! – but I can telephone to see if you’re free.’

  ‘How can I help in the matter of Miss Carrigan?’ The lawyer looked at Guy in an old-fashioned way; it was not the first time he’d been bribed.

  ‘From this morning’s evidence, indeed in your own words, she’s something of a heroine for saving that chap’s life.’

  ‘Agreed.’

  ‘The attempt to rob the warehouse was foiled. No harm was done to the building that wasn’t multiplied many times over by Herr Hitler.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘One might argue, therefore, that since no money was taken, no
offence had occurred.’

  ‘Sorry. Leave to one side the safe with the wages, they were caught trying to steal a getaway van.’

  ‘Not Rodie – er, Miss Carrigan.’

  ‘True.’

  ‘Her work for us at the Palace is of . . .’ – Guy paused – ‘an unconventional nature. But vital to the war effort. I was wondering whether you couldn’t have a word with the Chief Magistrate and separate out the charges – burglary, conspiracy to burgle, attempted robbery of a motor vehicle for those three old lags. And separate charges for Miss Carrigan. To be answered at a later date.’

  ‘What later date?’

  ‘When this bleedin’ war is over,’ Guy said, quoting the old First War song.

  It took quite some time for his wish to be granted. Having persuaded Simkins of the importance of Rodie’s freedom, he had to wait while the lawyer chewed it over, consulted various books for legal precedent, and considered which of his wife’s hats she should wear when they nipped into the Throne Room. Finally, Simkins decided on the rabbit-with-pheasant’s-feather and went back to make the case to the Chief Magistrate. His task was not helped by the defence counsel, who suddenly glimpsed an opportunity to get the charges against the other ruffians in his care dropped.

  The magistrate – short-tempered, high-handed, and bloody-minded – was in no mood to preside over an afternoon of fruitless argument. But as with every other corner of British public life, the magic words ‘Buckingham Palace’ had a curiously disorienting effect on his judgement, and before the end of the afternoon Rodie was free.

  She came down the court steps into Bow Street to find Guy waiting for her.

  ‘What on earth do you think you were doing? Burgling a warehouse? In Elephant and Castle? I thought you were a bit more stylish than that!’

  ‘Needs must,’ replied Rodie with a toss of her head. ‘Bills to pay.’

  ‘You know, I doubt you bother about life’s little conventions like bill-paying. You were doing it for the hell of it.’

  ‘What if I was?’

  ‘You could have gone to jail, you idiot!’