A Prince and a Spy

by Rory Clements

  ‘Come in, darlings, come in.’

  Wilde tried to shake her hand, but instead she folded him into an embrace, which only set the dogs off on an even louder and more jealous round of snappy barks.

  ‘You had a close call,’ he said, indicating the destroyed houses a few yards away.

  ‘Oh, I know, awful business. And now we can’t get the window re-glazed. No one can get any glass! Just lucky the other one survived. To be honest, I’ve had just about enough of this frightful war.’

  Wilde followed Harriet Hartwell and Mimi Lalique along the broad hallway, the dogs ranging around them, still yapping. A smell assailed his nostrils and he quickly noted a couple of small turds on the Persian carpet; ah, Miss Hartwell had been talking about the house itself, not the pavement.

  They arrived in a large sitting room which stretched from front to rear of the house and probably occupied half of the ground floor. It was furnished with expensive carpets and luxurious sofas and looked out on to a thirty-foot paved garden terrace, then a wall and, overtopping it, the back of another house.

  ‘Now then, darlings, what’s it to be? I think it’s cocktail hour, don’t you? Let Mimi do the mixing.’

  ‘Horse’s neck,’ Harriet said.

  ‘A Scotch, neat, for me, Miss Lalique,’ Wilde said.

  ‘Oh, you’re both so boring. I want to try things on you. Do let me experiment. If they’re any good, I can use them at the Dada. If they’re simply awful, we’ll still end up tight, so no harm done.’

  ‘OK,’ Wilde said reluctantly. ‘But nothing sweet. A dry martini, perhaps.’

  ‘Have it your own way, you darling man.’ She afforded Wilde a smile and just for a moment she had that fresh girlish dazzle that had won a million hearts in the silent movie era. ‘And I’m so pleased you two lovely people managed to find each other. Well done, Harriet – what a detective you could be.’ She gave her a very obvious wink, as though they shared a secret.

  When they had settled down with their drinks and the dogs had shut up and curled around their reclining mistress, Harriet said simply: ‘Daddy’s dead, Mimi. The bastards killed him.’ She threw back her cocktail in one and grimaced. ‘God, that drink’s foul.’

  ‘Henry, dead? Oh, darling, I’m so sorry.’ She rose from the sofa and knelt at Harriet’s side, hugging her knees. ‘I only spoke with him two days ago. This is so sudden. Oh sweet, sweet Henry . . .’

  ‘Didn’t you hear what I said, Mimi? He was killed. The filthy bastards murdered him.’

  ‘Murdered! Oh my God, how simply awful.’

  ‘Professor Wilde was with him when he died.’ She turned in his direction. ‘You still haven’t told me exactly what they did to him.’

  And nor would he. Wilde remained silent and cast his eyes down towards his drink. He really didn’t want to reveal the ugly truth of the deed. There was something particularly cruel and depraved about the slitting of a throat. A knife to the heart and the shock that went with it, that was one thing. Bad enough. But the very thought of a knife cutting mercilessly into the throat, the unstoppable rush of blood, the inability to speak or breathe and the certainty of impending death. No, that was too much.

  ‘Wilde?’

  ‘He was stabbed, that’s all.’

  ‘Stabbed? Stabbed where? The chest? More than one wound?’

  ‘Just the one, but it cut an artery. It was quick. I’m sure it was quick.’

  Mimi stroked Harriet’s cheek with the back of her veiny hand. ‘He’s trying to spare you, darling. Better to remember Henry the way he was, the way we all loved him. You don’t want a picture of him dying when you think of him, do you?’

  ‘I tell you what I want, Mimi, I want to slaughter the swine who did this. I want to do it slowly and painfully and I want to look in his eyes while he’s whimpering and dying.’

  ‘I know, darling, I know. I loved Henry as much as you did. I loved him from the moment Maggie brought him home.’ She smiled at Wilde. ‘He was my brother-in-law, you see, and he was a dear, dear man. I should have married him myself after my sister died, but my head was turned by all those handsome glittery men in the world of motion pictures. All those princes of the royal blood . . .’ She laughed huskily, her voice rough from many thousands of cigarettes. ‘God, what a fool I was.’

  Wilde nodded, but he was thinking that perhaps she hadn’t made a mistake. He could not imagine Mimi Lalique as a schoolteacher’s wife. Particularly not a reverend schoolteacher trying to cram Latin and Greek into young heads.

  ‘But at least I always had my darling niece.’ She hugged her again and kissed her tear-stained face with unadorned affection.

  ‘The question is,’ Harriet said when she was released from the embrace, ‘what are we going to do now?’

  Chapter 17

  ‘I started as a makeup girl, Tom. Of course I wasn’t Mimi Lalique back then, just plain Molly Locke, vicar’s daughter from Taunton in Devon. But don’t tell my adoring public that, will you? I don’t want my bad reputation ruined by letting on that I was ever a goody-two-shoes churchgoer.’

  ‘You have my word, I won’t tell a soul.’

  She was bending down, looking at him closely, too closely for his comfort. The smoke from her cigarette was making his eyes smart. He tried shifting away from her, but she edged nearer. ‘Yes, I’m sure I could do something for you. A few tweaks and you could walk into your own home and your wife wouldn’t recognise you.’

  ‘Let me think about it, Mimi.’

  ‘Oh dear, you men. It’s only a bit of camouflage so the police don’t recognise you. A bit of makeup won’t take away your manhood, you know. Now, Georgie, he was never like that. In another life, I do truly believe he could have been a star of stage or silver screen.’

  ‘I take it you knew the Duke of Kent well.’

  ‘Of course, darling. He was, well, how shall I put it nicely – he was a close friend.’

  ‘She means they were once lovers, Mr Wilde,’ Harriet put in.

  Mimi laughed, throwing back her head, baring her yellow teeth and emitting a thin stream of smoke which had been lodged somewhere in the depths of her lungs. ‘Oh yes, we were like rabbits in a hutch. I like to think I taught Georgie everything he knew about women’s bodies. He was a very quick learner – and it wasn’t long before I was having to share him with Jessie and Kiki and one or two others. But I could never wholly lure him away from the boys. He was a man of diverse interests and many parts – indeed, many partners. But perhaps I shouldn’t tell you that. Such a merry-go-round we had. Those were the days.’

  Wilde allowed her to meander on about her glittering silent movie career and the wild parties that went with it. Finally, she rose when her dogs became restive. ‘Must feed Bertie and Vicky,’ she said and went off to find food for the animals, leaving Wilde alone with Harriet. He looked at his watch. It was seven in the evening. He had to get out of here and make his way to Grosvenor Square. He rose from the sofa and put down his empty glass. ‘I’m going to the US embassy. Do you want to come with me, Miss Hartwell?’

  ‘It’s not safe.’

  ‘I’m sorry you think that, but it will work for me. Can I just ask you something before I go?’

  ‘I’ve told you everything I’m going to tell you.’

  He pressed on. ‘Your passport calls you a “secretary”, but you’re more than that, aren’t you?’

  ‘Am I?’

  ‘I’m sure of it. What are you, Foreign Office? The Palace? MI6?’

  ‘Take your pick, Mr Wilde.’

  ‘Look, I know I’ve said it already, but I was absolutely horrified by the deaths of your father and Peter Cazerove.’

  ‘Yes.’ Her voice was flat.

  ‘Peter was your lover, wasn’t he?’

  ‘We were more like brother and sister, actually. I think he would have liked it to be more, but honestly, he wasn’t really my type. Anyway, our relationship – if that’s what it was – had been going on forever, since school days. I was
a day girl at a girls’ school a few miles away, so I was around Athelstans at the end of the day and the boys were always trying to flirt with me. Peter was the only one who talked to me like an equal, though, and we were the best of friends. I rather think Daddy thought we would get married one day, and maybe we would have.’

  ‘So you were allowed to consort with the Athelstan boys?’ Wilde was thinking of his own years at Harrow. Apart from Matron and the occasional teacher’s wife, no females were ever in evidence.

  ‘Well, it was frowned on, but boys of that age . . . well, you’d have to chain them to a wall, wouldn’t you? Anyway, we didn’t care. Peter and I got away from the world together. There was an old, disused shed near the walled vegetable garden at Athelstans where we would meet. Just the two of us.’

  ‘Sounds very naughty.’

  ‘It had to be furtive. He would have been expelled if anyone found out, and Daddy would have been sacked. Actually, I wish he had been sacked. He didn’t really fit in. I think he was only tolerated because of his long service and his kindliness. They saw him as a harmless old duffer.’

  ‘And his younger days? He was there for many years, wasn’t he?’

  She shrugged. ‘Perhaps he fitted in better at first. I think he admired their aesthetic ideals and elitism back then. It was as if he saw them as akin to the early Christian martyrs in their ferocious dedication to a cause. But he expressed his doubts to me in later years. He thought they were changing, becoming a little too hard and military, and a little less Christian.’

  ‘And the Athels, Miss Hartwell. Do all old boys become Athels, or do you have to be selected?’

  ‘Oh gosh, no, you had to be selected and it was considered a signal honour. Only the sons of the richest, cleverest and most reliable became Athels. They were very secretive. But of course Peter couldn’t resist telling me a little about their history.’

  ‘Was he considered reliable?’

  ‘His family is ridiculously rich.’

  Wilde recalled talk of their vast landholdings in Norfolk. Yes, of course they were rich.

  ‘Anyway, as I understand it, the Athels were founded as a secret society in 1795 in the wake of the French Revolution and the guillotine terror, with one express aim: to ensure that no such upheavals should ever threaten the status quo in England. Not Great Britain or the United Kingdom, you understand, but England. They see themselves as the deep core of the Establishment. Peter told me that over the years they have moved subtly to save England from upheaval on several occasions – from Peterloo to the General Strike. Whenever revolution threatened, the Athels would intervene – but invisibly. The population at large, even Parliament, would never have any idea that they were being manipulated.’

  ‘And Peter was convinced by all this?’

  ‘He became quite enthusiastic about the Athels. In fact, he told me he was something called an Autarch – that’s their word for a senior Athel among those still at the school. I think they did most of the recruiting. But it wasn’t always like that for him. In the early years at Athelstans he had a simply ghastly time. He was bullied mercilessly by the older boys, particularly Smoake – Richard Smoake. Every evening, Peter found his bed soaked in urine, and worse. His food was adulterated on a regular basis. He was thrashed by masters and senior boys alike. But he withstood the onslaught and, I’m afraid, began to think like them. Smoake stopped beating him and took him under his wing. That was when things began to run less smoothly between us.’

  ‘You didn’t approve?’

  ‘I never liked Smoake.’ She shrugged again, but said nothing more. He took her meaning to be ‘yes’.

  ‘So Cazerove was a member of the Athels when he came up to Cambridge?’

  ‘Well, of course. And you must have come across others in your years at the college. Then, after university or Sandhurst, they are fed off into the great offices of state, the military, the civil service, the police, the press, the diplomatic corps and the church. And they sit there, smooth and charming, like fat toads waiting for an irritating fly to pass within range of their long sticky tongues.’

  ‘Not so very different from Eton, then?’

  ‘I thought it corrupt and, to be honest, rather juvenile. But that didn’t mean they weren’t dangerous. Oh, Peter told me they would murder you in a moment and call it patriotism – and he laughed about it. He told me they were everywhere, Mr Wilde. Every part of the body of England – every limb, every vital organ – is caught in their cancerous tentacles.’

  Wilde heard the dogs yapping along the corridor and assumed they were about to get their bowls of food. ‘Before Mimi returns, there is the other matter – the rather crucial matter, in fact. Short Sunderland flight 4026. Why were you aboard?’

  ‘I’ve said enough. More than enough.’

  ‘You weren’t going anywhere – you were coming back from somewhere. Sweden is the obvious place.’

  ‘If you know so much, you tell me.’

  ‘Don’t play that game, Miss Hartwell. Here I am, I’ve thrown in my lot with you for better or worse – so I would very much like to know what you and the Duke were doing in Sweden. And I would very much like to know what caused the crash.’

  She let out a long sigh. ‘I will tell you just one thing, Wilde. One more thing. I need to talk to Churchill, but I can’t, because they will kill me before I get anywhere near him.’

  ‘Then come with me to the US embassy. The ambassador will call Downing Street and get through to Churchill, then you can arrange everything in whatever way you like.’

  ‘You think his line isn’t monitored? You think there are no Athels in Downing Street? They will do anything to stop me. Anything.’

  ‘There must be some way of getting through, even if we have to involve President Roosevelt.’

  ‘Why should I trust the Americans?’

  ‘You seem to trust me – I’m American.’

  ‘Peter told me I should trust you. And there’s something else. I don’t know if I should tell you, but I have to believe in someone. There is a man called Coburg – Rudi Coburg.’

  ‘You mentioned someone called Rudi before.’

  ‘Rudi was supposed to be on the plane. He is central to all this . . .’

  She didn’t finish. Mimi was returning, minus dogs. As she entered the room, there was a hammering at the front door, followed by a din of yapping from along the corridor. Wilde and the two women looked at each other.

  Mimi went to the window at the front, the one that hadn’t been boarded up. Her face was ashen as she turned back to them. ‘There are two men – they’ve got handguns. I think it’s time for you two to make yourself scarce,’ she said. ‘Follow me.’

  ‘Where?’ He had seen that there was no way out of the back.

  ‘Upstairs, through the lofts. Don’t worry. It’s simple enough. Hurry now.’

  There was a cracking of wood. Whoever was at the door wasn’t waiting for it to be answered and was splintering it with a sledgehammer. But it was a strong door and didn’t break easily. Harriet was out in the hallway ahead of Wilde, sprinting up the stairs, bag clutched in her right hand. Mimi came next but was much slower, her silk kimono flapping about her knees. At the top of the second flight of steps, she stopped, gasping from the exertion, and ushered Wilde past her. ‘Go on, Tom, up the stepladder. Don’t worry about me – they don’t want me.’

  From below they heard another crash – the inward collapse of the front door – and then men’s loud voices and footsteps. Wilde glanced back down the stairwell and saw one of the men standing in the hallway, his gun raised.

  ‘Stop or I shoot!’

  Wilde didn’t stop. He ducked back out of the line of fire.

  Mimi was clasping her chest and he could tell she was in a bad way. He also knew that anyone who hammered down a locked door rather than wait for it to be answered would not be likely to treat a frail woman with great courtesy or kindness.

  The dogs were at Mimi’s heels, snarling and yappi
ng. Wilde picked her up in his arms. She was as light and floppy as a sleeping child and did nothing to prevent him. ‘Come on, Mimi, you’re coming with us.’ The two Pekingese were snapping at his ankles now but he resisted the temptation to kick them away. From the sound of thudding footfalls, their pursuers were little more than a flight behind them.

  ‘Leave me, Tom.’ She was panting, barely able to speak.

  They were facing a retractable ladder leading up into a loft. ‘Up there?’

  ‘Yes.’ Her voice was little more than a whispered rasp.

  Somehow, awkwardly, he pushed her up the ladder, rung by rung, and into the dark space. She lay on her back, fighting for breath, her fingers pressing into her breast as though somehow she could soothe her racing heart and bring calm to her tar-clogged lungs. Now he was with her, dragging the ladder up behind him. He heard a shout. He kicked the hatch closed and slid the bolt.

  It was gloomy but not pitch black. There were no windows but there was a semblance of light to his left. He picked Mimi up again and moved as quietly as he could in the direction of the light. From below he heard the yapping of dogs and angry voices.

  What now? They were stranded up here. Trapped like animals gone to ground. This had been a bad idea, but he had had no option. All he could do was move towards the patch of light and try to find a hiding place. But where in God’s name was Harriet Hartwell? He supposed she must have climbed the ladder ahead of him, but there was no sign of her.

  ‘It’s open,’ Mimi said faintly. ‘The whole terrace . . . no walls. You must go. Look after Harriet . . .’

  Chapter 18