‘No thank you.’ He could sense without turning that Aggie was peering over his shoulder to see if another kiss had been chalked on his desk. It was she who’d discovered the rose yesterday.
‘A note from Tommy Lascelles. I was just going to put it on your desk.’
Guy groaned. The King’s deputy private secretary did little to hide his contempt for Guy – the North Africa business clearly remained fresh in his mind – but on the other hand, he seemed ready to recognise his skill at getting things done. In his pre-courtier days Guy may have been a useless spy, but at the Palace he was swiftly becoming invaluable.
‘What’s in it?’
‘Top secret, it says.’
‘Aggie, you steamed open the envelope. You know what it says.’
She didn’t even blush. ‘You’re in charge of Major Brampton’s funeral. Guards Chapel – one week from today.’
Guy turned to face the secretary. ‘A religious service for a suicide? What will the Lord Almighty think?’
‘The Lord Almighty counts for nothing round here, Mr Harford. Far greater is the word of His Majesty’s deputy private secretary.’
‘Does the King know, by the way? About Edgar?’
‘Doesn’t want to.’ It was remarkable, Aggie’s grasp of what was going on.
Guy sat down at his desk. The rose was big and slightly blowsy, deep red and with a glorious aroma, like an overbearing woman’s perfume. He inhaled deeply and opened the buff envelope.
Inside were detailed instructions on how to get rid of an unwanted royal problem.
First, visit the widow, describe to her the sad accident. Reassure her that a pension will be paid and imply, without saying so, that if she asks no awkward questions the children’s school fees would be covered as well.
Next, post an obituary in the smarter newspapers, focusing on Edgar Brampton’s urgent desire to return to combat duties, without mentioning the artificial leg.
Third, liaise with the palace police and the Household Brigade padre to ensure the smooth delivery of a body to the small-scale but fitting military funeral.
Fourth, wrap the whole thing up and dispose of it. Neatly.
Fifth, please tell the Clerk of the Green Cloth to stop telephoning the Palace. And sort out the Duke of Gloucester’s car!
Aggie had gone back to her little office in the anteroom next door. The day was warming up, and through the open window you could hear the approaching drumbeat of the guard detail who’d marched the short distance from Wellington Barracks. Once, there would have been a band, horses, gold braid, shining helmets. Today there was merely an arid crunch of boots.
‘I’d better go and see the old boy. What sort of mood’s he in?’
‘At breakfast he completed The Times crossword in record time. Should be safe.’
Guy wandered out of the Mews and across the gravel to the Ambassador’s Entrance. There were strict rules against palace personnel walking across the inner quadrangle, but it was the quickest route to his boss’s offices. The place was so vast you needed a motorbike to get about.
The deputy private secretary’s office was, in its own way, a sort of Throne Room. Certainly, Tommy Lascelles was as important as any king and knew more about the business of ruling a nation than either the present incumbent or his brothers. Arriving at the hallowed portal, you knocked and waited. After a considerable pause, you might be allowed to enter.
‘The Brampton business, sir,’ Guy began. ‘I think first I should go round to his house in Chelsea. I’m assuming that’s where the body will need to be found?’
‘I have no idea what you’re talking about,’ said Lascelles, tugging at the stiff collar constricting his neck. ‘I believe you know Mrs Gwynne.’
Guy nodded. In an instant he grasped the instructions he’d just read did not constitute grounds for a conversation, and that further negotiations on the disposal of poor Edgar’s body would be conducted through a lesser being. Just like the King, the deputy private secretary knew all about Ed – but didn’t want to know.
‘Mrs Gwynne is, I think, a close friend of the Duchess of Windsor?’
‘I believe so.’
‘Is she in touch with her?’
‘I have no idea, sir.’ This was not strictly accurate – only last night in Ciro’s, Foxy had been describing in hilarious detail the two old friends’ last telephone call.
‘I just want you to know’ – the perfectly manicured moustache bristled – ‘if the Duke ever succeeded in making a friend, he never managed to keep them for any length of time.’
‘Well, I do see . . .’
‘The very devoted service given him by his members of staff he appreciated so little he could only reward them with rank ingratitude.’
‘Yes, I think we . . .’
‘When it came to the parting of the ways, he stood there tragically and pitifully alone. It was an isolation of his own making.’
I wonder what the old fool’s getting at, thought Guy. And how long will this take, it’s awfully hot in here.
‘I just think you should pass that along. We’re trying hard to shut down lines of communication to the ex-king, except through this office. Despite the fact he is in Nassau – when he’s not gallivanting round the United States – every time he hears some new titbit of information he’s sending communiques and telegrams and making a frightful nuisance of himself, insisting he should come home. Much the best thing if he doesn’t know anything. At all.’
‘Are you saying he’s a security risk, sir?’
‘You’re not a complete idiot, Harford, what d’you think?’
‘I . . .’
‘Now, this Mrs Gwynne. I’ve told Lord Sefton to keep his mouth shut but he says it’s his future wife who’s in contact with the Duchess, he has no say over her just now. I don’t know whether he’s being difficult or whether that really is the case, but since you see so much of her, please tell her to shut her trap.’
How did you know I see her? thought Guy. Are you having me watched?
Aloud he said, ‘She’s an American citizen, sir.’
‘She’ll be British soon, once she marries Sefton. Till then, tell her to shut up.’
‘Is that all, sir?’
‘Off you go. I’m busy!’
Guy wandered out. Not for the first time his artist’s eye took in the lavish, theatrical decor of this more public part of Buckingham Palace. It was dressy and extravagant, just right for impressing visiting potentates, but somehow, in the middle of war, pointless and just a bit farcical. Too much paint, too much gilding, you had to have faith for it to work. Shaking his head slightly, he moved quickly down the stairs.
Outside, work continued on repairing the devastation caused by the Luftwaffe’s bombing raid the year before. Cloth-capped handymen leaned on their shovels while others chatted by a tea urn set up in the palace yard. They’re in no rush, thought Guy, so why am I?
The bus growled its way down Buckingham Palace Road towards Sloane Square. Everywhere among the grey buildings of Victoria and the pink-bricked houses of neighbouring Chelsea was evidence of a nation at war, from the tin hats and gas masks to the Anderson shelters and the intense looks on the faces of passers-by. Away from the lethargy of the Palace, there seemed an urgency among the populace to get out and achieve something.