by John Kerr
‘’Allo, Zir Harry,’ said de Marigny breezily as he walked up.
Seated with a sour expression, Oakes merely said, ‘Afternoon, de Marigny. What brings you here?’
De Marigny turned to Bascomb, who awkwardly rose from his chair. ‘How do you do?’ said de Marigny, extending his hand.
‘Oh, yeah,’ said Oakes. ‘This is Woody Bascomb. Friend of mine from Miami.’
‘Alfred de Marigny,’ said the count, giving Woody’s large hand a shake. ‘A pleasure.’
‘Pleased to meet you,’ said Woody.
Ignoring Oakes’s question, de Marigny said, ‘Lovely time of the year to visit Nassau. Have you been out on the water?’ He glanced at Woody’s sunburned arms and face.
‘Listen, de Marigny,’ said Sir Harry impatiently, ‘what do you want? Can’t you see I’m busy?’
‘Oh,’ said de Marigny with a smile, ‘Merely to drop by and say ’allo, and tell you that Nancy, that sweet girl, is doing well—’
‘Great,’ said Sir Harry.
‘And to share some information I thought you might find useful.’
‘Oh, really?’ said Sir Harry, arching his eyebrows.
‘There’s a wealthy young American in town,’ continued de Marigny. ‘A well-known playboy from Texas. Flew in last week on his own plane.’
‘I see,’ said Sir Harry with a quick look at Woody. ‘So what?’
‘He’s looking into a hotel venture. With a casino. According to my sources, he’s got the backing of the Jew Sassoon.’ De Marigny paused and smiled expectantly. ‘I doubt the chaps on Bay Street would approve such a thing. I thought you might want to know.’
‘Well, thanks,’ said Sir Harry, thinking the word ‘chaps’ sounded ludicrous in de Marigny’s French accent.
‘That’s all,’ said de Marigny, as though expecting to be invited to draw up a chair and light a cigar. In the awkward silence, he added, ‘Nancy and I were hoping to have you for dinner soon. And little Sidney.’
‘Sure,’ said Oakes. ‘You bet. Tell her to call. Goodbye, de Marigny. Thanks for the dope.’
‘Adieu,’ said de Marigny with a Gallic hand gesture. He bowed toward Woody, turned, and walked briskly from the room.
As soon as he was out of earshot, Woody grinned and said, ‘Well, Harry, like I always said, you were way ahead of the old boy. He’s got nothing on you.’
Oakes nodded. ‘Except,’ he said, ‘for that bit about Sassoon. I’ll have to look into that.’
In the week he’d spent on the island, Tom Hamilton had done his best to convey the general impression of an idle young man sitting out the war at an out-of-the-way resort and speculating in real estate. He’d frequented the few decent nightspots, principally the Prince George Hotel, a fixture of the island’s upper class Britons, and the bar at the British Colonial and its older rival, the Royal Victoria. He’d also managed to see a well-connected Nassau solicitor about purchasing the Hog Island tract and the necessary approvals to develop a hotel. And he’d finally succeeded in arranging to see Evelyn Shawcross again, receiving a cream-coloured envelope at the front desk of his hotel with an invitation to ‘dinner at Greycliff’ in her distinctive cursive. But most of all he’d enjoyed the company of the Sassoons at their lovely beachfront home. Hamilton was fit and tan after a week of morning swims in the turquoise water off Cable Beach, accompanied by Marnie in a shockingly revealing two-piece swimsuit. Though attracted by her looks and voluptuous figure, Hamilton would never have considered a liaison, however casual, nor was there any question of Marnie’s fidelity to Sir Philip. After their swims they would take lunch by the pool, joined by Sir Philip in his cane-back wheelchair, under the rustling fronds of the coconut palms. And bit-by-bit Hamilton had gradually extracted the story of Sir Philip and Lady Sassoon.
The large Sassoon fortune, Hamilton discovered, had been made centuries earlier in the mercantile trade on the Malay Peninsula, provisioning the East India Company for return voyages to England. It was only in the 1920s that Sir Philip had relocated from Singapore to London, where he was knighted for his service to King and country in helping to supply the home front during the Great War. In London he put his considerable wealth to good use assembling the finest thoroughbred stable in England and, though snubbed by society for his name and religion, he was widely admired by the better men in business and government for his acumen, tact, and considerable charm. While on holiday in America in the summer of ’28, he contracted what was then known as IP – infantile paralysis – swimming in the cold waters of Long Island Sound. A virile sportsman in the prime of life, the bout with polio left him crippled, unable to walk. And so in 1935, weary of the cold and damp of London, the invalided Sir Philip moved again, to the gentle, tropical climate of the Bahamas. There he built Eves on Cable Beach, and there he met Mary Ann Crenshaw – ‘Marnie’ – a beautiful young blonde from Tennessee, who signed on as Sir Philip’s personal nurse. A life-long bachelor, Sir Philip was highly vulnerable to Marnie’s supple beauty and unaffected Southern charm. He proposed marriage within a year. For her part, Marnie had quickly come to regard Sir Philip as a far finer man than any she had known, was flattered by his genteel courtesy, and saw in the marriage the opportunity for a life beyond anything she had ever imagined. And so, despite the difference in age and backgrounds and Sir Philip’s disability, the marriage flourished, rewarding them both with deep happiness founded on mutual respect and dependency.
In the sudden peril facing Britain after the fall of France in 1940, Sir Stewart Menzies, the head of MI6 – the British Secret Service – had contacted Sir Philip, a longtime acquaintance, to advise him of the government’s plan to name the Duke of Windsor as Governor of the Bahamas, and of Menzies’ deep suspicions regarding the former king’s desire for a negotiated peace with Germany. Notwithstanding his age and infirmity, Sir Philip had unhesitatingly agreed to act as a discreet agent to shadow the new governor and apprise London of any questionable behaviour on the part of the Windsors. Despite his best efforts, Sir Philip had been unable to penetrate the intimate circle surrounding the glamorous duke and duchess, owing largely to the anti-Semitism that was rampant among the Nassau social elite and well-to-do British evacuees to the colony, a prejudice strongly shared by the duke.
‘And, so, Mr Hamilton,’ said Sir Philip, who politely refused to use the familiar Tom, ‘you’re on for dinner at Greycliff with Mrs Shawcross?’ They were seated on the terrace in the late afternoon shadows.
‘Eight o’clock sharp,’ said Hamilton. ‘With bells on.’
‘Perhaps His Highness will be joining you,’ suggested Marnie, who was wearing a coral cover-up over her swimsuit that complemented her tanned shoulders.
‘Who?’ said Hamilton. ‘Oh, the duke, you mean. I doubt it.’
‘You shall have to meet him,’ said Sir Philip. ‘And the former Mrs Simpson, of course. Her comings and goings are the source of endless fascination for the local populace.’
‘Tell me about Evelyn,’ said Hamilton to Sir Philip. ‘What do you know about her background?’
‘Her father’s a rich industrialist from the Midlands,’ said Sir Philip. ‘Or was, at any rate, before the Depression. Married to a cousin of Halifax. Part of the inner circle surrounding the King before his abdication. And so Evelyn comes from that rarified atmosphere—’
‘Boy, does she,’ interjected Marnie.
‘As for her marriage,’ Sir Philip continued, ‘her husband is something of a cipher. Good family, moderately wealthy, but a member of the circle of dissolute young men at Oxford who were notorious for their admiration of the Fascists.’
‘This was the mid-30s?’ asked Hamilton. Sir Philip nodded. ‘Well,’ said Hamilton, ‘if Oxford was anything like Yale in those days, the place was probably crawling with red-lovers. So you could excuse somebody who veered off to the right wing and admired the way Mussolini cleaned up Italy.’
‘True,’ said Sir Philip.
‘But I’d bet that any pro-Nazi sentiments eva
porated after Dunkirk and the blitz.’
‘Presumably,’ agreed Sir Philip. ‘In any case, it raised a question with MI5. Though not enough to keep Shawcross out of the army. Well, Mr Hamilton,’ concluded Sir Philip, ‘good luck on your dinner with Evelyn.’
Though he might have walked, Hamilton chose to take a jitney up the hill to Government House and around the corner, where the driver stopped in front of an imposing residence. In the pleasantly cool night air he could make out the sounds of a piano. With a glance at his watch, he squared his shoulders and walked up to the front door, where a small brass plaque with the inscription ‘Greycliff’ gleamed in the porch light. Hamilton rang the bell, and within a few moments a servant swung open the door.
‘Come in, sir,’ he said with a smile. ‘Miz Shawcross is right up the stairs.’
Hamilton could hear the piano clearly now, played very well. He glanced from the hall up a wide staircase, thanking the servant as he started up the stairs. The large house had a lived-in, cosy feeling, handsomely appointed like a grill at one of the better clubs in London. Evelyn Shawcross was seated at a full concert grand piano with a satin-black finish on the far side of a spacious living room. Hamilton paused at the top of the stairs as she finished the difficult piece, her face still with concentration. Only when the final chords faded away did she look up, making eye contact with Hamilton with a shy smile.
‘Bravo,’ he said with a brief clap of his hands. ‘That was wonderful.’ He walked across the room to greet her as she rose from the bench. She reached out to take his hands, a warm, pleasurable sensation, which, with her deep blue eyes and the fragrance of her perfume, evoked a surge of excitement.
‘Welcome to Greycliff,’ she said, releasing his hands.
‘Thanks for inviting me. You look lovely.’ ‘Lovely’ was clearly not adequate to describe the overall impression of her dark-brown hair, worn stylishly back, the delicate beauty of her face, and her bare shoulders above the black dress that accentuated an hourglass figure.
‘Thank you,’ she said with a modest smile. ‘I see you’ve been in the sun.’ Hamilton had chosen a navy-blue blazer and white pinpoint shirt that nicely offset his tanned face and hands. ‘Let’s have a drink,’ she suggested, ‘while we wait for the others.’ She led him out to an open-air porch, with wood floors painted dull grey, fans suspended from a high, beaded ceiling, and comfortably upholstered furniture. Evelyn placed a hand on the railing and took a deep breath of the cool night air. ‘Mmm,’ she said. ‘Smell the plumeria.’ Hamilton walked over and inhaled the sweet bouquet drifting up from the garden. She turned and spoke to the servant. ‘I’ll have a planter’s punch, Samuel. And Mr Hamilton would like a…?’
‘Scotch on the rocks.’
‘Yes, ma’am,’ said the servant with a slight nod before disappearing into the living room.
‘This is such a lovely home,’ said Hamilton. God, he chided himself, couldn’t he think of another word for lovely?
‘The loveliest in Nassau,’ Evelyn agreed. ‘Let’s sit.’ She walked over to the sofa and sat down, Hamilton taking the armchair next to her.
He smiled at her and said, ‘Do you live alone here?’
‘For now. Mummy and Daddy are coming for Christmas, and hopefully they’ll stay for the winter. They always have in the past, but with the war …’
‘You mentioned your husband is in Africa with the army?’
‘Yes, the Eighth Army.’
‘That was some victory over Rommel I saw in the papers the other day. This British General Montgomery must be quite good.’
‘Yes, well, Dirk’s not involved in the desert fighting. He’s a staff officer, in Cairo.’
‘I see.’ Hamilton casually crossed his legs, thinking about Evelyn’s husband’s unusual name. The servant returned, stooping over to serve their drinks. ‘It must be lonely here,’ said Hamilton, ‘with your husband so far away.’
‘Lonely? I’d say boring, at least at times. But I have friends here. It’s not a bad life.’
‘Compared to Nazi bombs raining down on you.’ He sipped his drink.
‘Well, that’s all stopped. But still, Daddy thought it best …’ She paused and seemed to be listening to the faint sound of voices from the floor below. Placing her drink on a table, she rose from the sofa and said, ‘The other guests have arrived.’ He stood up and looked at her expectantly. ‘Alfred de Marigny,’ she added, ‘and his wife Nancy.’ Hamilton nodded, quickly trying to assemble the bits of information he’d heard about the young daughter of Sir Harry Oakes and her much older husband.
De Marigny, wearing a poplin suit with a blue shirt and yellow silk tie, appeared at the landing arm-in-arm with a young woman, a girl really, with auburn hair and a rather plain face. Hamilton tried not to stare at what seemed an absurd mismatch: the much older, dashing Frenchman with his neatly combed hair and foppish attire and the awkward girl who looked as if she’d just arrived on holiday from boarding-school. He followed Evelyn into the living room, where she said, ‘Tom, let me introduce the Count and Countess de Marigny. This is Tom Hamilton, from Texas.’
Reaching out to shake de Marigny’s hand, Hamilton said, ‘Good evening.’ Turning to de Marigny’s young wife, he said, ‘And you must be …’
‘Nancy,’ she replied.
‘Hello, Nancy,’ said Hamilton with a smile. Addressing Evelyn, he said, ‘I wasn’t expecting to meet another member of the French nobility.’
De Marigny gave Hamilton a puzzled look, but Nancy said, ‘Freddie’s not really French. Are you, Freddie? But he is a count.’
‘Tom met Georges de Videlou the other night,’ explained Evelyn. ‘We’re having drinks on the porch.’
After the newly arrived guests’ drink order had been taken, Hamilton retrieved his Scotch and approached de Marigny. ‘Where are you from, Alfred,’ he asked, ‘if not from France?’
‘Mauritius,’ said Nancy, pronouncing it like ‘delicious.’ ‘It’s an island,’ she added.
‘Yes,’ said Hamilton, ‘in the Indian Ocean. A long way from Nassau.’
‘I think you’re going to discover, Mr Hamilton,’ said de Marigny in a superior tone, ‘that most of the people you’re likely to meet here, apart from the Bahamians, naturally, have come from a distant place. Such as Texas.’
‘I had forgotten,’ said Hamilton, ‘if I ever knew, that Mauritius was a French possession. So how does that work? Is it still French, or do the Boche have a claim on it?’
‘We have our empire, sir,’ said de Marigny, ‘our colonies in Africa and the Far East. The terms of our peace with Germany have nothing to do with that.’
‘I see,’ said Hamilton. The servant returned with drinks for the de Marignys.
After taking a sip, de Marigny said, ‘Tell me, Mr Hamilton—’
‘Tom.’
‘Yes, Tom. What brings you to the Bahamas?’
‘He’s exploring the possibility of building a hotel,’ said Evelyn.
‘A hotel?’ said de Marigny. ‘Incroyable!’
‘I’m looking at some land on Hog Island, right across the channel from town. For after the war, naturally.’
‘Hog Island? Oh ho,’ said de Marigny with a sort of laugh. ‘You will have to deal with Monsieur Ericsson.’
The white-jacketed servant who’d answered the door appeared tentatively, cleared his throat and said, ‘Miz Shawcross? Dinner is served.’
Evelyn led the way to the small but elegant dining-room, with dark-green wallpaper above the wainscoting, a round mahogany table and matching sideboard that gleamed in the soft light of faux candle sconces. Hamilton was shown to a chair facing the sideboard, above which was a large oil portrait, by Sargent, of a beautiful woman with dark, flowing tresses who bore a striking resemblance to Evelyn. ‘Who is she?’ asked Hamilton, glancing up at the portrait.
‘My grandmother,’ said Evelyn. ‘Lady Rebecca Soames. Grandfather built Greycliff for her.’ The servants appeared with the first course, a lobster bisque, w
hich prompted de Marigny to launch into a rambling account of his experiences spear-fishing for the small Bahamian lobsters near Green Turtle Cay. The soup was followed by roast beef, accompanied by new potatoes, haricots, and a carafe of French claret. The conversation drifted from the weather – beyond the hurricane season but hoping to avoid the Christmas rains – to the latest social gossip, and finally, by the time dessert and coffee were served, to the news of the war. Nancy de Marigny remained silent throughout, smiling when she thought it appropriate at her husband’s observations or attempts at humour. Hamilton listened with poorly feigned interest, wondering why the arrogant French peacock and his child-wife had been invited, and wishing he’d had more time alone with his hostess.
‘I think the Russians are finis,’ declared de Marigny, holding his demitasse aloft. ‘The Germans have them encircled at Stalingrad. It’s simply a matter of time.’ His wife looked at him admiringly.
‘I don’t know,’ said Hamilton. ‘The Germans still have the Russian winter to contend with. I wouldn’t count the Red Army out.’
‘May I ask you a personal question?’ said de Marigny, giving Hamilton a serious look. ‘Why is it you have chosen not to, ah, join the military? Not that it is of any concern to me.’
Hamilton could feel Evelyn’s eyes on him, though he continued to look across the table at de Marigny. ‘It’s a fair question,’ he said. ‘Flat feet, according to the army doctor at the draft board. But the truth is, I’ve got things to do and I’m in a hurry to do them. So I don’t mind missing out on this war.’
‘Well, frankly, Tom,’ said de Marigny, ‘I admire your sentiments. I think you Americans and the British would be far better off reaching an accommodation with the Germans, as we French did. You would still have the Japanese to deal with, of course.’
Hamilton glanced at Evelyn, who sat with her hands in her lap, listening with evident interest.