Stealing the Crown (A Guy Harford Mystery)

by TP Fielden

  ‘Where are you taking me, sweetie? Are we going to celebrate?’

  ‘Let me explain something,’ he said curtly. ‘You are, in many ways, a most remarkable person. That much I grant you. Courageous, resourceful, quick-thinking and . . .’

  ‘Adorable,’ finished Rodie, looking up at him, eyes sparkling.

  ‘. . . and as dangerous as a rattlesnake. What’s more, you drag others around you into your danger zone. And I will not be dragged!’

  ‘No need for the lecture, you love me really.’

  ‘If you weren’t such a complete idiot,’ persisted Guy, ‘you’d probably be in for a medal. You saved a man’s life – it could be a whole new beginning for you. Instead you winked at the magistrate. You nearly ended up back in the dock.’

  ‘’E’s an old sweetie. I’ll send ’im some flowers.’

  ‘You’ll do no such thing.’

  ‘Where are we celebrating?’

  The answer was not what she was expecting. Guy steered her by the elbow down to the Strand and into Trafalgar Square, where the black-and-white-uniformed Nippies of Lyon’s Corner House waited at the door to greet them.

  ‘A pot of tea and whatever sandwiches there are,’ ordered Guy.

  ‘No champagne? I’m a free woman!’

  ‘You’re free for one very good reason. There’s a job for you to do.’

  Rodie looked at him suspiciously. ‘What sort of job?’

  ‘What you do best, Rodie. Climbing into somebody’s window.’

  ‘Are you mad?’ Rodie shouted so loud the customers at the next table looked around. ‘I’ve just escaped by the skin of my teeth from the hands of the law and now you’re suggesting I do a job?’

  ‘It’ll be a piece of cake.’

  ‘Look,’ said Rodie, shoving her face across the table. In this light it’s a remarkable face, thought Guy. ‘You’re a lovely man, but you have no idea! Three hours ago I was looking at a year inside Holloway. OK, you rescued me, but if they collar me again it’ll be two years – three! Do you honestly think I’m going to chance that?’

  Guy looked at her. ‘What else are you going to do, Rodie? Join the Salvation Army?’

  ‘Very funny.’

  ‘It’s a simple job. Just get inside a mansion block in Mayfair and find the whereabouts of the woman who lives there.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Chesterfield House. There’s a grumpy man on the door so you’ll have to find a way of bypassing him, but otherwise I can’t see it’ll be a very great test of your considerable skills.’

  ‘I’m going straight. I value my freedom.’

  ‘Nonsense. When you wake up tomorrow you’ll be back to your old ways. But what on earth were you doing risking your liberty with those three no-hopers? You’re smarter than that!’

  The Nippy brought the tea.

  ‘In Tangier,’ said Guy, ‘I learned from the natives that you repay kindness with kindness, courtesy with courtesy. Forgive me for saying this, Rodie, but you owe me.’

  ‘Huh!’ she spluttered, heaping sugar into her cup. ‘This time last week you were Mr High-and-Mighty, Mr Butter-Wouldn’t-Melt, looking down your nose at people like me and Batesy and Murphy. Now look at you!’

  ‘There’s a war on. Let me tell you . . .’

  ‘Are you joking? You’ve turned into one of us, Guy!’

  Maybe I have, he thought. But why? Nobody really cares about poor old Ed Brampton’s death – Adelaide had gone off him and is happy with her new life, Tommy Lascelles got the closure he wanted, the police aren’t interested, and Topsy Dighton only wants to find out what I know, not what happened to Ed.

  The only person left who cares is me.

  ‘There’s a woman called Lady Easthampton. She’s probably working for the enemy; we don’t know, but it looks like that. What she’s doing is more complicated than just spying – that’s all I can tell you. She’s gone missing and we need to find her. She’s been staying in a flat in Mayfair but it doesn’t look like she’s there any more.’

  Rodie looked at him shrewdly. ‘This is to do with that chap – Brampton is his name? – isn’t it?’

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘I’ll take that as a yes, then. Was he Lady Easthampton’s fancy man?’

  Am I that transparent? thought Guy.

  ‘I couldn’t say.’

  ‘He was then. The trouble with you, Guy, is you’re no good at hiding a secret. Your eyes give you away. But they’re very nice eyes, has anyone ever told you that?’ She leaned across the table.

  ‘Number 12A, Chesterfield House,’ he said firmly. ‘It’s on the second floor, but after you shinned up the wall to save that man at the warehouse, I don’t suppose it’ll present too much of a problem. Plus, I imagine there’s a service entrance if you can’t get past the doorman. Get in there and see if you can find where this woman has got to – any addresses, letters, notes that might give a clue. And please understand, Rodie, this is very important.’

  ‘Are you going to be telling me to put things back, like you did last time?’

  Guy pondered this for a minute.

  ‘You didn’t ask me that question and I didn’t answer,’ he said. ‘Now get going!’

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  To look at the way Mrs Granville Cody treated her guests, you’d never know there was a war on. As the double doors to her apartment overlooking Grosvenor Square swung open, a discreetly suited young man bowed gently and took coats. Another stood ready with a shimmering drinks tray. Beyond, a pair of sensibly coiffed women circulated with silver dishes and starched linen napkins.

  ‘We meet at last!’ said Betsey, when Guy finally made his appearance. ‘The famous young artist! Come in, come in!’

  The party was for a dozen, but such was the crush there must have been as many servants as guests. Glimpsing Guy’s look of surprise, Betsey waved her hand. ‘Borrowed from the Embassy, my dear. Darling people doing that little bit more for the war effort. Amazing what an extra few dollars can do to help the world seem a better place. Now, who do you know?’

  Over by a window criss-crossed with anti-shatter tape, Guy could see Ted Rochester talking to a man in US Army uniform next to the wife of a prominent Member of Parliament. Nearby were people whose faces seemed familiar, maybe from the newspapers, together with an actress or two – but there was nobody else he knew.

  ‘You’re my guest of honour,’ purred Betsey, touching his arm. ‘I feel so very lucky to have found you!’ She looked remarkable – as extravagant and expensive as her apartment, as warm and as welcoming. He breathed in as he was handed a glass of champagne – she was wearing a satin dress and diamonds, with a brooch at her shoulder which could have come from the Crown Jewels. She smelt rich.

  ‘This is delightful,’ he murmured. ‘So kind. Is Foxy . . . ?’

  ‘Not tonight, darling, she’s off with her intended. Such a handsome man – they say the handsomest in the entire House of Lords! But it means I get the chance to get to know you without her grabbing your attention every other second. I saw that portrait you did,’ she teased, ‘a labour of love, I’d call it!’

  Steady on, thought Guy, you’ve already promised me a gallery for my exhibition and my first celebrity to paint – no need to heap on the flattery as well. Or is that what you do to all your guests – is that why you’re such a celebrated hostess?

  ‘Come along now, meet some people – I’ll have you to myself later. This is Lord Waterhead.’ She put her head to one side to say, I can be satirical about my guests because I am rich. ‘He once drove a taxi at dawn from Paris to Rome, wearing pyjamas and a gardenia – but he forgot his toothbrush, can you imagine?

  ‘This is Lady Culpeper, whose family owns the entire state of Virginia – have you ever been? And George St John August, who – can you see? – looks just like Shelley. His mother makes bird’s nests and every Thursday she . . .’

  On prattled Mrs Cody, making it up as she went along, until Guy had been presented to everyo
ne. It was made clear to them all that he was the star of the show tonight, but as he listened to his hostess’s facile chatter, he could quite easily detect a sharper brain at work within. There was a vitality to her, and the way her eyes constantly scoured the room for lost sheep needing to be drawn into the fold showed how deft an operator she was.

  Ted Rochester sidled over as people were being ushered to the dining table. ‘You’re a lucky boy,’ he said out of the side of his mouth. ‘You don’t have a title, you’re not rich, you haven’t been in the newspapers and you haven’t won the Victoria Cross. Those are the people who sit next to Betsey Cody – why you?’

  ‘She wants me to paint her portrait but she can’t ask. She’s waiting for me to mention it first.’

  ‘Are you going to?’

  ‘I might.’

  ‘She’s very rich.’

  ‘That may come into my deliberations.’

  ‘Ha ha! You’re a cool one, Guy – all this, and then she tells me she’s getting Pamela Churchill to sit for you as well. That’s an introduction most young artists would kill for.’

  ‘Let’s see if it comes off. I’ve got a new studio down in Chelsea – I need to put some work in if there’s to be an exhibition in the autumn.’

  ‘Can I write that in my column?’

  ‘Pamela Churchill? They don’t like personal publicity at the Palace.’

  ‘Ah well. But since you mention it, how’s the Ed Brampton business going?’

  ‘It’s over, Ted.’

  ‘No inquest?’

  ‘There’s no time these days. Don’t you read your own newspaper? People dying all over the place – sometimes hundreds in a night – what’s an accident with a revolver among all that? The poor chap’s gone, pretty soon he’ll be forgotten, and we’ll be wondering why there was such a fuss.’

  ‘Come along,’ said Ted, taking his elbow. ‘Time for you to sing for your supper.’

  Dinner was startling – turtle soup, lobster, lamb cutlets en gelée, ice, cheese. Guy’s good manners prevented him from asking where it all came from, but he recoiled as he saw some guests pushing their plates away half-finished. For these people, he thought, there’s no such thing as rationing.

  Betsey Cody lavished her attention upon him as course followed course, but as she pressed closer he began to find her possessiveness slightly alarming.

  ‘We ladies will leave you now,’ she said at a lull in the conversation. ‘No more than fifteen minutes, gentlemen. Brandy and cigars will circulate. The port, I’m sorry to say, is rather regrettable, according to the butler.’

  A red-nosed pixie standing by the door nodded conspiratorially at Guy, and for a moment he wondered whether the port was off because the man with the nose had swallowed most of it.

  ‘Sit over by the window, Guy, when you come – I want to talk to you.’

  You’ve done nothing else all evening, he thought, but when the men rose from the table and joined the women in the drawing room, she was already sitting waiting for him.

  ‘Foxy tells me you’re limbering up to paint Pam Churchill – you’ve got yourself a studio and you’ve found an early volunteer to practise on.’

  ‘I’ll be frank, Betsey, I haven’t done many portraits recently, apart from the native women in Tangier. And since their faces are always veiled, it’s quite an easy job, as you can imagine.’

  ‘Ha ha! Pam is young and very beautiful – as you’ll see when you come round to tea next week. She’s going to be something special, and from what I’ve seen of your work you are the perfect artist to paint her. I love the one you did of Foxy, and of course that one of Suzy Solidor in Paris – perfection!’

  ‘It was a great feather in my cap, Betsey, and so is this. I’ll never be able to thank you enough – especially your getting me the Gulbenkian gallery as well.’

  ‘He’ll be glad to have you there. But there is something you can do for me in return, Guy.’

  ‘It’ll be my pleasure.’

  ‘It’s my dear Granville. He works so hard for the Aircraft Exchange Commission – he’s here, there and everywhere. I’d like him to take things more easily, but he won’t.’

  ‘I’ve heard he’s doing wonders. Was it he who got Averell Harriman to come over here from Washington?’

  ‘They’re old friends. Averell wants to help Britain – he’s a great fan of Winston.’

  And an even greater fan of Winston’s daughter-in-law, thought Guy – she’s twenty-one with a baby and he must be fifty.

  ‘I know what you’re thinking, you naughty man! But your portrait will be his present to Pamela. A token of undying affection, let’s say.’

  ‘So how can I help, Betsey?’

  ‘Granville needs some country air. We know the Windsors of course, and we know the Kents, and naturally we’ve met the King and Queen, though we don’t know them well. Harry Gloucester is doing his bit by inviting all sorts of people up to his place, Barnwell Manor, and I thought it would be a treat for Granville to get away for a weekend. He’s a pretty good shot, and he appreciates a nice garden. And, of course, we and the Gloucesters have a lot of people in common, so conversation wouldn’t be a problem.’

  ‘Well, I . . .’

  ‘Foxy tells me Tommy Lascelles wants you to become Harry’s private secretary, otherwise I wouldn’t have asked.’

  ‘I think that probably won’t happen. I may not be at the Palace for too much longer.’

  ‘But you’re there now! Won’t you have a word with Lascelles? I just think it would be a nice thank you to Granville for all that selfless work he’s putting in. All those hours, all those dangerous flights!’

  Guy looked at the large brandy balloon in his hand and put it down. ‘Of course I will, Betsey, though I must say it’s an unusual request. Most people would rather not stay with the Duke – he’s a bit of a handful.’

  ‘Well,’ replied Betsey, ‘I gather he has time on his hands at the moment – nothing much to do. It seems like an ideal opportunity to get to know them both better.’

  Some people, thought Guy, like to collect royals like others collect court cards when playing bridge. No matter how rich, how worldly, they want to be able to say they have stayed under a royal roof.

  ‘I’m certain there’ll be something we can do in return,’ said his hostess with a sparkling smile. ‘And, of course – you, Guy! We mustn’t forget you! Tell me what your fee will be for painting Pamela, and don’t be shy about it!’

  Later that night, Ted Rochester sat at a table in his small service flat high above St James’s Street, turned back his cuffs, flexed his fingers, and thought for a moment about how he would describe an evening in London.

  Writing for New York’s Boulevardier was so much easier than writing for the British prints. Here he could express his true feelings – his contempt for the world he moved in, his dislike of virtually everybody, his suspicion and anger and disappointment at the hand life had dealt him. Readers of his News Chronicle column would quite soon be reading an oily account of a lively evening at Mrs Granville Cody’s, where Vivien Leigh gave an impromptu song-and-dance act and guests, including the valiant Viscount Waterhead, whispered about the latest fashionable artist (no name, he’d promised) who’d soon be portraying a member of Mr Churchill’s family. There’d be a list of the guests (minus Guy) and a hint of the splendour of Betsey’s hospitality – without enough description to make the reader feel that this woman must be breaking rationing regulations.

  No, his true feelings about the beau monde in which he moved only came out when he wrote under his pseudonym Caliban for Boulevardier. Here, describing his night’s perambulation, he could express just what he felt about the world without fear of Britain’s draconian libel laws. It was liberating.

  In the expensive restaurants of Mayfair and Knightsbridge, pink well-scrubbed schoolboys masquerading in Guards uniforms are drinking bad martinis with girlfriends in short fur capes and Fortnum and Mason shoes.

  Grass widows in black,
with diamond clips and pearls, are finding the conversation of Polish officers difficult to follow. Ugly but vivacious ATS girls are ordering vin rosé at the Coquille. A famous film actress goes through the swinging door of The Aperitif with David Niven at her derrière. This is a world of hotels and bars, and the little pubs that have become the fashion overnight – small drinking clubs run by gangsters who make a nice profit out of the prostitutes and the dope racket – while everywhere is packed with RAF pilots, Canadian officers, blondes, and slot machines.

  He paused and lit a cigarette. The extravagance of Betsey Cody’s hospitality had left a sour taste in his mouth, though in truth most of his meals were at somebody else’s expense and he hardly had the right to complain.

  Along Piccadilly from the Circus to Hyde Park Corner is an incessant parade of prostitutes. In Berkeley Square, the railings are down. The royal family . . .

  And so he rattled on into his portable Remington. The words came easily but as he typed he found himself distracted by the thought of Guy and his sudden celebrity at one of the most exclusive tables in London.

  He formed in his mind a suitable paragraph which one day he might use, depending on how far the whippersnapper climbed up the slippery pole – Rochester was notorious for crushing people when their star started to fall.

  His arrival in London and his sudden social success caught many by surprise. After studying in Paris, he took his palette and easel to Tangier, where there are few European painters to present any competition. This period, mostly spent in and around the Grand Socco, produced a large number of canvases whose merits few will be able to judge, since he left them all behind on his flight to London after a diplomatic incident which he prefers to forget.

  A short period in the Foreign Office allowed him to prise open the doors of Buckingham Palace, where, despite a moderate success completing a dismal series of errands, he found sufficient favour to be put forward as private secretary to the King’s brother, the Duke of Gloucester. However, Harford believed his superior talents were in painting people’s faces and in this he was lucky to be taken up by Betsey Cody, impossibly rich wife of Granville Cody, the . . .