Prologue
The Duke thrust aside his copy of The Times in disgust and stared up through the branches of the great copper beech under which he sat. A light wind agitated the leaves and tossed the discarded newspaper into the air so that several sheets lodged among the lower branches. The ancient and noble tree, which the Germans call a blood beech, creaked and groaned. The brittle leaves rustled and whispered. Shafts of white light, like burning arrows, pierced the shadow into which he had taken his deck chair and made him shield his eyes with his hand. August in England is often an unsettled month but this year, 1935, it had been unusually hot. The grass was browned and the river ran slow and sullen, stifled by weed.
The Duke had not been sleeping well, perhaps because of the heat but there were other reasons, and now his eyes closed, unable to withstand the bright sunlight. He drew out of his trouser pocket his red-spotted silk handkerchief and wiped his brow. He had been upset by what he had read in the newspaper and he had shut his eyes in the hope of forgetting but, as was now commonplace, his mind filled with nightmare images of his brother’s death all of twenty years ago. They were the more vivid because he had not himself witnessed it. He saw Franklyn, splendid in his uniform, leading his men towards a wood or maybe just a copse, he could not be sure. Then he saw ill-defined figures in grey kneeling around a metal tripod. They seemed to be feeding a long thin muzzle from below as one might milk a cow. His brother was running, waving his revolver in his right hand to urge on the men behind him. He was bare-headed. In these early days of war, steel helmets were not often worn and his cap had been snatched off his head by the wind or by a bullet as he began his charge. He never reached the trees. A few yards short of the wood he fell clumsily as though he had tripped over a furrow or stumbled on a mole hill. On the ground, he made absurd swimming movements before lying still. All about him other men were dropping down with the same gracelessness. At this moment, as was always the way of it, the Duke woke up choking with anxiety, the blood pounding in his head.
He struggled out of his canvas chair cursing and calling for his wife. ‘Connie! Connie! Where are you?’
‘I’m here, dear. What’s the matter?’ came her calm, cool voice from across the lawn and the Duke, still stupid with panic and fatigue, half ran towards the woman who alone made his life bearable.
‘What is it, my dear?’ she said as he came up to her. ‘You have upset yourself? Have you been having that dream again?’
The Duke hung his head shamefacedly. ‘I was sitting there reading the paper and thinking about the dinner tonight and I must have dozed off.’
‘And you started thinking of Frank?’
‘Yes, for the first time for a week. I thought I was really free of it but I suppose … well, the news from Germany unsettled me.’ He gripped his wife’s arm so hard it hurt but she made no sign. ‘That’s why it is so important to get these people talking. Frank cannot, must not, have died in vain. We must …’
‘I know, Gerald,’ said the Duchess gently, stroking his cheek, ‘I know. It will all go well tonight; don’t worry. Now, why don’t you go up to the house and go through the arrangements with Bates and make sure he’s clear about the wine.’
‘Yes, m’dear,’ said the Duke meekly. ‘Sorry, old thing. I’m afraid I got myself into a bit of a state.’
The Duke, much calmer now, walked slowly back towards the open French windows through which his wife had come to his rescue. She stood where he had left her, looking at his retreating form with something approaching dismay. She was afraid he was setting too much store by these dinners he had determined to host with the aim of fostering Anglo-German understanding. He had never got over his brother’s death in those first few days of the war and the guilt he felt at not himself having fought. He had so wanted to prove himself on the field of battle but his father had forbidden it. He had told his son that his disobedience would kill him. He had tortured himself ever after wondering if he had been a coward not to have defied his father and gone to France. It was this heavy burden, she knew, which made him dread another war with Germany and he considered it his duty to do everything he could to prevent it.
At least the castle was looking at its most delectable for the distinguished guests. It had been built in Elizabethan times by a Swedish princess, one of the Virgin Queen’s ladies-in-waiting. The long gravel drive broadened into a graceful sweep outside the great front door made of ancient oak and studded with iron nails. Through the door the visitor entered a hall created in the eighteenth century to replace the somewhat poky original entrance. This new hall, designed by Robert Adam in 1768, was of some considerable size, floored in black and white marble squares and encircled by a magnificent staircase. In the middle of the hall on a table stood a glorious arrangement of summer flowers which scented the whole house. High above, Adam had created a glass dome which matched the airy lightness of the castle to perfection. On the right of the hall there was the dining-room. A Holbein of an unknown man, possibly a relation of the princess who had built the house, hung above an Adam fireplace. Less happily, in the nineteenth century, French windows had been let into a bay for the convenience of those who might wish to step out on to the lawns without the bother of going through the hall. The drawing-room on the other side of the hall had been similarly defaced but there was no doubt that on a summer’s day such as this one it was delightful to feel, with the French windows thrown open, a gentle breeze dissipate the stale air of afternoon heat. This was Connie’s domain. She did not for one moment consider herself to be the castle’s owner; she was merely – if it could ever be considered ‘merely’ – its chatelaine. Standing on the lawn, she raised her eyes to the castle battlements. They shimmered insubstantial in the early afternoon sun. The castle for all its parapets and embrasures was a confection with the defensive capability of a wedding cake. It pretended to be what it was not. The ancient honey-coloured stone, somnolent in the sun, dreamed not of war but of masques and plays, courtiers and their ladies. It stood, like England itself, unprepared for conflict of any sort – in sleepy forgetfulness of its own history.
1
Saturday Afternoon
Lord Edward Corinth deplored unpunctuality. He pressed down his foot on the accelerator pedal and smiled to himself as he felt the Lagonda Rapier respond. He had only taken delivery of the elegant two-seater three weeks before and he had spent that time lovingly bringing its four-and-a-half-litre six-cylinder engine up to its peak. Now fully run-in, this was his first opportunity of putting it through its paces. The colour of whipped cream, the Lagonda sped along the Great West Road like some latter-day Pegasus. Soon, London was left behind. Sooted houses and modern factories gave way to countryside punctuated by the occasional roadhouse, but Edward had no time or inclination to tarry. He had to reach Mersham Castle by seven thirty at the latest if he didn’t want to bring down upon his head the wrath of Gerald, his older brother and Duke of Mersham, and it was already after six. He urged the great car along the empty road, feeling the wind in his face, relishing the beat of the powerful engine. He loved speed and this was equal to anything except flying itself. He had learnt to fly in Africa and the sensation of being at one with the elements, swooping above herds of impala and kudu on the Masai Mara, came vividly back to him. Handling this supreme achievement of modern automobile engineering engendered in him the same ecstasy he had felt swinging above the African plains in his flimsy aeroplane tied together with string – a tiny dot against a vast blue canvas of sky – at one and the same time totally insignificant and a god.
Once he turned the Lagonda on to country roads the going was slower. He glanced at his watch. Damn it, he was going to be very late and Gerald would look at him in that special way he had when he was displeased, pulling his moustache and wrinkling his brows. Against his better judgment, Edward had agreed to attend one of his brother’s infernal dinners where he would have to make himself pleasant to pompous politicians and stuffy civil servants. It was not his idea of a lively evening and he had at first refused, pointing out that on no account could he let the Cherrypickers down. The Cherrypickers were all friends of his, Old Etonians for the most part like himself, who played cricket against similar clubs all over the south of England. On this occasion they were playing a strong side at Richmond and he had every intention of carrying his bat for his team. However, Gerald had sounded so desperate when he had said he could not come that he had weakened and then given way. The Duke’s invitation became even less appealing when he explained why he was begging for his younger brother’s presence.
‘I know it’s not your sort of thing, Ned, and I apologize for inviting you at the last minute like this. The fact of the matter is, I’m in a bit of a hole. I have invited Lord Weaver, the newspaper owner – you know who I mean?’
‘I know who you mean,’ Edward had replied tartly. ‘I may not dine with the nobs on a regular basis like you, Gerald, but I am not a complete ostrich. He owns the New Gazette, doesn’t he?’
‘Yes, and several other papers as well.’
‘And why do you need me to entertain him?’
‘Well, I don’t need you to entertain him, Ned. The thing is, he has a perfectly charming wife and a rather difficult stepdaughter that the wife is insisting on bringing with her. Apparently, she tries not to let her out of her sight.’
‘And I’m to be nanny to the poisonous stepdaughter, is that it?’
‘Yes. I know it’s asking a lot, Ned, but you have to help me.’ ‘She’s called Hermione, isn’t she? I have met her a couple of
times before.’
‘That’s wonderful!’
‘I said I have met her, Gerald. That doesn’t mean I ever want to meet her again. Doesn’t she have a young man? I seem to remember seeing her entwined with a nasty piece of work by the name of Charlie Lomax when I bumped into her at the Fellowes’ ball.’
‘That’s right. I invited him at the mother’s request but the blighter dropped out an hour ago without a decent excuse. I couldn’t think what else to do except telephone you.’
‘Thank you, Gerald! That was very well put.’
‘Oh, you know what I mean. My acquaintance with bright young things is rather limited. Please, Ned, you must come.’
‘Oh well, I suppose so,’ said Edward unwillingly. He was fond of his elder brother and loved Connie, his sister-in-law. He guessed she did not have an easy time of it with the Duke, who acted at least ten years older than his real age which was forty-one. ‘Mind you, I may have to cut it a bit tight because I can’t let the Cherrypickers down.’
‘Well, try not to be late, Ned. This dinner is more important than a cricket match.’
‘More important than cricket,’ exclaimed the young man. ‘Pshaw! I say, Gerald …’ but the Duke had replaced the receiver. He was not enthusiastic about the telephone and associated its use – along with telegrams – with unpleasantness of one sort or another.
Edward persuaded himself that if the Cherrypickers elected to field first and then bat he would knock up a respectable thirty or even forty as opening bat and be on his way to Mersham by four-thirty at the latest. It was not to be. On his day he was a passable spin bowler and a first-class bat. When, after breaking for lunch, he had stood at the crease, resplendent in his white flannels, he had known from the first ball tossed at him that he could do no wrong. That very first ball he had knocked for six and thereafter he never faltered. It was not until, tired but triumphant, he had walked back to the pavilion raising his bat to acknowledge the applause, not out one hundred and five, that he had any idea of how much time had passed. Brushing aside invitations to celebrate a famous victory he had grabbed his clothes, thrown his bag into the back of the Lagonda and raced out of London, part of him still elated by his record-beating innings and part furious with himself for thinking he could combine an afternoon of perfect cricket with a dinner-party at Mersham Castle in Hampshire, a good two and a half hours away.
Edward was not quite the empty-headed pleasure-seeker his brother supposed him to be. He was intellectually his brother’s superior but he liked to disguise his intelligence below a veneer of flippancy. Since coming down from Cambridge he had not found any employment to his taste though he had been tempted by the diplomatic service. He had plenty of money and very little patience so he was not cut out for office work. His restlessness had found an outlet in travel to the most outlandish corners of the world and an addiction to any sport which promised danger. He had an idea, which he had never put into words, that pleasure had to be earned through pain but the life he led, so active but essentially purposeless, did not altogether satisfy him. He knew himself well enough to realize he was looking for something which would test every sinew and brain cell and give his life meaning.
In 1914, when his eldest brother Frank had died trying to take a machine gun emplacement with only courage to set against a murderous hail of bullets, he had still been a schoolboy. He had hardly known his brother, now a dead hero, but he saw the effect his death had on his father and on his other brother Gerald, and he mourned. Though Gerald might not recognize it, Edward had a passionate hatred of war the equal of his own but he did not share Gerald’s belief that a new, even more horrible war could be avoided by a series of dinner-parties, however influential the guests.
Edward had asked who, along with the Weavers, was coming to the castle for this particular dinner to drink the Duke’s excellent wine and eat his food and talk about how to make a lasting peace in Europe. ‘Well, it’s not an ordinary dinner-party,’ the Duke told him. ‘It was the men I wanted but of course, where there are female appendages, I have invited them too. There will be twelve of us altogether. There’s Sir Alistair Craig …’ Craig was an old friend of the family. He had commanded Franklyn’s regiment in 1914 when he was already a distinguished soldier – a VC, no less. He had now retired but was said still to wield a lot of influence at Horse Guards. Peter Larmore was also coming with his long-suffering wife. Edward knew him slightly and knew his reputation as a ladies’ man. Brilliant but unsound, he was a rising politician – a Conservative – who, it was forecast, would soon be a member of the new Prime Minister’s cabinet if he did not blot his copy book.
There was also to be present Cecil Haycraft, Bishop of Worthing, one of the new breed of political bishops who could be seen at the head of protest marches as often as in his cathedral and who enjoyed the sound of his own voice. He made speeches at ‘peace rallies’ – he was a convinced pacifist – and was beginning to be a familiar voice on the wireless. Even the Duke had heard him though he rarely listened to the wireless except for news bulletins. Finally, a new man in the German embassy, Baron Helmut von Friedberg, who was said to have the ear of the recently appointed German Chancellor Adolf Hitler, had promised to come. He was the Duke’s greatest ‘catch’ and Larmore, who had met Friedberg on several occasions, had used his influence to secure the German’s acceptance of the Duke’s invitation. Baron von Friedberg was the focus of the dinner and the Duke had high hopes that something useful might be achieved by having the man at his table.
Edward’s use as a guest was not confined to his role as Hermione’s nursemaid. He had charm. He could, as the Duke put it to himself, ‘oil the wheels’, fill in any embarrassing pauses in the conversation. As the Duke had said to his wife at breakfast, ‘You know, Connie m’dear, that boy must have something. The women like him and yet the men seem not to resent him. In fact, I was talking to Carlisle at the club last week and he said he was one of the ablest men he knew and the bravest. Apparently, Carlisle told me, Ned pulled off an amazing rescue when he was climbing in the Alps last year but he never said a word to me about it. Did he to you?’
‘No,’ said the Duchess, smiling, ‘but then I would not have expected him to. Beneath all that – what shall we call it: braggadocio? – no, not braggadocio – let’s say persiflage, your little brother is one of the most modest men I know. He talks and talks, shows off like a peacock in front of the ladies, who love it of course, and yet, as you say, the men see immediately the … the iron in his soul. And don’t forget he is intelligent.’
‘Oh yes, he’s clever enough,’ said the Duke, massaging honey from Mersham’s own apiaries on to his toast. ‘He got a first at Cambridge and all that but what I can’t understand is he doesn’t do anything. He rackets around the world trying to break his neck, getting into every scrape, when he could be – well, when he could be in the House or something.’
Connie laughed. ‘Can you see Ned surviving one hour in that place? Duffers or crooks – sometimes both – he once described Members of Parliament to me.’
‘I just hope he isn’t going to be late tonight, that’s all,’ said the Duke, accepting that he never would understand his brother’s lack of interest in what most of the world considered to be important. ‘He says he’s got to play in some cricket match or other on his way here. I gather that girl of Weaver’s – what’s her name?’
‘Hermione.’
‘I gather Hermione is worse than the yellow peril,’ he finished morosely, ‘and now that cub Lomax has cried off, I’m counting on him to take her off my hands. I don’t want anything to distract Weaver from getting to know Friedberg. I think he could really be important to us.’
‘When Lady Weaver asked me to invite Mr Lomax,’ said Connie, ‘she hinted he might make difficulties about coming. Reading between the lines, I guess that Hermione thinks she’s in love with him but he is playing hard to get.’
The Duke sighed. ‘The young today! They aren’t like –’ ‘Don’t start playing the old man, Gerald,’ said the Duchess
sharply. ‘Our generation was just as wilful, especially when they had money like Hermione Weaver. But then the war came and –’ ‘Perhaps we should just have been honest with Weaver and told him not to bring the gel because without her chap she’s going to be bored stiff,’ the Duke broke in.
‘Well, it’s too late now, but don’t worry, darling,’ said the Duchess comfortably, ‘Ned won’t let you down. He may cut it fine but he’s never late.’
But for once this sensible woman was to be proved wrong.
Edward looked at his watch again. It had taken him longer than he had expected to negotiate Reading. He considered stopping at a public house to telephone the castle and explain that he was going to be a little late, but that would only delay him still further. No, he would cut across country and make his gorgeous girl fly and be there at least in time for the fish.
He had long ago mastered the spider’s web of minor roads, many of them little more than lanes, narrow enough to be sure but passable in a motor car with a little care and which cut half an hour off the journey to Mersham. For several miles he made good time and when he came up a steep slope on to the spine of the Downs, which run deep into Hampshire, he was beginning to feel that he would not be very late after all. The road marched straight ahead of him, whitened by chalk from where the tar had blistered and peeled. He blessed the old Roman road builders who had scorned to circumvent obstacles, preferring simply to pretend they did not exist. He pressed his foot hard on the accelerator pedal and the Lagonda leaped from thirty to forty until the needle on the speedometer wavered above the sixty mark.
Edward experienced for the second time that day the joy of being beyond normal physical restraints. Just as when he felt rather than heard the delicious crack of leather on willow earlier that afternoon, he now felt the electrical charge which comes when nature recognizes a perfect match of mental control over physical power.
Glancing in the mirror, he could see nothing behind him but a cloud of white dust which the Lagonda’s wheels were raising from the sun-dried, badly macadamized road. Then he looked ahead. Because of the dust he had put on his leather helmet and goggles and now he took one hand off the wheel to wipe them, for a second not quite believing what had suddenly come into view. The blanched streak of road ahead of him was no longer empty. Although the road had looked quite level, stretching into infinity, he now realized, fatally late in the day, that this had been an illusion. A shallow dip had effectively concealed a wagon piled high with hay, a tottering mountain moving slowly up the gradient towards him pulled by two horses straining against their harnesses. It filled the whole width of the road. The painter Constable, no doubt, would have said, ‘Ah, a haywain!’ and set up his easel and begun painting. Edward’s reaction was rather different. Slamming on the brakes he went into a skid which would have drawn an admiring gasp from an ice-skater. Struggling to control the car he swerved around the wagon before swaying elegantly into a deep dry ditch which ran beside the road. For one moment he was certain the car was going to turn over and crush him but with an angry crack it steadied itself before sinking on its haunches like a broken-down horse. It needed no mechanic to tell him that the axle had broken under the impact.
For several moments Edward sat where he was, staring at his gloved hands which were still clenched around the steering wheel. Red drops which he knew must be blood began to stain his ulster. Gingerly, he prised off his goggles and helmet and touched his forehead. He cursed and took his hand away hurriedly. He must have cut his head on the edge of the windshield but he had no memory of doing so. An anxious-looking bewhiskered face appeared beside him.
‘You bain’t be dead then?’ the worried but rubicund face declared. ‘I’se feared you was a gonner, leastways you ought t’be.’
‘You are quite right,’ said Edward gallantly, ‘I ought to be dead. I was driving like a lunatic. I hope I did not scare you as much as I scared myself. The truth is, I had no idea there was that dip in the road. I thought I could see miles ahead.’
‘Ah,’ said the wagoner judiciously, ‘I reckons now there be so many o’ these here blooming automobiles, begging your pardon, sir, there ought to be a notice. But you’re bleeding, sir; are you hurt bad?’
‘No, no bones broken, I think.’ Edward tried to open the door but it was jammed, so slowly he raised himself out of the driver’s seat and clambered out, wincing and hoping he was right about not having broken any bones. He was bruised and he had done something to his knee which made it painful to walk, and no doubt in twenty-four hours he would feel stiff and aching all over. His chest had collided with the steering wheel but fortunately the force of the impact had been cushioned by his heavy ulster. No, he could congratulate himself that his idiocy had not been the death of him. It was to be the first time that evening death had chosen to spare him.
At Mersham Castle the Duke’s guests had already repaired to their rooms to rest and bathe before dressing for dinner. It was a pity that none of them was in a mood to appreciate the airy beauty of this magical castellated house. It had something of the feel of a Continental chaˆteau or maybe an Austrian duke’s hunting lodge. Certainly, it was not quite English – light and airy where Norman castles had been dark and claustrophobic. It seemed to float in the evening light as serene as the swans drifting on the river which moated the castle walls. On an August evening as perfect as this one, it was more beautiful than any fairy-tale castle. Lord Tennyson, who knew Mersham well, had, it was said, recalled it in his Idylls of the King. No such place could be without a garden where lovers might walk arm in arm and declare to one another everlasting devotion and there were indeed lawns stretching down to the water, also a rather threadbare maze created only a century before in 1830, but the jewel in the crown was an Elizabethan knot garden of intricate design, in August blazing with colour and heady with the scent of roses. Beyond it there was a little woodland called The Pleasury.
It was not love but death upon which General Sir Alistair Craig VC brooded as he stared at himself in the looking-glass; not his own death, though he knew that was crouching at his shoulder like a black cat, but the death of his beloved wife just a year before, friends dead in the war or after it, and the death of the child in his wife’s womb so many years ago, the son he was never to clasp in his arms. For some reason he could not begin to explain, he thought too of the funeral of his old and revered chief, Earl Haig, a just and upright man who had saved Britain and the Empire but whose reputation was already being savaged by men who called themselves historians but who, in the eyes of the old soldier, were little better than jackals and not good enough to wipe the Field Marshal’s boots. It had been all of seven years ago that he had processed through London with so many other generals, three princes and statesmen from all over the world. From St Columba’s Church, Pont Street, they marched bare-headed along the Mall and Whitehall to Westminster Abbey. Crowds lined the route in solemn silence. Many wore poppies, the symbol not just of those millions who had died on the field of battle but of the great work the Field Marshal had done in helping the wounded and dispossessed in the years after the war. It had been an event, a ceremony, which the General would never, nor ever want to, forget. It gave meaning to his own life that this great man, under whom he had served for three cruel years of war, should be so honoured. And now, was this honour to be stripped away like the gold leaf on a pharaoh’s coffin? Only last year at Oxford, in a debate in the Union, undergraduates had supported a motion that in no circumstances would they fight for king and country. The report in The Times had made his blood run cold when he read it. Pacifism was gnawing away at the nation’s manhood. It was a sickness. He, General Craig, had sent men to their deaths, many thousands of men. It had been his duty. Was it now to be said that, in obeying the orders of that great man now lying in honour in Dryburgh Abbey, he had not done well? Was he now to stand accused of … of murder? That was no reward for a life’s patriotic service.
And what of tonight? Why had he come? Out of respect for the Duke, certainly; he did not altogether agree with the Duke on his attitude to their erstwhile enemy. The General believed, albeit with melancholy bordering on despair, that Britain was enjoying nothing more than a truce in her war with Prussian militarism. He could not believe that anything – talk, diplomacy, treaties, behind-the-scenes-negotiations – anything short of force – naked and brutal – would affect how Hitler behaved. Throughout history, despots had chosen foreign adventures as a way of uniting their people behind them. That way opposition to anything they chose to do could be construed as unpatriotic and be ruthlessly suppressed. The General considered it to be self-evident that the new German Chancellor, like the Kaiser before him, would use mindless xenophobia dressed as patriotism to distract the German people from troubles at home. In his view, the new Germany was worse than the old one – a shabby, disreputable alliance of big business and an army which had convinced itself it had not been defeated in battle but stabbed in the back by its own politicians. But tonight at the Duke’s dinner he would play his part in trying to alert his country to the peril he could see looming on the horizon. Maybe there was still something to be done, something only he could do.
General Craig was a solitary man – all the more so since the death of his dear Dolly – and these sorts of social gatherings were even more of a trial to him now, without her, than they had been before. He had little hope of finding a kindred spirit at the Duke’s table. There was Larmore who had somehow blackmailed his way into an under-secretaryship at the Foreign Office and that appalling rogue Lord Weaver, the Canadian owner of the New Gazette. The General hated journalists, despised the whole pack of them, and he knew a good deal about Weaver through his friend Will Packer who had had business dealings with him back in New Brunswick where Weaver had made his first fortune. Packer had told him that Weaver had come to New Brunswick from Newfoundland, not yet a part of Canada and too impoverished to offer much scope to a man with ideas of making money. Corner Brook, where Weaver had been born, was at the time little more than a village but in New Brunswick, so Packer said, Weaver had spread his wings and turned a few tricks, some at Packer’s expense, which had left him very bitter. It made Craig gag to see how high the man had climbed and he was half inclined to spill a few skeletons out of the closet if Lord Weaver, as he now styled himself, refused to do the right thing by him. The General curled back his upper lip, revealing long yellow teeth. Fortunately, he was no longer gazing into the looking-glass or he might not have liked what he saw there.
When he had arrived at the castle the Duke had told him that the Bishop of Worthing was already there, but after a strong whisky the General had gone to his room to change without seeing him or any of the other guests. He had never met the Bishop but he was well aware of who he was – a pacifist whose anti-war sermons in 1917 and 1918 had, in his view, gravely damaged the war effort. Worse even than the Bishop, the ‘guest of honour’ – if such a one could be so called – was to be some German diplomat. He smiled grimly to himself. He was to dine with his enemies; feasting with panthers – hadn’t someone thus described such gatherings? It made it worse not being in uniform. He only felt truly comfortable in uniform and among his own kind. In white tie and tails he was just another man to be judged by others on his social talents, in which he knew himself to be deficient: small talk, smiles and jokes. Dolly had often told him he was not a sociable animal but of course, to be fair, the Duke had not invited him to dinner to talk sweet nothings. He was a fighter, always a fighter, and he would hold his corner to the bitter end.
He turned again to the looking-glass and began slowly, unwillingly, to tie his tie. His hands froze on the ribbon. The face in the mirror – was that really his? Why, he could see quite clearly the skull beneath the skin. His hands, flecked with yellow liver freckles, the confetti of old age, dropped from his neck and he looked as though at a stranger: the pale face, the cold sea-water-blue eyes, the sharp nose, the narrow upper lip he was happy to disguise beneath a little brown moustache cut to a bristle every morning for half a century. It was a grim face, he thought, and he wondered for a moment whether, had Dolly lived, it would have still looked so.
His inspection was rudely interrupted by a bayonet stab of violent pain in the stomach. He held his hand to his side. The pain was sharper tonight, perhaps because of the stress he was under, but why prevaricate: in the last few months it was always sharper than it had been the day before. He checked he had with him the little silver snuff box in which he kept his pills. It was there. He contemplated taking one now but decided that that was weakness. They had to be kept for when he was really in pain – later perhaps. He settled his shoulders and stiffened his back. His bearing said ‘soldier’ as clearly as if the word had been written on his forehead. Well now – he had better get on with it. He had his duty to do, perhaps for the last time, and he had always done his duty.
‘I’m not going down – I’m telling you, Mother: I just refuse.’ The girl recognized the unpleasant whine in her voice and tried to check herself but really, it was too bad. Her mother had persuaded her to come to Mersham Castle, to what she had known would be the dreariest of dinner-parties, by promising her that among the guests would be Charles Lomax, but she had now been told when it was too late to retreat that Lomax was not to be there after all.
‘Bah!’ said the girl, her narrow face, not unattractive when she smiled, now disfigured by disappointment. ‘I guess his cold won’t stop him taking Pamela Finch to Gaston’s tonight. What a sell! He swore I meant more to him than … Anyway, I need to …’
‘Now, honey,’ said her mother calmly, seated at the little dressing-table vigorously rubbing cream into her face and trying to convince herself the lines under her eyes were no more noticeable than they had been six months ago. ‘Maybe it’s all for the best. The Duke says his brother – Lord Edward Corinth I think they call him, though why he should have a different name from the Duke’s I will never understand – he’s going to be at dinner and from what I read in the illustrated papers he is everything a young man ought to be: rich, good-looking, and a duke’s brother is something after all.’
‘Oh, Mother – he’s just a younger son,’ the girl said, her voice whetted by scorn. ‘He’s not a duke and never will be. Anyway, I met him at Lady Carey’s and he was so stuck up – I quite hated him. He patronized me – treated me like a child. He dared to tell me I was going round with “wrong ’uns” as he quaintly put it and had the cheek to say if I wasn’t “deuced careful”’ – she mimicked his clipped accent – ‘I’d get myself into trouble.’
Lady Weaver paused for a moment and looked at her daughter queerly. ‘Sound advice I’d say, darling. I like the man already.’
‘Oh, Mother, don’t be a bore. You would say that. You’re so predictable,’ and she flounced out of the room.
In the mirror the mother had caught sight of her child’s face and she had noticed for the first time that her daughter was in danger of turning into a shrew. She was almost twenty-three but when she scowled, as she was scowling now, she looked older. Why was she so often nervy and irritable? Surely she understood that there were younger, prettier girls being presented at court every year. If she was to marry she would have to make an effort to please. She would have to talk to her about it but this wasn’t the moment. Hermione wasn’t a fool. She was just like so many of the younger generation: rootless, pleasure-seeking but essentially unhappy. Spoiled little rich girl, the mother thought ruefully. She needed to find her a good man but where were they? So many had been killed in the war and the new young men – well, they seemed shallow, selfish to her. They liked to assume a ‘know-it-all’ attitude which she found wearisome. If Hermione was to find a suitable husband – someone a little older, more mature – like Edward Corinth perhaps – she had to learn some winning ways. No wonder the Lomax boy had cancelled. She had seen them together when he had come to collect her from Eaton Place before going on to some dance in Belgrave Square and Hermione had been all over him. She had noticed then, though Hermione did not seem to, that it had embarrassed him. Hermione made it quite plain when she did not like a young man and her snubs were legendary but when she did find a boy wild enough to attract her she couldn’t hide her adoration from the poor man, so he usually ran as far and as fast as he could. If only she didn’t feel she had to choose men of whom her stepfather would be sure to disapprove. Her mother sighed. She supposed it must be her fault. Wasn’t it always a parent’s fault if their children turned out – no, she would not say ‘bad’ – ‘difficult’, that was the word. She had so hoped her daughter would get on with her new father but they had always been like oil and water. Joe had tried. It wasn’t his fault. It was the only shadow on her life, which was now so good in so many ways.
She thought with simple pleasure of Joe, Lord Weaver, now closeted with the Duke in the gunroom smoking a cigar, without which he was rarely to be seen, and drinking Scotch whisky, which gave him indigestion. Her husband was what was now being called a press baron. He was immensely wealthy and the owner of two national newspapers, a London evening paper and a large number of North American regional news-sheets much more profitable if less influential than his London stable. Lord Weaver – he had been ennobled by Lloyd George after making a very generous contribution to party funds – had been born and brought up in Newfoundland, in Corner Brook – a one-horse town which he had told her he had got out of as soon as he could. He had not cut his ties with it altogether and when he had made his first money, in New Brunswick, he had financed a paper mill just outside Corner Brook. This had proved a shrewd investment and the town had become almost entirely dependent on woodpulp which was transformed into paper to feed the ever increasing North American newspaper industry. Joe Weaver was now the town’s most famous son. He had returned only once, some years before, and endowed a concert hall, a picture gallery and a hospital. He intended to be buried in Corner Brook, so it was important he was remembered in the town as a generous benefactor and a role model for other young men. Until that day, when he returned in his coffin, he had determined he would never go back.
In England, his adopted country, not much was known about how Joe Weaver came to be a millionaire but this did not stop people gossiping. Among the envious and the cynical there were plenty of malicious stories circulating, but no one had ever found any evidence that in his many business dealings as a young man – first in Corner Brook and then in New Brunswick – he had ever been involved in anything illegal. He had taken chances – he admitted as much – done some favours for some fairly undesirable gentlemen, and had, on one occasion at least, almost gone bankrupt but, as he said, no man ever made money without a little luck, a streak of ruthlessness and nerves of steel. It was also said that he had gone through some sort of marriage ceremony in New Brunswick with a woman who had – conveniently perhaps – died in childbirth. Certainly, when he had come to England in 1917 he was a free spirit – rich, unattached, ready to be useful; he had, in short, reinvented himself. In any case, in wartime there weren’t the same standards operating in London society which would have kept him out of the houses of the aristocracy before the war.
He quickly became a power in the land, an intimate of the Prime Minister and his cronies; with his newspapers and his money – with which he was generous – he became known as someone who could make or break careers. He was a large man, broad in the shoulders and six foot two, by no means conventionally handsome but with the ‘bear’ look which some women find attractive, even taking into account his crumpled face which, some unkind observer had remarked, resembled a tennis ball that had been left several days in the rain. He exuded power all the more potent for being kept on a tight rein. He hid his animal energy and ruthless disregard for anyone’s interests but his own under a veneer of ‘man-of-the-world’ sophistication. He insinuated himself into the Prince of Wales’s somewhat raffish circle and he delighted to surround himself with talented young men wholly dependent on him for their livelihood. He was known to be a terrible enemy to any man who tried to double-cross him. He would be quite prepared to wait months or even years before taking his revenge.
He needed about him beautiful women, to make love to – he had the strong sexual drive of the ambitious man – but just as importantly to wear on his arm like jewellery. Even when he first arrived in London he had no difficulty in attracting the type of woman he admired: elegant, intelligent and where possible married to a Member of Parliament. Then something happened which no one could have predicted: he fell in love. He had met Blanche, Lady Marston, in 1918. She was twenty-six, still beautiful but with a small daughter whom Weaver had disliked on sight. Blanche had no husband. He had died – heroically, it was said, though not by his wife – in some terrible battle in France.
It had been with relief that Blanche surrendered to Weaver’s dominating personality. Her dead husband had almost destroyed her. Guy Marston, when Blanche had married him, was charming, well connected but not rich. She was na¨ıve, little more than a girl, without sensible parents to advise her. She had married Marston after the briefest of engagements to the delight of their respective friends and relations, but Blanche knew, she might almost have said ‘at the altar’, that she had made a terrible mistake – how terrible she was to learn that very night. As soon as they were alone in their suite at the Dorchester, where they were to spend the night before crossing the Channel for a month’s leisurely honeymoon among the Swiss and Italian lakes, he had sat her down on the bed and been brutally frank with her. She was totally innocent about sex – had only kissed her husband half a dozen times – so she had no idea what was supposed to happen in the bed on which the two of them were now perched fully clothed. She suddenly wondered what on earth she was doing with this complete stranger in a hotel room – the first hotel bedroom she had ever been in – and she was frightened. What she saw in her husband’s face did nothing to reassure her. Her mother had considered it unwise to alarm her with any account of the pain and suffering men – English men of the upper classes at least – seemed to delight in inflicting on their wives with the full support of society and the law. Her mother’s experience had led her to believe that sex was a cruel joke played on womankind by a God who was unquestionably male, and she pitied her daughter – but not enough to enlighten her as to what fate had in store for her. Guy Marston made it clear to her in the most graphic terms that his preference was for the male sex and that he had married her as necessary protection from the law. Blanche had never for one moment been aware that men could be attracted to each other sexually so it took her some time and the scathing sarcasm of her husband to understand what he was saying. He then proceeded to rape her so that she could never claim that the marriage had been unconsummated. The attack left her bruised and bleeding and mentally scarred. If this was sex between men and women, then she could only be glad that her husband was not intending to repeat the act. In public, he continued to be the affectionate husband but in private he never lost an opportunity of humiliating her. On one occasion she returned from a shopping expedition to find him in bed with a hotel waiter and she never forgot the smirk on her husband’s face when he saw her shock and disgust. Thereafter, she insisted on separate bedrooms. Had war not broken out in 1914, when they had been married almost two years, she might have been driven to murder him but merciful fate relieved her of this necessity. Hermione had been the result of Blanche’s sole taste of marital bliss and the baby proved her consolation and joy when so much else made her weep with fear and frustration. Even her husband had been pleased in his own brutish way; to have a wife and a child meant he could scotch any rumours about his sexual preferences. His death on the battlefield renewed her faith in God. Perhaps after all he was not male as she had been led to believe.
Meeting Joe Weaver had been for Blanche the most fortunate of encounters. They had met at a cocktail party – an American invention which the British had taken to with enthusiasm. Neither Blanche nor Weaver normally enjoyed these shouting matches in crowded drawing-rooms but this one, held by a close friend of the Prince of Wales, had seemed unavoidable. Weaver, who was already on good terms with his future King, had felt he had to make an appearance. The friend had placed a beringed hand on his arm and said, ‘Joe darling, I’ve been wanting for months to introduce you to Blanche. I just know you are made for one another. Blanche, this is Joe Weaver. Don’t be put off by how ugly he is. He’s a lovely man but be warned, he can be dangerous.’ She turned to Weaver: ‘Joe, this is Lady Marston – Blanche. She is much better than you. In fact, she is the only sincere woman in this room so do not treat her as you do me.’ Then with a half-smile she left them together.
The friend had been perspicacious. Though superficially such very different characters from very different backgrounds, they each had something the other desired. From that first moment they were attracted to one another. It was not love, not at the beginning, but mutual need. Blanche had poise, impeccable breeding and a sadness in her eyes which Weaver found intriguing. From their meeting, Blanche saw Weaver in animal terms – half man, half monkey – and he made her laugh. Here was a man who exhibited complete self-confidence. He was not remotely interested in what other men thought of him though he knew they contemptuously used phrases like ‘rough diamond’ and ‘self-made man’ to describe him behind his back. He had grown used to being sneered at by nincompoops who had never done a day’s work in their lives. Blanche was immediately impressed that he made no attempt to ‘show off’ in front of her. She had listened so patiently for so many hours to callow young men telling her how wonderful they were that it was a huge relief to find an older, wiser man who asked her about herself and seemed genuinely interested in her answers. They slipped away from the party and had dinner together at the Savoy, despite each being expected elsewhere. Weaver considered himself, with some justification, a shrewd judge of character. As decisive in his personal life as he was in business, he quickly recognized in this sad, sweet-faced woman the wife he could cherish and who would assist him to find his place in British society and discreetly educate him. He knew how to fight dirty, to buy men and influence, but what he wanted was someone to soften his edges; someone who could host his dinner-parties and bring a certain style and elegance to them. He did not want to pretend he was an English gentleman, a breed for which he had something like contempt, but he did want to have an establishment to which no English gentleman would be embarrassed to bring his wife. In Blanche he felt he had found a woman who would be a true helpmeet.
Blanche, in her turn, needed money. Her unlamented husband had left her with nothing but debts and a child to support. It was not easy to keep a small house in Chester Square, a maid and two other servants, dress herself and her child, all on nothing a year. London was awash with widows and though she was not a weak woman she felt in need of a man to give her status and a purpose in life. She had almost despaired of finding one. Joe was different from most of the men she knew. In the first place he was not English and she found his Canadian accent irresistible and delighted to use expressions he used. He called her, in the privacy of their bedroom, honey, sugar pie, his little cookie, and it melted her. She realized she had lived a life without affection so now, when it was so generously offered to her, she found it deeply affecting. Both parties were old enough to understand that their marriage was something of a business arrangement – no cherry blossom and kisses in the moonlight – but to their great surprise they fell in love with one another. When haltingly, the day before they got married, Blanche told him something of what her sex life with her first husband had been – or rather had not been – he had been genuinely horrified. With infinite gentleness – quite unexpected in someone who despised what he termed ‘sentimentality’ – he showed her what pleasure sex could bring where two people respected each other. It was a miracle to Blanche and her love for Joe – his ‘monkeyship’ as she called him – became fierce and her loyalty absolute. If only Hermione would marry and leave them to set up her own establishment … there was little else necessary to complete their happiness.
‘She hates my guts, girlie,’ he said to Blanche once, ‘and there ain’t nothing I can do about it. The sooner she finds a life of her own the happier I shall be, but for your sake, angel, I will stick by her and give her whatever you say she needs. But the day I step up to that altar and the man in the frock says, “Who giveth this woman to be married to this man?” will be the happiest of my life.’ Kissing her forehead he added, ‘With the glorious exception, of course, of the day you consented to be my wife.’
When she had finished her make-up, Blanche pulled on her robe and went out of her bedroom into the corridor and tapped on the door of her daughter’s room opposite. ‘Darling, may I come in for a moment?’
She spoke in a low voice, not wishing to draw attention to herself and, not knowing whether Hermione had heard her, she opened the door. At first she could not see what her daughter was doing but then, as she took another pace into the room, the girl heard her and half turned towards the door. Blanche gave a little cry and her hand went to her mouth. It was horrible, unbelievable, and yet she recognized she had known it all along. On Hermione’s face there was rage but when she saw her mother’s shocked face she smiled and for Blanche this was the worst thing of all.
‘Oh for God’s sake, Celia, don’t let’s discuss it now.’
‘But Peter, you promised. Next weekend we would go with Nanny and the children to the seaside: just us. You haven’t seen William or Gladys for weeks. They hardly recognize you.’
‘God, why did we call that child Gladys? It will hang round her neck like a millstone and when she marries she’ll curse us. “I take thee Gladys …” I ask you.’
‘You know very well why we called her Gladys: so your rich cow of an aunt will leave her all her money.’
Peter Larmore had achieved what he had set out to do, namely make his wife angry and change the subject. He had promised his mistress to take her to Paris for a few days when he had thought his wife was going to a health farm, safely out of the way, but for some reason she had taken it into her head to suggest accompanying the children to Bognor Regis – to the seaside. Bognor of all places! He swore as he tied his tie. ‘Damn it, Celia, you’ll have to find a new laundry. This shirt is a disgrace and I’ve hardly got a collar I can wear.’
‘Oh, what nonsense, Peter. Come over here and let me fix it for you.’
Reluctantly he left the looking-glass and went over to the bed where his wife was sitting dressed in a slip and nothing else. He found himself thinking she was still a fine-looking woman. Most men would – probably did – envy him. He had no idea why he went after other women not half as handsome as his own wife and not even as good at … at what women were supposed to be good at. He did not know why he found himself so unwilling to say ‘sex’ even in his head. After all, in the club the men used language which made his hair stand on end, talking about women in the same language they used about their horses – their ‘mares’.
He wished he wasn’t so damn short of money. He couldn’t understand it. He didn’t gamble – didn’t spend half what some of the other men spent. But women were so expensive and educating the children … his slender resources were being drained. As a Member of Parliament he was paid a pittance. He needed this job in the cabinet Stanley Baldwin, the new Prime Minister, had all but promised him – not for the salary but for the influence it would give him, the patronage he would be able to dish out and which would bring in money.
Celia thought she saw what was going through his mind and said, ‘Oh darling, we haven’t got time. The Duke’s a stickler for punctuality.’
It took Larmore a moment to understand what she meant and suddenly he found he did want his wife – wanted her badly. Without any more words he took her there and then – she in her slip, he in his socks and shirt. While her husband grunted and groaned she clung to him, hiding a tiny smile of relief and satisfaction. She had thought there just might be a woman but surely this proved there was only her … only her. The trouble with having a Member of Parliament for a husband was that it gave him any number of reasons for not being with her – and she had just caught a word that silly Jane Garton had said which had upset her. She had gone into Galiere’s to buy a hat – a hat she didn’t need but she had promised herself a little present to cheer herself up – and as she entered the shop she thought she heard Jane Garton saying something to another woman whom she did not know about – well, about seeing Peter lunching with a woman at the Berkeley. Jane Garton’s friend, glancing up and seeing Celia, had poked Jane in the ribs with her elbow and whispered something and both women had smiled and pretended they had not seen her. The cats! They had to have someone to gossip about and Peter was so good-looking, so desirable in every way, it was no surprise they should be gossiping about him. Why should he not be having lunch with a woman friend in the Berkeley? It wasn’t a place one would go to for a secret tryst after all. The only odd thing was that when she had casually asked Peter if he would take her to the Berkeley for dinner one evening he said he would like to because he hadn’t been there for months. She had been too sensible to question him and now, as she stroked his hair which was getting just a little thin, her suspicions – no, that was too strong a word, her twinges of doubt – were assuaged. They had been married nine years and he still loved her. She was quite certain of it now.
‘There, my darling, that was lovely but we really must get dressed now. The gong will be going any minute,’ she said.
Larmore disentangled himself from his wife – his shirt and collar now creased and soiled beyond rescue – and in the process almost fell off the bed. He felt rather foolish. Why did he give way whenever he felt the urge? He ought to control himself. He was exasperated with himself, which made him annoyed with his wife. What had she meant: ‘lovely’? Was that what it had been – ‘lovely’? He had a feeling he was being mothered and he did not like it. He was now quite determined that he would not be going to Bognor with his wife and children.
‘So why did you say we would come, Cecil, if you hate it so much?’
Honoria Haycraft looked at her husband with a real desire to hear what his answer would be. He was such an honest man; so uninterested in mixing with ‘society’. He had often talked angrily of the charity balls and dinners the rich gave to show, as he said sarcastically, ‘they cared’ about unemployed miners, the homeless, the half-starved: ‘They stuff their faces with smoked salmon and caviare and think that in some way they’re being Christian when really, of course, they are enjoying having a good time with others of their own class and feeling virtuous into the bargain. We talk about having our cake and eating it but I always think it’s a bit much when the cake is taken from the hands of the starving.’
The Bishop’s wife would remonstrate with him and he would eventually admit that there were some rich people genuinely concerned to do something for England’s great underclass, whose desperate poverty had been exacerbated by the economic ‘depression’. He knew the Duke, for one, to be a good man with a strong sense of purpose and responsibility, but he had so often fulminated against the class system which he regarded as unchristian that it was natural his wife should be surprised to find herself at Mersham Castle, the guest of a duke. Yet many of his fellow bishops, and even the Archbishop of Canterbury, had no difficulty in accepting the idea that it was by God’s will the duke was in his castle and the poor man at his gate. There was even a hymn about it. He, on the contrary, believed that if he were a Christian he must also be a socialist committed to reforming society and distributing wealth more equitably. It was surely outrageous that 80 per cent of the country’s wealth was owned by just 12 per cent of the population. The Bishop was also a pacifist. He believed that wars were fought to benefit the few – the warmongers and the arms dealers – and was convinced that evil could only be defeated by prayer and peaceful resistance. He was a leading figure in a new movement which he hoped would attract support from members of all the political parties: he intended to lead a call for all men of good will to pledge themselves publicly to peace. To pursue his aims he was prepared to go into the lion’s den and this was why he had had no hesitation in accepting the invitation to Mersham.
‘I decided to accept the Duke’s invitation, Honoria,’ the Bishop said a little stiffly in answer to his wife, ‘because first of all, I believe him to be a genuinely good man trying to do his best to alleviate the conditions of the poor but more importantly because I share his concern that, if we are not careful, we will be dragged into another war with Germany. I intend to enlist him in my Peace Pledge campaign.’ He shuddered. ‘I promised myself in 1918 that I would do everything I could to prevent such another disaster as almost destroyed this country.’
He saw his wife smiling. ‘I know I cannot do much,’ he said defensively, ‘but that does not excuse me from doing what little I can do. If we all put in our mite, who knows but the balance will be weighted towards peace.’
‘I wasn’t laughing at you, Cecil,’ she said. ‘I was just loving you for your Jack-and-the-Beanstalk determination. Giant killer!’ Honoria, who had been married to her husband for almost thirty years, kissed him with real feeling. She knew that for all his occasional pomposities and little hypocrisies he was one of the only truly good men she had ever met and that to be married to him was the chief blessing of her life.
‘In any case,’ the Bishop went on, ‘I wanted to meet General Craig. I have it in mind that he is an ogre; that he sent so many young men to their deaths during the war because he was mad or vicious, but I feel it is unjust of me to condemn him without hearing his side of the argument. The new German representative is also, the Duke informed me, coming here to dine tonight and I particularly welcome the chance of telling him that there are many people in Britain today who sympathize with his countrymen’s just demands. I am convinced that only if Germany is a full and active member of the League of Nations can we achieve a lasting peace.’
‘Oh Cecil darling,’ said his wife, alarmed, putting both her hands in his, ‘please don’t get into any political arguments. You know how bitter they can get and how embarrassing they can be for those of us who don’t feel as strongly as you do.’
‘Well, you should do – feel strongly, I mean,’ said the Bishop vehemently. ‘What is a little embarrassment against peace or war?’ Then more gently, squeezing his wife’s hands, he said, ‘Think of our Harry. What is he now? Thirteen? Are we to sit back and see him sacrificed as our fathers’ generation sacrificed their sons? It is unthinkable!’
‘But, my love –’
‘Don’t fret, my darling,’ said the Bishop, seeing his wife was really upset. ‘I mean to listen patiently, not to lecture. If you hear me begin to sermonize you have my full permission to rebuke me.’
‘Look here, Duke,’ Lord Weaver was saying, ‘we share a common aim, to prevent another European war.’ His Canadian twang was a little more evident than usual. He held out his glass and the Duke splashed soda on to whisky. Whenever the Duke wanted to flatter a man into thinking he was of special importance he took him, not into one of the castle’s grand public rooms, but into the gunroom. Connie had a little boudoir, or sewing-room as she liked to call it, not that much sewing was ever done there, where she would charm her female guests into believing they were very special to her, but to be alone with the Duke in the gunroom, his holy of holies, was a compliment very few men could resist.
Although the Duke called it his gunroom it was more properly a rod and line room. There were guns in cases and some lethal-looking seventeenth-century blunderbusses over the mantelpiece but its walls were covered in fishing rods. There were over a hundred on display in racks and two very ancient rods, alleged to have been used by Izaac Walton himself, in glass display cases. There were no moth-eaten stags’ heads staring gloomily from the walls – the Duke had had all these cleared away when he inherited the title and the castle – but there were some magnificent salmon stuffed and mounted, with brass plates below them giving their origin and the history of their capture. The Duke, Weaver knew, had fished all over the world – from barbel in the Zambezi to salmon in Iceland – and Weaver was beginning to think that behind that rather stupid-looking face and the bluff ‘good-fellow’ air of the country gentleman there might be a true fisher of men. Certainly, he was not the fool his enemies were content to label him.
‘I believe we need to give the German people a chance to find their rightful place at the world’s conference tables and encourage them to play their part in the League of Nations,’ Weaver was saying, rolling his glass between his hands which he did when he was speaking sincerely.
‘Yes,’ the Duke said eagerly. ‘I don’t pretend to like this Hitler fellow but we have to deal with the realities and he has the support of the businessmen, “the captains of industry” as your newspapers call them. They believe he is the only man capable of bringing Germany out of recession and into stable, ordered … well, not democracy perhaps as we understand it, but at least something like it. Bismarck took Prussia away from parliamentary democracy toward a militaristic society and we know what that led to. That’s why we must – we have a duty to – help Germany accept that she is part of the European balance of power.’
Weaver sipped at his whisky and watched the Duke pacing impatiently round the room quite unlike his normal placid self. ‘Do you know anything about this Baron Helmut von Friedberg? I don’t know much about his background. He’s the new – what? – under-secretary at the German embassy here?’
‘He’s a sort of cousin of mine,’ replied the Duke. ‘My great-uncle married the daughter of Moritz August von Friedberg, a German princeling and a friend of Bismarck’s. This chap, though I have never met him before, is their grandson or great-grandson, I’m not sure which to be honest, and therefore a cousin. But the important thing is that he has direct access to Hitler. Larmore tells me that Hitler does not trust the people at the embassy here and Friedberg has authority to … well, to bypass the officials and report back to Hitler direct.’
‘Hmmf,’ said Weaver. ‘Very interesting. He may be very useful to us in getting through to Herr Hitler that we in England wish him well in what he is trying to do in Germany and he does not have to be quite so brutal about it. On the other hand, it makes it very difficult for the Foreign Office. Are they to continue going through the normal diplomatic channels or is that a complete waste of time? This man Friedberg may be all right but the calibre of some of these Nazi new boys swaggering about the world is nothing to write home about, or at least not if you want to write good news.’
‘I’m just as worried as you, Joe, about these Nazis but we have to pull their teeth before they can bite by taking away their just cause of complaint – ridiculous demands from France for reparations and so on.’
‘What of Larmore?’ Weaver said. ‘My information is he has some sort of relationship with Friedberg and I gather Baldwin’s going to bring him into the cabinet – a new position – military supplies, armaments, that sort of thing. I hear little good of him. He’s a womanizer for one thing. If we wanted, the New Gazette could blow his career to smithereens.’
‘He’s not a gentleman,’ agreed the Duke, sighing, ‘but we have to deal with all sorts nowadays.’ Then, thinking Weaver might wonder if he was included among ‘all sorts’, he hurriedly changed the subject. ‘Friedberg should be here in about an hour. He’s staying with the Lachberrys at Norham, so you can see he is moving in the highest circles. I gather the Prince of Wales has taken to him. I’m surprised you did not meet him at the Brownlows’. Anyway, I’m determined to make this evening a success. It’s important.’
‘When is your brother expected?’
The Duke looked at his gold hunter and said, ‘Edward? Why, damn it, he ought to be here now.’ He rang the bell. When the butler appeared he said, ‘Bates, is there any news of Lord Edward?’
‘No, your Grace.’
‘Where can the boy have got to?’ said the Duke to Weaver. ‘It is most annoying. We cannot wait dinner for him for ever.’
‘I expect he’ll turn up before long,’ said Weaver easily. ‘He’s probably had a puncture or something.’
‘Bates, when Lord Edward does arrive tell him not to dress for dinner but to join us immediately will you?’
‘Very good, your Grace,’ said Bates, retreating.
‘Oh, Bates, inform her Grace that we will not wait dinner for Lord Edward and say that Lord Weaver and I will be in the drawing-room in half an hour.’
When the butler had left the room the Duke said, ‘Damn the boy. I wanted him to be here to talk to that stepdaughter of yours. Connie was particularly anxious she had someone of more or less her age to amuse her. Connie said she would be bored to death by all of us old men and no doubt she’s right. She says the young man she had counted on to come – Lomax his name is, I believe – bowed out at the last minute. Really, the young men can’t be relied upon. If I had been invited to dine … oh well, anyway, it can’t be helped. I just hope Ned hasn’t had an accident. He races around in sports cars and even flies aeroplanes – I’m only surprised he hasn’t broken his neck already.’
Weaver’s brow was furrowed. ‘I say, Duke, as we are alone can I bring you up to date on that matter I had occasion to talk to you about a few weeks ago?’ He leant forward confidentially and the Duke could see the bald patch on the top of his head and was reminded of Friar Tuck.
‘Of course,’ said the Duke. ‘Is there something … ?’
‘I thought you would like to know that the “blackmail” … well, it has turned out all right in the end – better than all right, in fact – except for one thing.’
‘What’s that?’ said the Duke.
Lord Weaver bent even closer to the Duke as though he feared someone might be listening at the door and began to explain himself. The Duke was at first intrigued and then disbelieving.
‘It’s like something out of Shakespeare,’ he said at last.