‘You mean he’ll be found off the premises, so to speak?’
‘Perhaps. I couldn’t say,’ he replied, looking round the room. There was nobody near enough to hear their conversation.
‘Surely they’re not going to trundle that huge great body of his back into that tiny little house? With Adelaide and the children there?’
‘No,’ said Guy, ‘they’re in Oxfordshire, been there for the past couple of months – the Blitz and all that. But the Palace has to do something – you can’t have a suicide on royal premises. As it is, he was only found this morning and already they’ve washed the blood off the walls and straightened things up.’
Foxy sucked at her cigarette. It made her cough.
‘Why? Why did he do it?’
Now the all-clear had sounded, the room was filling up with people who’d been caught outside when the sirens started. You could always tell when they entered a room, those who’d been caught near a bomb blast – they walked awkwardly, as if on thin ice. With this steady influx came a rise in volume as the survivors babbled their experiences before swiftly ordering a second drink.
‘Why? I don’t know, Foxy, I have no idea. There was some stupid talk about him and the Queen, but that was just people’s imaginations – I mean, Ed and Her Majesty! Agreed he was handsome and very attentive, but I don’t think they were ever alone together. He’d been in her brother’s regiment, you know – I think that may have had something to do with it.’
‘Good Lord,’ said Foxy. ‘Nobody ever mentioned . . .’
‘That’s because there’s nothing to mention. Ed had the charm when he wanted but I don’t think he was ever the type to misbehave.’
‘But have you thought of this,’ said Foxy, drawing up her legs under the chair, ‘even the merest hint of scandal . . . it could be seen as treasonable.’ War made you accept a loss very quickly, and she was savouring the delicious possibilities of Ed and Her Majesty closeted alone together.
‘Don’t be absurd, Fox,’ he snapped, reaching forward and taking one of her cigarettes. ‘I wish I hadn’t mentioned it. It’s top secret, as you can imagine – I’d rather you forgot all about it.’
She smiled winningly and waved a finger at him. ‘And it’s you who’s having to go round and clean up? Metaphorically, of course – that’s your job?’
He leaned back in his chair. ‘I don’t know, Fox, they had to give me something to do. But they don’t trust me, they keep me at arm’s length. Tommy Lascelles looks down his nose at me, and the only time I see Their Majesties is when they’re going off somewhere and need an extra hand with the bags.’ He drained his cocktail.
‘I thought you were the Palace’s unofficial conduit to Fleet Street.’
‘Well, that too. They give me the jobs nobody else wants to do. I mean, did you know – as an American I suppose you wouldn’t – but there are people there called the Sculptor in Ordinary for Scotland, the Deputy Clerk of the Closet, the Clerk of the Green Cloth, the Purse Bearer, the Mistress of the Robes . . . An impossible list of impossible people! Each with a colossal sense of their own importance, and all of them battling for preferment as if they were shipwrecked and struggling for the last place on the lifeboat.’
‘You’re joking, of course.’
‘If only. There’s the Travelling Yeoman, the Page of the Chambers, the Assistant Yeoman of the Plate Pantry – dozens and dozens of them. D’you want me to go on?’
‘Are you sure you’re not making this up?’
‘Gospel, I promise. But, Fox, they all want recognition. From Their Majesties, of course, but also from beneath. They think somehow they’re of the blood royal. There are dozens of them and I’ve been given the job of separating the warring parties.
‘Oh, and then there’s the fuss over transport. Harry Gloucester is a real nuisance about what kind of car he’s given, and I spend my days arguing with the Crown Equerry over whether it’s the Humber or the Daimler to take him off to see his popsy. Really, Fox, don’t they know there’s a war on?’
‘How many times have I heard that said,’ answered his companion wearily. ‘Let’s have one more, shall we? Then go on to Ciro’s?’
‘No, darling, I have to go back to the office. I’m waiting for a call from Ted Rochester – he said he’d telephone through at eight.’
‘That old warhorse? Is he still alive? I used to see him in El Morocco when we were in New York, oh, donkey’s years ago. Is he still scribbling that column for the Morning Post?’
‘The News Chronicle now. I’m to give him the news about Ed Brampton.’
Foxy looked startled. ‘You’re actually going to tell him that an assistant private secretary committed suicide in Buckingham Palace?’
‘Well, no, not exactly. Accident cleaning his gun. At his Chelsea home. Had hoped to return to war duties and was obviously preparing himself for the off.’
‘With that wooden leg of his?’
‘Most people don’t know about that. First War hero eager to get back into action and so on and so forth. Ted will be thrilled to break the news, and the rest of Fleet Street will follow his lead.’
‘Won’t he know it’s a lie? Won’t he care?’
‘Darling, he’s a journalist. In wartime you take what you’re given and are grateful.’
‘Good Lord, Guy, what a rotten lot! How can you be party to something like that?’
He rose to his feet. ‘Foxy, since you’re about to marry an earl and presumably stay in this country for the duration, you may as well get used to one thing. The sock has been pulled inside out. What was criminal once is now legitimised, what was lawful has now disappeared into a very dark hole and may never be seen again. Nothing’s as it was.’ He took a deep breath. ‘See you at Ciro’s in an hour.’
CHAPTER TWO
In the morning light, Buckingham Palace looked grey and dispiriting. Gone were the bearskins and cheerful red tunics of the peacetime guard; in their place a regiment of Canadians, their smartly turned out but drab battledress doing little to cheer the famous frontage with its tragically ruined face.
Guy Harford walked the length of the black-painted railings, absorbed by the events of the previous day. The morning papers all carried an account of the tragic death of Major Brampton, MC – Ted Rochester’s exclusive in the News Chronicle had been spotted by its rivals and followed up in their later editions. Nowhere was it even hinted that the courtier had taken his own life, nor that it had been on palace premises – nor, especially, was there a breath of gossip about Ed Brampton and the Queen. In a news flow overwhelmed by events from abroad, the story was sure to evaporate within twenty-four hours.
The policeman at the Tradesmen’s Gate nodded as Guy strolled through but didn’t salute. As an artist, not a military man, Guy’s languid bearing did not invite the raising of an arm, so a curt nod sufficed. He wandered into the Royal Mews and unlocked the door to his office.
‘Would you like me to change the water? Your floral tribute?’ It was Aggie, the clerk he shared with Ed Brampton – had shared.