The small terraced house in Markham Street, a white stuccoed cottage in the Chelsea style, was intact, alert, as if waiting for his visit. Palace rules dictated that you left a spare set of keys with the Master of the Household in case of emergency, but when Guy tried the latchkey it didn’t work.
He made his way down the street to a break in the terrace and walked up the back alley, but though he was able to turn the back-door key in the lock, the door was bolted.
‘Can I help?’ barked a military voice. The question clearly did not mean what it said – there would be no help forthcoming from this person, an ancient neighbour who evidently did not like the look of him.
‘Er, I’m a friend of Major Brampton,’ said Guy. ‘I’m sorry to say there’s been an accident.’
‘Oh,’ said the man. ‘Well, you won’t find him here. They all cleared off to Oxfordshire. Can’t say I blame them – I’d go myself if I could.’
‘No,’ said Guy, ‘Major Brampton.’
‘Yes, him too. They’ve all been gone two or three months.’
Guy looked up and down the back alley. A black cat lay on top of a wall but otherwise it was deserted. ‘Look,’ he said, ‘my name’s Harford. I shared an office with Major Brampton at . . . well, I expect you know where he worked . . . but as I understand it, Mrs Brampton and the children went to her father’s home in Oxfordshire while he remained in town. Here,’ he added with emphasis, pointing at the back of the house.
‘You’re mistaken. When Mrs Brampton left, he stayed on for a couple of days. But I didn’t see him after that.’
‘Look,’ repeated Guy, ‘there’s been an accident and I’ve been sent here just to . . .’ But he did not complete the sentence. He’d been dispatched to check the coast was clear so that, if necessary, Ed Brampton’s body could be returned to the house at night to be ‘discovered’.
No need to share that. ‘I’ve just been sent to see all’s in order.’
‘Hmm,’ said the man, unimpressed.
‘The major didn’t leave a key with you? As neighbours sometimes do?’
‘Do you have any identification?’ said the old boy aggressively. His regimental tie glinted threateningly in the sunlight.
Guy fished out his Buckingham Palace pass. It changed everything.
‘Augustus ffrench-Blake,’ said the man, with the slightest of bows. ‘Fifteenth Lancers. Well, I was in the Fifteenth . . . the last show, don’tcha know. The Prince of Wales came to inspect us. Never seen such a tiny feller.’
‘Key?’ said Guy.
‘Ah. Go back round to the front and I’ll meet you at the door.’
Guy retraced his steps, and by the time he reached Brampton’s house the old soldier was already standing there.
‘Doesn’t work,’ said Guy, after pushing the key in the lock. ‘Are you sure this is the right one?’
‘It’s a Chubb. We have Yale.’
‘Well, it doesn’t work,’ said Guy crossly. ‘He can’t have changed the locks?’
‘I wouldn’t know.’ The old boy was losing interest.
‘May I use your telephone?’
Colonel ffrench-Blake’s house was crowded with gilt furniture and huge mirrors – reminders of a grander past – and hung with oversized oil portraits of soldiers long dead.
‘Adelaide?’ he said into the mouthpiece. ‘It’s Guy Harford. May I come to see you this afternoon? I’ll drive down, could be with you by teatime.’
Though the widow answered, her words were vague. Guy deliberately didn’t ask whether she’d been told the truth about Brampton’s suicide or had been fed the official line. It was better to wait till he saw her.
He turned to thank the colonel. ‘And you’re certain that Major Brampton hasn’t been here in the last couple of months?’
‘Completely. The walls of these houses aren’t that thick – you tend to hear movement. All went quiet a couple of days after the family left. What’s happened to him?’
‘I’m sorry to say he has died.’
‘Oh,’ said the soldier, knowing not to inquire any further. ‘Well, I’m sorry to hear it. He was a good fellow – for an infantryman.’
St Walke Episcopi boasted neither pub nor village hall, and the lane leading to it was so narrow Guy passed the turning twice. When he finally entered the village he found a single street pointing towards a large stone gateway. Round a curve in the drive came the sight of a grey-stone Palladian mansion with a pony cart under the portico and two small children playing on the lawn.
Adelaide Brampton greeted him with the wave of a duster. ‘Tea’s ready.’
‘Adelaide, I’m so sorry . . .’
‘I’ll tell you straight away, Guy. It’s a shock, of course it is, but things weren’t going well between Ed and me. If I hadn’t come away because of the bombs, there would have been some other reason.’
‘I’m sorry, I . . .’
‘He was a dear fellow, and brave of course. But not what might be described as a family man. He was married to the job, not to me. I had a call from the Lord Chamberlain’s office, they said the Palace would make all the arrangements – I don’t seem even to be allowed the job of putting him to rest.’
‘I came to make sure you were all right and to let you know about the funeral.’
‘Oh? It won’t be here in St Walke?’
‘Guards Chapel. A week today.’
‘Good of you to let me know, I might have turned up at the wrong church otherwise,’ she said bitterly.
‘I’m sorry, Adelaide, we all do what we’re told. It’s the only way things work in wartime.’
She gave him a cold stare. ‘He was my husband, not theirs. They didn’t even tell me where he died.’
‘Ah. Well . . .’
‘Will he be sent off as a Catholic or as Church of England?’
‘They’re not terribly keen on incense, those chaps.’
‘Well, I don’t suppose it’ll make any difference, he never went to church.’
‘There’ll be a firing party. You know, a ceremonial volley and all that.’
She gave him a sour look. ‘Pretty tactless in the circumstances, since he ended up with a bullet in his head. And isn’t there going to be an inquest? Since his death was supposedly accidental?’
They haven’t even told you about that, he thought. Is it the war – or is it palace protocol – that gives us all such bad manners?
‘I don’t know. So many formalities seem to be dispensed with these days. Can I ask you . . .’
‘Yes?’
‘What were Ed’s plans, after you came with the children to Oxfordshire? Was he going to live at his club?’
Adelaide looked surprised. ‘No – why would he do that when we have a perfectly good house in Chelsea?’
‘It’s just that . . .’ said Guy, ‘I went round there this morning. Saw your neighbour, the colonel. We both tried to get into the house but something had happened to the front-door lock. And the colonel told me that he hadn’t seen Ed since you moved down here.’