A Prince and a Spy

by Rory Clements

  Wilde turned to Quayle for guidance. He was puzzled by the wing commander’s intransigence.

  Quayle shrugged helplessly, then smiled at the RAF man. ‘Mr Wilde is only doing what his president has asked, wing commander. Mr Roosevelt is extremely concerned about the crash. He was very close to the Duke and is devastated by his death.’

  Frayne failed to suppress an exasperated sigh. ‘What you have to realise is that this is an operational base in the middle of a damned grisly conflict. Kill or be killed, as the cliché goes. Only in this case it’s not a bloody cliché, it’s real life – every hour of every day, somewhere in the world one or more of our men is killed. Our surviving men lose friends a great deal too frequently and so they go to the mess to drown their sorrows and remind themselves they are still alive. Death is not a subject for the officers’ mess.’

  Wilde realised this was going nowhere. ‘In which case, perhaps you would tell me your theory, wing commander – how did the crash happen?’

  The officer looked resigned. He and his two visitors were all standing with whisky glasses in hand. Wilde noticed that Quayle’s was already empty; he really was an impressive drinker.

  Frayne exchanged glances with Quayle. Wilde had already deduced that they must have discussed him beforehand.

  ‘Very well,’ Frayne said at last. ‘I’ll tell you what I think, Professor Wilde, but it goes no further than this room.’

  ‘I can’t quite promise that, I’m afraid. I have to report to my own boss in London, and he’ll talk to FDR. But that’s all.’

  ‘Then make it clear to them, that this is for their ears only.’ He paused, emitted a low groan. ‘It was pilot error. That’s the brutal truth of it.’

  ‘Really? I thought the pilot was among your very finest.’

  ‘I hate to say it, because it sounds as if I’m being disloyal to a very good man – and perhaps I am – but the captain of the aircraft was responsible. His name was Flight Lieutenant Frank Goyen. I knew him well and it causes me great pain to point the finger at him.’

  ‘Why are you so certain?’

  ‘Everything suggests it. No hint of enemy action or sabotage, no suggestion of engine failure. Had to be human error. He had plenty of time to reach a safe altitude and, anyway, even if he hadn’t, then he should have stayed over the sea.’

  ‘What about a navigation error?’

  ‘That’s the only possible alternative – but this flying boat had the most up-to-date systems aboard: long-distance radar, brand-new compass. Navigating in fog should have posed no problems.

  ‘And Goyen was the most senior man aboard the plane?’

  ‘In theory, the Duke was the most senior man. He was an air commodore. But in operational terms, the senior officer was Wing Commander Moseley, Officer Commanding 228 Squadron, presently based at Oban. But the man in the number-one pilot’s seat aboard Short Sunderland 4026 was Goyen – and so he was the captain of the flight, and is therefore to blame for any mishap. He flew too low, and turned too early. A few miles further north he would have been over the flatlands of Caithness and it would have been quite correct to turn inland to save fuel.’

  ‘You mentioned the fog. Even with top-class instruments, surely a flier could be disoriented?’ Wilde said.

  ‘That is for the inquiry to decide. But there is no doubt in my mind that Frank Goyen – an otherwise fine pilot who was considered experienced enough to fly Sir Stafford Cripps to Moscow last year – made a disastrous error of judgement in this case. The board of inquiry will almost certainly concur.’

  Wilde was puzzled. ‘I take it Wing Commander Moseley was a pilot too?’

  ‘Indeed, a very experienced man.’

  ‘Then if he wasn’t the pilot in this case, why was he aboard the plane?’

  ‘That’s an operational matter. I have no information on such things and even if I did, I couldn’t release it.’

  ‘But isn’t that unusual for the senior man not to be in the captain’s seat?’

  ‘I can’t comment.’

  ‘Did you see the Duke on Tuesday, the day of his flight?’

  Frayne hesitated.

  Wilde pressed on. ‘He flew out of here – surely you would have made it your business to welcome him and see him safely away?’

  ‘Yes, of course. He lunched in the mess soon before departure. Look, Mr Wilde, this is beginning to sound very much like an interrogation . . .’

  ‘Forgive me.’

  Walter Quayle stepped forward. ‘Let’s leave it there, shall we?’

  Wilde stiffened. He knew he was being given the run-around, and these men – the RAF chief and Walter Quayle – had a script and were sticking to it. His first instinct was to pull rank and demand answers, but he knew that would get him nowhere and would be reported back to the Air Ministry. It might be more productive to simply smile and keep them onside. ‘You’re right, Quayle. And we’ll need an early start.’

  He held out his hand to the RAF officer. ‘Thank you so much for your help, wing commander. Perhaps I could call in on you once again on my way southwards.’

  ‘Of course, Professor Wilde, you will be very welcome here at any time. Just clear it with my office by telephone. In the meantime, thank you for being so understanding.’

  ‘Oh, just one thought before we go . . .’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I believe the Duke was a pilot. Is it possible he took the controls himself?’

  Again the RAF officer hesitated, then chose his words with care. ‘There is no reason to believe so.’

  Chapter 6

  Quayle had requisitioned a dilapidated Ford and an RAF driver named Corporal Boycott, who turned his mouth down at the sight of the car and assured them in a Yorkshire accent that the vehicle was unlikely to last the sixty-odd miles to Dunbeath.

  ‘You’re a driver,’ Quayle said. ‘You must know how to keep a car on the road.’

  The corporal, who had told them proudly that he hailed from ‘God’s own county’, took a deep draw on his cigarette, then blew out a cloud of smoke and winked. ‘Don’t you worry yourself, Mr Quayle, I’m a mechanical wizard, me. I’ll get you there.’

  ‘And you won’t be puffing on that thing when you drive. Professor Wilde and I are non-smokers.’

  Boycott took another drag. ‘Can’t live long without me smokes.’

  ‘You’ll do as you’re damn well told.’

  After rain in the early hours, the day was hazy but dry. As they bounced along a narrow road, pitted, muddy and winding, Wilde was constantly aware of military installations and army traffic. He and Quayle sat in the rear seat and discussed the air crash. Every few minutes, Quayle took out a large flask of whisky and offered it to his fellow passenger.

  ‘A little early for me.’

  ‘You haven’t heard of the skalk? It’s the tradition in these parts – to drink whisky before breakfast. Must observe local customs, professor.’

  Wilde waved the flask away, and Quayle continued to drink.

  ‘What about the others aboard the flight?’ Wilde said. ‘So far, I’ve only heard about the Duke, Goyen the pilot, Wing Commander Mosely and the sole survivor, rear gunner Andrew Jack. Who else died?’

  Walter Quayle removed a notebook from his jacket pocket. ‘I’ve got them all here. Pilot Officer Sidney Smith, Pilot Officer George Saunders, Flight Sergeant William Jones, Flight Sergeant Charles Lewis, Flight Sergeant Edward Hewerdine, Sergeant Edward Blacklock, Sergeant Roland Catt, Sergeant Leonard Sweett. That’s the crew accounted for. The passengers were the Duke’s private secretary Lieutenant John Crowther, his air equerry Pilot Officer Michael Strutt and his batman Leading Aircraftman John Holes. As I understand it, that’s the full complement.’

  ‘That makes fifteen. Fourteen dead, one survivor.’

  ‘Indeed. Perfectly bloody.’

  ‘Do you have more information about them?’

  ‘Scraps. I can tell you that Saunders was down as navigator. And that five of the non-coms, inc
luding Andy Jack, were gunners. I’m sure more will come out about all of them in due course.’

  ‘And the purpose of the flight? The newspaper report said the Duke was on his way to Iceland to visit air bases. But do you believe that? This sounds like an extremely high-profile group for such an unexceptional mission.’

  Walter Quayle shrugged. ‘Oh, you know, the royals always like an entourage.’

  ‘But why fly from the east coast – wouldn’t it have made more sense to fly from Oban in the west? Surely that would have saved fuel and been more direct?’

  ‘As I understand it, the Duke wanted to visit Invergordon and Alness in his RAF inspection role. That would have been quite logical.’

  Wilde wasn’t convinced but he said nothing. He had to keep reminding himself that this was not supposed to be an investigation but a pilgrimage in honour of the President’s friend.

  Quayle frowned. ‘So what’s your theory, Wilde?’

  ‘I don’t have a theory, Quayle. Just wondering aloud because FDR will want to know what his friend was doing and why he died. And I’m the one he’ll ask.’ He left it there and remained silent for a few minutes, trying to work out where else the Duke could have been heading. The tale of the Iceland trip might be true. Or it might not. But then he began to wonder whether he was suspecting conspiracies where none existed. It would not have been the first time; that’s what came of being an authority on the devious workings of the Elizabethan spy chief Francis Walsingham. One tended to see plots everywhere.

  The road became worse – damaged by the hundreds of tracked vehicles that had passed this way in three years of war – and the ride was jarring. When they saw a hotel, the Cameron Arms, in the fishing village of Helmsdale, Corporal Boycott took it upon himself to pull in to the kerb outside the entrance. ‘I’ll leave you two gents to refresh yourselves,’ he said. ‘Got to find a garage for fuel and a tyre check. Only twelve miles to go, but these roads don’t half take a toll.’

  ‘You mean you’re dying for a cigarette,’ Quayle suggested.

  ‘Now that you mention it, sir, that sounds like a pretty fair idea.’

  ‘Go on, corporal – sod off. Be back in twenty minutes.’

  At the front of the hotel, looking out on to a walled harbour full of fishing boats, Quayle and Wilde settled into two worn leather armchairs and ordered a pot of tea, the only available beverage at that time of day. When their order arrived, Wilde asked the waitress, a motherly woman of about fifty, where he could find a lavatory, then wandered off in search of it. On his way back, feeling a great deal fresher from washing his hands and splashing cold water on his face, he spotted the concierge – if that was the right word for the man at the desk in these untamed northerly climes – and approached him.

  ‘Can I have a word?’

  ‘Take your pick, there’s a fair few in the dictionary.’

  Wilde smiled, happy to play the fall guy to the man’s attempt at wit. ‘Well, it’s about the plane crash. Everyone around here must feel it very deeply.’

  ‘Is that so?’

  ‘Well, yes, it’s a tragic event. The King’s brother, all those others who died . . .’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘What are people saying in these parts? How did it happen?’

  ‘How did it happen? The plane crashed, that’s how it happened.’

  Wilde sighed. The man was probably the waitress’s husband and he felt a sudden rush of pity for her, having to live with such an obtuse man. ‘I mean, why did it happen?’

  ‘I know what you mean, feller. What I don’t know is who you are, and why you think it’s fine to go around asking such questions.’

  Wilde put out his hand as a gesture of introduction. ‘My name is Wilde. Professor Thomas Wilde. I’m American and I’m here to pay my respects on behalf of the President. He was a good friend of the Duke, godfather to his new baby.’

  The deskman ignored Wilde’s offer of a handshake. ‘Then you probably know a great deal more than I do, Mr Wilde.’

  ‘This village must be quite close to the crash site, though.’

  ‘Oh, you’ve got a little further to go, then you’ll have to climb out of your fancy motor car and use Shanks’s pony to get yourself across the moor.’

  ‘Can I ask your name, sir? Are you the owner of this hotel?’

  ‘That I am, and the name’s Cameron, just like the hotel itself. Hamish Cameron.’

  ‘Did you hear the crash?’

  ‘Och no.’

  ‘But maybe you heard the aircraft going overhead?’

  ‘Well, we get a lot of planes around here, as you might imagine.’

  ‘Did anyone see it?’

  ‘No one could have seen it. Thick fog all day. Couldn’t see ten feet in front of your nose. And fog will always deaden sound. Look, Mr Wilde, you might be better off talking to the folks up at Berriedale or Ramscraigs. It was a mile or two inland, from what I’ve been told, but those are the closest settlements.’

  Wilde was standing at one side of the desk, while old Cameron sat in front of an open register on the other side. As they were speaking, a young woman, small and dark, came down the gloomy and narrow staircase and took her place in line behind Wilde. She was carrying a rather battered valise. Wilde turned and smiled at her. ‘I beg your pardon, are you in a hurry?’

  ‘I just need to settle up.’

  ‘Of course, you go first. Don’t mind me.’ He turned back to Hamish Cameron. ‘Thank you for your time.’

  The woman nodded at Wilde by way of a thank you, then stepped forward. She leant across the desk, speaking quietly, but Wilde heard her. She was saying that she had lost her wallet and could she forward the money to the hotel later in the day.

  ‘I’m sorry, miss, we don’t extend credit,’ Cameron said in a voice too loud for privacy.

  ‘But I’ll be met at the other end and I’ll send the money back with Mr Morrison.’ She was entreating the hotel keeper as though her life depended on it. She gave him a seductive smile that would win over any man, but not Hamish Cameron.

  ‘Neither a borrower nor a lender be. You’ve stayed the night and you must pay.’

  ‘But what can I do? My money’s gone.’

  ‘Then that’s your problem and not mine.’

  Wilde stepped forward. ‘Forgive me, miss, I couldn’t help hearing . . .’

  She looked at him wide-eyed, either beseeching him or something else. Fear?

  ‘I have plenty of money. How much is the bill?’

  ‘Two pounds, two shillings and sixpence,’ the deskman said.

  Wilde removed his own wallet. ‘Would you allow me the honour of paying, miss?’

  ‘I’ll pay you back, Mr . . .’

  ‘Professor Wilde. And I don’t want the money back. Help someone else when they need it.’

  ‘I can’t thank you enough.’

  ‘Think nothing of it, miss . . .’ He waited for her to supply her name, but she didn’t oblige. He counted out the money and handed it over to Cameron. ‘There you go.’

  The young woman touched his arm and their eyes met briefly. She mouthed the words ‘thank you’ again, and then she was gone out through the front door.

  Wilde shrugged. ‘Well, there you go, Mr Cameron.’

  ‘I have a business to run, not a charity.’

  Wilde returned to the lounge and drank his tea. It was weak and milky, as though the tea leaves had already been used for half a dozen pots.

  Through the window they saw the Ford pulling up. ‘Time to go,’ Quayle said.

  They paid for the tea and strolled out to the car. Wilde was just clambering into the back beside Quayle, when he hesitated. ‘One moment, Quayle, I just wanted a quick word with the man at the desk, see if he has rooms for this evening. We might need them, depending on the situation further north.’

  ‘Shall I come with you?’

  ‘No need, I’ll only be a sec.’

  He went back to Cameron and discovered that there were r
ooms available. ‘Dinner’s at six, no later. Mrs Cameron does the cooking herself. We have soup and fish this evening. Shall I book you gentlemen in?’

  ‘I’ll call you a little later. By the way, what was the young lady’s name?’

  Cameron frowned as though affronted by the question. ‘That would be her business, Mr Wilde. I’m not after tittle-tattling.’

  ‘Of course not, just curious. Thought she might need a lift somewhere – we have an extra seat in the car.’

  ‘Well, you’re too late because she’s already gone with Morrison in his taxicab. And in the other direction. Maybe she’ll even find some money to pay him. Who knows with a floozy like that?’

  Wilde resisted giving the man a piece of his mind. ‘Well, we may see you later.’

  He nodded to the hotelier with a false smile that was not reciprocated and wandered back to the car. Hamish Cameron might not have given him the woman’s name, but he knew it now anyway. He had seen her name in the register: Claire Hart.

  The name meant nothing to him, but for some reason he was intrigued. From the few words he heard, he would say she was well spoken, as though the product of an expensive girls’ school. Certainly no floozy. The other thing he could not help noticing was that she was quite extraordinarily good-looking, rather like an unpolished version of Vivien Leigh.

  Chapter 7

  As they carried on northwards on the short last leg, Wilde found his thoughts returning to the woman in the hotel. Somehow she didn’t fit in this rugged part of the world. If he were walking through Belgravia and saw her, he might not have given her a second glance. But here, in this land of rocky coastlines, gun emplacements, windswept mountains and moors, she was out of place, which instantly aroused his interest.

  It occurred to him that she might be a reporter covering the plane crash. And yet her accent was not Scottish, and surely the national newspapers would have sent journalists from their offices in Edinburgh or Glasgow or Inverness. Would it not also be a matter that the Ministry of Information might have a say in? Would they want reporters sniffing around in this region?