‘At the Post Office we don’t discriminate,’ said Rupert with an enigmatic smile. ‘We push letters through anybody’s letterbox, be they high-born or low.’
Guy scratched his head. ‘Everyone seems anxious to know what I’m doing about Ed Brampton. I don’t get it.’
‘I take it you’re not telling everyone.’
‘Nobody. Apart from you, the postman,’ grimaced Guy, ‘and that’s probably a treasonable offence. Old Topsy Dighton threatened me with the Tower of London.’
‘He’d know all about that. Several of his family, over the centuries, have parted company with their heads there.’
‘You do seem to know a lot about my business. I must remember to ask about yours.’
‘Oh,’ said Rupert, a wry smile flitting across his face. ‘Stamps, parcels, mailbags, that sort of thing. Sealing wax and string. All very dull really.’
‘Just tell me this. Why are we suddenly graced with the presence of Miss Rodie Carr? She’s done her job, must we now celebrate with her? I mean, I’m delighted she got us into Ed Brampton’s house – though I’m still mystified as to why the keys didn’t work – but must she now follow us about like a puppy?’
‘She’s very decorative. In her peculiar way.’
‘And completely without scruple. Back in Tangier, people could be many things – and they were, Lord knows – but I don’t think I’ve come across such a trickster. So completely without a moral compass.’
‘She’s a rare and valued asset. You have no idea the hell of trying to find, in the middle of a war, a burglar you can trust.’
‘Trust?’ said Guy, as the black-eyed Rodie eased her way through the crowd, back to their table. ‘Trust? Look at her!’
They both did. There was something about the way she walked, balancing a tray of drinks, twisting and turning and deftly avoiding the sharp elbows and sudden lurches a late night in an air-raid pub can occasion, which gave her tiny figure immense authority.
And then there was her face. Guy could see what Rupert meant.
‘It’s not late,’ Rodie said, a little flushed as she plonked the drinks down. ‘We could go dancin’. Get a taxi down to Hammersmith Palais’ – she said it ‘Pally’ – ‘and pick Lem up on the way. Make it a cosy foursome.’
The two men looked at each other. Guy raised his eyebrows to Rupert, and Rupert spoke for them both.
‘I don’t think you quite understand,’ he said. ‘Guy works for . . . well, you know who he works for. Lovely as you are, Rodie, he can’t be seen with people like you, people with a criminal record.’
‘I never went to jail!’
‘Only because it was a first offence. And how many have there been since then? Don’t you see?’
Rodie looked like a three-year-old who’d dropped her ice cream in a puddle.
‘Snobs,’ she said bitterly. ‘You’re just snobs, the pair of you! You don’t mind usin’ my God-given talent to do something which should rightly land you both in the dock – but you can’t be seen out dancin’ with me.’
Rupert nodded genially. ‘The way of the world, Rodie, the way of the world. Now, why don’t you hop away and pick some nice gentleman’s pocket?’
CHAPTER FIVE
It’s remarkable, thought Guy, how resourceful people can be in wartime. It was only a few short hours since he’d overseen the carting of poor Ed Brampton’s body back into his Chelsea home. Now the body had been ‘discovered’, the next-door neighbour squared, the place tidied up, and the dead courtier taken away again to a place of rest prior to the final oblations.
Now Guy was back in Ed’s drawing room, sitting with Adelaide over a cup of tea.
‘There’s no sugar. Sorry.’
‘I prefer it this way.’ The usual wartime white lie.
‘The King wrote to me, a very charming letter. I was surprised – Ed worked at the Palace for ages, but their paths never crossed.’
‘HM has a reputation for graceful behaviour.’
‘The point being that His Majesty is a very jealous sort, and I never expected such a kind gesture.’
‘Jealous?’
‘Oh yes. Ed, you know, and the Queen. There was a terrible fuss over Kenneth Clark.’
‘The Keeper of the King’s Pictures?’
‘Handsome, but an exceptionally vain man. Used to go around the place saying, “She’s in love with me” – meaning Her Majesty. And for all I know she may have been – he’s a frightful show-off and ladies’ man, and she’s a bit susceptible. But there was an explosion one night at Windsor, the King got into one of his rages and there was all hell to pay.’
‘Good Lord. Biscuit?’
‘He really is jealous. It didn’t help that Clark could barely conceal his contempt for His Majesty – an exceptionally stupid man, I think he said. So one way and the other he was probably Public Enemy Number 1 at court.’
‘Same old story with Ed, then?’
‘Well, Guy, I was surprised, I must say. Whatever went on between Her Majesty and Clark, everyone knew that Ed had a tremendously soft spot for her. No, actually I’d say he was in love with her. And probably it showed, he was such an idiot. And if I – who never get invited to the Palace – knew all about it, you can be pretty certain the King did. Anyway, I thought it was a lovely gesture and I shall treasure his letter.’
Guy got up to pour more tea.
‘You know, there are a lot of question marks around Ed’s death, Adelaide. I wonder how much you know – or want to know, come to that.’
‘Of course I want to know – he was my husband for twelve long years. He’s dead, we don’t know how or why. I’m his wife, for heaven’s sake!’
‘I’ve been told to keep my trap shut.’
‘And that includes me?’
‘Apparently.’
‘It’s disgusting.’ She thought for a moment. ‘OK, here’s the deal – I’ll tell you about the Duke of Gloucester if you tell me about what’s been going on here. In my house.’
Guy thought guiltily about the break-in, the search through the rooms, the rifling of Ed’s papers, the missing emerald brooch, and whether some resourceful hands had since put it back in the safe. ‘I’m stuck,’ he said. ‘Under orders, not sure how much I should say except that really I should say nothing. What do you want to know?’
‘Did he kill himself?’
‘That’s a difficult one.’
The widow looked up fiercely. She had a fine face, almost a perfect English rose with her thin blonde hair and pale complexion, though war, or something, had robbed her of her bloom. But her cornflower eyes were still magnetic.
‘You’ve just given me the answer,’ she snapped. ‘Ed was a brave man and a good soldier. Granted he was a fairly useless husband but that’s not the point – his life shouldn’t end this way, in mystery, skulduggery, tossed away like a dead game bird. This story about him cleaning his gun . . .’
‘Look at me,’ said Guy. ‘Look at me, and promise you won’t repeat this. Can I trust you to do that, Adelaide?’