I waited until we got back to London and I was trotted out for a formal reception. I have to make small talk with diplomats and generals, and I thought that might be an intelligent thing to ask, instead of “Does your wife polish your medals for you?”
I picked a doddery old fellow, who looked old enough to remember Napoleon, and worked the conversation round to the war, and then I said, “By the way, General, do you happen to know what happened to Rudolf Hess?”
He got a funny look on his face, and for a moment I thought I was doomed, but then he harrumphed, and said, “Officially, you mean?”
That set me wondering. “After the war,” I said. “I know he was in the Tower of London until then.”
“Oh, that. We turned him over to the Americans and the Russians, and they put him in Spandau prison in Berlin.”
I smiled prettily. “And when did they let him out?”
“Never did. He committed suicide in there a few years ago, at the age of ninety-something. Good riddance, Nazi bugger.” The general peered at me curiously. “Are you thinking of resitting your O-levels, ma’am?”
I gave him the downcast, eyelash look that people take for shyness, and murmured, “Oh, no, General. It’s just that I thought he went on to become a ballet dancer in the Sixties.” That’s the sort of remark people expect me to make, and I got away with it and drifted on to the next guest. I had hoped to find out what he meant by officially, but I’m not allowed to dawdle with any one guest. Besides, it might have made him suspicious.
When the party was over, I barricaded myself in the bathroom, and rang up Sarah. “Found out what happened to Rudolf!” I told her, reciting the general’s account of Hess’s life imprisonment.
“Life?” said Sarah in disbelieving tones. “That seems a bit stiff for someone who sat out most of the war in London. And on a peace mission, too. And he lived to ninety, and they didn’t let him out?”
“It’s an unforgiving world,” I said. “When did Wallis Simpson see the inside of Buckingham Palace? Not until her husband’s funeral.”
“That was family spite,” said Sarah. “Government memories are shorter. I still say it doesn’t make sense.”
“Well, the general did say something else. When I first asked him what had happened to Hess, he said, ‘Officially?’ Now what do you suppose he meant by that?”
“It suggests a secret. Perhaps we should ask a few more generals.”
“No,” I said. “I don’t want anyone to notice. I’ll ask my hairdresser. He always knows everything.”
ALTHORP DECEMBER 1992
Bear with me, Wills. I know this is a longish letter about ancient, ancient history, but Mummy does have a reason. And it took ever so much longer for me to find it all out than it will take you to read. Besides, I should think by now that you’ll be doing the government boxes, so you should be used to reading longish wrangles about government intrigue. But this is special. This is family.
It’s Christmastime now, but I couldn’t bear to spend another holiday at Sandringham, pretending we’re all happy families, now that the separation is official, so I came home to spend the season with your Uncle Charles, Earl Spencer. I miss your Auntie Sarah more than ever, but I dare not talk about her to anyone. This has been the worst year of all of our lives, with Sarah and Andrew splitting up, and the problems between your father and me coming to light and ending in separation, and now the year ending with the fire at Windsor. If I’ve learnt anything these past twelve months, it’s that I must never let anyone see this paper. Nothing I do is safe. Not even a telephone call. Poor Sarah. For all her cleverness, she trusted the System far too much. I only hope that when You are the System, Wills, you can fix things.
I was right about my hairdresser. He knows absolutely all the dirt, and he never tells tales to the press. I just adore him. I must admit, he was surprised when I asked him about Rudolf Hess.
“Rudolf Nureyev, Your Royal Highness?” he murmured, tucking a curl into place.
“No. It isn’t a ballet question,” I told him. “I mean the Nazi fellow who crashed in Scotland on a peace mission during the war. I heard that there was some sort of rumor about his case.”
He thought for a moment, while he combed. “Seems like there was a bit of talk when he died, back in the Eighties, ma’am. While this side bit sets, let me nip over to the other booth and ask Nigel. Loves war movies, does Nigel.” A few minutes later he was back, combing again. “Nigel says you must be referring to the theory that it wasn’t Hess at all in the prison.”
“Who was it?” I asked, turning my head at just the wrong time, and getting a hair-pull. “Ouch!”
“Beg your pardon, Your Royal Highness. Nigel says that it’s been rumored for years that the fellow in prison didn’t look like Rudolf Hess, and didn’t seem to remember people and details from his life before the war. Apparently there are all sorts of bits of proof that the fellow in the German prison wasn’t the chap who landed in Scotland in 1941. Nigel says he could find you an article on the Hess mystery if you liked.”
“No, thank you,” I said quickly. “It was only something I heard at a party. I’m not really interested.” I didn’t want any rumors to surface about my inquiry. I had a feeling that Mr. Hess was a very dangerous topic.
I told Sarah so when I visited her at Sunninghill Park later that week. Andrew was off at sea in those days, and Eugenie was still an adorable little baby, so I looked in on her when I could spare the time. She was terribly lonely. That day I made her come out for a walk in the garden so that we wouldn’t be overheard. Sarah received my news of the substitute Rudolf Hess with satisfaction, but no surprise.
“That explains why Hess didn’t tell the government that the ex-King was a traitor,” she said. “After the real Hess told the Duke of Hamilton about the offer, his papers were confiscated, and someone else was brought in to impersonate Hess. The government never saw the real Hess at all.”
“Why not just kill him and present the authorities with a corpse?” I asked.
“Because a Scottish farmer had captured Hess when he parachuted. He was taken alive, you see. If he subsequently died, it might have been suspicious. Instead, he was hustled to London and put in the Tower for four years. Or somebody was!”
“Who would agree to go to prison as a Nazi?” I asked, but Sarah gave me one of those meaningful looks, and said very firmly, “Her Majesty’s Bobo. Queen Victoria’s Mr. Brown. Princess Anne’s bodyguard.”
I knew what she meant. The Royal Family has always had a few adoring, utterly faithful servants who would do anything for their favorite Royal. They spend their entire lives in royal service, and become the closest of confidants. I supposed that in Queen Mary’s day there may have been even more servants who would have felt it their duty to sacrifice their very lives for the good of the Firm.
“I don’t suppose the servant realized that it would be forever,” Sarah said thoughtfully. “Probably he assumed that it would be just until the war was over. He’d have been assured of a royal pardon, but of course the government wasn’t told about any of it, and they handed him over to the other Allies, and then there was no saving him. He had to play out his role to the death.”