‘No, ma’am. He offered to stay behind, but he’ll be very useful to the delegation in Washington and New York. He’s been rather diligent about getting to know our leading scientists in terms of space technology and so on.’
‘Oh, I see.’
The foreign secretary threw a superior glance at the director general. ‘And we need all the help we can get with the Americans, after the catastrophe with Burgess and Maclean. They assume we simply feed all their secrets to the Russians now.’
The director general’s lips formed a thin, hard line. ‘That’s all water under the bridge, ma’am. We’re establishing new lines of communication . . .’
‘Is it, though?’ the foreign secretary asked, at which the director general gave him a filthy look. ‘What about . . . ?’
‘William Pinder’s clean as a whistle. We’re winding that operation down,’ the director general said through gritted teeth. ‘He’ll be back at his desk after a little rest cure. The file is being archived.’ He threw the Queen a brief, meaningful glance.
She felt sorry for William Pinder. The poor man had been closely observed for months, and now it seemed he was expected to carry on with life as normal. It couldn’t be easy for him. No wonder he needed a ‘rest cure’.
‘I hope it’s being buried,’ the foreign secretary said, referring to the file. ‘The last thing the Yanks need is more ammunition that we’re a breeding ground for communist spies.’
The Queen thought of Inspector Darbishire again. Would he ever be allowed access to those few, crucial pages? She would have to try and find some other way of letting him know what he didn’t know about that night in Cresswell Place. But it would have to wait. What with rogue dukes and Russian satellites, they all had enough to worry about for now.
Chapter 54
The Queen Mother moved into the royal apartments in Buckingham Palace to help look after the children while their parents were away. Except that most of the time it would only be Anne, because Charles was safely at boarding school, having – his mother assumed – heaps of fun.
‘Don’t worry about us,’ her mother assured her. ‘We’ll have a lovely time without you. I’m going to set up a little cinema in the Ball Supper Room, so that we can watch you on the news.’
Margaret insisted on a little fashion show, so she could see all the finished frocks from Hardy Amies and Norman Hartnell. Both designers had surpassed themselves this time, knowing how important the visits were. And, the Queen had to admit, she had mentioned to both of them that her sister thought she should look more ‘modern’. The resulting shapes were fluid and more simple, making use of new materials and techniques. This femme de trente-et-un ans was determined not to seem too last-century. It was time to stop dressing like her mother – even if her mother looked very good in what she wore.
The results pleased even Margaret, and gave the Queen a boost of confidence she felt she really rather needed. She had never had to give a live, bilingual televised speech and counter the effects of an unwise invasion and a spy scandal before. With more riding on the next ten days than she would ideally have liked, she and Philip set off by plane for Ottawa.
Jeremy Radnor-Milne informed the waiting press that Her Majesty was ‘very excited’ about this trip.
At the Moulin de la Tuilerie, his country home just outside Paris, Edward, the Duke of Windsor, came in from a game of golf with friends and called out to his wife. There was no answer. She was probably out shopping. She shopped a lot, poor darling, because there was little else to amuse her in the countryside. He loved his little garden here, but she was more of a city girl.
Alone – apart from the servants – he wandered aimlessly through the gracious reception rooms. It struck him for the ten thousandth time that he should be somewhere important, with people, making things happen, as he was born to do.
God, he was bored. Unutterably bored. When would Wallis be home?
The sound of padding paws on a tiled floor announced the arrival of her three pugs. They were missing her too. The fourth – named Peter Townsend after the man Margaret had tried unsuccessfully to marry – they had given away. Edward loved Wallis’s wicked sense of humour. It was one of the things they had in common.
God, he was bored.
He strode on to his study and sat down to read The Times, but got distracted. Surely they should have contacted him by now? Elizabeth would be in Canada any minute. He’d originally assumed he’d be there himself, but now they were talking about next year, or possibly the year after. That couldn’t be right, surely? His talents were being wasted. Bunny Maidstone had practically promised . . .
He reached across to the letter rack on his desk and fished out a sheet of paper with his cipher. A quick note to Bunny, to find out what the hell was going on. Jeremy Radnor-Milne had said something about keeping a low profile recently, but the man was a proletarian prig and this was only a little note to an old friend. He dashed it off, addressed the envelope himself and took it to the hall, to leave on the table for someone to take to the post.
At that moment, the swish of tyres on the gravel outside announced the return of his darling wife.
‘Look what I picked up in town!’ she said. ‘They just finished framing it for me.’
She reached into her capacious shopping bag and pulled out a package, which she unwrapped in front of him. It was a little sign that read ‘I may not be a miller, but I’ve been through the mill’.
‘From “Le Moulin” – “the mill”, remember?’
‘Oh, yes, very funny,’ he said. And felt dreadful about this deadly dull life he was giving her at the moment, and hoped a reply from Bunny would bring him better news soon.
His letter was picked up by one of the white-gloved servants, a man who hadn’t been with them long, and spoke much better English than some of the rest.
‘Take care of that, would you?’ the duke asked.
The man promised he would.
On a friend’s grouse moor in Scotland, the Duke of Maidstone was having a miserable time. Tony Radnor-Milne had come up for the weekend and, for reasons Bunny couldn’t fully comprehend, he was furious about something and held Bunny responsible. Bunny wasn’t used to being glowered at by the lower classes, and he didn’t appreciate it. Tony could get above himself, sometimes. He thought he was better than everyone, and that was a dangerous trait, in Bunny’s view.
‘Out with it, man,’ he said, when they were alone, having hung back from the other guns between drives. ‘What’s got you so hot under the collar?’
Tony stared at the horizon for a minute as they walked along. When he spoke, it was through gritted teeth. ‘I heard about what happened to the trollop at the palace.’
‘Oh, her. I thought you were rather keen on her?’
‘A van, heading for her at speed?’ Tony spat. ‘Are you insane?’
‘What makes you think I had anything to do with it?’
‘She sees us together; I tell you who she is; three days later she’s hospitalised. I’m not stupid.’
‘Nor am I!’ Bunny protested.
‘Oh, really? And nor are MI5. D’you know she shared digs – and God knows what else – with the head of D Branch?’
‘No, I didn’t know that,’ Bunny admitted. He didn’t know much about the girl at all. She was a friend of Tony’s, for God’s sake. That was the whole problem.
‘And they’ve got her living at the palace now, instead of with him, so they obviously suspect something.’ Tony stopped and turned to Bunny with spittle coming out of his mouth. It was quite disgusting. The man needed to get a grip. ‘You stupid, stupid man.’
‘I resent that! And I don’t like your attitude. I’m warning you, Tony . . .’
‘You’re warning me? They had nothing. The girl saw the two of us together at the Artemis, so what? I admit, I was alarmed at the time. What the bloody hell was she doing there? I think I can guess.’ His lips curled into a brief, lurid smile. ‘But that needn’t involve you and me.’
‘Except that it does, though, doesn’t it?’ Bunny said.
Tony scowled. ‘Nobody knows about that.’
‘And that’s how I intend it to stay.’
‘But they’ll work it out. That bloody van was a big, black sign saying, “Look at me!” What were you thinking?’
Bunny had had enough of this. If Tony hadn’t befriended the palace tart in the first place, none of this would have happened. He, Bunny, was merely taking care of things. Or, rather, getting a couple of his ‘associates’ from the casino business to do it at arm’s length. They were better at that sort of thing, and they wouldn’t talk. True, they hadn’t actually managed to kill the girl, but in a way that was a good thing, wasn’t it? With luck, they’d scared her off.
Bunny didn’t want to think about what Tony had just told him about the man from MI5. He’d had no clue about that, or he’d have factored it in.
‘I’m pulling out of Raffles,’ Tony said abruptly. ‘And the club in Tangier. Thought I’d let you know. The less we have to do with each other, the better.’
At this moment, Bunny agreed. ‘Fine. Do it. We have a queue of investors.’
‘And that business next week. Call it off. We can’t do it with MI5 breathing down our necks.’
Bunny was haughty. ‘I’ll see what I can do.’
‘See what you can do?’ Tony jeered. ‘Call it off, man. That’s an order.’
‘It’s not that simple. I put Robbie Suffolk in charge. He has contacts who can do that sort of business and, frankly, I didn’t want to get my hands dirty.’
‘So? Call Suffolk off.’
‘He’s in India. With some sort of yoga wallah.’
‘What the hell? Contact him in India then! They have the telegraph.’
‘I’m not exactly sure which state. Don’t worry! I’ll look into it. I’ll talk to him when I—’
They were interrupted by one of the ghillies, who had somehow walked up behind them without either of them noticing.
‘Can I help, Your Grace?’ he asked. ‘I saw you’d fallen back a bit. I think you’re needed at the next drive.’
‘I can manage perfectly well,’ Bunny said stiffly. ‘Take my guns. I can walk faster without them.’
‘And mine,’ Tony said, handing over the eye-wateringly expensive pair of shotguns he had been showing off last night.
Bunny was quite glad to see him stride off without them. Given the look in Tony’s eye, he wasn’t sure he’d have trained them on the grouse.