A Prince and a Spy

by Rory Clements

  Christie took Wilde up to the third floor. From somewhere far below, the building shuddered, like the thunder of a battleship’s engines coming to life.

  ‘The presses are starting to roll,’ the newspaperman said.

  ‘How late will you be working?’

  ‘Three in the morning, probably. Later if something happens. You never know these days – exciting stuff emerging from the Russian front.’

  ‘And Egypt?’

  Christie sucked in air through his teeth. ‘Can’t even bear to think about what Edward’s up to, Tom. Anyway, here we are.’ He pushed open the library door and they approached a wooden counter. ‘I’ll introduce you to Arkwright the librarian and he’ll help you find your mystery woman. If you ask him nicely, he’ll show you down to the editorial floor when you’re done. And then we can go for a drink – you look in dire need of a drink. And food, for that matter.’

  *

  Arkwright was ancient and moved through his library with the plodding resignation of a pit pony whose entire life had been spent without sunlight. Wilde stood on the other side of the counter, waiting. A few minutes later, the white-haired retainer returned with a shake of his head. ‘No Harriet Hartwell,’ he said.

  ‘Any other Hartwells?’

  ‘A few. I’ll bring them to you and you can look through them, Mr Wilde.’ Moments later he was slapping a dozen envelopes on the counter in front of Wilde.

  ‘Thank you.’

  Some of the envelopes were quite new, others old and torn and yellowed. All were packed with newspaper cuttings going back fifty or more years, detailing the doings of various people – both rich and poor, sporting and criminal – sharing very little except their surname. Still no sign of a Harriet. Perhaps the one in the passport was the daughter or wife of one of these men, but there was no way of knowing.

  Arkwright shuffled back. ‘Any joy, professor?’

  ‘No, nothing.’ He decided to take a gamble and removed the passport from his pocket, opening it to the photograph page. ‘This is the young lady. You must see a lot of photographs, Mr Arkwright – I don’t suppose you’ve ever seen her, have you?’

  The librarian studied it closely. ‘No, sir, it means nothing, I’m afraid. But I’ve had another idea. Our snappers are very poor spellers as a rule. Let me try some other names – Harwell without the “t”, for instance. Can I borrow the passport for a few minutes?’

  Wilde handed it over.

  ‘This could take a little time. Would you like a cup of tea while you’re waiting, sir? I’ve got a brew on.’

  ‘That would be very nice, thank you.’

  Wilde and Arkwright went through all the Harwells and several other permutations besides. A grainy photograph of an attractive woman named Charlotte Hartley seemed almost possible, but Wilde wasn’t convinced.

  An hour and a half later they found her. She was in a file named Harriet Harlow. It contained a single cutting from the society page of a rival Fleet Street publication, dated July 1942, just over a month ago. A group of half a dozen people were raising their glasses in some sort of nightclub. Harriet Hartwell was in the picture but the photographer had taken her name down incorrectly, just as Arkwright had suggested might be the case.

  Nor was she the only person Wilde recognised in the picture. There were three famous people – the actress Mimi Lalique, the immensely rich Lord Templeman and the playwright Noël Coward. The caption placed them as denizens of the Dada Club in Soho, and said they were raising a toast to their old friend the Duke of Kent on the birth of his son Michael.

  In the newspaper picture, Harriet Hartwell was laughing and carefree. The woman Wilde recalled from the Cameron Arms in Helmsdale had been haunted and hurried. Or was that just his imagination running free with the benefit of hindsight?

  ‘Can I borrow this, Mr Arkwright?’

  ‘You can take it down to the editorial floor, but you can’t remove it from the building, I’m afraid.’

  Five minutes later, Wilde was sliding into a chair alongside Christie on the backbench – the powerhouse of the newspaper, where the next edition was developed and perfected. The ashtrays were overflowing and the sub-editors – all men, not a woman in sight – were lounging around waiting for work.

  ‘How did it go, Tom?’

  ‘Pretty good. Your man Arkwright is a miracle worker.’ He placed the cutting in front of his old friend. ‘Does this mean anything to you?’

  Christie studied the article. ‘Ah, the Dada Club . . .’

  ‘You’ve heard of it?’

  ‘Of course. It’s the haunt of the louche and lovely. Our dear departed Duke of Kent was a regular for many years until marriage, fatherhood and respectability were foisted on him by his unforgiving family. So your lady friend is one of that crew, is she?’

  ‘Well, she’s in the picture, although they’ve got her name wrong.’

  ‘Interesting bunch. Coward’s been a chum of the Duke for many years. I believe he was at the funeral service. Some mischievous gossip-mongers say their friendship went a little deeper than the Duke would like to have been made public.’ He stabbed the cutting with a nicotine-stained finger. ‘This is a rather snide little article actually.’

  ‘Why do you say that?’

  ‘Well, its true purpose is nothing to do with the birth of the Duke’s third child – it’s just a reminder of the poor Duke’s debauched past. Cheap gossip columnist’s trick. I don’t like it. Come on, Tom, the edition’s gone – let’s get out of here and find some sustenance.’

  ‘Can we go to the Dada Club?’

  ‘I think it’s probably a members-only joint, but no harm in trying. The world turns upside down in wartime. I’ll order us a car. The office driver will know how to find the place.’

  Chapter 12

  It was midnight. The street lights were out, but there was an almost-full moon. All they could see was a pile of bombed-out rubble. ‘Is that it?’ Christie demanded, nodding towards two stacks of sandbags with a space between.

  ‘Yes, sir, that’s all that’s left of the place up here,’ the driver said. ‘But then you go downstairs. The club’s undergound – still intact, I believe.’

  ‘Looks nothing more than a bloody hole in the wall.’

  They went down a few steps and came across a closed metal door. Christie knocked and it opened immediately on to a dimly lit check-in desk. A young woman with an insane tangle of very big hair was holding the door open. ‘Come in, come in,’ she said urgently, a thin roll-up hanging from her bottom lip. ‘You’re letting all the smoke out – I’ll die of fresh air!’

  Wilde and Christie stepped into a narrow passageway that led towards another short flight of steps. From somewhere not far away, the welcoming strains of a tenor sax and a great deal of conversation assailed their senses.

  ‘Now what can I do you gentlemen for?’ the hat-check girl demanded. She was tall and angular and wore a glitzy but flimsy sequined dress. ‘Haven’t seen you lovely chaps before.’

  ‘We’re looking for a girl.’

  ‘Well, I’m a girl – will I do? The name’s Tallulah.’

  ‘Nice to meet you, Tallulah, but we’re actually looking for someone else.’

  ‘Ah, a professional? Well, you’ve come to the wrong place. Tarts gather in the alley across the road. Only amateur boys and girls here. We do it for fun, not money.’ She laughed loudly.

  ‘Actually, a specific girl,’ Wilde continued. ‘Harriet Hartwell. Is she here?’

  ‘Darling sweet Harriet? No, no, haven’t seen her in a week or two, I’m afraid. But you know this is a members-only club, don’t you? I can’t really let you in – unless you’re signed in as guests by someone.’

  ‘Think of us as men lost in the desert,’ Wilde said hopefully. ‘If we don’t get a drink soon, we’re liable to die.’

  She smiled broadly. Her dazzling necklace caught his eye and she noticed the glance. ‘This, sweetie? Very expensive Baltic amber – a gift from my secret lover in exc
hange for the delicious things I do for him.’

  ‘Well, you could do a delicious thing for us – allow us in for one little drink.’

  ‘Is it an emergency?’

  ‘I think it probably is.’

  ‘Well, of course, if it’s an emergency, that’s another matter. Rules are only there to be broken. Come in – but don’t forget to bribe the door girl . . .’ She held out a bowl which already contained a few coins. Wilde tossed in half a crown.

  Downstairs, the bar was full of noise and smoke; there was scarcely room to move. It was showy and welcoming, just the sort of place Wilde had always loved, and the slow music was fine, too. Smoky red light picked out a saxophonist and a drummer, hemmed in on a tiny stage in the far corner. No one was taking much notice of them.

  The women all wore shimmering numbers that clearly had not required much hard-to-come-by fabric in their construction; some of the men wore Savile Row, but most wore officers’ uniforms.

  ‘Where do we start?’ Christie said, cupping his hand to Wilde’s ear to be heard above the din.

  ‘With a double, I think. Ease ourselves in. Not the kind of place to start questioning people ostentatiously.’

  ‘You know what, Tom? I think you’ll work better alone, so I’m going to leave you to it. Anyway, I need to get back to the office to make sure nothing’s come in from the Far East. It’s getting pretty hot out there by all accounts.’

  ‘One for the road?’

  ‘No. But call me if you need anything. I’ll be on the backbench until at least three. Have you got somewhere to sleep tonight?’

  ‘I’ll be fine. Thanks for your help, Ron – I’ll give you a call in the morning.’

  *

  Wilde stood at the bar nursing his Scotch and listening to the duo playing some hypnotic jazz. His eyes were becoming accustomed to the gloom and he noticed that the walls were covered in framed and signed photographs. Laurence Olivier, Jessie Matthews, Charlie Chaplin, Marlene Dietrich, Chips Channon, Evelyn Waugh, the ubiquitous Noël Coward, Lord Templeman again – and many others. It seemed like a roll call of the most celebrated names of the 1930s and 40s. There were other pictures, too. Groups of revellers from festive nights, rather like the one in the newspaper cutting.

  Wilde edged around the room, weaving his way through the drinkers, trying to look at the pictures closely, hoping to find another shot of Harriet Hartwell. He found several of the Duke of Kent in his younger, more disreputable days, including one of him between a beautiful young woman and a handsome man, his arms cradling them both. The Duke had been good-looking with an easy-going sparkle in his eye; he clearly loved the good life.

  There were no pictures of Harriet. Nothing to link her with the Duke. But Wilde did find something else: another picture of a group of party people, a picture that he almost passed with barely a glance, but then looked at with increasing interest and disbelief, trying to make out exactly what he was seeing. He squinted up close to be sure his eyes weren’t deceiving him.

  It was Peter Cazerove.

  Cazerove was a little behind the others and no more than half his face was visible. Unlike the other drinkers and dancers, he wasn’t smiling. He seemed out of place. But was it really him?

  ‘I believe you’re looking for dear Harriet . . .’

  Wilde turned at the voice and came face to face with Mimi Lalique. He had only ever seen her on screen before. Close up, she seemed a lot older than he had imagined her to be. Well into her fifties, if not beyond. Her face was lined and her makeup was poorly applied. Somehow, in his imagination, he had preserved her in the aspic of her silver screen days from the 1920s.

  ‘Ah, yes,’ he said, gathering himself. ‘Do you know where I might find her?’

  ‘Darling, we all want to know where she is. By the way, I don’t believe I know you.’

  ‘Wilde. Tom Wilde.’

  ‘Yes, a name is all very well, but who are you?’

  ‘I’m an American citizen resident in England, a history professor at Cambridge University.’

  ‘Well, Tom, that’s all very interesting, but what is your interest in our precious girl?’

  Wilde noted that Mimi Lalique did not deign to give her own name; she obviously just assumed everyone knew her.

  ‘I have something that belongs to her and I would like to return it.’

  ‘Well, if you give it to me, I’ll make sure she gets it when I see her next.’ Mimi’s long-fingered, rather bony hand snaked out, her palm open to receive whatever it was Wilde might be offering.

  ‘That’s very kind of you, but I’d rather give it to her myself.’

  The palm remained open a moment, then curled back into a little ball and retreated. ‘So tell me, what is this thing you have?’

  ‘I’m afraid I can’t say.’

  ‘How mysterious. I love a secret, Tom – do tell. I promise it will go no further.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Miss Lalique.’

  She laughed aloud. Her voice was croaky from years of smoking. ‘Miss Lalique!’

  ‘Did I say something funny?’

  ‘You sound like someone on set. Miss Lalique is ready for her close-up. Please ask Miss Lalique to grace us with the pleasure of her company. I’m Mimi, darling. Just plain old Mimi. Now then,’ she whispered, so close to his face that her foetid breath made him recoil, ‘no more teasing Mimi. I want to know about your interest in dear Harriet – I want all your scandalous secrets. Are you in love with her? It’s not a very exclusive club, you know.’

  What could he say to her? He had seen a woman fleetingly in a hotel lobby in the far north of Scotland, had given her a little money to pay her bill and had then seen a picture in a passport, which led him on to a second picture in a Fleet Street newspaper library, and now a third, showing a young former undergraduate who had killed himself with a poison capsule just six days earlier. No, he wasn’t going to tell this inquisitive stranger any of that.

  He had wanted to find Harriet Hartwell out of professional curiosity. Now, a chance encounter and three pictures later, he wanted to find her out of an overwhelming sense of dread. Bad things had happened and he had a horrible premonition that something worse was on its way, something to transcend a tragic suicide and a sickening plane crash.

  ‘Forgive me. I would love to tell you, Mimi, but I honestly can’t. It would be betraying a trust.’

  She sighed dramatically and planted a red lipstick kiss on his cheek. ‘Have it your own way, you naughty man. But stay, won’t you? Charge all your drinks to the house – and do come again. You’ll always find a welcome at the Dada. Just say you’re a friend of Mimi. And if you do find Harriet, treat her with care. She’s not like other people.’

  *

  It was long after midnight by the time Wilde decided he’d had enough of being importuned by strangers of both sexes – none of whom seemed remotely interested in the whereabouts of Harriet Hartwell, but all too interested in his athletic body. At last, he stumbled out of the Dada with Tallulah’s resistible offer of a bed for the night ringing in his ears.

  The moon was concealed by cloud. He wandered through Covent Garden, then down towards the Strand, intending to find his way back to Fleet Street. He was exhausted and needed somewhere to sleep. If Ron Christie was still at work, he’d take up his offer; he didn’t live far out – Dulwich, wasn’t it? – and would provide a bed or sofa for the night.

  A large building loomed out of the darkness. He could just make out the legend STRAND PALACE HOTEL. That would be better than taking advantage of Ron’s friendship; it was worth a shot, he decided, and walked into the lobby. He was in luck – there were rooms to spare. The old concierge found a key in the boxes behind his desk and held it out.

  ‘No luggage, sir?’

  Wilde had left his bag at the newspaper; it would be easy enough to fetch in the morning. ‘Nope, just me.’

  ‘Will anyone be joining you, Mr Wilde?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Would you like someone to
join you, sir? I could arrange it for you. Very good rates.’

  ‘No thanks. But I’d be glad of a toothbrush if you have such a thing.’

  ‘I’m afraid not, sir. Let me show you to your room. You’ll be on the second floor.’

  ‘I’ll find my own way up,’ Wilde said. He tipped the man and made his way upstairs. The room was comfortable enough. He loosened his tie and collapsed on the bed, his mind racing, circling around everything that had happened these past few days, and all the while desperate for sleep. The Dada Club had seemed like a cul-de-sac, but it wasn’t, was it? He knew it meant something.

  He took Harriet Hartwell’s passport out of his jacket pocket once more and flicked through it, looking for something he might have missed. It was all straightforward.

  Profession: Secretary. Place and date of birth: Clade, Suffolk, 8th May, 1917. Residence: Kensington. Height: 5ft 3in. Colour of eyes: brown. Colour of hair: dark brown. And that was all the personal information. There were a few pre-war visa stamps, including Germany, France, Switzerland, Italy and Egypt, but no recent stamp.

  Sleep wouldn’t come despite his exhaustion. He went downstairs to the concierge and asked for the London telephone directory. He looked up Hartwell but couldn’t find anyone of that name in Kensington. It was the only directory the hotel possessed. The clock on the wall said 1.30. Ron Christie might just be still at work.

  Despite his advancing years, the concierge had a quick wit and he was happy to help, likely expecting that a decent tip would find its way into his hand. Within a couple of minutes, he had found the newspaper’s number and put through a call.

  Wilde leant on the counter, the phone to his right ear. ‘Ron? I’m sorry to bother you again – I need another favour.’

  ‘Fire away, it’s very quiet here now. Just about to wrap up for the night. Where are you, by the way?’

  ‘Strand Palace Hotel.’

  ‘The resort of no return.’

  ‘You’ve lost me.’

  ‘Renowned as a bolt-hole for journalists who have missed the night train home, or who have other, more disreputable requirements of a hotel room.’