Stealing the Crown (A Guy Harford Mystery)

by TP Fielden

  ‘I can’t promise anything, sir.’

  ‘See what you can do, I say. Have you been to Sandringham yet?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Rather lovely this time of year. Those endless Norfolk skies. Perhaps you could spend a few days up there taking it easy once you’ve got this thing fixed.’

  Good Lord, thought Guy, as he walked away. They really are worried about Gloucester’s public persona if they’re bribing me with a free holiday in Norfolk. He returned briefly to his office, made a telephone call, then caught a bus from the stop next to the Tradesmen’s Gate.

  Half an hour later he was sitting in Ted Rochester’s flat, the offending press clipping on the table between them.

  ‘This is your handiwork, Ted.’

  ‘Not me, old thing – not my style. Too rough-hewn.’

  ‘Rubbish. I know it’s you, no point in denying it. You can always tell who the author is because of the stories they write, the people they quote, the access they have. This has all the hallmarks of your style, Ted – but I must admit, you’re a gifted journalist for hiding it so well.’

  ‘Nice of you to say so. Sherry?’

  ‘Look, we have to work together. It’s not an ideal situation from either side – you feel you don’t get enough help from the Palace. We, from our side, wish you’d write more supportively using the information we supply.’

  ‘You’re not the best judges. You live inside a palace.’

  ‘As a matter of fact, Ted, I live in a cramped flat overlooking Victoria bus station – not this . . .’ He waved his hand around the elegant service flat with its view of St James’s Palace. ‘You can’t just carve a chunk of flesh out of the royal family’s side and then expect to come back for more. The wounds you inflict with that typewriter over there won’t heal easily in wartime, and criticising someone who could – in a heartbeat – become our head of state is doing irreparable damage.’

  The journalist looked at him down the long cigarette holder in his mouth. ‘When was Gloucester’s last public engagement, Guy?’

  ‘I . . .’

  ‘You don’t know. Neither do I. I gather he’s spending quite a lot of time in the country just now, with his pigs and cattle. Doesn’t sound like much of a war effort to me.’

  ‘I’d remind you that he was blown up by the Luftwaffe in France only last year.’

  ‘That was then, Guy, this is now. Since he came home he’s virtually disappeared. I do think the next in line to the throne, or whatever he is, should be pulling his weight a bit more. And so do you.’

  ‘My opinion’s worth nothing. What I want to know is, where did you get this stuff from?’

  ‘A journalist never reveals his sources,’ replied Rochester smoothly. ‘Everyone knows that.’

  ‘Ted, you’re a realist. I’ve come to you from Buckingham Palace. In the future, would you like me to occasionally give you what you call a scoop? Or would you prefer it if I never answered your calls again?’

  ‘You have an obligation to brief the press.’

  ‘Try me next time, see how well I do.’

  The reporter looked down at his shoes thoughtfully and remained silent for a few moments.

  ‘Let me get this straight. You want me, in my newspaper articles, to write good things about the current set-up at the Palace.’

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  ‘Similarly, you wouldn’t mind if I wrote articles which are critical of people who bring the royal family into disrepute.’

  ‘Naturally.’

  ‘Would you say our friends the Windsors – Wally and David – fall into the latter category?’

  ‘What are you saying, Ted?’

  ‘Give and take, old chap, give and take! Under certain conditions I might tell you where the Gloucester story came from – but only in return for some griff on Wally. Foxy knows all about the Windsors, so does Hugh Sefton – they’re practically best friends – you must be able to get something out of them. In return for laying off Harry Gloucester.’

  Guy thought for a moment. ‘No can do, old chap.’

  ‘Well, there you are.’ Rochester got up to lift a long-necked decanter and poured sherry into a single glass. He did not repeat his offer to Guy.

  ‘I don’t break personal confidences, Ted.’

  ‘Look at it this way. Anything that’s written which makes the Windsors look bad makes the King look good. Your task is to do just that – make him look good. By fair means or foul, I imagine.’

  ‘I’ll have to think about it. I daresay there are a few things I could let you have. Meantime where does this Gloucester stuff come from?’

  Rochester paused only for a moment.

  ‘Betsey Cody, your new best friend.’

  ‘Say that again, Ted.’

  ‘Betsey.’

  Guy sat back, startled. ‘OK,’ he said slowly. ‘This is off the record. You remember, Ted, what “off the record” means?’

  ‘Depends,’ said Ted, stoppering the decanter. ‘If you’re going to tell me the King is dead and brother Gloucester’s now head honcho over at the Palace, I make no guarantee. In the ordinary way of things, I’m sure we can come to an arrangement.’

  ‘It’s about Betsey.’

  ‘OK. We’re off the record.’

  ‘What she told you – and I’m not blaming you for running it, Ted, even if I wish you hadn’t – what she told you is right, but damaging. I have to suppose that if she told it to you, her purpose was to dent Harry Gloucester’s reputation.’

  ‘I’d say so.’

  ‘Then listen to this. This is the same Betsey Cody who a couple of weeks ago was pleading with me to get herself and Granville Cody an invitation to stay with the Gloucesters at Barnwell Manor. She’s been pushing like mad ever since, even leaning on Foxy to get a date fixed.’

  ‘And have you?’

  ‘Well, yes. The Gloucesters are doing a lot of entertaining of useful people – so, you see, you weren’t entirely right in your article, Ted, they are making a contribution to the war effort – and Betsey and Granville just about fall into that category.’

  ‘So your point is?’

  ‘Why, on the one hand, is she cuddling up to the Gloucesters – moving heaven and earth to get alongside them – while at the same time trying to ruin their reputation in the US? It doesn’t make sense.’

  ‘She’s a woman with a lot of money. Capricious. She does and says pretty much what she wants.’

  ‘Oh, come on – two entirely different things at the same time? Does she suffer from schizophrenia?’

  ‘I have no idea what’s in her mind. To me, she’s a godsend – one of the best hostesses in London, one of the most generous, one of the nicest. She gives me dinner and she gives me stories. Occasionally she asks me to put something in which I don’t necessarily follow, but I rely on her judgement. What’s the harm in a bit of the old quid pro quo?’

  ‘Well, where the Gloucesters are concerned, it’s got to stop,’ said Guy firmly. ‘And, by the way, Betsey’s just got herself and her husband uninvited to Barnwell Manor.’

  ‘I wouldn’t do that, old chap. She’s not a lady to cross swords with.’

  ‘Watch me. I’m not having someone use their wealth and influence to denigrate our royal family – my job’s to protect them!’

  ‘She’s got a pretty fearsome temper. Start throwing your weight around and she might think twice about backing your art exhibition.’

  Guy hadn’t thought of that.

  Her career as a model for Jean Patou may have been fleeting, but the look remained. Foxy was exquisitely turned out in turquoise, providing a dazzling counterpoint to her flame-red hair. Her clothes looked new and her pale skin was suffused with just the slightest hint of sunshine.

  ‘Wonderful,’ sighed Guy, shaking his head. ‘I could paint you all over again.’

  ‘Any time,’ said Foxy, though she didn’t mean it.

  ‘I’d give anything to be back in Paris. As it was in, oh, ’32.’
>
  ‘Me too. When the going was good.’

  ‘Ah well! I’ve come with a purpose, Fox. I want you to tell me about Betsey. She’s stirring up trouble.’

  ‘That doesn’t surprise me. She’s the most remarkable person, Guy, full of get up and go, a steely determination, lots of fun . . . but really . . .’

  ‘What?’

  ‘She can turn in an instant. I thought I knew her, but I don’t. The way she snapped the other day when we were talking about you and the Gloucesters.’

  Guy lit them both a cigarette. ‘How did you come across her?’

  ‘I’ve only known her since I came here from Paris. We know a lot of people in common, obviously, but we come from different worlds. I grew up in Virginia and New York; she comes from the boondocks. She’s had to grapple her way to the top, there’s a lot of street-fighter in her. Yet look what she did for Granville. She turned him from a boring one-dimensional figure, only interested in his business, into the figure he is today. Ambitious, yes, but I’d say ruthless too.’

  Guy nodded.

  ‘But what is it hidden inside that makes her want to feed Ted Rochester with damaging stories about Harry Gloucester,’ he said, ‘while at the same time wooing HRH and angling for an invitation to stay?’

  ‘Is that truly what’s happening?’

  Guy explained.

  ‘What are you going to do about it?’

  ‘Well, I have to decide whether or not I’m going to challenge her on the basis of a scandalous paragraph by a notorious gossip columnist.’

  ‘And if you do, bang goes your exhibition. She’ll drop you like a hot potato.’

  ‘I realise that. I realise also that what she does is buy people. Anybody – everybody. It’s not the way we do things over here.’

  ‘Agreed, that’s why I like England and Englishmen. But let’s change the subject – how’s everything else going?’

  ‘A few weeks ago we were sitting here in a daze after that air raid, remember? It was the night after Ed Brampton died. I told you then I had to find out if he’d really killed himself or whether he’d been murdered.’

  ‘I remember.’

  ‘Well, I think I’ve finally got there. I think I know now that it was murder, and that I know both who did it and who ordered it to be done.’

  ‘Good Lord, Guy, I can’t believe it – Ed murdered? In Buckingham Palace?’

  ‘I just can’t think of a reason why – I wish I could. Meantime, the most urgent thing is the problem of Betsey – I’ve got to do something to silence her. And I’ve got to get rid of that wretched parrot – she’s driving my flatmate crazy. Sure you wouldn’t like her as a wedding present?’

  ‘Not a hope, chum. Try advertising in The Times.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  They met in Soho. Rodie was dressed in her customary black trousers and top, her Eton crop strikingly at odds with the elaborate hairstyles of the other girls in the restaurant, who were all clad in floral dresses even though the summer was taking its time to heat up.

  ‘Late again!’ she said, drink in hand and a smile on her face. ‘Get a move on, I’m hungry!’

  Guy had spent the walk from the Palace, up through St James’s Park and along Piccadilly, composing a prim little lecture on how he’d saved her once from jail but it wouldn’t work twice. How she must promise to stop being so reckless, choose her company with greater care, keep a low profile, and do as little as possible to put herself in physical danger. It was a carefully thought-out piece of advice, but as he approached their table she looked too happy, too on top of the world. She didn’t need his caution.

  ‘Luigi says he’s got champagne in the cellar, are you buying?’

  ‘Certainly not. Do you know how much they pay me?’

  ‘I don’t care, anything’ll do. You look lovely, Guy.’

  ‘So do you, as a matter of fact.’

  ‘We could go down to the Trocadero afterwards. They’ve got a band.’

  ‘Your feet must recover quickly. Surely they’re still covered in bruises from the last time we went dancing?’

  ‘You just need practice, mate! Now, no more mucking about, when’re you going to paint my picture?’

  ‘Soon. There’s no rush.’

  ‘I thought you was going to have an exhibition.’

  ‘So did I, but things have changed since we last met.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘Well, as you seem to know so much about my business, I may as well tell you. There’s a woman called Betsey Cody . . .’

  He launched into an account of how he’d been picked up and fawned over by London’s leading society hostess, but now it was his duty to go and tell her off. ‘Two weeks ago I was in a rush to get some portrait work done; now I have the feeling there’s more time.’

  ‘I read about her in some magazine,’ said Rodie, with a mischievous twinkle. ‘She’s a right one, isn’t she? Rich, I mean!’

  ‘Well, yes.’

  ‘The article was a “Mrs Granville Cody – At Home” type of thing. And I must say her gaff looked so huge it wouldn’t miss a trinket or two, would it? I looked her up – Grosvenor Square, isn’t it? Number 47?’

  ‘For heaven’s sake!’

  ‘Well, if she’s not going to give you the exhibition and I’m not going to get my picture done, and you’re in trouble for her leaking things to the American papers, maybe she does deserve a visit, darling. Here’s to us!’ She clinked Guy’s glass with gusto. ‘Now tell me,’ Rodie went on, ‘about this Lady Easthampton. After all, I cracked open two flats for you, I found a telephone number, I deserve to know how you got on.’

  ‘I suppose you do,’ admitted Guy. ‘She’s gone to ground. She’s being chased by people who work for the other side, the Nazis. She’s of interest to our secret service as well, and as a foreigner in London she feels extremely vulnerable, so she’s hidden herself away and just wants to be forgotten. I think as soon as the war’s over she’ll be gone in a puff of smoke. Right now all she wants to do is stay alive.’

  ‘What’s going to happen to all those clothes, those jewels?’

  ‘She doesn’t need them any more. There are more important things in life.’

  ‘Well, I don’t think they should go to waste, maybe I should pop back with my shopping basket.’

  ‘You just can’t resist it, can you?’ said Guy, amused despite himself. ‘I don’t think you do it for the money, you just love the danger.’

  ‘We all love a challenge. More wine please!’

  ‘Suzy Easthampton – she calls herself something else now – wants to know who killed Ed Brampton. For a time, Ed’s widow seemed desperate to know, but now I don’t think that any more. But someone does still care about him and what happened.’

  ‘And so do you – though you keep complaining about it. Can I help?’

  ‘I wish you could, but I’ve lost all inspiration.’ He explained his theory about Topsy Dighton and his soldier-assassin. ‘But I can’t work out why they’d want Ed out of the way, and without a motive there’s nothing to be done. Topsy’s far too powerful a figure.’

  ‘Stop worrying. Eat your dinner and take me dancing. You never know what tomorrow may bring,’ said Rodie with a wink.

  One thing you could be certain of when you walked into Buckingham Palace in the morning, and that was, no matter the weather or the state of the war, Aggie would be in a mood.

  Today was no exception. For once Guy didn’t step around the puddle but splashed right in with both boots.

  ‘I’ve been thinking a lot about Major Brampton, Aggie, and I want to talk to you.’

  She looked fleetingly over her steel-framed glasses.

  ‘I think about him too,’ she said. ‘We worked together a long time. But it’s over now, best to move on. I hear you won’t be taking the Gloucester job.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Strange how some people don’t have any time for him while others rate him highly – there’s an MP who says he should be ma
de Commander-in-Chief of the Armed Forces.’

  ‘I’m not a military man, but might that not be rather foolhardy? If not downright mad?’

  ‘I wonder sometimes, Mr Harford, whether your heart is in this job. I’ll make some tea.’

  Guy got up and walked over to the window. Outside, a trooper was wrestling with a fractious stallion, its harness half on and half off. His cap had fallen over his eyes.

  ‘No,’ he said, without turning round. ‘Don’t do that, just for the moment. What I’m going to do is keep looking out of the window. What you may not know, Aggie, is that I am blessed with clairvoyant powers – and I know that when I turn around again, Ed Brampton’s missing notebook will be on my desk.’

  There was a faint rustle behind him. ‘What on earth are you talking about? It’s gone. Stolen! It was taken . . . taken the night that rose appeared on your desk. And the chalked cross. On your desk, Mr Harford – whoever the culprit was that did that,’ she blabbered, ‘well, there you’ll find the notebook, I should think!’

  ‘No,’ said Guy, ‘the person who put the rose there most definitely did not take the notebook.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘Because I asked the person concerned.’

  ‘You know who broke into this office?’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘Did they also break into the Palace? Come over the wall, like they do?’

  ‘I have no idea, Aggie. All I know is that the notebook was in this room, on the desk you’re sitting at, that night. Next morning, it was gone – I know,’ he repeated, ‘because I asked. You were the first person in the office next morning, and while I am absolutely not saying you took it, I am also saying please put it on my desk. Now.’

  Aggie, startled by his tone, slowly got up, went into the anteroom, and after a few moments returned with a sealed buff envelope. Without looking at Guy, she placed it on his desk.

  ‘You know,’ said Guy, still looking out of the window, ‘I was given the job by the King, through Tommy Lascelles, to investigate Edgar Brampton’s death. That is a very important undertaking, Aggie. I’m supposed to find an answer!’