“How in hell did you pull that off?” Corinna growled.
“All done by kindness. And threats, of course.”
8
Ranklin left O’Gilroy at Clarges Street with instructions not to use his pistol and not even much muscle if Berenice looked like fleeing the nest again. He half hoped that she would warm to the Irishman’s cynicism, since he suspected that O’Gilroy was something of a natural anarchist himself. He might want to end British rule in Ireland, but the moment the place had its own government, he would be deriding and undermining it.
Ranklin only hoped the citizens of La Villette weren’t as fastidious as most French about hearing their beloved language mangled.
He reached Whitehall Court at about midday and reported the morning’s activities to the Commander, who nodded approvingly. “Sounds as if you handled that quite smoothly – the way you tell it, anyway. Where’s young Jay?”
“I sent him to find what the police are up to. I’ve got a bit of bad news: young Langhorn’s told Quinton who he thinks his father is.”
The Commander chewed an unlit pipe quietly for a time. Then he sighed. “I suppose it could have happened at any time . . . How did Quinton react?”
“I think he’s quite intrigued, and with the extradition business seemingly petering out on him, he’s not being so upright about legal confidences. But-” And he repeated what Quinton had said about high-level legal string-pulling.
“The bloody Palace!” The Commander jumped to the same conclusion. “And now I suppose every lawyer in the land is asking why the Palace is interested in this gutter arsonist. God save the King from his well-meaning friends.” At least the Bureau, Ranklin reflected, was not well-meaning: it was trying to strengthen its position by doing the King a favour. Good, honest self-interest, and if the King didn’t know about the favour, the Commander would likely find ways of telling him.
However, there wasn’t much to be done about that right now, so he asked: “Is there any way of keeping Quinton quiet?”
“As a lawyer he should be able to keep a secret. But how do you make sure, with a man who likes to be thought a gentleman?” And after a time, a slow, self-satisfied smile spread around his pipe-stem. Ranklin knew the signs: the Commander was going to be devious.
Having missed lunch the previous day, Ranklin arrived at Clarges Street just in time to miss it again. “And a very tasty one, too,” O’Gilroy assured him. “Can I pour ye a cup of coffee.?”
He and Corinna were sitting alone at the dining table, he with an expression of contented innocence, Corinna with a smug, cat-got-the-cream look. Ranklin knew this meant, for him, Bad News.
She said: “Conall, could you nip along to the kitchen and ask them to whip up more coffee? – if they can fit it in before cutting our throats (Berenice is there trying to stir up the menials to revolt). I want a word with Matt.”
O’Gilroy stood up. “Ye know what she’s got in there? – a bottle of absinthe.”
Corinna nodded. “She made me send out for it. She was surprised I didn’t have it around.”
“And a third drunk already. That girl’s not going to see thirty, this rate.”
“A child of her age and place,” Corinna said sententiously. “Shut the door behind you.”
It was a big flat, almost divided in two: Reynard Sherring’s set of rooms and Corinna’s. If you got lost, a glance at the decor put you right. Sherring favoured rich, dark clutter, Corinna liked clean-cut brightness – except for her bedroom, which had a rather soggy feminine luxury, as if she wanted somewhere to slump away from her good taste.
They moved to Corinna’s drawing-room, and she began: “I’ve been having some fascinating talks with Berenice. I won’t say she’s not so bad when you get to know her, because I think she’s worse. She’s got the makings of intelligence – she came of a reasonable lower-middle-class family in Cherbourg, I guess that ties up with Grover in his Atlantic liner days – anyhow, she knows just enough to think she knows everything, and I’m corrupt and old – old! - I don’t mind being corrupt . . . And incidentally she told me about who Grover says his father was.”
Ranklin had half seen this coming, but there had still been a spark of hope that it wasn’t. He nodded resignedly.
“You poor little bunny,” she said, suddenly maternal. “Running around wiping up after your King when you should be deciding the Fate of Nations.”
“Look, nothing about this is proven.”
“It seems odd that a prince – he was, then, wasn’t he? – didn’t take proper precautions . . . But I suppose things weren’t as advanced in those days.”
Ranklin, who didn’t think things were very advanced now, repeated: “I tell you: nothing is proven.”
“I’d still advise against letting journalists get hold of it, particularly French ones. By the way, I’m supposed to be in Paris for the Visit myself next week. Pop’s got seats for some royal concert thing they’re putting on at l’Opera and if I don’t go he’ll take one of his whores.”
Ranklin smiled and she said sharply: “It’s not your King I’m thinking of, it’s Pop’s reputation. Not that it sounds as if your King should be too offended . . . Is there enough to show Mother Langhorn could have known him twenty-whatever years ago?”
Ranklin nodded reluctantly.
“The Plaything of a Prince and he Cast Her Aside Like a Soiled Glove. I’ve often wondered: Why gloves? I have them cleaned and if you start casting, you end up with just one of a pair. What does she want? – just getting Grover off this extradition charge?”
“Perhaps, but we don’t know. We haven’t heard from her beyond that letter you gave us.”
“And you’ve been snooping about asking if it could be true . . . That must have been delicate work, I do wish I’d seen it . . . Hey, you didn’t ask the King if it could be true?”
Ranklin shook his head.
“And then what?” she asked. “Pulling legal strings to make sure Grover gets off?”
“No,” Ranklin said grimly, “but somebody closer to the King has been.”
“Of course, you’d have to tell them . . . Is it working?”
“I hope not.”
She looked surprised. “Why so scrupulous? Does it shake your faith in Great British Justice? I don’t think your judges are as crooked as some we get in the States, but they can be as pig-headed and biased as anyone.”
“Yes, but that’s individual. Even taking bribes is. But if I thought they were taking orders from the top, then the whole system . . . We’d have slipped back three or four hundred years.”
“Doesn’t being monarchy mean – in the end – taking orders from the top?”
“No, I don’t think so.”
She hesitated a moment, then asked: “What do you think of the monarchy? I know you don’t worship the King or think he can do no wrong, but what do you actually think?”
“I think . . .” he said, and then was silent for some time. Finally he said: “Perhaps ‘think’ is the wrong word. The monarchy just is. It shapes our whole society – society without the capital S. The still centre of the wheel, and on the whole, the stiller the better. But if we want to be a monarchy, have a king and protect his honour, that’s our business. Specifically, it’s mine as an Army man. I’m not supposed to defend freedom or civilisation or anything like that, just this country.”
“You mean that at least your intentions are honourable. More than his were, back then.”
“Perhaps . . . But whether sacrificing our ideas of law to save the King’s good name is particularly honourable . . .”
She waited a moment, then asked gently: “And what would happen if the whole story came out? – let justice be done ‘though the skies fall’?”
He sighed and shook his head. “It’s a nice idea – in theory. But whoever said that thought the skies were pretty firmly nailed in place, at least in his own vicinity. The King’s a special case. He’s not a real man; he stopped being one the moment he put on the crown, and it goes on until he dies. If he starts acting like a real man, pretty soon we’ll be a republic like you and France and Switzerland – and this time it’ll stick. Meantime, I dare say there are compensations -”