‘Nothing that need concern you. Nothing of any illegality whatsoever.’
‘Oh? I suppose the neighbours wiped a building down of its fingerprints because they were feeling tidy. This isn’t my way home, by the way.’
‘I know.’
The little man pushed him left at the corner of Cadogan Gardens. His tone was still light.
‘You’re probably imagining criminal gangs and drugs and all sorts of unpleasantness. Were they were planning a bank robbery, like The Ladykillers? Excellent picture, very funny. Have they kidnapped the scion of a royal family? Or did they keep a mouldering body in the basement? I can assure you none of these things are true.’
Darbishire had been imagining exactly these things, or variations on them. He was more sure than ever that he was dealing with a gang. Who else would send someone with a prim little voice who called you ‘old chap’ and looked like a cut-price Humphrey Bogart? The incongruity of it all was what made it seem most likely. But the specific denials were a surprise. Were they to distract from another possibility that he’d missed? Or a tissue of lies?
‘Excuse me if I don’t take the word of a total stranger who accosts me in the street.’
The man relaxed his grip. ‘I understand your hesitation. But I wanted you to hear it from us personally. No hard feelings. Carry on the good work. Just . . . focus on what was said, not who said it. Be a good boy. It’s to everyone’s advantage.’ He raised his free hand for a moment, as if waving to a distant friend. ‘Ah, this is me. It’s been good to have this little chat. Don’t forget what I said.’
A black cab pulled up smoothly in the road beside them and he climbed into it almost without breaking step. The taxi pulled out into the traffic of Sloane Street and Darbishire watched as it disappeared in the direction of Hyde Park. He had no idea who the man was, or who he was working for, but he had to admire the slickness of their operation.
And Venables was in on it. That’s why he took Darbishire to that particular pub. It was so obvious that the chief inspector didn’t feel the need to pretend to hide it. Which meant that either this went all the way to the top, or Venables was in with some extremely shady characters. Either way, pursuing those elusive witnesses wasn’t going to lead anywhere.
His initial suspicions about this job had proved spot on. Turning for home, Darbishire smiled grimly to himself.
Chapter 14
Philip was right when he talked about the need to end the outdated flummery of court presentations for young, marriageable debutantes. They might have worked well in the days of Queen Charlotte, but in 1957 the Georgian tradition had become decidedly quaint. And it took up so much time. The Queen had already decided that next year would be the last of them, though it had yet to be announced. However, after her wonderful evening with Duke Ellington, she decided to make an exception for Bridget Fairdale’s coming out ball.
The Queen was very fond of Deborah, and the word ‘incognito’ had clinched it for her. She loved dressing up, always had, and she adored people-watching when she got the chance. It would be so much easier if not everyone was watching her. In addition, the theme was Shakespeare, which made it easy to rustle up an appropriate costume. And the venue was Cliveden, which would make a magnificent backdrop for whatever Deborah chose to do.
Philip had no difficulty deciding on his costume. For a Danish prince – even one who had given up his title – the chance of going dressed as Hamlet was too good to miss. He copied the black velvet doublet worn on-screen by Laurence Oliver, which showed off his pale blond hair. The children were delighted with it when the royal couple went up to the nursery to say goodnight. On the other hand, the Queen was pleased to see that Anne had to stare at her for a minute before recognising her at all.
Cliveden lay higher up the reaches of the River Thames, a half-hour’s drive from Windsor. Originally a home of dukes, it had been bought and restored by William Waldorf Astor, the second richest man in America, who had chosen to settle here after a family dispute. He was responsible for building the original Waldorf Hotel, which was now part of the Waldorf Astoria, used by a succession of presidents and princes. She would be staying in it herself when she went to New York.
At Cliveden, William’s daughter-in-law, Nancy Astor, had updated the decor along with her fellow Virginian, Nancy Lancaster. Cliveden’s interior put Windsor Castle’s decoration to shame in many ways. While the Queen had antiques and tapestries that had been in her family for centuries, some of them were getting a bit tatty, unlike the Astors’ fixtures and fittings, many of which had once belonged to Louis XV, all now restored to their full glory. The benefit of American money was obvious. And the Queen did not have the luxury of carpeted bathrooms, which Nancy Astor seemed to think of as quite normal. Even going to the lavatory at Cliveden was a treat.
Tonight, the grounds were ablaze with electric light and lanterns. Deborah Fairdale had asked Cecil Beaton to provide the theatricals, and the drive from the fountain to the main house was thronged with fairy creatures in woodland costumes inspired by A Midsummer Night’s Dream. There was even a donkey on the front steps, bedecked with flowers.
Deborah and Paul met the royal couple in the entrance hall. The Queen had always loved this room because of the romantic couples carved above the banister posts on the stairs. These too were wreathed in roses. The actress looked magnificent in a waist-length red wig as Titania. Her husband was a Grecian Oberon.
After the usual formalities of greeting, Paul grinned at the Queen. ‘I hardly recognised you in those breeches, ma’am. And the hat with the feather! Let me guess . . .’ He frowned and hesitated.
‘She’s Viola,’ his actress wife cut in, ‘disguised as Cesario, aren’t you, ma’am? I love the breeches, they’re quite the thing on you. Have you worn them before?’
‘I was Aladdin at Windsor once,’ the Queen admitted with a grin. Philip, who was visiting while on embarkation leave during the war, had been quite taken with her performance.
‘Ah, a fellow thespian,’ Deborah proclaimed. ‘And a cross-dresser. Isn’t it the best? Oh, here she is.’
Their daughter Bridget appeared from the direction of the garden, looking desperately young and lovely, with several male admirers in tow. She had chosen to be Ophelia, draped in ropes of herbs and wildflowers, which the Queen thought rather unfortunate, given what happened to the poor girl in the end.
She dropped into a rather perfunctory curtsey, but gave the Queen a genuine smile of welcome.
‘I didn’t think you’d come, Your Majesty. I thought you’d have much better things to do.’
‘On an evening like this, I can’t think of anything nicer.’
‘Oh I can.’ Bridget rolled her eyes.
‘Really?’ This seemed surprisingly ungrateful.
‘I mean, here we are guzzling champagne and there are people in the Pacific getting ready to end the world.’
Bridget gave the Queen a look of heartfelt fury and a couple of her admirers nodded in approval. They had longer hair than usual, the Queen noticed, and one had a juvenile attempt at a beard. University students, she thought. She recognised the type. Their bows to her were minuscule.
Deborah was making earnest gestures at her daughter to shut up or change the subject, but Philip was interested.
‘D’you mean the hydrogen bomb?’ he asked. The words seemed odd coming out of the mouth of an Elizabethan prince in doublet and hose.
‘Yes! Of course! I can’t believe we’re doing it.’
A bearded admirer – another Hamlet – stepped forward. ‘It’s Armageddon, isn’t it, sir? We should be out there, stopping it.’