Another Woman’s Husband

by Gill Paul

  The man looked her up and down, considering. ‘Why not?’ he replied. ‘Alex will pay me the money we agreed? And my name will not be mentioned in his programme?’

  ‘That’s right,’ she said. ‘He just wants information.’

  ‘OK. Let’s go inside a moment.’

  Rachel held her breath in excitement as she walked up the front steps. This was the former home of the Duke and Duchess of Windsor, Wallis and Edward, who had lived here after the war, and who had both died here, him in 1972 and her in 1986. She was walking on a floor they used to tread.

  John Sturkey led her into a tall marble entrance hall with a curving staircase up one side. A flag with the royal standard flew from a balcony overhead. Piles of cardboard boxes stood around, each one plastered with printed notices and customs forms.

  ‘The furniture and house contents were to be auctioned this autumn, but Monsieur Al-Fayed has postponed the sale,’ John Sturkey told Rachel. ‘In the circumstances.’

  She managed to glance into some of the public rooms on the ground floor: a study lined with now-empty bookshelves, the walls painted brick red; a spectacular chandelier in a vast room lined with windows that overlooked the garden; another room with a red carpet and black and gold Chinese lacquer on the walls. In her mind’s eye she could see Wallis, with the bouffant hair and heavy jewellery of her later years, holding court at the head of a dining table, while Edward watched with an affectionate smile.

  John Sturkey led her to the kitchen, where there was a vast black range down one wall. ‘I have some rubbish to burn out the back, but if you come with me we can talk at the same time.’

  ‘That’s fine,’ Rachel agreed. ‘It’s very good of you to see me. I promise it won’t take long.’

  ‘Perhaps you could give me a hand? It’s this pile here.’

  In the entrance to a scullery just off the kitchen there was a heap of broken furniture, ripped cardboard boxes, and various odds and ends. She helped to carry them out of the back door to a corner of the grounds where a brazier was burning with an orangey-red glow and a smell of woodsmoke. The kitten heels of her suede boots sank into the muddy grass.

  John Sturkey broke a leg off one chair and used it to stir the ashes before poking it down amongst them. Flames began to lick up the sides.

  ‘How long have you been working here?’ she asked.

  ‘Since 1970,’ he said. ‘A long time.’ His face was ruddy, as you would expect from someone who worked outdoors, but he was a fit, wiry man with a youthful air. He wore a blue ribbed fisherman’s jumper and thick black leather gloves. ‘I came over to Paris after falling in love with a French woman and was lucky enough to get this job.’

  ‘It must have been fascinating working for the Duke and Duchess. What were they like?’

  He stood on the seat of the wooden chair and ripped the remaining legs off. ‘They were generous employers. I got on with both of them. The Duke liked to chat to me about gardening, and the Duchess would trust me to walk her pugs in the park. She didn’t trust many, mind, but I have a love of dogs and she knew they’d be safe.’

  ‘I suppose you saw lots of celebrities coming and going over the years,’ Rachel probed.

  ‘Of course,’ he said. ‘The Duke and Duchess loved to entertain. I’ve seen movie stars, politicians, musicians: all the high and mighty passed through these doors.’ He fed the remaining chair legs into the brazier.

  ‘The final years of the Duchess’s life must have been very sad, in contrast to those glamorous times.’ She watched his face and could see as he replied that he had genuinely cared about her.

  ‘They were tragic. She never recovered from the Duke’s death. She was lost without him, like a little bird. I mean, she was thin as a stick anyway, but after he’d gone she faded away till she was hardly there.’

  ‘Do you think he was the love of her life?’ It was a silly question. How would their gardener know? She was just wondering out loud.

  John Sturkey put some pieces of cardboard onto the fire and it flared up, flames spilling over the edges. ‘They argued a lot, but they were used to each other. By the time I met them, they were set in their ways, joined at the hip if you like.’ He nodded, a distant look in his eyes.

  ‘I know Alex wanted to ask you about Princess Diana’s visits here. Did you ever meet her?’

  ‘Course I did!’ he said. ‘Loads of times. When she visited the Duchess, she always brought food hampers from Fortnum and Mason and the staff got to share them. The Dundee cake was my favourite.’

  ‘Did she spend long with the Duchess?’

  ‘Usually about half an hour. The Duchess couldn’t talk any more by her last years. She was bedridden and blind, a frail creature who was easily alarmed, but the Princess would sit by the bed holding her hand and give her a hug, all skin and bone as she was.’

  He fed more fractured pieces of wood into the brazier, where the flames devoured them with a crackling sound. Rachel welcomed the heat; it was a nippy afternoon and the damp chill was seeping into her bones and up through the soles of her boots. She splayed her gloveless fingers towards the fire to warm them.

  ‘Did you ever speak to Diana yourself?’

  ‘I did, yes. She always remembered my name, and would wave to me: “Hello, John!”’ He demonstrated her wave and raised his voice a few notches. ‘“How’s the garden? Are the roses early this year?” That kind of thing.’

  ‘Did you see her when she came in August?’

  ‘Yes, and I still get a lump in my throat when I think about it.’ He looked Rachel in the eye. ‘If only they had stayed here instead of going into the city. Their driver had given the photographers the slip, so no one followed them here. They’d have been safe.’

  Rachel had brought a magazine picture of Diana wearing the bracelet on that last day of her life, and she pulled it out to show him. ‘Did you happen to notice if she was wearing this bracelet?’

  He glanced at it quickly and nodded. ‘Aye, that’s the one I gave her.’

  ‘You gave it to her?’ Rachel didn’t understand.

  ‘See this old dressing table here?’ He kicked at a decrepit piece from which the drawers had been removed. It looked as though it had once been rococo style. ‘When I carried it down from the Duchess’s bedroom, a funny thing happened. I must have pressed against some kind of secret switch in the coving and a tiny drawer came shooting out. You’d never have found it if you didn’t know about it. Anyway, that bracelet was inside. I’d just discovered it when Diana and Dodi arrived. He went into the office, and on the spur of the moment I thought I’d give it to Diana. It seemed the right thing to do.’

  ‘That was a nice gesture. What did you say as you handed it over?’

  He gave a little laugh and shook his head. ‘I wanted to tell her that I thought it was incredibly kind the way she’d visited the Duchess over the years, and that I admired the work she was doing on landmines and AIDS and so forth. All those words were in my head but I was a tongue-tied idiot. She was much prettier up close than I’d imagined, and all I managed to say was, “This is for you,” and I thrust it into her hand.’

  Rachel smiled sympathetically. She could imagine Diana would have that effect.

  John continued: ‘She slipped it on her wrist straight away and said thank you, it was very pretty and she would treasure it. Then Dodi called her into the office and that was that. But she gave me a special wave and called “thank you” again when they were leaving.’

  Rachel wondered whether Diana had even noticed the engravings; it didn’t sound like it. ‘The heart had a Roman number seventeen and an initial J engraved on it. Did they mean anything to you?’

  He shrugged and shook his head. ‘No idea. I’m sure the Duchess took one helluva lot of secrets to the grave with her.’ He stopped and glanced at her. ‘Pardon my French.’

  She smiled. ‘I’m the last person to mind swearing.’ She watched as he stirred the brazier, causing the flames to leap into the air. ‘Is it true that Di
ana and Dodi met an interior designer here because they were thinking of refurbishing the house and living in it?’

  ‘No, I read that in some of the papers, but it’s rubbish. Diana told me she could never live here. It’s too melancholy. Besides, look.’ He gestured towards the garden’s perimeter. ‘It’s not private enough. The photographers would be camped out there 24/7.’

  ‘So why did they come?’ The crucial question. Did he know about the painting?

  ‘She was having a look at some of the furniture. We’d laid aside a few pieces she liked and she was considering buying them privately.’

  That was good news. Susie would be delighted to hear she hadn’t just come about her painting. Perhaps she would stop blaming herself.

  ‘What kind of pieces?’ she asked.

  ‘Let me think.’ He paused, summoning the images from memory. ‘There was a carved chest from the bedroom, a chandelier, a bureau from the Duchess’s study, a fancy silver candelabra with lots of leaves twined up the candlesticks . . .’ He motioned the twining leaves with his gloved fingers. ‘And there was a painting she wanted for a friend.’

  Rachel leapt back as the breeze blew the flames in her direction. ‘What kind of painting?’

  ‘Just a portrait. I don’t know who it was. Diana found it straight away amongst the other works.’ Some flames flickered towards him but he ignored them, clearly a past master at handling fires. ‘She was going to pick it up on the way to the airport the next day because she said it was needed in a hurry. I was planning to clean and package it for her – but then, of course . . .’ He added some torn dustsheets to the brazier and pushed them down with a stick, his expression grim.

  That would explain why Diana and Dodi had only spent half an hour in the house, Rachel thought.

  ‘What happened to all the items she earmarked?’ If the painting was still there, perhaps she could agree some kind of private deal, just as Diana had been planning.

  ‘We’re putting them into storage till the auction can go ahead. That van you saw was picking up a load. It’s strange seeing the old place so empty, but once we finish the clear-out Mr Al-Fayed will replace everything with replicas so it’s like a museum.’

  ‘I suppose that painting will go to auction as well?’ Perhaps it had gone already. She held her breath.

  He shook his head. ‘The auctioneers didn’t want it because it was an amateur artist and no one knows who the subject is. The Duchess never hung it on her walls, not as long as I’ve been here anyroad. It’s been hidden away in a cupboard so it’s all musty and faded.’

  Rachel could barely contain her impatience. ‘Is it still here?’

  Her tone made him curious. ‘Why do I get the impression you know something about it?’

  There was nothing for it: she explained that she knew the artist’s granddaughter, Susie Hargreaves, who was very keen to reclaim it and give it as a hundredth birthday present to the artist’s wife.

  He nodded. ‘That’s the name Diana said: Hargreaves. I’m sure it’s in a pile that was going to be disposed of. See that scullery we were in before? Go and have a look there. I can’t leave the fire unattended.’

  Rachel hurried across the grass, cursing her stupid spindly heels, which were picking up tufts of grass. She realised she didn’t know exactly what she was looking for but hoped she would recognise it when she saw it.

  The scullery was as large as her sitting room and filled with piles of miscellaneous objects: striped deckchairs, wooden tea chests, an ancient vacuum cleaner and a cracked ceramic sink. It smelled of decay. Rachel realised she didn’t even know how big the painting was; if it was a miniature, she had no hope of finding it. She remembered the picture on the wall behind Susie’s head when Alex did the interview and guessed it might be a similar size – about four feet tall, three across. She found a stack of paintings by a wall, and as she began to flick through them, a large spider scuttled across the floor.

  There were no portraits in that pile so she stepped further into the room. A slight scuffling sound in the corner made her jump. She looked in that direction, hoping it was a mouse rather than a rat, and that was when she saw the back of a painting around the size she was looking for. She climbed over some boxes to reach it, and when she turned it round, she was stunned by the image on the front: an extraordinarily beautiful woman in a low-cut emerald-green dress.

  The light was dim so she carried it to the back door to have a proper look. The woman had auburn hair that was parted in the centre and flat on top, with neat curls at the sides. Her lips were painted ruby red, but it was the green eyes that drew you in and held you. She was smiling, looking directly at the viewer, as if inviting them to share a joke. There was a signature in the corner: R. Hargreaves, ’36. No wonder his wife wanted it back. It was beautiful.

  As Rachel carried the painting outside and walked towards John Sturkey, she was trying to decide how to play this. Should she offer him money, and if so, how much? She knew Susie couldn’t afford to reimburse her.

  He looked up when he saw her coming. ‘That’s the one. So you know the Hargreaveses, do you? I reckon you should take it to them. If you’d been a day or two later, chances are I’d have burned it. Some things are meant to be.’

  Rachel was thrilled. ‘Are you sure? I would love to. I can’t tell you how happy she’ll be.’

  ‘It was one of the Princess’s last wishes, if you like, so I’m glad I can help you carry it out. Fetch me that roll of tape from the kitchen table and I’ll wrap it up for you.’

  He folded two large sheets of cardboard around the painting so it wouldn’t get damaged on the journey and, when he had finished taping it, said, ‘You didn’t come about the TV programme, did you? It was the painting all along.’ He gave her a knowing look. ‘Does that mean Alex won’t pay me the fee?’

  Rachel had no idea how much had been agreed but decided she would cover it herself if need be. ‘He will. I promise. He’s my fiancé, so I’ll make him.’

  John Sturkey laughed. ‘Great. He’s got my details. Soon as he can: tell him it’s for the wife’s Christmas present.’

  Rachel shook his hand. ‘Is that the woman you came to Paris for?’

  ‘The one and only,’ he said. ‘Love of my life, she is.’

  ‘I hope you both have a lovely Christmas.’

  She hurried round the corner of the house, holding the painting in front of her. Her coat was covered with cobwebs and dust from the scullery, but she would worry about that later.

  There was a button to open the Villa’s gates, and she waited for them to ease apart with a mechanical hum, then slid out through the gap and hurried down the road through the woods. Her arms were already aching from the weight of the painting and the awkward way she had to hold it, as if in a wide hug.

  Chapter 60

  London, September 1936

  MARY’S ONLY NEWS OF WALLIS CAME FROM THE weekly letters she addressed to Ernest at Albion Gate. He handed them over as soon as he read them so she knew there were no secrets between them.

  I have begged Peter Pan to let me go, Wallis wrote:

  and he replied that if I leave him he will cut his throat with a hunting knife . . . What kind of man-child have I lumbered myself with? I don’t understand how this came about. If I wake in the night, sometimes I imagine that I am at home in Bryanston Court and hear your footsteps coming down the corridor, the Evening Standard tucked under your arm. Darling Ernest, I can’t believe such a thing can have happened to two people who got on so well.

  Ernest’s only reaction was a grunt. Mary’s was fury, which she disguised by clattering her chair as she rose from the table. ‘If she genuinely wants to escape the King, she could just leave. The world is big enough for her to lose herself.’

  Ernest folded his linen table napkin precisely. ‘She has thought of that, but the King says he will find her wherever she goes. Besides, she knows I can’t afford to support her in the grand style to which she has grown accustomed.’

 
; ‘I don’t see why you should support her at all,’ Mary muttered.

  ‘Indeed.’ Ernest rose from the table and went to prepare for the office.

  Mary picked up the letter to check the address: Felixstowe. That was where the divorce hearing was to be held. For the second time in her life, Wallis would become resident somewhere just long enough for her case to be heard at a local court. The coronation was scheduled for May 1937, and the King hoped to marry Wallis beforehand, after the issuing of the decree nisi in April. Mary wished she could snap her fingers and it would be over and done with. The waiting and worrying that something might go wrong was horrid.

  In her next letter, Wallis sounded in a low, penitent mood, but still she blamed everyone but herself for her predicament. The US press has done untold harm in every direction besides printing wicked lies . . . Last time I went out I was followed everywhere by cameramen. Towards the end of the letter she wrote: I am sorry about Mary, I am sorry for myself, I am sorry for the King.

  It’s a bit late for sorry, Mary thought, not believing Wallis for a moment. She had taken the jewellery, taken the clothes, gone on the cruises. Complaining now was like a whore accepting the money then saying to her client, ‘Sorry, but I’d rather not go to bed with you.’

  None of these thoughts did she voice to Ernest. She was the civilised one, the calm one, the woman with whom he could enjoy a peaceful life. It was hard to maintain sometimes, but she was determined.

  Wallis wrote that on the day of the October hearing, there was a rabble of photographers outside the court, pushing and shoving, their cameras held high above their heads to get the shot.

  The noise of their flashbulbs was like a shoot-out in some Western corral. I had to be rescued by two burly police officers who took my elbows in their hands and more or less lifted me into the courthouse, smashing a couple of cameras with their truncheons along the way . . . After that, the court proceedings took precisely fourteen minutes. Dear Buttercup Kennedy was blamed for everything and our case awarded with costs . . . I suppose this was what we agreed, Ernest, but I feel such a weight of sadness that I cannot move from my chair. I must dine with Peter Pan tonight and he will expect me to celebrate, but I feel more alone than I have ever felt in my life.