by TP Fielden
To say he was jealous of Guy would be an over-simplification – Rochester was jealous of everybody – but the secret of Ed Brampton irked him. He hated to miss a story, and now he was so celebrated a columnist he believed it was others’ bounden duty to tell him everything about their lives, leaving nothing out.
Furthermore, the way Betsey Cody, his prize possession as a gossip columnist, had bypassed him to get to Guy was vexing. He clung to his stories, trifling though they were, as if they were the Crown Jewels. Every famous-name person met, every private telephone number acquired, every crumb and morsel of information – these were his children whom he ferociously guarded.
Just then the telephone rang. He glanced at the clock – 1.30 a.m.
‘Toby Broadbent here. Not too late for you, old chap?’
‘They’ll be serving the first drinks in El Morocco around now. And anyway, I never sleep. How goes the guard duty?’
‘Mm? To be frank, old chap, I think the days of the Coats Mission are numbered. Nobody’s invading Britain, the King and Queen are safe as houses, and everyone’s getting just a wee bit bored.’
‘I heard you had a bit of a mishap the other day. Shame I can’t write about it.’
‘Look,’ said Broadbent, his words weighed down by what had clearly been a heavy night in the officers’ mess, ‘not our fault it all went haywire.’
‘The Coats Mission ambushed a general. One of our own side!’
‘In our game, you’ve got to set yourself realistic targets.’
‘He was going out to lunch!’
‘Makes no difference.’
‘You nearly killed him with all the smoke bombs you chucked into his car.’
‘Look!’ shouted Broadbent. ‘The chaps are keen as mustard. They keep on their toes!’
‘Then you kidnapped Merle Oberon.’
‘None of your business.’
‘She’s a Hollywood actress, Toby – a woman. What on earth were you targeting her for?’
‘All good clean fun,’ chuckled Broadbent down the telephone. ‘Had a few drinks with her in the mess afterwards. She was very sweet. I got her autograph.’
‘You know, if I were His Majesty I’d be worrying about my personal safety. You lot are a bunch of comedians.’
‘Don’t be fooled. To the last man, to the last bullet. We will never let him be captured.’
‘Hmph. Anyway, why the call, Toby?’
‘This man Guy Harford. You and I discussed him at Edgar Brampton’s funeral. I have something which may be of interest to you.’
Rochester sat forward in his chair and picked up a pencil. ‘Yes?’ He was suddenly wide awake.
‘You can never be too sure these days. People get knocked over in the street, attacked in broad daylight, fall under a bus. Harford’s a valuable asset at the Palace, I’m told, so I gave him a spare chap as a bodyguard. Just to be on the safe side.’
‘Does he know?’
‘Where would the fun be if we told him? No, of course he doesn’t know!’
‘And your purpose in this cloak-and-dagger caper?’
‘Well, good training for the man involved and, actually, he’s turned out to be a bright star.’
‘How so?’
‘He popped into Bow Street Magistrates’ Court yesterday, and who should he find there . . .’
‘Let me guess. Did they have Harford up before the beak for cycling without lights? Dropping litter? Whistling in the street? I can’t imagine what else – he’s a pretty innocent sort of chap.’
‘You won’t think so when I tell you what my man discovered.’
‘Yes?’
‘Harford’s involved with a gang of criminals who launched an armed raid on a warehouse in south London then got themselves arrested.’
Rochester stood up. ‘Impossible!’ he squeaked.
‘Don’t take my word for it. My chap followed him into the courthouse. He went into Number 1 court, where committal proceedings had started against three men and a woman. I’ll spare you the details, all I’ll say is that at the lunch break Harford approached the prosecuting lawyer and they had a long chat in the street. When the lawyer went back into court, the case was adjourned while both sides consulted the Chief Magistrate. When his nibs came back in, he announced that the case had been deferred, and Harford walked off with the woman. Looks like he used his palace appointment to get her off.’
‘I don’t believe it.’
‘I’ll show you a photo of them having tea in Lyons Corner House if you like.’
‘Who is this person?’
‘She’s a common thief, goes by the name of Rodie Carr. Irish, possibly. Wonderful-looking woman.’
‘This is extraordinary,’ said Rochester. ‘A senior – well, semi-senior – palace official not only consorting with a common criminal, but actually going into court for her. Is she his mistress?’
‘Doesn’t look like it. They didn’t hold hands or anything.’
‘For heaven’s sake, Toby! You don’t have to hold hands when you’re . . . Do you know anything more?’
There was a muffled belch at the other end of the line. ‘Are you going to write something in your paper?’
Rochester gave it a moment’s thought.
‘Probably not in the national interest just now, what with the King and everything.’ The information he’d just received was far too valuable to share with his readers – it would go in his private files for use at precisely the right moment.
‘Well, I wouldn’t have bothered you if I’d known,’ replied the soldier, clearly put out. ‘I should have thought it would make a damn fine story. For any newspaper.’
‘Come and have a drink at the club tomorrow,’ said Ted. ‘Bring that photo and I’ll explain everything.’
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
They were back at The Berkeley; it was as safe a place as any.
‘Tell me about Betsey,’ said Guy. ‘She seems too good to be true.’
‘How do you mean?’ The sunlight caught Foxy’s profile, etching for a moment her fine nose, lighting up her green eyes. Guy realised he would have to paint her again.
‘It’s baffling. One mention from you to this woman and suddenly I’ve got a gallery, an exhibition and Pamela Churchill waiting in the wings.’
‘Stop complaining.’
‘No, I’m serious. And I’m curious – I can’t believe one person can be that generous to someone she doesn’t even know.’
‘She knows you now. And likes you very much. She said you were quite the star of the show at dinner.’
‘I’d say that she’s the star – no wonder her husband stays away from those dinners! But there’s a quid pro quo – I have to get Granville and Betsey invited up to Barnwell by the Duke and Duchess of Gloucester.’
‘Well, there you are then, one good turn deserves another. Give me a cigarette.’
Guy lit up for them both.
‘I don’t really understand it. She’s already on friendly terms with the Duke and Duchess of Windsor and the Duke and Duchess of Kent. Why now the Gloucesters?’
‘That’s the way it affects some people around the royal family,’ said Foxy. ‘Especially the rich ones – they want to become part of the family themselves, like to think of them as relatives. You know, Betsey came from nowhere – she was a secretary in a bank in Wisconsin and yearned to get out and up. She married her boss, moved to Chicago, married again, and eventually snapped up Granville, who’d recently been widowed. That was a big leap for her. As you know, Granville’s got more money than you can shake a stick at, and she had to find something to give back in return for his providing her with colossal wealth – so when they came to London she made it her job to get him known by becoming a society hostess. Because she was American, nobody cared where she came from, they all came rushing to her table because of the riches on display.’
‘Well, she’s charming, I must say, though in what you might call a professional way.’
‘You’ve got her
spot on – but she’s generous with it too. She used to leave the most ridiculous presents on her guests’ dinner plates – Cartier, Van Cleef and Arpels, Asprey – though she’s had to tone it down a bit since the war began. But she achieved what she set out to do – Granville’s now highly regarded socially, and you could say that he has been given this important war work because of the people she introduced him to at their dinner table.’
‘She bought her way into society, then.’
‘That’s a coarse way of putting it, Guy, I’m surprised at you.’
‘Would you sit for me again?’
She looked at him with hooded eyes. ‘Not a chance, Hugh absolutely would not like it. He’s suspicious of you. He thinks “artists and their models”.’
‘So does my new landlord Adrian Amberley. Expects it, in fact. Pointed me to the back bedroom.’
‘Amberley? That old goat?’
‘He’s an astonishing painter. As good as Augustus John – who, by the way, is just down the street if and when you come to call.’
‘I won’t be doing that, Guy.’
Guy smiled. An old waiter finally limped over with their cocktails.
‘Back to Betsey. What more do you know about her, if I’m to effect an introduction to the Gloucesters?’
‘Very little. When I came here from Paris she took me up – rather like you just now – and because I knew Wallis and David, and so did she, and the fact we’re both Americans in London, we became quite close. She throws her money around a bit, and she can take a joke against herself. That doesn’t make for bad company.’
‘I just find it all a bit strange. The way she’s pounced on me.’
‘She wants you to paint her. Didn’t you get that?’
‘And I daresay I’ll oblige. I imagine the portrait would have to have pride of place in the exhibition.’
‘Now you’re getting the idea, Guy! And it’s sure to guarantee a royal presence at the opening party – the Duke of Kent’s like a puppy with her. If she calls, he’ll come wagging. Duties permitting, of course.’
‘This isn’t quite how I envisaged my painting career going.’
‘Carpe diem, Guy. If Prince George likes what you do with Betsey, he’ll probably ask you to paint Princess Marina, who everybody describes as the most beautiful royal in the world, though I can’t say I agree – you’ll have to do something about her nose. But then – away you go, everybody will want you!’
Guy looked around. It was still early, and the room was only slowly filling up. They sat surrounded by a sea of empty chairs.
‘What’s the news from across the water? I keep being nudged by Ted Rochester for tidbits about the Windsors.’
‘Not good, so I don’t expect you to pass this on. Do you remember that little man who performed the marriage ceremony in the Château de Candé four years ago?’
‘I don’t think I do.’
‘A reverend fellow called Jardine, came from a mining town in the north of England. The only person in the whole Church of England prepared to marry David and Wallis. Drummed out of holy orders as a result, so off he went to California.’
‘To do what?’
‘Heaven knows. But he’s been saying in the American press he believes David is ready to regain the throne if anything happens to the King. He’s talking about him making what he calls “a strong bid” to become king again.’
‘Does this come from the Duke, or is he making it up?’
‘Couldn’t say. He is a man of the cloth, so surely he can’t be.’
‘Well,’ said Guy, ‘that’s pretty astonishing. Just as well the Duke’s far away in the Bahamas, out of trouble.’
‘Not at the moment. He and Wallis landed in New York a few days ago. Nothing in the press here, of course, but I had a letter from my sister this morning – she said they’re staying at the Waldorf Astoria and brought over a hundred pieces of luggage with them. All the way from Nassau!’
‘How Ted would love to write that.’
‘Well, don’t tell him, and especially don’t tell him that Wallis has gone shopping-mad. Buying up Fifth Avenue, my dear. My sister said she’d heard Wallis had bought thirty hats – and they’ve only been there a couple of days!’
‘Well, if she’s going to come back here to be queen, she’ll need them.’
‘Ha ha. But I must say, if this man Jardine is saying to the American press we have a weak king, an ailing king, and that we have his older brother planning to steal the crown back – it doesn’t look good, does it?’
‘No newspaper here would publish that sort of thing. Even Ted Rochester couldn’t get that in his column, however hard he tried.’
‘Same sort of self-censorship by Fleet Street, as during the Abdication?’
‘Worse.’
Their eyes travelled round the room as they chatted.
‘Anything else I should know?’ asked Guy. ‘One learns so little at the Palace.’
‘Well,’ said Foxy, ‘I worry about Georgie Kent. Like you, he’s fed up with the footling jobs he’s being given. He’s sent here and he’s sent there, they salute him and he salutes them back, and that’s about the measure of it. He’s an adorable man, worthy of so much more.’
‘Curiously I’ve never met him,’ replied Guy. ‘The staff at the Palace absolutely dote on him but he’s been away a lot and so I’ve never been introduced. I’ve often wondered why he wears a Royal Air Force uniform when he served his time as an officer in the Royal Navy.’
‘I’ll tell you the story one day. You know, of course, he longs to go and work for the Americans – or with them at least – he wants to get away from the royal pressure-cooker, he hates things the way they are these days. And of course Marina . . . very disillusioned all round, I’ve heard.’
‘No! I didn’t know that.’
‘Seems to me you don’t have an ear for gossip, Guy. Everyone knows it – well, within our circle, anyway.’
‘But, Foxy, I’m not in your circle. You seem to have forgotten that, till recently, I was living a blameless life, oblivious to the affairs of royalty, sitting on a mountainside in Tangier.’
‘You’re still pretty well-connected. I should have thought the jungle drums would have thundered the news out to you.’
‘They didn’t – not a single thud.’
But by now Guy had lost interest in the machinations of court life – he got it every day at work.
‘Look,’ he said, ‘I don’t suppose you and Hugh would like a parrot as a wedding present? Very conversible, one previous owner, comes from a loving home?’
‘For heaven’s sake, Guy, haven’t you got rid of it yet?’
Later – much later – he stood tieless by the tea bar on Chelsea Bridge, watching the snakelike swirl of the river and listening to the chatter of the night owls with their mugs of coffee standing in the near-dark.
She was taking her time, probably paying him back for keeping her waiting when they went dancing.
‘There you are. I thought you said eleven o’clock?’ He had new shoes on and his feet were hurting.
‘Lawks, is that the time?’ laughed Rodie. ‘Black, no sugar, thanks!’
‘There isn’t any sugar.’
They took their mugs and sat on a nearby bench. She seemed to be shivering, though the night was warm.
‘Would you like my jacket?’
‘What? Oh, no, I’m always a bit trembly after a job. It was lovely of you to ask, though – what a gentleman you are.’ She pronounced it ‘jennelmin’.
‘Are you OK?’
‘’Course I am!’
‘Did it go off all right?’
Rodie turned and smiled at him in the half-dark. ‘A cakewalk, my darling.’
‘Tell me.’
The front entrance of Chesterfield House had, as usual, been guarded by the grizzly bear. A walk around its perimeter suggested a number of ways of gaining entry but, as Rodie pointed out to Guy, you never ignore the bleedin’ obvious, so she went away a
nd found a telephone box. Twenty minutes later her friend Lem appeared.
‘Dressed up to the nines she was – not like me in my work clothes,’ said Rodie. ‘She had that doorman round her little finger in no time, and while he was in his cubby-hole finding the glue pot for her broken heel, I just sailed through. Straight up to 12A and through the door like a hot knife through butter.’
‘And?’
‘Let me tell it my way, mister. First off, it’s a very large apartment and I hadn’t a clue what I was looking for. Lem came up quite soon after me and I got her to take a look around an’ all, but she was useless. So she just spent her time trying on all the clothes in the wardrobe.
‘While she was having fun I tried all the usual – going through the desk drawers, kitchen, bedroom and all that. There was a load of papers but I was getting nowhere. Then Lem come out in the hall wearing a fox-fur coat and bingo! She’d got the answer!’
‘Which was?’
‘A piece of paper in the coat pocket. Whadja call it – a clue!’
‘How d’you know it’s the answer?’
‘Because,’ said Rodie, as if talking to the village idiot, ‘of what went with the address.’ She produced a postcard whose printed inscription said:
11C HARBLEDOWN HOUSE
CURZON STREET, W.
Underneath, in pencil, ran the message ‘No door number for 11c. When you get to 11b go through the service entrance gate and follow the passage round to the back of the building. There’s a black-painted door – that’s it.’
‘Oh,’ said Guy in confusion. ‘Oh!’
‘What?’ said Rodie, irritated her discovery wasn’t being greeted with a round of applause.
‘We’ll have to go round there. Now!’
‘Well, that’s a disappointment,’ came the sarcastic response. ‘The only clue I find in two hours of searching – I was hoping for a bunch of flowers, not an order to do overtime!’
‘Come on!’
Guy marched speedily up Sloane Street with Rodie struggling to keep up. ‘What’s the bleedin’ hurry?’ she asked several times, but got no reply. Only when they reached Knightsbridge did he deign to answer.