They had been bound in several marbled leather volumes by a Ventry of the Edwardian period, who had added a comprehensive table of contents. Umber steered a straight course through boundary disputes, rent-rolls and local Hunt politics to the letter of 19 October 1791.
It was written by Christabella Ventry’s younger sister, Mary Croft, from her home in London. She dwelt on family affairs that would be known to both parties: cousins, aunts, uncles, in-laws. There were several references to their ‘dear departed mother’ (Christabella Dayrolles), who had died two months previously. And then came the reference to Kew.
The depth of feeling expressed by so many since Mother’s passing is a testament to the nobility and generosity of her character. I was more affected than I can say to receive a letter this week past from her dear and troubled friend at Kew, who confesses himself sorely afflicted by the loss of her counsel and acquaintanceship.
That was it. There was nothing else. A friend at Kew, known to both daughters. It amounted to hardly anything. Yet there was just enough, in the description of the friend as ‘dear and troubled’, in the mention of their mother’s role as his adviser, in the faintly suspicious way that Mary Croft avoided naming him, to draw Umber in.
* * *
There was no quick or easy way to follow it up, however. Umber admitted as much to himself as he sat aboard the lunchtime train back to London. That was probably why he had made no immediate attempt to do so in July 1981. An unnamed man living in Kew two centuries before was effectively untraceable. Logically, Umber would have to search for him by indirect routes – exploring any connections with Kew, however apparently tenuous, that he could find in the affairs of Lord Chesterfield and Solomon Dayrolles.
But such researches could last for weeks, if not months. Umber had two days, not even enough time to scratch the surface. It was, quite simply, a hopeless task.
A powerful sense of that hopelessness clung to Umber when he got off the train at Euston. He did not know what to do or where to go. He had very little time to act in. And no idea what action he should take. Largely by inertia, it seemed to him, he drifted down into the Underground station. And there he bought a ticket to Kew.
On the Tube, Umber tried to apply his mind to the problem like the historian he had once been. What did he know about eighteenth-century Kew? Not much. But not nothing either.
It was a place with royal connections. George II, when still Prince of Wales, lived at Richmond Lodge, which he retained when he became king. His son Frederick, the next Prince of Wales, settled with his wife Augusta at Kew House, just to the north. After Frederick’s death in 1751, Princess Augusta pursued his ambition to transform the estate into the famous botanical gardens. Frederick’s son, the future George III, grew up at Kew under the combined influence of his widowed mother and her trusted adviser, the Earl of Bute. Junius reserved a particular venom for both parties, insinuating that they were lovers and cruelly relishing the news when it came of Augusta’s fatal throat cancer.
It had not occurred to Umber until now that Junius’s loathing of Augusta and Bute might have been heightened by their being, as it were, his neighbours. His knowledge (and disapproval) of George III’s upbringing could then be seen, if the point was stretched, as the fruit of personal experience.
But it was a stretch, as Umber well knew. He walked out of Kew Gardens station that afternoon into the heart of a Victorian suburb that had not existed when Mary Croft wrote a letter to her sister in October 1791. His own previous trips to Kew had either been to tour the Gardens or to visit the National Archives, which had been massively and modernistically extended since 1981, to judge by his glimpse of the riverside complex from the train. Two hundred years previously, documents now stored at meticulously maintained levels of temperature and humidity would have been mouldering in a Chancery Lane cellar. Such was the scale of all the changes through which Umber knew it was fanciful to suppose he could somehow thread a path.
He wandered into a bookshop that caught his eye as soon as he left the station and bought a pocket history of the area: The Story of Kew. He leafed through it over a cup of coffee in a café a few doors along, lingering on the chapters devoted to the Georgian period. The account of the origins of the Botanical Gardens held no surprises. Nor did much of what followed concerning the persistent rumour that George III, while still Prince of Wales, had secretly married a Quakeress called Hannah Lightfoot and fathered by her a son, who should legally have counted as his heir but was instead banished to South Africa. The theft of the parish registers from St Anne’s Church, Kew, in 1845 was held to be related to this, though oddly the stolen registers did not cover the period of the alleged marriage, which would obviously not have been recorded anyway. The motive for the theft was therefore a mystery.
Then, as Umber turned the page, a name leapt out at him from the print. Dr James Wilmot was the clergyman supposed to have solemnized the marriage. And Dr James Wilmot was on the long-list of Junian candidates. There was a connection between Junius and Kew.
It was a frail one, however. As far as Umber could recall, Wilmot was never a serious contender, his candidature resting on airy claims made by a niece after his death. What Umber could not recall was any suggestion of a link between Wilmot and the Chesterfield-Dayrolles clan. Besides, Wilmot had never been Vicar of Kew, no matter what marriage ceremonies he may have conducted there. He could not have been the friend of Christabella Dayrolles referred to in Mary Croft’s letter.
Umber left the café and headed towards Kew Green. A map of 1800 reproduced in The Story of Kew showed the whole area east of the Gardens as fields. There were only two small areas of housing: one centred on the Green, at the northern end of the Gardens, the other lining the opposite bank of the Thames either side of Kew Bridge. Logically, Christabella’s friend had to have lived in one of these locations.
It could not have been the Green. Umber sensed rather than deduced this as he prowled across it, scanning the elegant Palladian frontages of the surrounding houses. In 1791, they would have been the residences of princes and princesses – George III’s aunts, uncles, brothers and sisters – plus assorted hangers-on. Surely Christabella’s friend could not have dwelt literally amongst them. To fit Umber’s hazy image of him, he needed to be at one remove – an observer from a safe distance.
Umber crossed Kew Bridge and turned right along Strand-on-the-Green, a riverside path running east round a curve of the Thames past well-kept fishermen’s cottages and gentlemen’s villas clearly dating from the eighteenth century. This, he reckoned, was more like it. Humbler than Kew Green, but still smart enough, and within easy reach.
But it was only a hunch, of course. He was in no position to back it up. He would have to probe the history of every house if he was to mount a serious search for Christabella’s friend. Even then he might fail to find him. It was academic in any case. There was simply not enough—
Umber came to a sudden halt on the path and stared at the building in front of him. It was a small yellow-brick cottage squeezed between two grander residences. The front door was undersized, accessed by a short flight of steps. It looked as if the entrance had been modified as a precaution against flooding, which Strand-on-the-Green was presumably prone to. Above and to one side of the door was a stone-carved likeness of a mythical beast, acting as a lampholder. The creature had the wings and head of an eagle, set on the body of a lion. It was a griffin.
Umber pressed the bell, staring into the stone eye of the griffin as he did so. He had no idea what to expect if and when the door opened. He had no expectations of any kind. He could only let chance and circumstance take their course.
‘Good afternoon.’
The door had been opened by a tall, lean, weather-beaten man of sixty or so with wavy grey hair and a ruggedly handsome face. The chinos and guernsey he was wearing gave him a maritime air, suggesting his stooped posture had been acquired from long acquaintance with cramped ships’ cabins, his squinting gaze from the scanning of man
y horizons.
‘Can I help you?’
‘I …’ Umber did not know what to say, or at any rate how to begin to say it. ‘I’m looking for … a Mr Griffin.’
The man smiled. ‘Well, you’ve found him.’
THIRTY-ONE
UMBER’S USE OF the indefinite article proved prescient. He had found a Mr Griffin, not the Mr Griffin. But nonetheless he had found more than he could ever have hoped. The irony was that back in 1981 he would have approached the problem more systematically. He would never have ambled through Kew expecting the answer to leap out at him. And consequently he might never have found his way to the cottage with the griffin lampholder.
He sat in the small bachelor-spruce drawing room and explained himself as best he could. He had got no further than the bizarre truth that he had come in search of someone he had been due to meet twenty-three years previously, when his host, who had introduced himself as Philip Griffin, interrupted.
‘Sounds as if you’re talking about my brother Henry, Mr Umber. Before we go any further, I ought to tell you that 1981 was the last year anyone ever saw or heard of him. I was out of the country at the time. I didn’t find out Henry had gone missing till I got back here thirteen years later. So, when and where did you have this appointment with him? And what was it about?’
‘Avebury. Twenty-seventh of July, 1981.’
‘Avebury? 1981?’ Griffin’s brow furrowed. ‘Haven’t I read something recently about a murder at Avebury in 1981?’ He snapped his fingers. ‘That’s right. The bloke they got for it was murdered in prison a couple of weeks ago. And somebody connected to the case committed—’
‘Suicide. I know. You could say that’s what brought me here.’
‘I don’t understand. What’s Henry got to do with all this?’
Umber answered the question as fully as he could allow himself to. He summarized the events of 27 July 1981 accurately enough and emphasized that his theory about what had happened to Henry Griffin was just that: a theory. He said nothing about Chantelle, however. He did not even suggest he subscribed to Sally’s belief in Tamsin’s survival. Not that Tamsin – or Sally – much interested Philip Griffin. His attention was focused on the fate of his long-missing brother.
‘I’m sorry to be the bearer of bad news, Mr Griffin. I suppose you must have hoped he was still alive somewhere. And that is possible, of course. I—’
‘It’s OK. I wrote Henry off a long time ago. He and I didn’t really see eye to eye. That was one of the reasons I left Father and him to it after Mother died and took myself off round the world. I lost touch with them completely. And I didn’t come back for nearly twenty years. When I did, I found Father going gaga with this house collapsing around his ears – and no trace of Henry. They’d fallen out long since, according to the old man, though he was too far gone to remember why – or so he pretended. Henry had left on account of their disagreement, whatever it was about, and good riddance was the gist of his ramblings. Not a warm-hearted man, my father. He’s dead and gone himself now. The neighbours said it was the summer of ‘eighty-one when Henry vanished from the radar. So, it sounds as if your theory fits the facts, doesn’t it?’
‘Yes. I suppose it does.’
‘And it also sounds as if Henry died trying to be a good citizen, which is some consolation. But there’s one thing you still haven’t mentioned, Mr Umber. The reason for your appointment with Henry.’
‘Ah. Well, I was at Oxford in 1981, studying for a Ph.D. Your brother phoned me out of the blue, saying he had a book – technically, a pair of books – relevant to the subject of my thesis which he was sure would interest me. We agreed to meet at the pub in Avebury – the Red Lion – that Monday, the twenty-seventh of July, so that I could take a look at them.’
‘What books were these?’
‘A special edition of the letters of Junius.’
‘Junius?’ Griffin’s expression suggested surprise rather than incomprehension. ‘Well, well, well.’
‘You’ve heard of him?’
‘Oh yes. Growing up in this house, you could hardly fail to, even if you were a duffer at history. Which I was. Unlike Henry.’
‘Is there some connection, then, between your family … and Junius?’
‘You could say so. The Griffin family legend, we’d better call it. Junius … and our claim to the throne.’
‘What?’
‘Laughable, isn’t it? But Henry believed it. So did Father. And his father before him.’
‘Your … claim to the throne?’
Griffin smiled ruefully. ‘Don’t worry. I’m not about to serve a writ on the Queen and demand the keys to Buckingham Palace. But it’s entertaining stuff in its way. Want me to fill you in on it?’
‘Yes, please.’
‘Well, before I do, let’s get back to these books. How special were they?’
‘Very. A uniquely bound copy of the letters printed for Junius’s own use.’
‘I see.’
‘Which means—’
‘No need to spell it out, Mr Umber. I know what it means and it ties in with something Father said a couple of times, now I think back. He called Henry a thief. But he never said what he was supposed to have stolen. I think I understand now. Father must have kept the books hidden away. And Henry must have found them.’ Griffin rose to his feet. ‘Wait here, would you? There’s something I want to show you. But it might take me a few minutes to lay my hands on it.’
Umber was happy to wait. He needed a few minutes alone to settle in his mind the limits of what he could or should tell Philip Griffin. He had learnt nothing so far that amounted to the proof he needed of Marilyn’s complicity in Henry Griffin’s murder. And the crackpot details of the Griffins’ claim to the throne, however entertaining, were unlikely to supply it.
* * *
Close to ten minutes passed, during which the sounds of drawers being opened and closed in an upper room reached Umber’s ears intermittently. Then Griffin returned, clutching a stapled sheaf of papers.
‘There was a lot of Henry’s stuff left here when Father died. I chucked most of it out. But I kept this, if only because it’s as handy an account of the family legend as you could ask for. As you’ll see, Henry hoped to get it published. But it wasn’t to be.’ He passed the papers to Umber. ‘Take your time. I’ll make some tea.’
So, almost immediately, Umber was alone again. He looked at the papers in his hand. The top sheet was a letter to Henry from the editor of History Today, dated 16 April 1980. It was a rejection letter for an article Henry had submitted, entitled Junius, the Royal Family and the Griffins of Kew. The editor described the piece as ‘diverting’, but crushingly added, ‘I am sorry to say that you provide no supporting evidence for any of your extraordinary assertions.’ He returned the article therewith. And it was still attached, typed out by Henry on double spaced, generously margined pages. The poor chap could not be faulted for presentation, however unsubstantiated the contents. Umber settled down to read it.
My family has lived in Kew for nearly two hundred years. Strangely, the founder of our family was a man none of us is related to. This man, Frederick Lewis Griffin, is historically very important, though history has nothing to say about him. The time has come to put that right.
Frederick Griffin was born in Covent Garden, London, on 29 June 1732. He was an illegitimate son of Frederick, Prince of Wales, by the actress Sarah Webster. His mother gave him the surname Griffin because the Prince had been known in his childhood in Hanover as ‘Der Grief’ – the Griffin, a beast he was supposed to resemble.
By the time of the boy’s birth, Sarah Webster had already been supplanted as the Prince’s mistress, but the Prince paid her a generous allowance for his son’s upbringing. He continued to do so after his marriage to Princess Augusta of Saxe-Gotha in 1736. When Sarah Webster died, in 1740, the Prince arranged for his friend the Earl of Chesterfield to look after the boy, who was given an excellent education.
Frederick
Griffin was an undergraduate at Oxford when the Prince died suddenly on 20 March 1751, aged 44. Some said his death was caused by the aftereffects of a blow from a cricket ball. Others said he had caught a fatal chill while working in his beloved gardens at Kew in wet weather. Still others whispered that he had been poisoned by his wife because he had discovered her long-standing affair with his Lord of the Bedchamber, the Earl of Bute.
Princess Augusta immediately cancelled the allowance paid to Frederick Griffin, who was forced to leave Oxford. Lord Chesterfield obtained a position for him in the East India Company and he spent the next ten or twelve years in India. He returned to England at some point in the mid-1760s a moderately wealthy man. He bought a small house at Strand-under-Green (now Strand-on-the-Green) on the north bank of the Thames, opposite Kew, and lived there for the rest of his life.
It has always been believed in my family that he chose to live at Strand-under-Green because of its proximity to the royal residences of Kew Palace and Richmond Lodge. He had heard the rumour that Princess Augusta had murdered his father. He had heard another rumour concerning his half-brother, King George III, who had succeeded to the throne in 1760. This was that George, while still Prince of Wales, had secretly married Hannah Lightfoot, a Quaker, and had a son by her, known as George Rex. Once on the throne, George had put Hannah aside and contracted a politically more expedient though technically bigamous marriage to Princess Charlotte Sophia of Mecklenburg-Strelitz.
Frederick Griffin was appalled by such conduct and the deleterious effect he believed it to be having on the moral fibre of the nation. Thus he began his letter-writing campaign under the name of Junius, protesting at corruption in the high offices of government. Princess Augusta, the ‘odious hypocrite’, as Junius called her, came in for particularly harsh criticism. The King, a ‘consummate hypocrite’, fared little better. The letters appeared in the pages of the Public Advertiser for a little over three years. They came to an abrupt end early in 1772, when Princess Augusta’s death deprived Junius of his principal target.
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