A Prince and a Spy

by Rory Clements

  Chapter 38

  Wilde was worried. ‘How sure are you that you can’t be traced back to this house?’

  ‘Impossible,’ Tallulah said.

  ‘But you are linked to the club – and so is Mimi. They must know that. I’ve even seen Lord Templeman’s photograph on the wall.’

  There was a brief lull. Was it his imagination or did a knowing glance pass between Harriet and Tallulah? ‘Did I say something?’

  ‘Oh, it’s nothing,’ Tallulah said. ‘Just a little in-joke. The thing is, you see, apart from Mimi no one at the Dada knows my real name – which happens to be Matilda Calderwood if you’re even vaguely interested. Tilly Calderwood to my family. And the only address I ever used is now rubble. I still pick up my mail at the shop next door, and my ration book is still tied to that address. Don’t worry, professor.’

  ‘It’s my job to worry. Worrying might just keep us alive. For the moment, I’m leaving you.’

  ‘To do what?’ Harriet did not seem happy.

  ‘You want this story out there in the world? I’m going to do what I can.’

  ‘Yes, but where are you going? Wherever it is, I’m coming with you.’

  ‘You’re still at risk. You have said yourself that the Athels are everywhere. They killed your father . . . they tried to kill you.’

  ‘And you, too, Tom. So we’re both in danger. Well, I’m not hanging around here kicking my heels.’

  Wilde was about to say something else, but Harriet was already putting on one of Tallulah’s oversize jackets and it seemed pointless to argue.

  *

  The air in the newsroom was thick with the stench of tobacco smoke and sweat, and desks were covered with the detritus of the evening’s efforts – early editions, discarded copy paper, over-flowing ashtrays and stained mugs. It had been a hard night for Ron Christie, but every night was like that these days. The Blitz might be history, but the war was balanced on a knife edge on all fronts. News came from every continent, and too much of it was bad.

  As night editor, he had to take split-second decisions on the value of new copy long after the editor had gone off to some dinner party with the great and the good. In peacetime, the night editor’s decisions were tough enough, but with the wartime scarcity of newsprint, it was a great deal more difficult, for the paper was down to four tightly packed broadsheet pages, including advertisements. For a story to get in, an important one might have to be dropped or, at the very least, cut to one or two short paragraphs.

  But eventually the last edition was out. Normally he would slump back and enjoy the company of the late men over a glass or two of whisky or a cup of tea before making his way home to the warmth of the marital bed in Dulwich. Tonight, though, Tom Wilde was here again, in the company of a young woman, and he had parked them in the conference room to wait for him.

  He stretched his arms and yawned, then said a few goodnights to the departing subs and joined his visitors. ‘Sorry to keep you waiting, Tom. Bit of a panic on,’ he said.

  ‘Don’t worry. And I’m sorry to be such a bloody nuisance again.’

  ‘That’s what friends are for, or so I’m told. Anyway, perhaps you’d introduce me.’

  ‘Yes, this is Harriet Hartwell. Harriet, my old friend Ron Christie.’

  They shook hands.

  Christie narrowed his gaze. ‘I recognise you, don’t I? You’re the girl in the picture at the Dada Club.’

  ‘Got it in one, Ron,’ Wilde said.

  ‘Well, well, so you found her. Are you going to tell me what this is all about? You know you didn’t even give me a clue when you were here before.’

  ‘For the moment, there’s a great deal I can’t tell you.’

  Before leaving the house, they had discussed in detail how they were going to play this. There would be no mention of the Duke of Kent or his flight to Sweden, and certainly no mention of the Stockholm meeting or Harriet’s part in it. ‘Whatever Templeman or Eaton may have told you about me, Tom, I can promise you I am not going to spill the beans about Georgie’s mission. Believe it or not, I am a loyal Englishwoman.’ And so the focus would be on Coburg and the story he had to tell, but without naming him at present. How much would have to come out about the way he came to England would be decided at a later date.

  ‘That’s not a very encouraging start,’ Christie said.

  ‘Please,’ Harriet said. ‘Just listen, then make up your mind. Many lives are at stake here.’

  Wilde cut in. Once again, Harriet was not helping her cause by her imperious tone. ‘What I can tell you is that we have a story that we want you to publish,’ Wilde said.

  ‘Well, the paper always likes a story. That’s why we’re here. Something to do with the Dada Club, is it?’

  ‘No, it’s a bit darker than that.’ He exchanged glances with Harriet. ‘I’ll tell it.’

  Christie listened without saying a word. When the testimony was complete, there was a full minute’s silence. Then Christie said, simply, ‘And the provenance of this story?’

  ‘Trust me, Ron, it’s true. This comes from a German who has defected and is now in Britain. He is a hunted man, though, and for the moment, I can’t tell you exactly who he is – or where he is. I beg you to understand.’

  Christie had been lounging against a noticeboard. Now he took a seat on the other side of the conference table, dug a crumpled cigarette packet from his shirt pocket, removed the last cigarette, and tossed the empty pack in the bin. Then he lit up. ‘I’m sorry, it’s my last one. Came in with two packets, now they’re all gone.’

  ‘I don’t smoke,’ Harriet said.

  ‘Look,’ Christie said, as calmly as always, ‘do you not see the problem with this from a newspaper’s point of view? If – and this is a big if – we were to publish a story like this, we would also have to publish its provenance. Without names, dates, pictures, the whole shebang, the story would be utterly worthless.’

  ‘So tell me exactly what else you need from us so that we can discuss it and work out what’s to be done.’

  ‘I don’t want anything from you. I’m only the night editor of this paper. You have to get a story like this past the editor himself and, in this case, the proprietor, too. They are the big cheeses. Then there are the Ministry of Information men. Decisions like this are not taken by the likes of me.’

  ‘Are you saying this would have to get past the censors?’

  ‘Of course, Tom – there’s a war on. Don’t be naïve.’

  ‘But thousands – hundreds of thousands – of innocent people are being murdered every day,’ Harriet said. ‘Don’t you understand?’

  Christie saw the tears streaming down her cheeks. He thought of his own son out in Libya, putting his own life on the line to fight the wretched Nazi criminals, and his heart went out to her. ‘Yes, of course I understand. And for what it’s worth, I believe every word you two have told me. But it’s not worth a light without the say-so of others a great deal more powerful than myself. You have to take this story to the government, perhaps even Churchill himself.’

  He saw his two visitors looking at each other helplessly.

  ‘This just brings us full circle, Ron,’ Wilde said.

  ‘I’m sorry, truly I am – but I’m trying to be honest with you. Look, Tom, Miss Hartwell, I’m not saying what you ask is impossible. I can certainly fix up a meeting between you and the editor, but he will demand every detail of how you got this story and he will want access to your source – and even then he will not make the decision alone.’

  ‘Let us think about it,’ Wilde said.

  ‘What school did your editor go to?’ Harriet’s question came out of nowhere.

  Christie’s face betrayed his bewilderment. ‘What an extraordinary question.’

  ‘Well?’

  ‘As a matter of fact I happen to know that Mack went to Athelstans, though God knows what that has to do with anything.’

  ‘And you, Mr Christie?’

  ‘I’m a gramm
ar school boy.’ He turned to Wilde. ‘Tom, what is this?’

  Wilde shrugged helplessly.

  Harriet was already turning away. ‘Oh, Tom, it’s hopeless, don’t you see? The Athels . . . they’ll never let this happen.’

  *

  As they prepared to mount the Rudge in front of the dark Fleet Street building, Wilde found himself wanting to put an arm around her and comfort her, but knew it was a bad idea. Then, just as he stepped away from her, she fell into his arms, sobbing like a child. He stroked her hair and held her tight, just as a father might do with a distraught daughter.

  ‘I have one more idea,’ he said quietly. ‘It’s a long shot, but it has to be worth a try.’

  Chapter 39

  Wilde dropped her at the OSS bureau. He refused point-blank to tell her what he planned, and he was adamant that he would do it alone. ‘It’s too dangerous for you, Harriet. Look what happened when we let our guard down and walked together through St James’s Park. Remember what they did to your father.’

  ‘Then at least take me back to Tallulah and Mimi.’

  ‘You really want to do that? Your very presence there puts them in mortal danger.’

  ‘But the OSS office was being watched before – we were followed and attacked.’

  ‘A mistake we won’t make again,’ he said. ‘Anyway, I want you to stay here and work your magic on Coburg. See if he has any more recollections of Hitler – something that would really place him at the murder camp.’

  Sullenly she accepted his judgement.

  Now it was deep into the chilly hours before dawn and he was on the road west out of London.

  He was too early for what he wanted to do, so he stopped in a layby and waited, huddling into his summer jacket. The nights were getting cooler and he wasn’t dressed for this. At dawn he rode on until he found a workman’s cafe and bought himself some breakfast. He took his time over it and drank several cups of tea. At nine, he paid the bill and rode on towards the large village of Iver, then turned northwards until he came to a gate at the end of a lane, where he was stopped by the raised hand of a liveried servant.

  The house was called Coppins. He knew about the place from his discussions with Bill Phillips. Apparently, John Winant had been here after the plane crash to pay his respects and offer his condolences. Wilde had no idea how he would be received, but what was the worst that could happen? If he was slung out without a hearing, then so be it. At least he would have tried.

  ‘Can I help you?’ the gateman said, eyeing him up and down with a complete absence of respect.

  ‘Message for the Duchess,’ Wilde said, exaggerating his American accent. ‘From the United States embassy.’

  ‘American, eh? That explains everything.’

  Wilde had no idea what he meant. Some obscure prejudice, he supposed. He took out his diplomatic passport and presented it to the man.

  The man looked at it with uncomprehending eyes, then handed it back. ‘All right,’ he said, ‘give me the message. I’ll make sure she gets it.’

  ‘I have to hand it to her in person. Ambassador’s orders.’

  ‘Is that so?’

  ‘Yes, sir. I’m told it’s a wired message from President Roosevelt himself.’

  The gateman hesitated, then shrugged. Everyone had heard of Roosevelt, because he was Britain’s best friend these days. ‘Better go on through then, hadn’t you?’

  Wilde rode slowly up the curving driveway, past pristine lawns and glorious cedars. Even in the midst of war, there were gardeners at work.

  The house loomed out of a backdrop of woodland. It was wide-fronted with high chimneys and clearly had not been intended for a royal palace. It looked Victorian, a comfortable country house, perhaps originally the home of a well-to-do gentleman farmer. Now it was substantially improved and enlarged and was the home of the widowed Duchess of Kent and her three children and their staff.

  This was the difficult bit.

  A Daimler and an open-topped sports car were parked on the forecourt. Wilde drew up directly in front of the main door, switched off the engine of his motorbike and dismounted. He imagined there must be a tradesmen’s entrance for delivery of telegrams and mail, but that wouldn’t serve his purpose. A young footman approached him.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Message for Her Royal Highness.’

  The footman held out a gloved hand to receive the letter.

  Wilde went through the same series of replies that he had given at the gate.

  ‘Wait here,’ the footman said. Two minutes later he returned in the company of an older man whom Wilde took to be the butler, head of the household serving staff.

  ‘I’m told you wish to see Her Royal Highness, Mr Wilde.’

  ‘I have a personal message to give her.’

  ‘I take it, sir, that as you are in possession of a diplomatic passport you are a man of some standing and not merely a courier?’

  ‘That’s correct.’

  ‘What is your position with the diplomatic mission?’

  ‘I will explain all to the Duchess in person.’

  ‘But if you could at least tell me who you are and the nature of the message you wish to deliver, I will be better placed to see how Her Royal Highness wishes to proceed.’

  ‘It is a personal message from the President of the United States. As I am sure you are aware, he is godfather to the Duchess’s newborn son.’

  ‘Still, a little further information would be appreciated.’

  ‘I am not at liberty to say more.’

  The butler knew when to cut his losses and gave a reluctant nod of acknowledgement, then disappeared back inside the house. Five minutes later he returned. ‘Follow me if you would, Mr Wilde. Be aware that Her Royal Highness is still in deep mourning, so hand over your message then back out of the room. Be sure to bow on entry and leaving.’

  ‘Of course.’

  *

  The Duchess of Kent, otherwise known as Princess Marina, was sitting at an escritoire close to the window with views across open lawns. The room was large and airy and extremely comfortable. When Wilde was introduced to her presence, she turned towards him, her gold fountain pen held like a cigarette holder between her delicate fingers. The butler bowed, then retreated to the open door, where he hovered.

  Wilde bowed his head graciously. ‘Your Royal Highness.’

  ‘I believe you have a message for me.’

  ‘Might we speak alone, ma’am?’

  ‘Why do you not just hand me the note?’

  ‘It is to be delivered verbally and is for your attention only.’

  ‘How very odd.’ She sighed, then nodded to the butler. ‘Leave us, Jermyn. Remain outside the door if you would.’

  The servant was obviously unsure about leaving his mistress alone in the presence of a stranger, but he knew his place. He bowed and stepped outside, closing the door behind him.

  ‘Well now, Mr Wilde, where were we?’

  Wilde was struck by the lack of expression in the woman’s eyes. There was a distance there, perhaps unsurprising after the loss of a loved one, but there was something else, too; it seemed to him that she was examining him in the detached way a scientist might study a specimen from a formerly undiscovered species. Her English was good, but her accent was indeterminately European, the result of being born in Greece and spending many years there and elsewhere on the Continent. Even though she remained seated, he could tell from the way she held her shoulders back that she was slender and quite tall. She wore a perfectly tailored suit in widow’s black, with just a single opal brooch at the lapel. She wasn’t pretty, but she had presence.

  ‘Mr Wilde?’

  ‘Forgive me, ma’am, I am trying to work out the best way to explain myself.’

  ‘I think straight talking is the best, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes, of course, and I so must immediately confess that I have gained access to you through a subterfuge. Before you have me removed, I beg you to listen – for what
I have to say touches on the sad death of your husband.’

  ‘Does that mean you are not from the American embassy – and that you do not have a message from Mr Roosevelt?’

  ‘I do indeed work for the United States, but while I have diplomatic accreditation I am not actually part of the mission. I am attached instead to the Office of Strategic Studies in Grosvenor Street, America’s new intelligence operation. You may not have heard of it.’

  ‘Indeed, I have not. But please continue.’

  She was still holding her pen but began screwing the lid on to close it. The room was both homely and lavish, with little gold and silver trinkets and boxes scattered tastefully on antique inlaid tables.

  ‘I went to Scotland on behalf of the President. He had a great affection for you and your husband and was concerned that he wasn’t being given the full story about the crash. I discovered things which have not been made public.’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘The Sunderland was not leaving Invergordon for Iceland but returning to Scotland from Sweden. I also discovered that there was a second survivor of the crash.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘You don’t sound surprised, Your Royal Highness.’

  ‘I am listening to your message, Mr Wilde. Do not expect me to respond. You said something about a second survivor.’

  ‘A Miss Harriet Hartwell, a civil servant and secretary.’

  ‘Ah.’

  ‘Perhaps you have heard of her?’

  ‘Mr Wilde, I am not here to answer your questions.’

  ‘Of course not, ma’am. Once again, forgive me. Well, in Stockholm, there was a meeting between your husband and Prince Philipp von Hessen. It is possible you know him, because I believe you have German relations. Certainly, I believe him to have been an old friend and cousin of the Duke.’

  She waited; her expression did not change. She said nothing.

  ‘This meeting was ostensibly to discuss the possibility of some sort of truce between Britain and Germany. But that was far from the case. Your husband was authorised only to listen to what the Germans had to say – as a way of determining the morale among the senior Nazis. To see how desperate they were to end the war with Great Britain. But there was something else, something seemingly unconnected: Miss Hartwell was contacted by a man named Rudolf Coburg, whom she knew back in the 1930s. In Stockholm he was a member of the German delegation and it was his intention to defect to Britain or America. He informed Miss Hartwell that he had evidence of terrible atrocities being committed by the Nazi occupation force in Poland and he wanted to give his testimony to the world. He begged her to help him get to Britain and claim political asylum.’