Is this going to be the full interrogation, thought Guy. Are they going to take me away to a darkened room and beat it out of me? Is this forced jollity just a ploy?
‘I wouldn’t say ‘recruited’, it was more a question of being press-ganged. Franco’s men marched into Tangier, and the Foreign Office was caught on the hop. They needed extra manpower quick and I happened to be there.’
‘You’d been living in Tangier for six or seven years?’
‘Yes.’
‘I gather you’d made a reputation for yourself as an artist.’
‘It’s a city built on seven hills. The light there is remarkable.’
‘You made another reputation for yourself, Mr Harford. As possibly the worst spy ever recruited by MI6.’
‘Have another cup of tea,’ said Guy, masking his irritation. He did not like the man’s supercilious tone.
‘So here you are, put on special duties at the Palace – but really, you know, old chap, that’s our area. The Coats Mission is the outfit to protect the Crown, not chaps from civvy street.’
‘I won’t get in your way.’
The sunlight from the window illuminated the medal ribbons on the guardsman’s chest, a tiny riot of colour amid the broad sea of khaki. He’s brave, thought Guy, and confident – but not very bright. I wonder what he’d have done when they came through the door with their guns cocked – would he have tried to shoot his way out? Or do what I did, use his wits?
The captain turned over a couple of pages. ‘Now, tell me about Edgar Brampton.’
‘No thanks,’ said Guy firmly. ‘You need to talk to someone whose office is closer to the Throne Room than this one is.’
‘Don’t muck me about. Our job is to protect HM. We need to know everything.’
‘Not from me.’
The captain pushed his teacup aside. ‘Look, this is a shocking state of affairs. Major Brampton – decent chap, wrong regiment of course but a decent type – killing himself on royal premises. You know there’s a law to stop that sort of thing, don’t you?’
‘I don’t think you can apply the law retrospectively. When a chap’s dead, not even His Imperial Majesty can bring him back to face justice.’
Broadbent’s cheeks went pink. ‘The Royal Verge, dammit!’
‘The royal . . . what?’
‘Wouldn’t expect you to know. Nobody’s allowed to die within royal palaces. The area in and around the palaces is called the Royal Verge. If they do croak, it’s a matter for the royal coroner, not some local quack with a taste for spreading unwanted gossip. Royal coroner sews things up tight and nobody’s the wiser, but he prefers the body off the premises.’ He pronounced it ‘orf’.
‘I find that faintly absurd, don’t you?’ said Guy. ‘I hear a chap was killed when the Luftwaffe bombed this place last year – did they cart him off the premises? Simply because he wasn’t permitted to die within palace walls?’
‘Is that what you’ve done with Major Brampton? Whisked him away somewhere?’
‘I might have.’
The Coldstreamer gave him an icy stare. ‘I don’t take kindly to impertinence. No place for it in a royal palace. We’re here to protect His Majesty, we use everything in our power to ensure his safety and well-being. D’you understand?’
‘Perfectly.’
‘This business with Brampton. We need to know. It’s unsettling. We. Need. To. Know.’ He thumped the desk with his fist as he spoke, and Rodie’s rose in its jam jar shed a few more petals. ‘And I can tell you, Mr Harford, you’ll find life pretty uncomfortable until we do. Understand?’
‘Perfectly.’
That’s two enemies I’ve made in a morning and it’s not anywhere near lunchtime, thought Guy – not bad going.
Aloud he said, ‘Will you be coming to the funeral? Next Thursday, Guards Chapel. All are welcome.’
The captain snorted, got up, and banged his way out of the room.
Rupert said he’d forgiven Rodie but he wasn’t sure. He suspected she’d gone back and lifted a small but important piece of jewellery from Edgar Brampton’s safe – he could tell by the smile on her face. And the fact she insisted on buying the drinks.
They were sitting in the back bar of The Grenadier public house just behind Constitution Hill, and Rodie was yapping away about some rich relations who may or may not have existed. She kept on bringing the conversation round to Guy, but Rupe kept deflecting it.
‘Strange that a man like that never married.’
‘Tell me some more about Mrs Elkins and her Daimler.’
‘Does he have any money?’
‘I doubt it. Painters never do. Was it her Daimler, or did you steal it for her?’
‘I could make him rich, Rupe! Think what a great combination we’d make!’
‘Forget it. He likes blondes.’ Rupert had no idea what Guy’s preferences were, but he was embarrassed by the sudden and unexpected burden he’d placed on his flatmate.
‘Here he comes!’ cried Rodie, black eyes shining. The assistant to His Majesty’s deputy private secretary was elbowing his way through the crowd to where they were sitting.
‘Whisky awaits,’ said Rupe, pointing. ‘How did it go?’
‘A hell of a day. Kicked around like a football all morning, and then the Markham Street business this evening.’
‘They get the body into the house OK?’
‘There was an air raid on so everyone was indoors.’
‘Did they remember to bring the wooden leg with him?’
‘Ha ha, very funny.’
‘Who gets to discover the body?’
‘The palace police. They’ll have been worried when he didn’t turn up for work, if you get my meaning.’
Rupert scratched his jaw. ‘But surely that’s a job for the Metropolitan Police?’
‘They do exactly what they’re told when it comes to the Palace.’
‘I suppose,’ said Rodie speculatively, ‘once the body’s been found and they’ve taken it away, the house will be empty?’
‘Don’t even think about it!’ snapped Rupe. For heaven’s sake, she’d had the emeralds already!
Rodie gave an angelic smile and looked up into Guy’s face, begging his blessing. ‘Nobody would notice, would they, darling?’ she breathed. ‘If I popped in for a look-see? Nobody would mind?’
‘Are you completely mad? My colleague’s dead, he has a grieving widow, and his children have lost their father. And you’re thinking about burgling his house?’
Rodie’s features slammed shut. ‘Don’t you know there’s a war on?’ she snapped. ‘If a bomb hit his house there’d be nothing left anyway. Have another drink and loosen up.’ She got up and made her way towards the bar.
‘What happened this morning?’ asked Rupert.
‘Hauled over the coals by a senior courtier, then interrogated by the army. This is off the record, Rupe?’
‘Of course. Was it the Coats Mission lot who questioned you?’
Guy sat back in his chair in wonderment. ‘I thought you worked for the GPO. I can’t imagine how you could possibly know such things. And by the way, don’t take that answer as a confirmation.’