Hollow Crown (3 page)

Verity Browne, the
New Gazette
’s correspondent in Spain, was an avowed Communist and, if Edward knew anything about it, she would be in the thick of the fighting. Edward had an odd
relationship with Verity. He had met her quite by chance when she had given him a lift to Mersham Castle after he had driven his car into a ditch. This was a year ago and their acquaintance had
ripened into a friendship that occasionally threatened to become something more than that. But Verity’s political beliefs made it almost impossible for her to ‘love a lord’ as she
had once put it. However, her principles did not prevent her from calling on Edward for help in an emergency and a few months back, just before the outbreak of the war in Spain, he had helped
obtain the release from a Spanish gaol of her lover – in Edward’s eyes an odious communist ideologue – by the name of David Griffiths-Jones.

Edward was not a Communist. In fact he hated everything about Communism but he hated Fascism more. He held the unfashionable belief that it was possible to oppose the Nazis without becoming a
member of the Communist Party. It was certainly a stand which infuriated Verity.

‘Haven’t you heard?’ Weaver was saying in amazement. ‘She was in Toledo.’

‘Good heavens!’ said Edward in alarm. ‘Is she all right?’

‘Just about. She’s back in England now, recuperating. I’m surprised she hasn’t been in touch.’

‘What happened?’ Blanche asked.

‘At Toledo? About a thousand army cadets seized the Alcázar and held it against besieging government troops for weeks. Just when it looked as though the fortress must fall, and the
government had invited foreign correspondents to watch the surrender, it was relieved. On 27
^th
September the militia were routed by Franco’s Moorish troops. It was a disaster which
ought not to have happened. Someone had blundered. There was savage hand-to-hand fighting . . . ’

‘And I suppose Verity was in the thick of it?’ Edward broke in.

‘I’ll show you the account she filed for the paper. It’s one of her most powerful pieces. You really ought to read the
New Gazette
more carefully Edward.’

Scannon said, ‘Verity Browne? She’s your pet “pinko”, isn’t she Joe? I can’t think why you employ her.’

‘Because she’s a damn good journalist, that’s why,’ said Weaver firmly.

Edward was about to say something more in her defence – not that she would have been in the least put out to be excoriated by a man like Scannon, indeed she would most likely have taken it
as a compliment – when the woman by the fireplace spoke.

‘She is a friend of yours – Miss Browne?’ Edward was never to forget that first moment he heard her talk. She spoke excellent English but had a distinct accent which he could
not place immediately. He was later to learn that she was Javanese-Dutch. Her voice was husky and low but could never have been mistaken for a man’s.

‘Yes, she is,’ Edward said. ‘I do apologize but we haven’t been properly introduced. My name is Corinth – Edward Corinth.’

‘I know who you are, Lord Edward.’

Weaver interjected: ‘Blanche, my dear, what have you been thinking of? Edward, may I introduce Catherine Dannhorn – “Dannie” to everyone. Dannie, this is Lord Edward
Corinth.’

‘Lord Edward, I am so pleased to meet you. Joe has been singing your praises. I hope you will call me Dannie.’ She transferred her cigarette holder to her left hand and gave Edward
her right. ‘I am such an admirer of Miss Browne. She has done what so few of us have dared to do: leave the comfort of our homes and families and find out what is really happening. Is she a
great friend?’

‘Yes, she is indeed . . . Dannie. She doesn’t approve of me, of course. She thinks I waste my time and no doubt she’s right. She thinks we are dangerously indifferent to what
is happening in Spain. She sees it as the first great battle in the war against Fascism.’

‘What nonsense!’ Scannon expostulated. ‘Girls belong in the home. Don’t you agree, Blanche? I don’t know what her father is thinking of allowing her to racket
around Europe meddling in things she knows nothing about. She ought to leave journalism to men. Surely, you must agree with me, Joe? Admit it, it’s just a stunt having this girl writing for
you.’

Edward was almost unaware of what Scannon was saying. His eyes were fixed on Dannie’s face. Her almond eyes, high cheekbones and dark, silky skin captivated him. She was like nothing he
had ever seen before and Blanche looked pale and insipid in comparison. Before Weaver could answer Scannon, the butler announced that Mrs Simpson’s car was drawing up in front of the house
and he bustled out to greet her. The others were silent, expectant, as though the King himself was about to join the company.

‘We don’t have to curtsy, do we?’ Blanche inquired nervously. ‘I’ve only met her with the King before.’

‘Certainly not!’ said Scannon. ‘Though we might have to in a few months’ time.’

Edward pulled himself together and tried to think what he was going to say to the lady. It was, he thought, deuced awkward. He understood why he had been selected to retrieve her letters from
Molly. He was an old friend of hers and, just as important, he would not be associated in her eyes with the King or, indeed, Mrs Simpson. He had met Molly Harkness when he had been in Kenya. She
had at that time still been married to a young lawyer but Happy Valley had been anything but happy for the young couple. There had been so little to do and many of the English there were not of the
best sort – rakes, remittance men, divorcees. A fair sprinkling had, as the saying went, ‘left the country for their country’s good’. Molly had had a string of affairs while
her husband, Raymond, had become a gambler and a drunkard. It was said he had come home from Muthaiga Club late one night, found his wife in the arms of her lover and tried to shoot her. He had
failed – as he had failed at everything – and had turned the gun on himself. It had been a horrible scandal and public opinion had put the blame for her husband’s suicide on the
widow.

Edward had offered to take her away from Nairobi – he had some business to do in Johannesburg – and she had gratefully accepted. By this time Molly’s lover had been disposed of
and it was widely assumed – by Lord Weaver for one – that Edward had replaced him in her bed. She was a very beautiful woman – fair hair, tanned face, lean and clean-looking,
almost boyish – but, as it happened, Edward had not seduced or been seduced and he and Molly had remained good friends. It bothered neither of them that the world thought otherwise. Molly had
proved to be an instinctive aviatrix and together they had flown all over the country and had several narrow escapes. On one occasion they had had to make a forced landing on the high veldt and had
almost perished with cold during the night, despite being wrapped in each other’s arms, and on another, had woken in a makeshift camp on the Masai Mara to find themselves an object of
curiosity to a pride of lions. All in all, it had been a good, strong friendship and perhaps neither of them could have explained why it had never become a love affair.

Edward had returned to England but Molly had stayed at the Cape a few months longer. He had not seen her when finally she had come home but he had read in the social columns of
The Times
and the
Morning Post
that she had become one of the Prince of Wales’s intimate friends. He guessed that she must have been ‘seen off’ by Mrs Simpson and was now taking
revenge. Whatever Molly’s failings – and, as Edward knew, they were legion – he would not have put her down as a thief and a blackmailer but he also knew from bitter experience
that disappointed love could sour a man’s – or a woman’s – character.

Mrs Simpson entered the room without any hint of swagger but emanating an aura of ‘being special’ – a personage. She was quite alone, which was unusual. She normally liked to
have around her a small group of trusted friends. Joe and Leo Scannon both greeted her with a kiss, which she accepted passively. Despite what Scannon had said, Blanche made her a little curtsy
which seemed to please her. When it was Edward’s turn to be introduced, she said politely, ‘I don’t think we’ve ever met before,’ and made a little joke about a friend
they had in common. It was absurd, Edward told himself later, but he had expected Wallis Simpson would be beautiful, in the way Catherine Dannhorn was beautiful but, of course, she was not. Nor was
she the vulgar American adventurer her enemies labelled her. She was a demure, plain woman with large startled eyes, plucked eyebrows and a mole on her cheek. She was simply but smartly dressed in
white and wore a magnificent parure of rubies.

At dinner, Edward was placed on her right and for a moment he wondered if he were going to be bored but quickly discovered she was much more intelligent than she appeared at first and exhibited
a dry wit which charmed him. They discussed flying – she hated flying as so many of the friends of her youth had been killed in flying accidents. They discussed golf which she loved and
Edward abominated, gardening – she was very interested in his description of the Elizabethan knot garden at Mersham which she said sounded ‘divine’, a favourite word of hers
– the Far East, which she had visited as a girl, and jewellery about which she spoke with passion. She said she hated public events and being photographed because ‘I know I’m not
beautiful’ but she said not a word about the King. By the end of dinner, Edward had got to like her and felt genuinely sorry for the predicament in which she found herself.

Weaver, too, was in good spirits, quite unabashed at having the King’s paramour in his house, and he spoke knowledgeably, if at rather too great length, of John Knox, Wolfe taking Quebec
and eighteenth-century politics in general. Edward hoped he would not raise the subject of George IV and his unhappy queen and, to his relief, he did not. Mrs Simpson ate very little and drank
less. Wallis, as she asked Edward to call her, told him she never had cocktails, preferring whisky and soda and, at dinner, she drank just one glass of claret but several tumblers of Vichy water.
Blanche had obviously taken particular care with the dinner and Wallis was complimentary. They began with blinis and caviar, then
Sole Muscat
followed by
Boeuf
à la
Provençale
. The service was brisk and efficient so they were finished by eleven. Blanche and Dannie then left to drink coffee in the drawing-room but Wallis made no move to join them so
Edward assumed they must be about to discuss the missing documents.

When the servants had departed, the port was circulated and Wallis had a small cup of black coffee. The men lit cigars, after first gaining the lady’s permission, and Edward lit a
cigarette for her. Weaver blew smoke and said, ‘Wallis, I mentioned to Edward that we might need his help recovering those papers taken from you. I have only told him the bare bones of the
problem. Would you like me to . . . or would you prefer to . . . ?’

There was a moment’s awkward silence and then Wallis spoke in her curiously high-pitched but pleasant voice with its American lilt. ‘Joe has told you what happened?’

Edward shook his head. ‘I’m afraid I am completely in the dark.’

‘It was two weeks ago. We . . . ’ She glanced at Edward to see if he understood that she included the King in that ‘we’. ‘We were staying with the Brownlows –
you know Perry and Kitty, don’t you?’ Edward said that he did. ‘I guess, when I went down to dinner, I must have left my jewel box on my dressing table. Then, when I went up to
bed, I found my maid in tears in my room. She said, “Oh, madam, someone’s broken open your box.” I went to look and the lid had been prised open with a knife or something and my
letters had gone.’

‘I see,’ Edward said. ‘How many were there?’

‘Seven but some were several pages.’

‘What else had gone? Were there any jewels missing?’

‘None.’

‘Presumably you told Lord Brownlow what had happened?’

‘I didn’t want to make a fuss but of course I had to. You understand why?’

Edward had to admire the woman. She spoke in her clear, even voice of having lost love letters from the King which, were they to be published, would embarrass not only herself but the King and
the rest of the royal family. As a divorcee, she was already unwelcome in the homes of many ‘respectable’ people but this might make her untouchable. As Edward knew well, the morality
of the British upper classes was built on an agreed hypocrisy. Once a girl was married and had produced ‘an heir and a spare’, as the saying went, she could enter into affairs with
married men provided nothing leaked out to the press. It was a small world in which everyone knew everyone and was probably related in some way. Only divorce ruined a woman’s reputation. Now,
here was the King considering marrying an American woman of no family, without money, who had divorced one husband and was in the process of divorcing a second. Whatever her faults, Edward admired
her courage in facing a world which would rejoice at her downfall.

‘So whoever it was who took these letters knew what they were looking for. What about your maid?’

‘Maddox is utterly trustworthy.’

‘Did Perry suggest calling the police?’

‘Yes, but we agreed that had to be a last resort as the news of the theft would be reported in the newspapers. In any case, we both felt that whoever stole the letters would want to return
them – for a price.’ There was contempt in her voice.

‘And that’s what happened?’

‘Yes. Perry’s party broke up the next day and, the morning after, I received a hand-delivered note from Mrs Harkness, one of the house party, saying that she would return the letters
if I promised to leave the country and never see . . . never see him again.’

‘When was that?’

‘That was Wednesday, ten days ago.’

‘What did you do?’

‘I consulted Perry. He suggested either I go to the police or go see Joe. Joe’s a true friend,’ she said, giving him a look of genuine warmth. ‘He said he could discover,
without arousing suspicion, if anyone had offered my letters to a newspaper and they hadn’t. He then remembered you were a friend of Mrs Harkness and said he would talk to you. Of course, if
you can’t do anything, there will be no alternative to asking the police to get them back but I’m afraid to do that, as I told you.’