The Face of Eve

by Betty Burton

  ‘Against what?’

  ‘None of them appears to know. There is a rumour that London has decided that Edward is to be Governor-General of the Bahamas. The baron believes that the episode at Rudolph’s lodge is the British secret service warning His Royal Highness that he must stop fraternising with the likes of Rudolph and the Austrians, and take the position.’

  Eve drew down a worried frown and said nothing for a short while. Then: ‘Can I ask you something?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Some of the people who have been so friendly to me since I have been here… they don’t all understand that being Irish – as I am – is very different from being English. My country is not part of the British Isles. I shouldn’t like them to think—’

  Frau von Mentz took Eve’s hand between her own two cool palms and held it. ‘Oh, my dear young friend, do you think that you might be in danger because of that one shot?’

  ‘Could I be?’

  ‘Not for a single minute. Politics and intrigue we leave to the men. We have more worthwhile lives to lead.’

  So, at last Eve had something for The Bureau. No doubt there had been secret service men in the hunting party, but would they share the information with The Bureau?

  The chatter in the room stopped and the little string orchestra struck up ‘God Save the King’, as was usual when the Windsors entered a gathering.

  ‘Ah, here they are,’ Frau von Mentz said, rising to her feet. ‘You see? He has already been at the bottle.’

  ‘Perhaps he needs Dutch courage. After all, his life’s not his own. I might need a stiff drink if I was under constant watch of everybody in the room.’

  ‘I think not. You would behave as the Duchess does, in control of herself. Of course, she must be in control of HRH too.’

  Together they watched as Edward accepted a cocktail. The Duchess was smiling at him, but Eve bet that she was signalling a look.

  ‘I cannot but feel a little sorry for him,’ von Mentz said, drawing Eve to another part of the room. ‘His mother should never have had children. I knew her before – whilst she was still Princess May of Teck – a cold girl even then. May and the act of loving… one could never picture her with a man or a suckling child.’

  Eve smiled; von Mentz was right about that. ‘From her pictures she is very poised.’

  ‘Men marry their mothers.’

  ‘I can’t see the similarity. Queen Mary has an hour-glass figure.’

  ‘My dear, it is more subtle than that. Men want to be told what to do. In their ridiculous “no-women-admitted clubs”, they eat nursery foods, especially the English and the Germans.’

  Eve laughed delightedly. ‘Oh, Frau von Mentz, you are so amusing to be with.’

  ‘Thank you. I like youthful company. These rich old señoras are so stodgy. I think they must only tolerate my bohemian past because of Rudolph. He is so respectable,’ she whispered close to Eve’s ear, ‘and wealthy. Now you must excuse me, I must remind Rudolph where we are dining, and you must run along and talk to some young men. You like the baron?’

  A little taken aback, Eve replied, ‘He is charming.’

  ‘Don’t you see these gatherings as strange? England and Germany are at war, the Germans have taken France, yet here we are all good friends.’

  ‘I suppose you’re right. I hadn’t thought about it till now. I hope that Spain won’t join in.’

  ‘In that war? Oh, never. They have so much to gain by offering the two sides somewhere to talk about treaties. I hope that you decide to stay here for some while. These are interesting times.’

  Before running along to find some young people, Eve wondered whether she should go back to book a call to Electra, or stay a little longer.

  Frau von Mentz was a professional actress – perhaps she could tell that Eve was giving a performance. Maybe she had been feeding her all that gossip about the goings-on at the hunting lodge. Across the room, Eve saw her speaking to her husband, and they both looked in Eve’s direction. Eve’s immediate reaction was to transfer her gaze away from them, but instead she held her moment of consternation in check, and waved. Rudolph nodded a little bow and his wife gave a friendly little finger wave. Then they left together.

  A mist of perspiration had sprung around her mouth, so Eve walked out of the room and up a short flight of stairs to the ladies’ cloakroom, which was, thankfully, unoccupied.

  She was seated at a dressing table cooling her face with some orange-blossom cologne on tissues, when the Duchess – accompanied by a companion Eve had seen before – came in and sat fanning herself with a pretty fan. Eve smiled and said, ‘Excuse me… sorry… I’ll make myself scarce.’

  ‘Don’t go on my account,’ the Duchess said in her soft, warm American accent. ‘It’s a deal too hot to move fast. Maybe I’ll try some of that you’re using, it smells really great. Come on, sit down, I don’t bite.’ She patted the seat of a silk-covered antique chair next to her and nodded to the companion, who left. ‘She’ll make sure nobody disturbs me for ten minutes. She’s a real good egg.’

  Eve, not believing her luck, smiled and took out a lipstick to give her hands something to do. ‘Thank you, Your Highness. I never thought you might bite.’ And Eve sat down next to the Duchess.

  ‘Not “Your Highness” – “Duchess” is OK. I’ve noticed you.’

  Eve raised her eyebrows. ‘Goodness. Have you really?’

  ‘Sure, at the Ritz. Eve Anders, I’m told – you remind me of myself when I met my second husband.’ She smiled, one of those faces that changes completely when the corners of the mouth turn up. ‘Quite a few wrinkles ago now. But you have the kind of poise I had – still have, I hope.’

  ‘Oh, absolutely, Duchess. It is what I admire in you – if you don’t mind me saying that.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t mind at all. I’ll tell you something for your diary – do girls still keep diaries?’

  Eve was trying to balance enthusiasm with overeagerness. ‘I do.’

  ‘I still have my girly diary in which there’s a quote from a “Real Woman” – my title for her – who I thought could give me a handle on womanhood. So you can have it for free. She told me, “Come hell or high water, hang on to your dignity, keep fit and your spine always in the vertical” – as you obviously do. You are beautifully slim. Only slim women can be stylish.’

  ‘I think I could easily run to fat. It’s not easy.’

  ‘Of course it’s not. I’ve never found anything worth having easy come by. But you shouldn’t worry about becoming fat. You won’t, you love fashion too much for that. One of the things I just might do when I am moved on from here is to design fashion. I have my favourite designers, but half the time it is my ideas they use. I think I might be quite good at it.’

  ‘Why not try? You are so clever with clothes and jewellery. A touch of class. Didn’t you once say, “You can never be too rich or too thin”?’

  The older woman smiled broadly. Her mouth was wide and generous, and her teeth very American – cared for and even. Too many photographs showed her appearing straightfaced and tight-lipped. ‘You may be right. I say things and they are quoted; then again if I don’t say anything I’m still quoted.’

  ‘Does it worry you?’

  ‘No point in worrying. Journalists are so powerful these days. Nobody to stop them. People in the spotlight will say, “I don’t care – if they’re writing stuff about me, they’re not writing about somebody else.” But that isn’t true. The press will write anything about anyone for a buck – and it stinks.’

  ‘Doesn’t that make you feel that you can’t trust the people around you?’

  ‘I say, we are getting serious… but you’re right.’

  ‘I’m sorry. It is just so amazing sitting here with you. I want to ask you a hundred questions.’ Eve put two fingers to her mouth in an ingenuous way. ‘Not for the scandal sheets, I promise.’

  The Duchess moved to one of the chairs at the dressing table and dropped orange-blo
ssom cologne onto a tissue with which she patted her wrists.

  ‘It’s OK. You just can’t let it get under your skin.’ She touched her high, unlined forehead reflected in the mirror. ‘Gives you lines.’

  Eve gave a little laugh. ‘Then you must practise what you put in your diary.’

  ‘If you suspected that you might be kidnapped… ah… yes, kidnapped perhaps sounds a touch dramatic. Let’s say pressured or persuaded, by being held in a remote place such as a hunting lodge, to high status and big, big bucks in return for being a kind of trophy to wave at the enemy – at the same time, the enemy (in more ways than one) had the power to whisk you off without the option but to a quiet life in the sun that was unutterably boring, which would you choose?’

  ‘Some choice. If it actually were me I would be on the next passenger steamer or aeroplane to America.’

  The Duchess gave her own reflection a faint smile and met Eve’s eyes. ‘Why America?’

  Giving her a wry smile, Eve said, ‘It’s where you would fit in. And we are talking about you and His Royal Highness. It’s all right for me to say that, but I guess you can’t do it, can you, Duchess?’

  ‘His Royal Highness has been offered Governor-General of the Bahamas. We would live in an exalted state there, but with nothing to do except entertain boring dignitaries. I know there isn’t really a choice, but I wanted to hear myself say it aloud.’

  The Duchess handed Eve a little greetings card, which Eve read aloud. ‘“Beware of the machinations of the British secret service. A Portuguese friend who has your interests at heart.”’ Eve read it again to herself, to commit the exact words to memory.

  ‘This is not the first. There have been others which I destroyed. And recently a shot was fired.’

  Eve did the same jaw-drop that she had done for von Mentz. ‘Not at you?’

  ‘No, but as a warning.’

  ‘By the secret service?’

  ‘I don’t know. So many people are trying to influence us. I really didn’t intend to get this far with you… but now you know.’ She stood, as did Eve. ‘Great to have met you, Eve.’

  ‘Aren’t you afraid?’

  ‘Only of dying of boredom as wife of the Governor-General. I need people, friends, things happening. I need a life.’

  ‘I’m so sorry.’ Eve almost felt that she was.

  The Duchess smiled. ‘Don’t ever fall in love with a king, Eve.’

  ‘I think all the best ones are taken, Your Highness.’

  A wry smile crossed the Duchess’s face. ‘You’re a lovely girl, Eve. You’re not looking for a position as a companion, I suppose? I guess we had better let Tish come off duty. I do hope there’s another powder room, or the ladies will soon be peeing their pants.’

  Eve laughed delightedly. This selfish, pampered woman was causing a lot of people a lot of trouble – and yet…

  ‘Thank you for trusting me.’

  ‘It was very kind of you to listen.’

  ‘I really do hope that things don’t turn out too boring for you. I wish that I could call you Your Royal Highness. It’s such a grand title.’

  ‘I’m forbidden that honour. My husband has it, but they wouldn’t give it to me. It’s the one thing he most wanted me to have.’

  Eve said, ‘I’m so sorry,’ and left.

  * * *

  As soon as Eve got back to her room, she asked for a call to be booked to Ireland.

  When it eventually came through, conversation with Electra was short and sweet. She asked whether Aunt Maureen knew when van Gogh would call on her. ‘Van Gogh’ dropped into a call was the code ‘urgent’.

  It was all very well for the Ryde tutors to be confident in her ability to live as a different person, but they weren’t surrounded by all these fascists with whom she socialised on a daily basis. When she first began to live as Eve, who cared if she had changed her name? She’d been just a truck driver. Here in Madrid, there would be undercover agents – particularly German ones. Wouldn’t they see through her? Again and again she examined her demeanour, her conduct and manner but couldn’t find flaws. Yet she didn’t feel safe. It was no more than a feeling in her bones, but she had learned to respect those feelings.

  Who knew what the MI6 agents, and the Germans and Portuguese undercover agents and the Spanish watchers might think? Being closeted with the Duchess wouldn’t have gone unnoticed. Many of the watchers would be here for the sole purpose of watching the Windsors, and the Duchess had been away from their scrutiny for fifteen minutes, secreted with a woman who had charmed her way into the German circle.

  When she’d returned to the cocktail party, Eve had enthused to von Pfitzer and Frau von Mentz about what the Duchess had said about American fashion and the loss of the Paris couturier houses. Was that believable? Eve thought so. It was obvious that they were dressed by fashion houses that the other, overdressed ladies had never entered.

  Would I be curious about that myself? she wondered. But she couldn’t be objective enough to answer.

  The message on the note and Wallis’s talk about kidnapping must be important. But would The Bureau think so? Eve had learned the rules of communication from Keef and Phoebe; at the time she had found it slightly amusing – cloak-and-daggery. But now that she had something she needed to get quickly to London, it didn’t seem such a bad idea.

  How long would it take for ‘van Gogh’ to make contact with her?

  Not long as it turned out.

  It was early evening and velvety dark when she received a call from a man who simply said, ‘Van Gogh. Pull over at the flower stand. I shall be carrying flowers.’

  She ordered her car to be brought round with its hood up, and walked to it with as much casualness as she could muster, even pausing to pass the time of day with the doorman.

  ‘Van Gogh’ stood at the kerb holding a bunch of bright yellow daisy-like flowers. She laughed at the sight of him.

  She leaned across and wound down the window of the passenger-side door. He raised his hat and offered her the flowers. ‘Miss Anders, Linder, Faludi and Hatton thought you would like these.’

  ‘All right, Mr van Gogh. Get in. Tell me where to go.’

  ‘Away from the centre. A café. I know a good one – Bassilo’s.’

  ‘Is it still going?’

  ‘You know it?’

  ‘Absolutely.’

  ‘A bit downmarket for a society lady.’

  ‘In a past life, Mr van Gogh, I spent many an enjoyable hour there.’

  ‘Which means we can’t go there now. Portillo’s?’

  ‘Don’t know it, so direct me. You mentioned three names which I took on trust of you being genuine. What else?’

  ‘I could tell you about your outfit.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘It is now called the Special Operations Executive but we know it as The Bureau, late of Baker Street and recently of Wormwood Scrubs.’ Eve relaxed. He must be genuine.

  ‘Park away from the café.’

  Eve smiled. ‘It is a bit noticeable. I know where to go. One of my new-found friends lives close by. It’s a very select area.’

  Close by was ten minutes’ walk to Portillo’s, and it was good to walk with somebody with whom she didn’t need to be on her guard.

  The early-evening air was still very warm, and candles burned on every table, many of which were already taken. Eve loved the ambience of street life. These street cafés were where she and Dimitri had spent so many evenings together. In memory of that she chose to drink the unbottled red wine.

  A carafe was brought. Guitar music and scores of people chattering was good cover. Van Gogh raised his glass and Eve did the same.

  ‘Would you like to smoke?’

  Eve accepted. Possibly awkward situations always seemed easier with tobacco smoke curling up between two people.

  ‘I have something that needs to be passed on very urgently – but not so urgently that I would hand it over without a bit of digging into you. What is your outfit, and
can you show me anything in the way of an ID?’

  ‘Special Branch. We don’t carry IDs like Scotland Yard.’

  Eve paused before asking, ‘You were a detective before SIS?’

  He drew deeply on his cigarette before answering. Playing for time?

  ‘What makes you think that?’

  ‘Why would you even mention Scotland Yard?’

  He shrugged his shoulders noncommittally.

  ‘What’s the harm? You know who I am and I want to know who you are.’

  ‘OK, I am a detective. Seconded by the Met to Secret Intelligence Services for this one operation.’

  ‘Which operation?’

  ‘The same one as yours, except that I am a kind of investigator, until His Royal Highness and his wife are safely away.’

  ‘Where do you stay to do your investigating?’

  ‘I have lodgings and I sit around in places like this, especially those favoured by volunteers in the Nazi propaganda rooms. Have you seen them, the rooms?’

  Eve shook her head.

  Van Gogh smiled. ‘You should. Take home some souvenirs, swastikas on everything. Pictures of blond youth and autobahns. Lots of copies of Mein Kampf, and in translation. I hang around there. They’re trying to convert me. I no longer have to buy their tracts, they give them to me. They have no problems with me sitting around trying to understand. The partition between shop and committee rooms is thin. It’s easy to listen, one-sided conversations are revealing. They believe that I’m a dumb Basque a long way from home. The Basques are an oppressed people the Germans plan to free. But they don’t want the General to know.’ He grinned. ‘We have this secret, the low-order Krauts and I.’

  Van Gogh steepled his fingers at his lips and leaned forward. ‘Well? Can you trust me with whatever information it is you have?’

  ‘Earlier this evening I was at a cocktail party.’ She went on to relate the episode with the Duchess of Windsor. Van Gogh listened intently. ‘“Beware of the machinations of the British secret service. A Portuguese friend who has your interests at heart.” That’s a message sent to the Duchess. There have been others, warning of kidnap plots. A hunting trip apparently, where she believes they would be held in the belief that they would be persuaded to go to Germany.’