Hollow Crown Read online

  ‘I didn’t know he knew anything about it,’ Edward said, moving away from the window. ‘In any case, I didn’t investigate, I just got involved.’

  ‘Oh yes, he knows exactly what happened there. He seems to think you handled yourself very well. Made some useful contacts too, I understand. I believe he’s thinking of offering you some sort of a job but I told him to hold his horses as I needed you first.’

  ‘Whatever do you mean, Joe?’

  ‘I need something investigated . . . it’s most delicate . . . and I thought of you.’

  ‘I’m flattered but I’m not a private detective,’ Edward said rudely, hoping to bring the conversation to an end.

  Weaver turned and looked at him shrewdly. ‘I know that and I wouldn’t ask for your help if it weren’t a matter of . . . ’

  ‘Life and death?’

  ‘A matter of state, if that doesn’t sound too portentous.’

  ‘It does but I confess I’m intrigued.’

  ‘The fact of the matter is that Wallis . . . Mrs Simpson . . . has lost some papers . . . letters. They were stolen from her and if they ever came into . . . into the wrong hands . . . they would blast her reputation to the skies.’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ Edward said coolly, ‘but from what you say that might not be such a bad thing. If she is revealed as . . . as something she pretends not to be, the King will have no alternative but to give her up.’

  ‘It’s not as simple as that. You don’t . . . you can’t fully realize what the King feels for her. Anyway, it’s much better you hear it from her own lips. I want you to dine with me in Eaton Place on Saturday. It’ll be just two or three old friends and Wallis. I’ve told her all about you. She wants to meet you.’

  Edward took a deep breath. Did he really want to get involved in the private affairs of an unscrupulous woman apparently determined to involve the monarchy in scandal?

  Weaver must have seen his lip curl. ‘Before you make judgements, you should hear what she has to say. It’s not like you to condemn a person on the basis of rumour. In any case, it’s your duty.’ He almost stood to attention and Edward repressed a desire to laugh. ‘Your king asks for your assistance. I don’t think you have any option but to listen.’

  ‘Oh, don’t be absurd, Joe! If the King wants something investigated he can call on the whole of Scotland Yard.’

  ‘This is not a police matter but none the less important for that. Edward, I’m surprised at you. What do you English say? Noblesse oblige?’

  ‘The English don’t understand French . . . ’ he began but then, seeing his friend was serious, relented. Weaver had resisted the temptation to point out how much Edward owed him – not least flying him around Europe in his private aeroplane. ‘I’ll come, of course, as you wish it, but I can promise nothing more. I don’t like the sound of this and . . . ’

  ‘Say no more. Eight on Saturday then – dinner jackets, no need to dress up. This is more a council of war than a dinner party.’

  Edward took this as a dismissal and, as he got up to go, asked casually, ‘Has anyone any idea who stole these papers?’

  ‘Yes indeed. They were stolen by Mrs Raymond Harkness . . . Molly Harkness. She was at one time the King’s intimate friend, and yours too, I gather.’

  Blanche, Lady Weaver, raised her head for him to kiss her cheek but retreated before he had time to do more than lean towards her. She was cool to the point of froideur. Obviously, she had been instructed by her husband to greet him civilly and was obeying . . . just. Edward had been asked to arrive early so he could meet Weaver’s other guests before he had to give his undivided attention to the femme fatale. His host was still changing, having been kept late at the paper, so it was left to Blanche to introduce him. He had been rather surprised that there were to be other guests, given the need for secrecy, but Weaver had explained that Wallis had particularly asked that the evening should be as normal as possible and he had agreed with her that it might cause comment if it became known that she had dined alone with Edward and himself.

  ‘You must know Leo,’ Blanche said, waving dismissively at a dapper little man with a pencil-thin moustache and a smile which revealed the yellow teeth of the chain smoker.

  Edward had met Leo Scannon once or twice at Mersham and had not liked him. Scannon was a Conservative Member of Parliament, very much on the right of the party. Too idle to want a ministerial post, he nevertheless exercised considerable influence on the back benches. He was all surface charm – one of the King’s intimates – an atrocious snob feared for his caustic wit and his encyclopedic knowledge of aristocratic scandals. He ‘knew everybody’ and dined out at least three times a week. Edward, as the younger son of a duke, was not entirely to be despised but, until now, had not been considered worthy of his serious attention. This did not prevent Scannon shaking him warmly by the hand, and greeting him as though he were an old friend.

  ‘Good to see you again, Corinth. How’s Gerald?’

  Scannon had bad breath and Edward backed off like a skittish horse. He made a mental note to ask his brother whether he had ever encouraged Scannon to call him by his Christian name. The Duke was very choosy about the men he permitted to be so familiar and he doubted whether Scannon was one of them. He wore too much hair oil, for one thing, which the Duke abhorred and, for another, Scannon was an open admirer of the Nazi Party and its leader. A few weeks earlier he had been in Berlin for the Olympic Games and met the Reichsführer and had apparently been bowled over by him. He had attended a Nazi Party rally and thrilled to the sound of marching jackboots. It mystified Edward what people saw in the man but he smiled bravely and muttered inanities.

  Scannon was unmarried and, when Edward caught sight of a tall woman of exotic appearance standing by the fireplace smoking a cigarette from the longest cigarette holder he had ever seen, he thought at first she must be attached in some way to him. Edward was impatient to be introduced to her but, whether to tease him or through an oversight, Blanche made no effort to do so. Instead, he had to listen to Scannon going on and on about the Duke of Mersham and others of his relations until he felt he might have to wring his neck.

  At last, Lord Weaver entered the drawing-room apologizing for not having been there when his guests arrived. ‘News just in from Spain, Edward,’ he said. ‘Government troops have recaptured Maqueda, south of Madrid.’

  ‘Never mind that,’ Scannon said scornfully. ‘It’s only a matter of time before Madrid falls to General Franco.’

  ‘You hope so, Leo, do you?’

  ‘I do, Joe,’ Scannon said firmly. ‘It’s time this terrible civil war ended and order was restored – for the sake of the Spanish people as much as for the world at large. I hear they have taken anarchists into the government. Anarchists! I ask you – how can one take seriously a government of anarchists! It’s a contradiction in terms.’

  Edward bit back the retort which sprang to his lips and said urgently to Weaver, ‘Any news of Verity Browne?’

  Verity Browne, the New Gazette’s correspondent in Spain, was an avowed Communist and, if Edward knew anything about it, she would be in the thick of the fighting. Edward had an odd relationship with Verity. He had met her quite by chance when she had given him a lift to Mersham Castle after he had driven his car into a ditch. This was a year ago and their acquaintance had ripened into a friendship that occasionally threatened to become something more than that. But Verity’s political beliefs made it almost impossible for her to ‘love a lord’ as she had once put it. However, her principles did not prevent her from calling on Edward for help in an emergency and a few months back, just before the outbreak of the war in Spain, he had helped obtain the release from a Spanish gaol of her lover – in Edward’s eyes an odious communist ideologue – by the name of David Griffiths-Jones.

  Edward was not a Communist. In fact he hated everything about Communism but he hated Fascism more. He held the unfashionable belief that it was possible to oppose the Nazis without becoming a membe
r of the Communist Party. It was certainly a stand which infuriated Verity.

  ‘Haven’t you heard?’ Weaver was saying in amazement. ‘She was in Toledo.’

  ‘Good heavens!’ said Edward in alarm. ‘Is she all right?’

  ‘Just about. She’s back in England now, recuperating. I’m surprised she hasn’t been in touch.’

  ‘What happened?’ Blanche asked.

  ‘At Toledo? About a thousand army cadets seized the Alcázar and held it against besieging government troops for weeks. Just when it looked as though the fortress must fall, and the government had invited foreign correspondents to watch the surrender, it was relieved. On 27th September the militia were routed by Franco’s Moorish troops. It was a disaster which ought not to have happened. Someone had blundered. There was savage hand-to-hand fighting . . . ’

  ‘And I suppose Verity was in the thick of it?’ Edward broke in.

  ‘I’ll show you the account she filed for the paper. It’s one of her most powerful pieces. You really ought to read the New Gazette more carefully Edward.’

  Scannon said, ‘Verity Browne? She’s your pet “pinko”, isn’t she Joe? I can’t think why you employ her.’

  ‘Because she’s a damn good journalist, that’s why,’ said Weaver firmly.

  Edward was about to say something more in her defence – not that she would have been in the least put out to be excoriated by a man like Scannon, indeed she would most likely have taken it as a compliment – when the woman by the fireplace spoke.

  ‘She is a friend of yours – Miss Browne?’ Edward was never to forget that first moment he heard her talk. She spoke excellent English but had a distinct accent which he could not place immediately. He was later to learn that she was Javanese-Dutch. Her voice was husky and low but could never have been mistaken for a man’s.

  ‘Yes, she is,’ Edward said. ‘I do apologize but we haven’t been properly introduced. My name is Corinth – Edward Corinth.’

  ‘I know who you are, Lord Edward.’

  Weaver interjected: ‘Blanche, my dear, what have you been thinking of? Edward, may I introduce Catherine Dannhorn – “Dannie” to everyone. Dannie, this is Lord Edward Corinth.’

  ‘Lord Edward, I am so pleased to meet you. Joe has been singing your praises. I hope you will call me Dannie.’ She transferred her cigarette holder to her left hand and gave Edward her right. ‘I am such an admirer of Miss Browne. She has done what so few of us have dared to do: leave the comfort of our homes and families and find out what is really happening. Is she a great friend?’

  ‘Yes, she is indeed . . . Dannie. She doesn’t approve of me, of course. She thinks I waste my time and no doubt she’s right. She thinks we are dangerously indifferent to what is happening in Spain. She sees it as the first great battle in the war against Fascism.’

  ‘What nonsense!’ Scannon expostulated. ‘Girls belong in the home. Don’t you agree, Blanche? I don’t know what her father is thinking of allowing her to racket around Europe meddling in things she knows nothing about. She ought to leave journalism to men. Surely, you must agree with me, Joe? Admit it, it’s just a stunt having this girl writing for you.’

  Edward was almost unaware of what Scannon was saying. His eyes were fixed on Dannie’s face. Her almond eyes, high cheekbones and dark, silky skin captivated him. She was like nothing he had ever seen before and Blanche looked pale and insipid in comparison. Before Weaver could answer Scannon, the butler announced that Mrs Simpson’s car was drawing up in front of the house and he bustled out to greet her. The others were silent, expectant, as though the King himself was about to join the company.

  ‘We don’t have to curtsy, do we?’ Blanche inquired nervously. ‘I’ve only met her with the King before.’

  ‘Certainly not!’ said Scannon. ‘Though we might have to in a few months’ time.’

  Edward pulled himself together and tried to think what he was going to say to the lady. It was, he thought, deuced awkward. He understood why he had been selected to retrieve her letters from Molly. He was an old friend of hers and, just as important, he would not be associated in her eyes with the King or, indeed, Mrs Simpson. He had met Molly Harkness when he had been in Kenya. She had at that time still been married to a young lawyer but Happy Valley had been anything but happy for the young couple. There had been so little to do and many of the English there were not of the best sort – rakes, remittance men, divorcees. A fair sprinkling had, as the saying went, ‘left the country for their country’s good’. Molly had had a string of affairs while her husband, Raymond, had become a gambler and a drunkard. It was said he had come home from Muthaiga Club late one night, found his wife in the arms of her lover and tried to shoot her. He had failed – as he had failed at everything – and had turned the gun on himself. It had been a horrible scandal and public opinion had put the blame for her husband’s suicide on the widow.

  Edward had offered to take her away from Nairobi – he had some business to do in Johannesburg – and she had gratefully accepted. By this time Molly’s lover had been disposed of and it was widely assumed – by Lord Weaver for one – that Edward had replaced him in her bed. She was a very beautiful woman – fair hair, tanned face, lean and clean-looking, almost boyish – but, as it happened, Edward had not seduced or been seduced and he and Molly had remained good friends. It bothered neither of them that the world thought otherwise. Molly had proved to be an instinctive aviatrix and together they had flown all over the country and had several narrow escapes. On one occasion they had had to make a forced landing on the high veldt and had almost perished with cold during the night, despite being wrapped in each other’s arms, and on another, had woken in a makeshift camp on the Masai Mara to find themselves an object of curiosity to a pride of lions. All in all, it had been a good, strong friendship and perhaps neither of them could have explained why it had never become a love affair.

  Edward had returned to England but Molly had stayed at the Cape a few months longer. He had not seen her when finally she had come home but he had read in the social columns of The Times and the Morning Post that she had become one of the Prince of Wales’s intimate friends. He guessed that she must have been ‘seen off’ by Mrs Simpson and was now taking revenge. Whatever Molly’s failings – and, as Edward knew, they were legion – he would not have put her down as a thief and a blackmailer but he also knew from bitter experience that disappointed love could sour a man’s – or a woman’s – character.

  Mrs Simpson entered the room without any hint of swagger but emanating an aura of ‘being special’ – a personage. She was quite alone, which was unusual. She normally liked to have around her a small group of trusted friends. Joe and Leo Scannon both greeted her with a kiss, which she accepted passively. Despite what Scannon had said, Blanche made her a little curtsy which seemed to please her. When it was Edward’s turn to be introduced, she said politely, ‘I don’t think we’ve ever met before,’ and made a little joke about a friend they had in common. It was absurd, Edward told himself later, but he had expected Wallis Simpson would be beautiful, in the way Catherine Dannhorn was beautiful but, of course, she was not. Nor was she the vulgar American adventurer her enemies labelled her. She was a demure, plain woman with large startled eyes, plucked eyebrows and a mole on her cheek. She was simply but smartly dressed in white and wore a magnificent parure of rubies.

  At dinner, Edward was placed on her right and for a moment he wondered if he were going to be bored but quickly discovered she was much more intelligent than she appeared at first and exhibited a dry wit which charmed him. They discussed flying – she hated flying as so many of the friends of her youth had been killed in flying accidents. They discussed golf which she loved and Edward abominated, gardening – she was very interested in his description of the Elizabethan knot garden at Mersham which she said sounded ‘divine’, a favourite word of hers – the Far East, which she had visited as a girl, and jewellery about which she spoke with passion. She said she hated public eve
nts and being photographed because ‘I know I’m not beautiful’ but she said not a word about the King. By the end of dinner, Edward had got to like her and felt genuinely sorry for the predicament in which she found herself.

  Weaver, too, was in good spirits, quite unabashed at having the King’s paramour in his house, and he spoke knowledgeably, if at rather too great length, of John Knox, Wolfe taking Quebec and eighteenth-century politics in general. Edward hoped he would not raise the subject of George IV and his unhappy queen and, to his relief, he did not. Mrs Simpson ate very little and drank less. Wallis, as she asked Edward to call her, told him she never had cocktails, preferring whisky and soda and, at dinner, she drank just one glass of claret but several tumblers of Vichy water. Blanche had obviously taken particular care with the dinner and Wallis was complimentary. They began with blinis and caviar, then Sole Muscat followed by Boeuf à la Provençale. The service was brisk and efficient so they were finished by eleven. Blanche and Dannie then left to drink coffee in the drawing-room but Wallis made no move to join them so Edward assumed they must be about to discuss the missing documents.

  When the servants had departed, the port was circulated and Wallis had a small cup of black coffee. The men lit cigars, after first gaining the lady’s permission, and Edward lit a cigarette for her. Weaver blew smoke and said, ‘Wallis, I mentioned to Edward that we might need his help recovering those papers taken from you. I have only told him the bare bones of the problem. Would you like me to . . . or would you prefer to . . . ?’

  There was a moment’s awkward silence and then Wallis spoke in her curiously high-pitched but pleasant voice with its American lilt. ‘Joe has told you what happened?’

  Edward shook his head. ‘I’m afraid I am completely in the dark.’

  ‘It was two weeks ago. We . . . ’ She glanced at Edward to see if he understood that she included the King in that ‘we’. ‘We were staying with the Brownlows – you know Perry and Kitty, don’t you?’ Edward said that he did. ‘I guess, when I went down to dinner, I must have left my jewel box on my dressing table. Then, when I went up to bed, I found my maid in tears in my room. She said, “Oh, madam, someone’s broken open your box.” I went to look and the lid had been prised open with a knife or something and my letters had gone.’