And not the only one, thought Guy. ‘Do I have to report to him as well?’
‘Not really. Just keep on his good side.’
‘I’ll do my best.’
‘I wonder,’ said Aggie, shaking her head. She had a stiff permanent wave and favoured floral dresses.
‘Did you by any chance take Major Brampton’s diary away?’
‘Diary? No,’ said Aggie absently. ‘I expect it got swept up by the chaps who cleaned this place up after . . .’ She didn’t finish the sentence.
‘I don’t think so,’ said Guy. ‘It was still in his bookshelf over by the window yesterday – I noticed particularly. Rather nice green leatherette cover. Now it’s gone.’
‘I didn’t even know he kept one.’
But you did, Aggie, you did – and I bet you know what was written in it. ‘I’m going over to the Guards Chapel to talk to the padre.’
A blue-battledressed footman opened the door without knocking, and with a vague air of condescension nodded at Guy. ‘Harford, is it? The Master would like to see you. Now.’ He turned on his heel and sauntered off, not bothering to shut the door.
‘They get worse,’ said Aggie tartly. ‘That one should be with the Royal Fusiliers in Egypt, but he says his mother’s dying and he’s her only relative. Anyway, off you go. Privy Purse entrance, up the stairs to the first floor, second on the left. I’ll have the tea on when you get back.’
‘Thank you.’
‘Don’t tell him anything you wouldn’t tell your mother.’
Guy marched down some steps and through the byways and corridors which made up the underground village supplying the needs of the royal palace. He passed painters’ shops, wine cellars, food stores and carpentry cupboards, all playing their part in the maintenance of the place. He checked his watch as he reached Dighton’s door; it had taken a full eight minutes to reach his destination. He knocked and entered.
‘Aha!’ barked the silver-haired figure standing four-square in front of a vast marble mantelpiece. ‘The Tanja Man!’
‘Harford, Sir Topham,’ Guy confirmed stiffly. He thought he’d managed to put the Tangier business behind him.
‘Hertford, yes. But I shall call you Tanja Man,’ responded the Master curtly. He must be well over seventy, thought Guy, but obviously age does not mellow everyone.
‘City of sandals and scandals. I was there in ’22 with Lord Bute. Aha. I expect you know him.’
‘Well, as a matter of fact . . .’
‘You’re here under a cloud, Tanja Man,’ went on Topsy, not requiring an answer. ‘This is just a friendly warning, nothing official. Do as you’re told, keep your nose clean, and there’s a job here for life. Step out of line, gum up the works, and I’ll have you in the Tower of London cleaning out the latrines.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
‘Aha. You’re dealing with the Brampton affair.’
Guy looked out of the window. The rooks were circling St James’s Park like enemy bombers. He didn’t immediately answer.
‘I said, the Brampton affair,’ barked Dighton.
‘You’d have to talk to Mr Lascelles about that, sir,’ replied Guy, remembering Aggie’s warning. ‘It’s, er, unofficial.’
‘Edgar was my wife’s cousin once removed. We have a family interest.’
‘Absolutely.’ Guy compressed his lips in mute refusal.
‘I warn you, Tanja Man, I require the fullest cooperation from types like you who sneak into the Palace through the back door, shirking their military duty. Hah. Dodging the column.’
‘You’ll see from my medical record, sir, that . . .’
‘Oh, yes, yes, yes! Obviously the dissolute life of a painter in Morocco has rendered your heart completely useless. You should have taken more care, but I suppose all those drugs people take out there . . . Now, get out, and write me a full report on everything you’ve done. Mark it “Top Secret”, make only one copy, deliver it by hand to this office.’
‘If that’s all, Sir Topham . . .’
‘Next Friday morning,’ barked the gnarled old courtier, fishing into a waistcoat pocket for his snuff box.
The long journey back to the Royal Mews gave Guy the opportunity to review his situation. The foul-up in Morocco was hardly his fault, though it suited everyone concerned that he should take the blame. After his arrival back in England and sitting behind a Foreign Office desk for three interminable months when nobody spoke to him, the job at the Palace had been fixed. He may have taken the blame for what went on in Africa, but at least he was being looked after.
Up to a point. He hadn’t been sure when he shut Topham Dighton’s door that he didn’t hear the word ‘scum’ – and now, pushing open his own office door, he was confronted by a bulky figure in Coldstream Guards uniform, one foot on his desk and drinking his tea.
The officer half-rose from his seat, then plonked down again. Artists – painters – did not warrant the courtesy of a formal introduction.
‘Toby Broadbent, Coats Mission. I won’t shake hands.’
Guy looked over the captain’s shoulder and saw Aggie making saucer eyes, as if to say, ‘You’re in trouble.’
‘Been asked by the Master to look you over.’
‘Make yourself at home,’ said Guy, but the irony was lost on the soldier. ‘I’ve just been to see him.’
‘I’ve got your file here,’ said Broadbent heavily. ‘Says you caused a diplomatic crisis in Tangier. The Americans and the French and the Germans and the Spanish all at each other’s throats. Had to be airlifted out, get you out of trouble double-quick.’
‘That’s roughly correct, if a trifle one-sided.’
‘Well,’ said the soldier, breaking into a forced smile, ‘you sound like our sort of fella. We like people who make life difficult for others.’
‘The Master doesn’t.’
‘Ah well, he’s been here since the First War. Failed to move with the times.’
‘Who exactly are you?’ said Guy, unsure whether to trust Broadbent’s sudden switch of mood.
‘Coats Mission. We’re here to protect HM and the rest of the family. Down to the last bullet and the last man. Won’t go into the details, but in case of an invasion it’s our job to spirit them away.’
‘And it’s your job, Captain, to decide whether I might pose a threat to His Majesty?’
‘Can’t be too careful. That’s rather nice,’ he added, pointing with his chin, ‘though I’m not much of a one for art.’
Guy glanced at the unframed oil painting on the wall opposite, a faded memory now. ‘The Grand Socco,’ he said. ‘It’s a kind of souk. Depending on your point of view, either the filthiest place in the world or the most exciting.’
‘Never been to Tangier,’ replied Broadbent. ‘Old Topsy says most of the people there should be in jail.’
‘I daresay he’s right. That’s what makes it interesting.’
Broadbent turned over the pages of the bulky file before him. ‘I see you were recruited by Teddy Dunlop.’