A Prince and a Spy Read online

  ‘Well, that’s quite an endorsement. Thank you. Real coffee would be perfect.’

  ‘I imagine you get the proper stuff all the time at Grosvenor Street.’

  ‘Classified information, I’m afraid.’

  ‘That’s what the diplomatic pouch is for, isn’t it – coffee and hooch from the Americas. Anyway, we have rationing here, so I’ve only got one egg and it’s for Johnny.’

  ‘As is only right and proper. I’ll be very happy with toast and Marmite. A little butter, too, if we have such a luxury.’

  ‘You are a very demanding man.’

  ‘As I recall, you were quite demanding yourself last night.’

  ‘Can we stop the dirty talk now? There are young ears in attendance.’ She laughed and ruffled Wilde’s hair, then kissed his cheek. ‘Here,’ she said, sliding a newspaper in front of him on the kitchen table. ‘You might want to take a look at this.’

  Wilde glanced at the front page and the hairs on his neck prickled. DUKE OF KENT KILLED IN CRASH ran the headline in large type. The story was dated just before midnight and carried an official statement:

  The Air Ministry deeply regrets to announce that Air Commodore HRH the Duke of Kent was killed on active service in the afternoon when a Sunderland flying boat crashed in the north of Scotland. His Royal Highness, who was attached to the Staff of the Inspector-General of the Royal Air Force, was proceeding to Iceland on duty. All the crew of the flying boat lost their lives.

  ‘Good God.’

  ‘I thought you might be interested.’

  ‘This . . .’ he began.

  ‘. . . is a big event.’

  ‘Could this really be what Cazerove was referring to, Lydia? Look here.’ He indicated the strapline at the top of the page. ‘It makes it clear the news wasn’t announced until just before midnight. How would Cazerove have known?’

  She shrugged and poured two coffees.

  ‘I suppose the War Office would have been informed hours earlier,’ he muttered, half to himself.

  ‘I know no more than you, darling.’

  Wilde grunted. ‘It’s difficult not to draw conclusions.’

  *

  Eaton turned up at ten past eight. He told Wilde he had been chauffeured up from London by a ministry driver and had barely slept. Wilde offered his sympathy then ushered both men indoors.

  Lydia took the driver off to the kitchen to be fed tea and toast, leaving Wilde in the sitting room with Eaton. Wilde was concerned to see that the MI6 man did not seem to be moving at all well. His left leg had been shattered in a road incident more than three years earlier, and he had lost his left arm, but the last time the two men had met, at Christmas, his physical health had been improving.

  ‘Eaton, how are you doing?’

  ‘Don’t worry about me, Wilde. Bit stiff from the drive, that’s all. Cooped up in the passenger seat for two and a half hours.’

  ‘Well, spread yourself out on the sofa. Now, tell me, what does MI6 want with a Cambridge professor of history this fine summer’s day?’

  Eaton lowered himself gingerly into the soft cushions and breathed a sigh of relief. ‘Ah, that’s better. God knows why car seats can’t be made as comfortable as a decent sofa.’

  ‘Well?’

  ‘Oh, I think you must have a fair idea why I’m here, Wilde.’

  ‘Events on the train from London last night, is that what you mean?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Then how in God’s name are you here so quickly?’

  ‘Ah, yes, well, that was the poison capsule. The local plod panicked, called the Yard, who immediately involved Special Branch. From there it was a short hop to Five – and then I got a 2 a.m. call from Dagger Templeman, who recalled my connection to you. He asked me to nip up here to see what was going on. It’s possible you have stumbled into something significant, Wilde.’

  ‘I didn’t stumble into anything. Cazerove sought me out. He wanted to tell me something – but in the end he couldn’t bring himself to do it. Found it easier to die than break some “sacred oath”. At least I think that’s what he called it.’ He noticed Eaton nodding as though he quite understood Cazerove’s point of view. Such was the effect of the English public school system, Wilde supposed. Loyalty and duty above all else. ‘Anyway,’ he continued. ‘You still haven’t explained why you’re here.’

  ‘Oh, I just wanted to hear exactly what Cazerove said to you. Some clue as to why he killed himself.’

  ‘I told the police everything.’

  ‘I’d like it from the horse’s mouth. In particular, did he mention any names?’

  Wilde began pacing around the room, aware of Eaton’s eyes following him. He stopped and met the MI6 man’s gaze. ‘There were no names.’

  ‘Are you certain?’

  ‘Absolutely. He told me he had been seconded to the War Office. I suppose that means he had access to secrets. Is that why you’re worried?’

  Eaton held up his hand, palm forward. ‘Forgive me, Wilde, I’m here to listen not talk.’

  Wilde snorted. ‘Same old Eaton. Gather information, reveal nothing. Well, my friend, we’re in the same business now – so if you want something from me, I’ll want something back.’

  ‘Damn it, Wilde. You still owe me, you know.’

  Wilde was well aware of his unpaid debt to Eaton for getting an extremely vulnerable young woman to safety against all the rules, but this might not be the time to settle it. ‘I’m not denying it,’ he said. ‘But last night I spent a very uncomfortable couple of hours with a former undergraduate who then ended it all with some sort of poison pill. Right in front of my very eyes. Forgive me if I’m feeling a little brittle this morning.’

  Lydia arrived with fresh coffee and they heard wailing from Johnny in the background.

  ‘Your boy, I suppose. What is he now, two?’

  ‘Getting on for two and a half.’

  ‘Who does he take after?’

  ‘Oh, Lydia’s good looks and my reckless stupidity. What do you want me to say? Anyway, stop changing the subject. Yes, I owe you a favour, but as you know I am now working for the OSS, so I have other loyalties and oaths of silence. However, I can see no good reason not to tell you everything that passed between Cazerove and me – and in return I think a little cooperation on your part is also called for. Fair enough?’

  ‘Message received.’

  ‘Here goes then.’ Wilde started at the beginning and went through the story of the train journey yet again. ‘And that’s about it,’ he said finally. ‘If anything else occurs to me, I’ll let you know. But I repeat, there were no names mentioned. So tell me – is there really anything in his astonishing claim that he tipped off the Germans about the Dieppe raid?’

  ‘Absolute tosh. Cazerove would have known very little about the attack. Anyway, the Hun has been waiting for something of the sort for weeks now, so of course they were prepared. They didn’t need information from a junior British officer.’

  ‘But it was a disaster.’

  ‘Yes, Wilde, it was an utter fuck-up. It was poorly planned and doomed to failure all along. Churchill and the chiefs of staff knew there was no chance of success, but they needed a show – a rehearsal for the day we embark on a full-scale invasion. Damned unfair on the poor bastards who laid their lives on the line in an unwinnable venture.’

  Eaton’s summation left a bitter taste, which Wilde attempted to wash away with a mouthful of coffee. It was weak, but at least it was coffee. ‘So Cazerove’s guilt . . .’

  ‘The man was a fantasist.’

  ‘That doesn’t mean he was innocent.’

  Eaton shrugged.

  ‘Anyway,’ Wilde said, knowing he was going to get nowhere with specific questions. ‘Ask away. I’ll tell you everything I know.’

  ‘I told you, I just want to know exactly what was said. A young soldier killing himself with a poison pill has to be investigated. You can see that, can’t you, Wilde?’

  ‘What abo
ut the other thing – his insistence that something else was looming?’

  ‘Most likely another fantasy. Cazerove had come through Dunkirk. One must accept that he could have been suffering shell shock.’

  ‘Then why would he have been attached to the War Office? Unsound men aren’t wanted there, are they?’

  ‘He was a bright lad, good education. Perhaps his nerves were too shot for the front line, but his brain was big enough for office work. Apart from that, no comment.’

  ‘Oh, don’t be ridiculous, Eaton.’ Wilde tried to meet the MI6 man’s eyes again, but Eaton was now gazing into his coffee. Time to push his luck. ‘This other thing’s a hell of a business, isn’t it?’

  Eaton looked up. ‘Other business?’

  ‘The Duke of Kent crashing into a Scottish mountain.’

  Eaton frowned. ‘Why do you mention that, Wilde?’

  ‘Oh, you know – intuition. Big event . . .’

  Eaton shook his head and laughed. ‘Now your imagination really is running away with you. The RAF chaps are absolutely clear that the Caithness crash was a tragic accident.’

  ‘I’m sure you’re right.’ The thing was, Wilde had no idea what possible connection there could be between the suicide of a lowly army officer and a plane crash in the far north of Scotland. But Cazerove couldn’t have been much clearer: ‘This is just the beginning,’ he had said. ‘You’ll discover soon enough . . . tomorrow.’ Well, tomorrow had come, and one item of news would be on everyone’s lips: the death of the King’s youngest brother. The war in the Pacific and Germany’s advance on Stalingrad would have to take second billing today.

  ‘There’ll be a court of inquiry, of course,’ Eaton continued. ‘But look, can we get back to Cazerove – do you have any idea why he might have picked on you to witness his dramatic exit?’

  ‘He said it was because I was American, so he hadn’t betrayed me.’

  ‘Were you close when he was your pupil?’

  ‘Honestly, I can’t say I ever liked him much.’

  ‘You said he mentioned a woman.’

  ‘Well, yes, he did – obliquely. He asked which was more binding, a vow of silence or a declaration of love. I assumed he was talking about a particular woman, but he didn’t name names. And when I asked if there was girl trouble, he said “not the way you mean it”. Talking in riddles. Anyway, does it mean anything to you, Eaton?’

  ‘No, I’m afraid not.’

  Wilde raised an eyebrow. Eaton’s reply had come too quickly, as though he had already primed himself for denial.

  Chapter 4

  The conversation went in circles. After an hour, Eaton said he had to go, but that he would be in touch. As they shook hands at the doorway, Wilde was surprised to see that the ministry driver was standing beside a Rolls Royce.

  ‘I hope my taxes aren’t paying for that,’ he said.

  ‘We had to borrow it in a hurry,’ Eaton replied. ‘No pool cars available. Despite the price tag, it’s still not that comfortable when you have a smashed-up leg.’

  Wilde waved him off, then walked down to St Andrew’s Street to give a statement to police. The inspector in charge was an officer brought out of retirement because of staff shortages caused by so many young men opting to fight in the military rather than walk the beat.

  ‘Nasty business,’ the inspector said when Wilde had completed his statement.

  ‘Has there been any word on the poison he used?’

  ‘Not confirmed, but Dr Weir seems pretty sure it was cyanide. The body will be taken to the Scotland Yard forensic lab later today.’

  ‘Well, at least it was a quick death.’

  ‘Indeed.’

  ‘Can I go now?’

  ‘Of course, sir. Your statement seems to fit what we already know. Just be aware that there will be an inquest in the next few days, once the Met science boys produce their report. The coroner will almost certainly want you there.’

  ‘You know where to find me.’

  He stopped off at the college before going home, picked up his mail from the porters’ lodge and went to pay his respects to the Master, Sir Archibald Spence, who seemed distracted by administrative duties. ‘Can’t stop to chat, I’m afraid, Wilde.’

  ‘I understand, master.’

  ‘But good to see you all the same.’ He patted Wilde on the shoulder. ‘The place is full of ministry men and American service personnel. I tell you this, though – I wish I hadn’t taken your advice on the chapel glass.’

  ‘Hasn’t been damaged, has it?’ Wilde recalled that he hadn’t actually advised the Master against removing the chapel’s stained glass for the duration. All he had done was suggest that Cambridge would not be high on the Luftwaffe’s list of targets. He had been wrong on that score.

  ‘No damage, thank the Lord,’ Spence said. ‘But it was damned nerve-racking when Goering’s boys started dropping their iron eggs. Had a few sleepless nights, I can tell you, Wilde. Anyway, hopefully the worst of it is over now. London’s a lot quieter, I believe.’

  ‘Yes, it is.’

  ‘And you’ve had to give up your air-raid duties, I’m told.’

  ‘I’m afraid so.’

  ‘Well, I’m sure you’re doing good work elsewhere. Good man.’

  Wilde took his leave of the Master and went up to his rooms overlooking the old court. He worked his way through his letters then pushed them aside and set off for home. More than anything, he wanted to spend these days of freedom with Lydia and Johnny.

  As he entered Cornflowers, the phone rang. Lydia was looking at him, eyebrow raised.

  ‘Could you get it, darling?’ Wilde really didn’t want to speak to anyone.

  ‘Oh, it’ll be for you.’

  He sighed and picked up the phone. It was William Phillips, new London bureau chief of the fledgling Office of Strategic Services. Wilde had been helping the old boy get his feet under the table since his arrival from America last month, working as his main adviser on the internal politics of Great Britain.

  ‘Enjoying your little break, Tom?’

  ‘You don’t know how funny that is, Bill.’

  ‘Have you seen the news?’

  ‘What in particular?’

  ‘The plane crash in Scotland. Any thoughts?’

  ‘Ah, yes, I did see that.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Well, the RAF say it was an accident.’ Where, he wondered, was this curious phone call heading?

  ‘You believe that?’

  ‘I suppose so. Why, shouldn’t I? Have you heard something, Bill?’

  ‘Oh, just wondering what you thought. You know the British a great deal better than I do.’

  ‘I’m told it was a straightforward accident.’

  ‘Who said that?’

  ‘Philip Eaton.’

  ‘I don’t think I’ve met him.’

  ‘Well, I’m sure you will in due course. He’s MI6. Used to run their Iberian desk but he’s been moved into quite a senior role. Anyway, he appeared on my doorstep this morning and we got to talking about the Duke’s death.’

  ‘And when he said it was an accident, did you believe him?’

  ‘Why do you ask?’

  ‘Because, as I just said, you know the British.’

  ‘Well, they do have a tendency to keep things close to their chest. But whatever the cause of the crash, I’d say it has nothing to do with us. This is a clear-cut British affair. We have to keep our noses out. You know the rules, Bill, because you wrote them: strict demarcation.’

  ‘That’s not the way the President sees it. He wants to know what happened.’

  Wilde didn’t like to contradict his new boss, but in this case he had to lay it on the line. ‘Honestly, Bill, I really think we have to leave this one to the host nation. Well outside our remit, wouldn’t you say?’

  ‘FDR liked the Duke. They were very good friends and he was godfather to the Duchess’s new baby boy. Little Michael George Charles Franklin, born last month. Notice
the Franklin in there?’

  ‘Yes, I noticed – and I understand his interest, but that has to be as far as it goes.’

  ‘You don’t know Roosevelt like I do. When he inquires in that reassuring New England drawl what the hell happened, what he is saying is – get the hell out there and find out what the hell happened. He doesn’t trust the British line one iota. And I see his point; they’re too quick off the mark with their “tragic accident” claims. Why aren’t they investigating properly? John Winant wants answers, too. The Duke was at Bristol to meet him when he arrived here as ambassador. Everyone liked the Duke – he was one of the good guys.’

  Wilde sighed; he had a horrible feeling that there was no interest in his opinion, but he forged on regardless. ‘Perhaps they are investigating but just don’t want to put it in the papers. Perhaps the tragic accident suggestion is for public consumption. The people wouldn’t be happy thinking their royal family was vulnerable to enemy attack.’ He knew he was wasting breath. This affair was not about to end with a telephone call. His precious break with Lydia and Johnny was about to be cut short.

  ‘To hell with public opinion, FDR thinks the Duke was shot down and he wants the truth.’

  ‘A targeted assassination or a lucky shot? I mean, why kill the Duke of Kent in particular?’

  ‘You know, Tom, the King’s brother was more than just a royal stooge. Damn it, he helped negotiate the lend-lease deal. And he successfully persuaded Salazar to keep Portugal out of the war. He was an important player. A very senior go-between.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Which means he was a prime target. He had enemies. And the way FDR sees it, the Duke’s enemies are our enemies, too.’

  Lydia was looking at him. He shook his head helplessly in her direction and suppressed a groan.

  Wilde was aware that William Phillips had always been close to Roosevelt. They were of an age – at sixty-four, Phillips was only a couple of years older than the President – and they came from the same social stratum. Both were Harvard men. If a message was transmitted from the White House via Phillips, then you could be pretty darn sure it was to be acted on. ‘What do you want me to do, Bill?’

  ‘I want you to find out who killed the Duke of Kent – and why.’