A Royal Affair

by Allison Montclair

  “You and Lord Bainbridge had the advantage of seasons and balls,” said Gwendolyn. “So did Ronnie and I. Those aren’t available to the vast majority of Englishmen and Englishwomen. We’re the next best thing.”

  “Parliament should fund seasons for the masses,” said Lady Carolyne. “It would be much more efficient.”

  “When Lord Bainbridge returns, he can propose it,” said Gwen. “Until then, we’ll go on matchmaking. I wanted to speak to you about Saturday.”

  “Yes?”

  “Will you be going to Tommy Hibbert’s birthday party with Little Ronnie?”

  “Of course. The Hibberts and we are old friends.”

  “Have you picked out a present yet?”

  “I have not. I was going to send Percival to Hamleys tomorrow. He’s good at picking out toys for children.”

  “Let me do it instead,” said Gwen. “I know they don’t want me there, but I would like to do that much, at least.”

  Lady Carolyne looked at her, considering.

  “This is your attempt to worm your way back into their good graces,” she said.

  “I wouldn’t call it worming, exactly,” said Gwen. “But yes, I’d like them to know that I’m well enough to be around children at birthday parties. I never was a threat to anyone.”

  “Other than yourself,” said Lady Carolyne.

  “Other than myself,” agreed Gwen. “And now I like myself again. I’ve grown quite fond of me, in fact. I’ve decided that I’m going to stick with me for the long haul.”

  “You’re making light of a serious situation,” said Lady Carolyne.

  “Dr. Milford thinks that’s a good sign,” said Gwen.

  “Does he? Sometimes I wonder about him.”

  “He was your choice,” Gwen reminded her. “Yet I’ve continued to work with him, knowing that. Worked very hard, in fact.”

  “We shall see if that bears fruit,” said Lady Carolyne. “Very well. You may purchase the gift.”

  “Thank you,” said Gwen. “It should be fun. I haven’t been to Hamleys in ages.”

  “I wonder if they’ve repaired all the damage,” said Lady Carolyne.

  “I’ll report back and let you know,” promised Gwen. “Thank you, Carolyne.”

  * * *

  She located the Hibberts’ number in her address book, then picked up the telephone and dialed. After several rings, a housemaid answered.

  “Mrs. Bainbridge calling for Mrs. Hibbert,” said Gwen.

  “One moment, Mrs. Bainbridge.”

  A minute passed, then a woman’s voice filled the receiver.

  “Lady Carolyne!” cried Mrs. Hibbert. “So sweet of you to call.”

  “Actually, it’s Gwen, Isabelle,” said Gwen. “How are you?”

  There was a pause.

  “Gwen,” said Mrs. Hibbert, not even bothering to hide the caution in her tone. “This is a surprise.”

  “Not at all, Isabelle. I’m sorry to be interrupting anything. I wanted to apologise in advance for not being able to come with Little Ronnie on Saturday.”

  “Oh, that’s quite all right,” said Mrs. Hibbert in relief. “You’ll be saving yourself from the raucousness of six- and seven-year-olds.”

  “No, I’m sure it will be great fun,” said Gwen. “I wanted to know if there was anything in particular that Tommy wanted in the way of a present. Children’s desires are so changeable. Ronnie currently is mad about narwhals.”

  “What on earth are they?”

  “A type of aquatic mammal with a long tusk on its nose,” said Gwen.

  “My goodness!”

  “How about Tommy? I remember him loving fire engines when he was two.”

  “Yes, my little Blitz boy. No, that’s several phases ago. He’s obsessed with cowboys and Indians now.”

  “Perfect,” said Gwen. “I shall find him something along those lines. I hope you have a wonderful time, Isabelle. Give your darling boy a kiss for me, won’t you?”

  “I will,” said Isabelle. “Gwen?”

  “Yes?”

  Isabelle hesitated.

  “Thanks for the call,” she said. “It’s good to hear your voice again.”

  “Yours as well, Isabelle. Goodbye.”

  She hung up, then sat by the telephone for a while until the tears stopped. Then she wiped her face and went in to dinner.

  * * *

  Sudbury was a good sixty miles from London, so Iris had set her alarm for the crack of dawn. The jangling sent her reaching for anything at hand to throw at the clock before she was fully conscious, but she stopped short of letting fly as her brain delivered the morning agenda in time.

  She dressed quickly, looked longingly at the whisky bottle, then grabbed her handbag and left for the station.

  She breakfasted from a tea trolley on the train, and was sufficiently revived by the time she reached the town to marshal her persona into Mary McTague, cub reporter for the Telegraph.

  She didn’t know Sudbury. She vaguely recalled waking up there once, in the bed of an American Army Air Force navigator whose name she could not remember and whom she never saw again. She sneaked out and caught the first train back to London, reporting for duty only a few minutes late, trying not to think what she must have smelled like. She wondered if the American ever thought of her. She wondered if he made it through alive. She wondered how she’d got to Sudbury in the first place. Navigators certainly knew their way around, she thought, smiling to herself.

  Nothing about the town appeared familiar when she emerged from the station. It didn’t help that the station itself was removed from the center, situated near a bend in the river Stour, which sidestepped the town on its way to more pressing business elsewhere. It had been prettier once, she supposed. Pretty enough for Gainsborough and Constable to paint their way around. She doubted they would be as inspired by the ugly concrete pillboxes now dotting the landscape, ready for the invasion that never came, their guns now removed. Sparrows flew in and out of their narrow window slots.

  She consulted her directions and walked through the eastern part of the town, skirting the center.

  The Cockerells lived in a large brick house, not what anyone would think of as a mansion, but certainly more sprawling than necessary to accommodate the needs of a single family. One wing was mostly glass, and she could see a veritable jungle inside—tropical trees and vines, a riot of flowers unlike anything she had ever seen in England. She thought she even glimpsed some brightly coloured birds flying through it all—parrots, maybe. The other wing held a small ballroom. She could see a grand piano covered with a muslin drape, and a small collection of carved wooden music stands huddling forlornly in a corner.

  She walked up the driveway to the servants’ entrance and rang the bell.

  A young woman opened the door. A housemaid, Iris guessed from the uniform.

  “May I help you?” she asked.

  “I’m here to see Madame Bousquet,” said Iris. “We have an appointment.”

  “Your name, please?”

  “Mary McTague.”

  “One moment.”

  She closed the door. A minute later, it was opened by a woman in her mid-forties, also in a maid’s uniform. Her hair was brown with wisps of gray scattered through it. Her makeup and eyebrows were impeccable, yet there was something about her eyes that seemed off. The expression—she was on edge, thought Iris. As if she expected to see someone over Iris’s shoulder, watching. It was all Iris could do not to turn around and see for herself.

  “Miss McTague,” said Madame Bousquet, with only a trace of an accent. “I am sorry that you came all this way. I am afraid that I cannot talk to you.”

  “Madame Bousquet, I don’t understand,” said Iris. “When we spoke on the telephone, you seemed willing, even eager. Is it a question of money? Because I might be able to—”

  “It is not the money,” said Madame Bousquet. “It is the propriety.”

  “I don’t intend to pry into anything confidential,” said
Iris. “Our readers merely would like to have the eyewitness account of—”

  “I am sorry to have wasted your time,” said Madame Bousquet, shutting the door.

  Iris turned to see if there was anyone, but the street leading up to the house was empty.

  Someone got to her, she thought dispiritedly. Damn. There goes half a day’s work.

  She looked at her watch. It was only ten thirty-five. She could make the next train back to London if she walked briskly.

  Or she could stake out the house to see if Madame Bousquet had any errands to run in town.

  She walked down the street, turned the corner so that she was out of sight of the house, and waited.

  * * *

  Hamleys didn’t open until ten, which meant Gwen wouldn’t be able to shop for Tommy’s present until her lunch break, unless Iris returned earlier. She wished she could have gone with her. Iris had a habit of acting impulsively and jumping to conclusions quickly. They were usually correct, but not always. Without Gwen there to—

  To what, exactly? Gwen herself had plunged into the rabbit hole of someone else’s past with nothing more than some old newspaper articles and an old man’s memory of a moment that could have meant any number of things. Yet it had felt right to her. Prince Andrea’s behaviour towards his wife and son had been shameful. If she had been in Princess Alice’s position, who knows what she would have reached out for to find solace? Not that Ronnie had ever given her any cause to. She doubted that he ever would have.

  And yet she had had less time with him, counting their actual days together—

  They married in June ’39. He joined the Fusiliers at the end of August, and after that, she only saw him when he was on leave. Then came the Battle of Monte Cassino, and she was a widow.

  She added up all the time they’d actually spent together as a married couple.

  Somewhere between five and six months. Out of five years.

  Barely any time at all, when you get right down to it. She had mentioned that to Dr. Milford, and he had shaken his head in sympathy.

  “The pity of it is, you weren’t together long enough to have a normal human experience,” he pointed out. “He died before you learned all of his flaws, so he’s a paragon forever. That may be what’s holding you back from starting over again.”

  “The bar’s set too high?”

  “Perhaps.”

  The telephone jangled, startling her out of her misery.

  “The Right Sort Marriage Bureau,” she said. “Mrs. Bainbridge speaking.”

  “I’m calling for Oona Travis or Catherine Prescott,” said a man’s voice.

  Her alarms went off. Patience hadn’t said anything about anyone else knowing those names.

  “I am afraid you have the wrong number,” she said. “I’m sorry.”

  She hung up. A moment later, it rang again. She answered after the first ring.

  “Sorry, Gwen,” said Lady Matheson. “A tiny little test. You passed.”

  “Really, Patience, I should think we’re beyond these games by now.”

  “Is Iris with you?”

  “No. She’s pursuing a lead. She should be back by lunch.”

  “A lead? That sounds interesting. Look, I hate to put you on the spot, but have you come up with anything by now?”

  “A theory,” said Gwen reluctantly. “A plausible possibility for what your letter-writer may be trying to do.”

  “Tell me,” said Lady Matheson.

  Gwen laid out the essentials. When she was done, there was silence on the other end of the line that lasted for a while.

  “I may have to put you in my book under ‘Prophetess’ after this,” said Lady Matheson finally.

  “What happened?” asked Gwen. “Has there been another letter?”

  “This morning,” said Lady Matheson. “It contains demands and instructions. And there was a second letter with it. An older one, dated from 1919. Addressed to Princess Alice.”

  “My God,” said Gwen, her heart racing. “Is it authentic?”

  “Impossible to say. It was signed with only a single initial, and we have no others to which to compare it.”

  “And the demands? The instructions?”

  “Have you any appointments this afternoon?”

  “None.”

  “No one looks for wedded bliss on a Friday afternoon,” Lady Matheson said, sighing. “Good. Clear your decks from two thirty on. We’re coming over.”

  She hung up.

  Gwen sat frozen, the handset still in her hand, then slowly took a pen and crossed out the afternoon slots in their appointment book. Then, before she could forget, she wrote “HAMLEYS” in her lunch break.

  * * *

  Iris glanced at her watch. She had been maintaining her vigil for nearly an hour. Whenever an auto approached, she walked down the street until it passed, then returned to the chestnut tree that shielded her from view of the house. A woman walking an Airedale terrier looked at her curiously, the dog even more so, but Iris squatted down and made cooing noises as she rubbed his head, and they parted without aroused suspicions.

  She thought she would give Madame Bousquet until noon, then give up. A few minutes short of her deadline, she was rewarded by the sight of the Frenchwoman walking briskly towards the intersection. Iris slid behind the tree and waited until she walked by her. Then she followed, waiting until they were close to the town center before increasing her stride and coming up beside her.

  “Hello again,” Iris said.

  Madame Bousquet glanced at her, then her eyes grew wide in surprise. Or was it fear? “Go away,” she said.

  Fear. Definitely fear, thought Iris. Why?

  “I wouldn’t be the crack reporter that I am if I did that,” she said with what she hoped was a reassuring smile. “Look, this can be off the record, but once I have a lead on a story, I am very hard to get rid of.”

  “Please, I cannot. They told me—”

  She stopped.

  “Who told you?” asked Iris. “Who are they? How did they know about me?”

  Madame Bousquet merely shook her head despondently.

  “Come on! This happened twenty-five years ago. Nobody cares about it but me. If it’s a question of money—”

  “It is not money!” blurted out Madame Bousquet. “They—No, I cannot. Please go away.”

  “They? Who?” asked Iris. “Are you being threatened? I can help you. I have friends who can protect you.”

  “I lose my position,” said Madame Bousquet. “My husband loses his position. We are not young anymore. New positions for a couple are difficult. I cannot talk to you.”

  “Then point me to someone who can,” said Iris. “You were the lady’s maid to the daughters. Give me the name of Alice’s maid and where I can find her, and I’ll leave you alone. No one will know that we spoke.”

  Madame Bousquet hesitated, looking around.

  “There is no one here to see us,” said Iris. “If you’re still unsure, whisper the name, then walk away from me like you’re angry. I don’t reveal my sources. It’s the code of the journalist.”

  Though not of the spy, she thought.

  “Vivienne,” whispered Madame Bousquet. “Vivienne Ducognon. She is on staff of Mrs. Calvert in London.”

  “Which Mrs. Calvert?”

  “That is all I know. Now leave me alone!”

  This last was spoken loudly enough to be heard to the end of the block. Madame Bousquet abruptly turned and stormed away, leaving Iris standing there openmouthed in what she hoped would present a suitable picture of shock and frustration. Then she closed it and trudged dispiritedly back to the station. She wasn’t followed, as far as she could tell.

  But she was much more mindful of the possibility that she might be.

  Who got to Madame Bousquet? she wondered. Their mystery correspondent? He had to suspect that his letter would set off alarms. Was he covering his tracks by reaching out to threaten witnesses? After all, if one has the temerity to blackmail ro
yalty, one would hardly pause at blackmailing a servant.

  She had better find Vivienne Ducognon before he did.

  It wasn’t until she was safely aboard the London-bound train that she opened her notebook and jotted down “Vivienne Ducognon. Mrs. Calvert.” She didn’t know any Calverts, but the number of women in London employing experienced French lady’s maids was finite.

  And there was always Gwen. Gwen was bound to know her. At that level of society, she knew everyone.

  Damn her.

  * * *

  Gwen looked at her watch. Twelve thirty and no Iris. She didn’t want to have this meeting with Patience alone. She lacked the expertise that Iris had in matters … well, criminal, if one were to call them by their right name. Not that she suspected Iris of ever doing anything illegal unrelated to her wartime duties, or for a good cause, as she had demonstrated in their recent investigation.

  Not that she thought Iris would do anything risky for the mere fun of it.

  Yet she was dating a gangster, and still carried her lock-picks and a knife and God knows what other apparatus in her handbag. A grenade, perhaps? A sawed-off shotgun? Dynamite?

  I need a bigger handbag, thought Gwen.

  She glanced at the appointment book for the umpteenth time that morning. The word HAMLEYS seemed to float up from the page and dance accusatorially in front of her eyes.

  Right. Promise made to a child’s mother. Deadline looming.

  She dashed off a note to Iris, stuck it in the keys of her typewriter, then left the office, the clock placard hung on the outer door knob guaranteeing her return.

  Hamleys was on Regents Street, only a few blocks away. The largest toy store in London—in the entire world, proclaimed their sign. Five storeys of merchandise backed up this boast. Children clustered in front, pointing, begging and yelling, yanking their protesting mothers and nannies along as they succumbed to the mesmerising pull of the window displays. Bursting into uncontrollable sobs as they, in turn, were yanked away from the treasures that were so close yet just out of reach.

  Gwen couldn’t remember the last time she had been there. Little Ronnie and she had spent the war in the country, safely away from the Blitz. And then she went away for a while herself. She had never been to Hamleys with her own son, she thought with a shock. She would have to rectify that omission now that she was—