A Royal Affair

by Allison Montclair

The letters rushed headlong into passion.

  I cannot bear to be without you …

  I must see you or I will lose my mind …

  He will be away for three days …

  There’s an inn on the Ruopigenstrasse. I have taken a room there under the name Schmidt …

  This is madness! We cannot continue, but I cannot stop …

  No one can find out.

  No one will find out.

  How you made me feel last night—I did not even know such things were possible …

  She reread that one a few times. One could always count on German for exquisite detail.

  You have asked about Nancy …

  Nancy?

  Yes, I still intend to marry her. I must, for the sake of the family. She has money. She can help us.

  He had a fiancée! She didn’t know Christo’s story. She would have to ask Iris. Not a Greek or German, with that name. English? American? Rich, in any case, and an extended royal family in exile is not inexpensive to maintain.

  She read on.

  But that cannot stop us. Our love is a True Love, a Higher Love than exists on this mortal plane.

  Oh please, scoffed Gwen. The mortal plane is the one where you’re both horizontal. Spare us the spiritual blather.

  The affair continued—stolen moments, private outings, those long, long “walks.” Alice’s legs must have been in superb condition. Then came the wedding.

  My darling,

  How hard it was to see the two of you together, holding hands as everyone applauded, knowing that you now belong to this woman. They intend to give her a title: Princess Anastasia. Princess! When all she did was marry a fortune, then bury the man who made it.

  Know that I am yours any time you want me. I don’t care anymore if we are found out.

  Forever, A.

  My heart,

  We must be more cautious than ever, but I will find a way …

  And apparently, he did. Well, if he didn’t care about her marriage, or his brother’s, why should he care about his own?

  But all good things must come to an end, and so must the bad.

  They had gone to Lugano for the summer months of 1920. Events in Greece were mentioned. Martial law was abolished, with the pendulum of national sympathy swinging back to the royal family. Alexander, the nephew, just months away from his fatal simian encounter, was on the throne, his own marriage a scandal. The brothers began to plot their next move, including Christo.

  My own darling C.,

  Andrea tells me that he intends to travel to Rome, with the intention of going to Athens once he determines that he will be welcome there. My heart leaps in anticipation! Our world will open up with him away for so long …

  My love,

  I am going with him. Family and national affairs demand it …

  Then came one terse note from her, devoid of salutation:

  I must see you. Tonight. A.

  It was dated the second of September 1920.

  There was a small gap of time after that. A hastily scrawled note from him, apparently from Rome, describing their journey and safe arrival, with the postscript:

  I cannot stop thinking about you, the loveliness of your nude, white form under the moonlight, like an alabaster statue of a goddess …

  All right, never heard that from my husband, thought Gwen, grinning to herself. But we never ran naked in the moonlight.

  And never will, more’s the pity.

  She grabbed for a handkerchief as the tears caught her, couldn’t find one, and ended up running one gloved arm across her eyes, leaving two jagged wet streaks across the satin.

  Damn you, Ronnie. Why did you have to be so heroic?

  The next letter abandoned all pretense to poetry.

  C.,

  Our last encounter has had unintended consequences. I am with child. I had suspected as much before you left, and took the precaution of bedding my husband under the pretext of wanting one last time with him before he went on his dangerous journey. His ego overcame his long coldness towards me, and I feigned—well, he will be satisfied that it is his. But it is not, I am certain of it. The timing will be satisfactory to any prying eyes, but I had to tell you. It will be our secret, a symbol of our Love, binding us forever …

  A.,

  Speak no further of this. Write nothing of it. I am returning all of your letters—I wanted to burn them on the spot, but I couldn’t. The child belongs to my brother. I take no further responsibility for it, or for you …

  C.,

  This cannot be! We are destined to be lovers, on this and all higher planes …

  C.,

  Why do you no longer correspond?

  C.,

  I shall go mad …

  That was the last one. Gwen folded it with a sigh and glanced at the clock. It was one thirty.

  I shall go mad.

  And she did, according to all reports. This could have been a plausible explanation for it, as well as for Andrea’s subsequent abandonment.

  The letters would certainly destroy any hope of marriage between Elizabeth and Philip, should they come to the public’s attention. Or even the private attention of the Crown.

  And they were fakes.

  * * *

  Archie walked casually up to a maintenance building on the grounds of the East Ham Jewish Cemetery and knocked on the door. The lid of the peephole slid aside. A second later, the door opened, and the caretaker looked at him.

  “’Allo, Reg,” said Archie. “I’ve come to pay me respects.”

  “You would pick a Sunday,” said Reg, letting him in. “The place is swarming.”

  “Which is why I brought ’im in on a Saturday night,” said Archie as he came in. “Didn’t think you’d be busy.”

  “I’ve got a life, too,” said Reg. “What if I ’ad a date?”

  “Then you’d break it,” said Archie. “Because when I call the tune, you dance. ’Ow’s ’e doing?”

  “Ask ’im yourself,” said Reg, opening a door to the stairs to the basement.

  Archie went down to a dank room where another man sat at a table, playing solitaire.

  “Afternoon, Owen,” said Archie. “I brought you the Telegraph.” He tossed the paper onto the table.

  “Ta,” said Owen, without looking up. “Doc told me to change ’is dressing every four hours. Like I’m a bleedin’ nurse now.”

  “If you wanter take a break, get something to eat, I’ll watch ’im for a while. ’As ’e said anything?”

  “Said thanks to the doc, nothin’ else,” said Owen, picking up the paper. “I’ll be back.”

  Archie waited until Owen had left, then took a key from a hook on the wall and unlocked a door next to it. He pulled a ski mask from his coat, put it on, then went in.

  The captured man lay on a cot, his hand bandaged more professionally than the Bainbridge woman had done. The other hand was secured by a length of chain to a bolt in the wall.

  The man was awake, and sat up as Archie entered. “You again,” he said.

  “You know who I am?” asked Archie.

  “The boss man from last night.”

  “That’s right,” said Archie. “You got a sharp eye.”

  The man shrugged.

  “You got a name?” asked Archie.

  “Do you?”

  “Yeah, but I already know mine. ’Ow about giving me yours, then we can get on with the conversation.”

  “Stuff it.”

  “In that case, ’ow about the names of your next of kin?” said Archie.

  “Mr. and Mrs. Stuff It.”

  Archie grinned, then took a stool from the far corner of the room and placed it next to the cot. “Don’t get any cute ideas about trying for me,” he warned the man as he sat down.

  “You don’t think I could take you?”

  “No point. I don’t ’ave the keys to the cuffs. And no, I don’t think you could take me, not that I’m looking to show off or nothing. A couple of women took you down last
night, so I don’t think I need to worry.”

  “Are you trying to scare me?”

  “You strike me as someone ’oo don’t scare easy,” said Archie. “You should be scared. I would be, in your situation.”

  “Miss Sparks wants me alive,” said the man.

  “Miss Sparks doesn’t call the shots ’ere.”

  “That’s not what I saw last night. She the real boss?”

  “I’m the real boss. She is paying me for your temporary quarters.”

  “Yeah, twenty-five quid a day through Tuesday. And then you let me go.”

  “Maybe,” said Archie. “My inclination is to dump you in the river.”

  “But Sparks wants me alive. She your girl?”

  “She’s her own girl.”

  “Because I got the idea you fancied her.”

  “I don’t give a rat’s balls what ideas you ’ave.”

  “Then why are we talking?”

  “We ’aven’t talked yet. I’m ’ere out of, let’s call it professional interest. I gather you were part of some blackmail scheme. Nice racket, pays well when it works, but what interests me is I don’t know you, and I make a point of knowing people ’oo travel the shady side of the street. None of me lads know you, either. Your accent is London, no doubt about it, so if this was regular work for you, we would ’ave crossed paths at some point or another. So, what are you?”

  “Just a chap trying to get two bob to rub against each other,” said the man.

  “Aren’t we all?”

  “Did Miss Sparks tell you everything about our little transaction?”

  “She did.”

  “So you know about the five thousand pounds.”

  “I do.”

  “No, you don’t,” said the man. “A top spiv like you wouldn’t have walked away from a payday that large and that easy. Three of you, two of them, me on the floor. I saw you. You were surprised the blonde had ready money on her to pay for these lovely accommodations.”

  “Say, for the sake of argument, that I didn’t know about the five thousand,” said Archie. “What’s your point?”

  “You let me loose, I’ll tell you where to find the money.”

  “’Ow do I know you’re telling the truth? That this money even exists?”

  “That was the payoff for me turning over the letters. They got the letters, I never got the payoff, but I know they have it, because I got a glimpse before things went haywire. Cut me loose, and I’ll tell you more.”

  “Maybe you just told me all I need to know,” said Archie.

  “You need to know about who you’re dealing with.”

  “Tell me your name, then.”

  “Oh, I’m not talking about me,” said the man. “I’m talking about your girl. I know all about Iris Sparks. You know she worked for Intelligence during the war? Special Operations, amongst others.”

  “So I gathered,” said Archie.

  “Did she tell you herself?” scoffed the man. “You must be a special one for her to let that slip. Yeah, I know Iris Sparks. I used to work that territory, too. Very popular with the lads, was our Iris, but there wasn’t a one she fancied that she didn’t turn on in the end. Sometimes she breaks their hearts, sometimes she leaves them bleeding in warehouses. Ask her what really happened at Poplar Dock yesterday if you don’t believe me.”

  “And the five thousand?”

  “That information comes with a price. That’s what I traffic in. You see, that’s why you don’t know me, but I know you, Archie Spelling. I play in a much higher league than you and your boys do, and my associates eat spivs for breakfast.”

  “If what you’re telling me is true, then I can find the money easy enough without you,” said Archie, getting to his feet and moving the stool back to the corner.

  “Probably,” agreed the man.

  “And you telling me my name only makes it more likely that you go for a one-way vertical swim.”

  “Very likely. But if I’m telling the truth about Sparks and the money, then I’m also telling the truth about who I work with. So no, I’m not scared. Maybe you should be. I would be, in your situation.”

  “I’ll give it some thought,” said Archie.

  “You do that, Archie Spelling. Remember—no woman is worth five thousand pounds.”

  Archie walked out and locked the door, leaving the man alone in the unlit, windowless room.

  There in the dark, he smiled.

  * * *

  Iris rang the bell at the Bainbridge residence. A minute later, a butler opened the door.

  “Oh, you must be Percival!” she exclaimed. “I recognised you straightaway. Mrs. Bainbridge has described you to a T. ‘In a world that aspires to be distinguished, he is the one man who truly is.’”

  “She said that?” asked Percival, almost imperceptibly flustered. “About me?”

  “Her very words, or near enough. Oh my goodness, I haven’t introduced myself. Miss Iris Sparks, here to see Mrs. Bainbridge. Is she feeling better? She was not looking well after dinner last night. I thought she might have ingested a bad clam somewhere along the way. I wanted to look in on her and see how she is doing.”

  “I will see if she is up to receiving visitors, Miss Sparks,” said Percival, holding the door open. “Please come and sit in the parlour whilst I enquire.”

  She went inside and looked around. The parlour could have contained her entire flat. A large painting depicting the current Lord and Lady Bainbridge, shortly after their marriage, dominated the near wall. In it, Lady Carolyne was sitting on a dark blue upholstered high-backed chair, strands of white pearls hanging from her neck, her brunette hair curled quite prettily in ringlets draped over each shoulder. She was slender then, the sort of woman people of the time would have described as handsome rather than beautiful. Lord Bainbridge stood behind her, both hands resting on the top of the chair, wearing a black tailcoat over a gray waistcoat, a red carnation the only spot of colour on him.

  Neither of them was smiling. The expression caught on his face by the artist was one of stern judgment. Hers was—well, Iris may have been reading too much into it, but it seemed to be one of resignation.

  Percival returned.

  “Mrs. Bainbridge will receive you in her bedchamber,” he said. “Millicent is waiting for you at the top of the staircase, and will take you from there.”

  “Thank you, Percival,” said Iris.

  She walked up the staircase, where a young maid curtsied and led her down a hallway. She stopped at a door and knocked respectfully.

  “Miss Sparks is here to see you, ma’am,” she said.

  “Thank you, Millie,” called Gwen from inside. “Send her in, then close the door, please.”

  Millie opened the door. Iris entered to see Gwen lying in melodramatic repose, the covers pulled up to her neck.

  “Oh, my dear Miss Sparks,” she gasped. “So good of you to visit me in my distress.”

  Iris waited until Millie had closed the door behind her, then grinned. “We’re safe,” she said.

  Gwen immediately sat up, revealing her opera gloves.

  “Hello, Gilda,” said Iris. “Are we putting the blame on Mame now?”

  Gwen looked at her quizzically.

  “Gilda?” repeated Iris.

  “Sorry, not getting it,” said Gwen. “Who is Gilda?”

  “The Rita Hayworth flicker? Where she does the glove-and-gown strip, only it’s just the one glove?”

  “Oh,” said Gwen, getting out of bed and peeling off the gloves. “Let’s see. I spent the latter half of forty-four in the sanatorium where they wouldn’t let me watch the weekly films for fear they would upset me. Since then I’ve been living in this house doing my best to mother a small boy, which at times reaches a level of insanity greater than the one that had me institutionalised. Apart from cowboy movies and Make Mine Music, I haven’t seen anything. Certainly nothing with a striptease number.”

  “What’s Make Mine Music?”

  “Disney cartoo
ns.”

  “How was it?”

  “Little Ronnie loved it. That’s all that mattered.”

  “We should go out and see a movie. It would be nice to have a night out together that didn’t involve either murder or psychotherapy.”

  “I’d like that very much.”

  “So, explain the gloves.”

  “I didn’t want to leave fingerprints on the letters, and I left my wrist gloves at the office.”

  “How were the letters?”

  “They paint a lurid picture of an affair between Alice and Andrea’s youngest brother, Christo, while they were in exile in Switzerland, complete with the implication that he fathered Prince Philip.”

  “My, my. How lurid?”

  “Downright explicit at times. Rather stimulating, if one goes for that sort of thing.”

  “Yet you kept the gloves on.”

  “I did, in case the forger left any prints.”

  “Forger? They don’t match Alice’s handwriting from the earlier letters?”

  “Oh, the handwriting looks to be the same to my untutored eye, but the content gave it away. In this one, in particular.” She held one up.

  Iris plopped down on the bed next to her and read it. “Nope, not seeing it,” she said when she had finished.

  “Then I am one up on you,” said Gwen. “It might be worthwhile getting an expert to look at them, in case my opinion isn’t enough to satisfy the authorities.”

  “Which authorities?”

  “Maybe the police, maybe whoever in your lot handles conspiracies,” said Gwen. “If these letters are being forged, then the forger, or his employers, are trying to set someone up.”

  “Prince Philip, presumably.”

  “I’m not so sure anymore. Someone went to a lot of trouble to fake these, and I don’t think they did it just to throw a scare into our young princess. Too many violent men are coming out of the woodwork for that. This smacks of being part of a larger plan. But you’ve already thought of that, haven’t you? Here’s what I’ve been thinking: what if Princess Elizabeth was never meant to be the intended recipient of the extortion request?”

  “It was addressed to her.”

  “And intercepted by the woman in charge of screening her letters, who acted accordingly.”