by John Boyne
‘Really?’ she asked, leaning forwards, interested now. ‘Which one?’
‘The Threadbare Gallery,’ he said. ‘Do you know it?’
‘I’m afraid I do,’ she said. ‘I’m a great fan of the galleries on Cork Street but I must say yours has a very distinctive taste.’
‘We cater for those with more money than taste,’ he replied, unsure whether he was supposed to end the sentence with the word ‘ma’am’ or not. He felt an urge to, out of respect. He liked her immediately.
‘Wallis is a great supporter of the arts,’ said the king. ‘You should hear the way she talks about some of the pieces in the royal collection. It’s like attending a lecture, only without having some moth-eaten old buffoon at the lectern.’
The guests laughed and Montignac watched as Mrs Simpson laid a hand gently on the king’s arm, an affectionate gesture, entirely truthful and unpossessive, and the manner in which he used his other hand to tap hers affectionately while she did it. He observed them in their intimacy and envied them.
‘I haven’t been here in a long time, Delfy,’ said the king. ‘I hope you’re not going to rob me blind at the roulette table.’
‘I’m sure you’ll have luck on your side, sir,’ said Delfy obsequiously.
‘I’ve never understood the urge for gambling,’ said Mrs Simpson. ‘Do you, Mr Montignac? Isn’t it true that the house always wins?’
‘She says this,’ interrupted the king before Montignac could reply, ‘despite the fact that last summer she lost nearly twenty thousand at the tables in Monte Carlo and had the night of her life.’
‘It’s true,’ she admitted with an embarrassed smile. ‘I did get rather caught up in the moment. It was terribly exciting but I was awfully ashamed of myself afterwards.’
‘You should have seen her face, Montignac,’ said the king, dissolving into laughter. ‘The more she lost, the pinker she got. I thought we were going to have to carry her away kicking and screaming.’
‘Oh, David, stop it,’ she said, laughing too. ‘You’re embarrassing me.’
Montignac watched them, absolutely fascinated by the easy affection between them. This was what the newspapers never reported on, he realized. They were like a couple of teenagers in love; they reminded him of Stella and himself when they were fifteen. But the world was telling them that they could not be together, and for what?
‘Sir,’ said Walter Monckton, from across the table, speaking for the first time as he tapped his watch. ‘We do need to finish discussing…’ He trailed off his words without completing the sentence.
‘Of course, of course,’ said the king. ‘Sorry, gentlemen, but there are matters of the greatest importance under consideration at this table. I’m sure you’re in no doubt as to what they are,’ he added.
‘Indeed,’ said Delfy, standing up and nodding at Montignac to do the same. ‘I’ll see you before you leave anyway.’
‘Mr Montignac,’ said the king, shaking his hand again. ‘It was a pleasure to meet you.’
‘And you, sir,’ said Montignac. ‘And good luck,’ he added spontaneously.
The king frowned. ‘Do you think I’ll need it?’ he asked after a moment, looking across at Mrs Simpson.
‘On the roulette tables, I meant,’ he said quickly, blushing slightly at the familiarity.
The king nodded. ‘Do you know,’ he said, before the two men could walk away. ‘You have the look of your father. His hair wasn’t quite so startling as yours but it was white all the same. And your face. You could be mistaken for him.’
‘Thank you, sir,’ said Montignac. ‘I take that as a great compliment. I was only a child when he died so—’
‘If I recall correctly, your grandfather opposed his marriage.’
‘That’s right, sir.’
The king shook his head and looked down at the table sadly. ‘It seems to me,’ he said quietly. ‘That the world is full of interfering, busybody bastards. Do you think that would be a fair assessment, Mr Montignac?’ he asked, looking up.
Montignac hesitated. ‘My father did as he pleased in the end,’ he said finally. ‘And I think he never regretted it for a moment.’
‘Sir,’ said Monckton, unhappy with the subtext of the conversation.
‘Good evening, Mr Montignac, Mr Delfy,’ said King EdwardVIII with a smile, nodding to dismiss them.
‘Good evening, sir. Mrs Simpson,’ said Montignac, looking across at her, and she wore a radiant smile and for a moment he was sure that she had given him a wink of thanks.
Delfy and Montignac walked back towards the club door.
‘You did very well there,’ said Delfy. ‘I think he liked you.’
‘I’m almost trembling,’ said Montignac, who could feel a line of perspiration making his shirt cling to his back. ‘I had no idea—’
‘I thought you might enjoy it,’ he said. ‘Since you’re so heavily involved in what happens to them.’
‘He’ll never give her up,’ said Montignac, who had observed them closely in the few minutes allotted to him. ‘That’s clear.’
‘I would think not. So it’s all down to Mr Justice Bentley now, isn’t it?’ He shook Montignac’s hand. ‘I’ll see you at Christmas, Owen, if not before.’
Montignac nodded and walked out of the club. For the life of him he wasn’t sure if he was doing the king a good turn or not.
9
IT HAD BEEN MONTIGNAC’S intention to go straight home when he left the Unicorn Ballrooms but the events of the weekend were preying on his mind—the argument with Stella, the fact that he had raised his hand to her, the apprehension of the Delfy summons, the meeting with the king—and as he passed by White’s Club he stepped inside and signed his name in the book before repairing to the bar for a stiff drink. If today had been bad, he thought, he could only imagine what the next day would bring. He checked his watch; it was just after eleven o’clock. In the mirror behind the bar he could see Alexander Keys reading in a corner and debated going over to join him but decided to finish his drink alone first. After a few minutes he ordered two more and made his way over to the table.
‘Hello, Owen,’ said Alexander. ‘You just caught me, I was about to leave.’
‘I can’t stay long myself,’ said Montignac. ‘I just stopped in for a quick one and saw you over here. You’ll have this with me before you go?’ he asked, handing over the whisky.
‘Well it would be rude not to,’ said Alexander, settling back into the chair again. ‘Settling your nerves for tomorrow, are you?’
‘Something like that,’ he said.
‘You’re definitely being called?’
‘Definitely,’ he said with a nod. ‘The prosecution told me to be in court first thing.’
‘You’re not worried about it, are you?’
Montignac shrugged and felt a sudden great rush of pain make its way across his shoulder blades, forcing him to let out a brief cry and put his hand to his neck.
‘Are you all right?’ asked Alexander in concern.
‘It’s just stress,’ said Montignac. ‘The last few months, well they haven’t been easy to say the least.’
Alexander gave a brief laugh. ‘Well just imagine how poor old Gareth is feeling right about now,’ he said.
‘Yes,’ he said, although he was trying not to.
‘Do you know what you’re going to say yet?’
Montignac shrugged. ‘Well I don’t know what they’re going to ask me, do I? But I suppose I just have to tell the truth,’ he said. ‘Just tell them what happened on the night in question. Are you going to be there?’
‘Oh yes,’ said Alexander. ‘I wouldn’t miss it for the world. Not just for you, of course, but for what comes after you.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘Don’t you know? Gareth will be testifying in his own defence. I believe Sir Quentin Lawrence is going to put him on the stand.’
Montignac nodded. ‘Do you think he’ll be happy when it’s all over?’ he asked.
‘His life was so meaningless when he met me,’ said Montignac, his brow furrowed as he considered it. ‘He had nothing going for him. He was a wastrel. What purpose did he ever serve the world anyway?’
‘Just because you lack direction doesn’t give you the right to go around killing perfectly innocent people, though, does it? Poor old Raymond Davis, after all, never did a bit of harm to anyone, as far as I can see.’
‘Raymond Davis was a fool,’ said Montignac bitterly. ‘He tried to take hold of things that didn’t belong to him.’
Alexander sat back in his chair in surprise. ‘Such as what?’ he asked.
‘I don’t believe that he and Stella could ever have been happy,’ said Montignac, ignoring the question. ‘They were different types of person altogether.’
‘Look here,’ said Alexander, leaning forwards in concern. ‘I know this is a difficult time but you can’t start saying things like that on the stand tomorrow. People might get the wrong end of the stick altogether. Just stick to the facts.’
‘I will, I will.’
‘And don’t get sidetracked by your emotions.’
‘No.’ He thought about it and an idea came into his head and he looked across at his old friend. ‘Alexander,’ he said. ‘What do you make of this whole business of the king and the American woman?’
He let out a snort and shook his head. ‘Good Lord, Montignac, if there was one man in London who I didn’t think would be interested in the tittle-tattle and gossip about Edward and Mrs Simpson, I thought it would be you. It’s hardly your line, is it?’
‘No, I’m just interested in what you think, that’s all.’
Alexander shrugged. ‘Well it doesn’t really make any difference to me,’ he said. ‘I’m not quite sure what he sees in her if I’m honest, considering he could have his pick of half the ladies in the world. She always looks a little haggard to me.’
‘They seem to love each other, though.’
‘Well how are we to know that?’ asked Alexander. ‘Because some people want to portray them as the lead players in some great love story? No, I imagine she’s a gold-digger. She’s an American, after all. They’re a strange breed. Anyway,’ he added, leaning forwards so as not to be overheard, ‘I’ve never understood what we need with him anyway.’
‘With who?’
‘The king. Although I have to say I always find it hard to think of him as the king, don’t you? He’s been the Prince of Wales all my life so it’s difficult to suddenly think of him with a different title.’
‘Yes, but what do you mean by what do we need with him?’
‘Well what’s the point of him anyway?’ asked Alexander. ‘We pay for him, we pay for all of them, and we can’t get within fifty feet of them. They’re our employees, you might say. Without us, they wouldn’t even exist. Talk about your wastrels; Gareth has nothing on that crowd. It’s an odd business. Don’t you think the Russians might have had the right idea? Or the French in the eighteenth century? Unseating their masters and ruling their own destinies?’
‘Only a member of the landed gentry such as yourself, Alexander, could suggest such a thing. You’d be the first to start screaming if the tumbril came to collect you for the trip to the guillotine.’
‘Actually, I’ve always felt this way,’ he replied, offended. ‘Get rid of them all, I say. Let them marry monkeys or chickens if they want to, it doesn’t make a blind bit of difference to me.’
Montignac nodded. This was no time for a debate on the relevance of the monarchy. He finished his drink and wiped his eyes in exhaustion.
‘Well,’ he said, standing up. ‘Time to head home. Are you going my way?’
‘No,’ said Alexander, ‘but I’ll walk you out. Let me just get my coat.’
They stepped out of White’s together into the chilly night air.
‘I could pick you up in the morning if you like,’ suggested Alexander. ‘On my way to the Old Bailey. Say around ten?’
‘I have to be there at nine thirty, I’m told,’ said Montignac.
‘Too early for me then. Keep an eye out for me all the same. I’ll be somewhere near the back. I want to avoid running into either Bentley père or mère.’
‘Very wise,’ said Montignac. ‘I’m hoping not to have to face them myself.’
‘You’re not…’ Alexander hesitated, wanting to choose his words carefully. ‘You’re not feeling guilty about all this, are you?’
‘Guilty? No. Why should I be?’
‘It’s just that whenever you talk about Gareth you seem, I don’t know, a little troubled.’
Montignac shook his head. ‘No it’s not that,’ he said. ‘I’m just worried about something going wrong, that’s all.’
‘Going wrong? I don’t follow you.’
‘No, that’s the wrong choice of words,’ he said, instantly regretting them. ‘I mean, I’m worried about landing him in trouble with what I say.’
‘Owen,’ said Alexander, shaking his head and smiling, as if the whole thing was just a piece of trivial drama to be played out for all their delights. ‘You worry too much about other people. That’s one of your flaws. Gareth may not have meant to have done what he did, the whole thing might be a terrible tragedy, but it’s hardly your fault.’
‘You’re sure about that?’
‘Of course I am. And remember, I hate to say it but there’s always the chance that if Gareth had woken earlier and realized what he’d done he might have got out of there as quickly as possible and you could have ended up getting the blame. Put yourself in his shoes, waking up with a dead body on his hands. If that woman from upstairs hadn’t called the police who knows who would be standing in the dock now?’
Montignac nodded. ‘I expect so,’ he said. ‘Anyway I’ll see you in court in the morning.’
‘Until then,’ he said. They shook hands and parted, walking off in different directions.
December the eighth, thought Montignac as he headed for home. Tomorrow is December the ninth. A verdict in a day or two’s time, all going well. Then Stanley Baldwin gets his answer, the king makes his choice, I get my money and Nicholas Delfy gets paid.
But where do I go from there? he wondered.
10
THE INNOCENT SLEPT WELL or not at all; the guilty tossed and turned or fell directly asleep.
Back in his comfortable apartment, Alexander Keys changed for bed and set his clock for an early start in the morning. He wasn’t accustomed to rising before eleven or twelve but the following day promised more drama than he ever got from any of the tedious novels he was forced to review. He set it for eight o’clock, a time he hadn’t seen in several years, and resolved to have a hearty breakfast and arrive at the Old Bailey in time to get a good seat, albeit one where he would not be noticed by the Bentleys. As he closed his eyes he wondered about his own part in the whole affair, recalling how earlier that year, at Gareth’s birthday party, he had introduced him to his oldest friend, Owen Montignac, a man he had never fully understood. That was the moment, he realized, when Gareth had been doomed. Perhaps, he thought to himself as he drifted off, it’s time for me to write my own book. The story of the Gareth Bentley trial. A title sprang to mind—The Bentley Decline—and he considered rising again and making a note of it but he was too comfortable now and was sure he would remember in the morning.
* * *
IN A WELL-APPOINTED HOUSE in Highgate, overlooking the woods, Mr Justice Patrick Sharpwell drained a mug of cocoa and double-checked that he had all his files correctly ordered in his briefcase for the following morning. He was sure that he would be able to send the case to the jury by the end of the next day and hoped that the young defendant would have given them enough cause to debate his innocence before finally condemning him. After all it would make it all the more reasonable then when he commuted the death sentence to a custodial one, as agreed in the arrangement he had made with Lord Ke
aton, should he be given the word. Otherwise, of course, he would be perfectly happy to send the boy to the gallows. He would wait patiently before passing sentence.
* * *
AS EVER, NICHOLAS DELFY was the last to leave the Unicorn Ballrooms and made his way in his chauffeur-driven Rolls Royce to his spacious apartment overlooking the Thames. It had been a special night; there was never anything better for business than when the king came for the evening. As Prince of Wales, his visits had guaranteed packed doors for months afterwards with people hoping to meet him and be introduced. Now that he was king it was even better. For as long as he remained king, of course, which by his reckoning would be a matter of weeks at most.
* * *
MR JUSTICE HARKMAN, CHIEF prosecutor in the case of Rex vs Bentley, ran his eye over his list of questions on two separate sheets of paper. One for Owen Montignac, who would no doubt try to stand up for his friend and former employee, and one for Gareth Bentley, the accused. The case had not been difficult so far; the evidence was clearly against him. He felt terribly sorry for Roderick Bentley, an old friend for whom he had a great deal of respect, but then the law was the law and one could not allow personal feelings to influence one’s deliberations over it. What happened to Gareth Bentley after—as seemed inevitable—his conviction would be down to the judge and he could hardly be held responsible for that.
* * *
IN HIS OWN HOUSE, no more than a mile away, Sir Quentin Lawrence finished composing his own list of questions and hoped that the boy would answer them honestly and not go to pieces on the stand, as he had been showing increasing signs of doing lately. His greatest fear was that the boy’s mother, Jane, would create a scene in court, something which would only play into the prosecution’s hands, and he hoped that she had forgotten her foolish ideas about bribing the jury and had not tried the same trick with the prosecution counsel; he didn’t relish the idea of another Bentley trial in the new year.
* * *
LYING IN HER BED at Leyville, Margaret Richmond’s eyes were wide open and she knew that she would be deprived of sleep with the weight of all the worries on her mind. In a few weeks’ time there would be no Montignacs left there and she would be alone. The house would be given over to the National Trust and how long then would it be before she was told to leave? Although the words were never spoken, she knew that this was nothing more than an act of vengeance on Stella’s part for what had happened ten years earlier when she had done nothing more than try to act in the girl’s own interests. And what if she did go to Switzerland and try to find her son, the boy that Montignac thought had never been allowed to enter the world, the boy she had told him was lost forever, what miseries would the future hold then?