Honourable Intentions (7 page)

“It’s very relevant to Grover Langhorn, and it’s what he might say next that worries us.” Ranklin looked at the Commander and shrugged; the Commander looked and shrugged back. Permission, reluctantly, granted.

Serious for once, Jay said: “Surely it’s still what the mother might say that really matters . . . And incidentally, why isn’t she over here, standing by her only son – is he her only son? – in his hour of need?”

“From the way she’s vanished,” the Commander said, “it sounds as if she expects us – somebody, anyway – to be looking for her and an explanation of that letter. And we’re a bit stuck, there: we can’t ask the French to help because they’d ask why . . . No, for the moment, we stick to finding out whether we
need
to find her. Now, do we have anything else? Well, I have: we’re going to have to tell the Palace.” That brought a sudden silence. “It risks secrecy, but it’s pure self-preservation: if they find out for themselves that we’re investigating His Majesty, that’ll be the end of the Bureau.”

“I say,” breathed Jay, “are we going to ask if the King really was once roger-the-lodgering this female?”

The Commander ignored him. “I think he’s back from Windsor by now, but anyway, I’ll fix a meeting with one of his secretaries. You’ll come too, Ranklin.”

“Aren’t I supposed to be back at Bow Street?”

“This takes precedence, but it all depends on what time we can fix a meeting at the Palace.”

Ranklin nodded unenthusiastically and Jay, perhaps trying to make amends for his levity, said: “I suppose we have noticed that the King’s going on an official visit to Paris next week?”

They hadn’t, of course: the King’s movements didn’t usually concern the Bureau. So they sat and thought about it for a while. At last the Commander said: “Is there any reason to suppose that isn’t pure coincidence?”

Except that, professionally, they didn’t like coincidences, nobody could think of one. Jay said: “The British papers won’t touch a story about the King having a bastard son. But the Continental and American papers would lap it up. Particularly with the Paris visit putting him in the news for once.” He shrugged. “But that still doesn’t make it anything but coincidence.”

Ranklin said: “If the royal visit’s a goodwill thing, it may make us less willing to undo that goodwill by refusing to extradite Langhorn. But again, that doesn’t mean it’s anything but coincidence, either.”

The Commander shook his head slowly and sighed. “But he
is
such a dull king.”

*           *           *

When Ranklin got back from the Hotel
Dieudonné,
O’Gilroy had obviously just got in. There was an unopened Gladstone bag in the middle of the floor, a cap and coat thrown on to a chair, and O’Gilroy himself in another with a cigarette and large glass of whisky. He was lanky and loose-limbed with dark hair and he looked like an intellectual buccaneer such as schoolgirls dream about and don’t exist. However, if they did, they too would come from Ireland. He was in his early thirties.

“Did you have a good crossing?” Ranklin asked cheerfully.

“Terrible.” But O’Gilroy could find breaking waves on a skating rink. “Most jest the fuss of it. Cab in Paris and then train and boat and train and London cab, with tickets and papers and two sorts of money all the way . . . Ye never get time to settle. Ah, I’m getting old and soft. Thank God.” He reached inside his jacket and handed over a wad of notepaper. “That’s yer . . . report, like –”

“Résumé.”

“– of what ye wanted. Made quite a fuss, it did. Say ‘anarchist’in Paris and the rozzers,
Préfecture
and
Sûreté
both, they throw a fit. They want this feller Langhorn serious. Can ye tell me why we’re interested?”

Ranklin had been careful not to ask the Commander if he could – the answer must have been “No” – so one might say he hadn’t been told not t o. “I can drop a few hints, but if you haven’t eaten, call down and get something sent up. And the same for me.” He sat down to riffle through the notes. After a year in Paris, O’Gilroy’s spoken French was still “picturesque”, to put it politely, and his knowledge of French literature nil, but he read their journalistic jargon fluently.

Passing a bookshop, Ranklin had picked up a copy of
Our Sailor King,
a biographical work for those of a reading age to cope
with pictures; he’d been hoping to pinpoint some dates in the King’s career. It now lay on a table near the voice-pipe and O’Gilroy picked it up. “Jayzus – are ye studying for a promotion exam?”

Over supper – it turned out that what O’Gilroy had been missing was mulligatawny soup and game pie – Ranklin explained what was going on. When he reached the allegation about the King, O’Gilroy reacted as he had feared: gave a sardonic cackle and observed: “Ah well, kings will be kings.”

“Damn it, the thing’s far from
proved
—”

“And ’tis our job to see it never is, right? Funny job for a secret service, with all the trouble there is in the world, but . . .” His shrug was quite as expressive as his laugh.

Ranklin’s voice was tightly controlled. “You’re jumping to an assumption just because he’s the King. With anyone else you’d wait for some facts. As for the Bureau’s involvement, that was originally because Corinna wished it on us – and because the good name of the King is part of our national . . .” Did he mean “fabric” or “constitution” or what? He waved a hand irritably. “Anyway, what would happen if somebody claimed to be the bastard son of the French President?”

“Be told to get to the back of the queue,” O’Gilroy said promptly.

“All right, let’s say the Kaiser, then?”

“Ah, there,” O’Gilroy acknowledged, “probly be in jail if’n he wasn’t lynched first. Ye made yer point. But are we looking to find out if it’s true?”

“We need to know if it’s possible, then if it’s likely. But whether anything could be proved after twenty-three years . . . Still, that could work as much against us as for us.”

“What’s Mrs Finn think of it all?”

“She doesn’t know the whole story and, please God, never will. She’s already blackmailing us for some concession for her bank.”

This time, O’Gilroy’s laugh was genuine amusement. “Ah, never gives up, she doesn’t.” He thought for a while. “But jest
suppose ye find it could be true, do ye fiddle the books to get the lad off at his trial here? And after that, how d’ye keep him quiet?”

Ranklin sighed. He had been so busy watching where he put his feet in the hour-by-hour investigation that he hadn’t looked ahead to the big questions. “I don’t really know . . . What the lad himself says is just hearsay. In the long run, it’s what his mother says that matters.”

“She wrote the letter ye told me ’bout, didn’t she?”

Ranklin nodded but said nothing. He had the pages of the résumé spread beside his plate and had been skimming through O’Gilroy’s schoolroom copperplate script. There was no doubt about the excitement the fire had triggered. Whether the police originally took their tone from the journals or vice versa, they were now feeding off each other in spiralling hysteria. Anarchist outrages obviously sold newspapers this season.

The only calming note came from the
Sûreté Générale,
but one editorial suggested this was just sour grapes. In effect, although presumably not intention, Paris had two competing police forces: the
Préfecture
and the
Sûreté,
and when it came to catching anarchists, real or alleged, alive or dead, the competition was no-holds-barred.

“Did you form an opinion on the case?” he asked.

“Jest from the newspapers. And guessing, mebbe.”

“We’re not lawyers; let’s have it.”

“Then sure enough the boy could’ve done it – and he could’ve shot the President and cabinet jest as easy. I mean he’s a real anarchist, drunk on the stuff like he’s never tasted that bottle before. Left a good job on an ocean liner –” Ranklin hadn’t noticed that that detail, so carefully kept out of the Bow Street court by Noah Quinton, was available to any Parisian reader. The law, he reflected, was like a fixed telescope: it magnified what it saw, but it missed an awful lot; “– to work in a stinking shebeen. I mean a real hell’s kitchen of a place.”

“You’ve seen this
Deux Chevaliers
café? Been into it?”

“Went down there this lunchtime. But not in. Yer not paying me enough to get meself knifed for a police spy.” He sounded offended to have found a place too disreputable even for himself; after all, among the toffs of the Bureau, his forte was knowing the underside of life.

“Did you look at the police station where—?”

“I did.”

Ranklin thought. Then he gathered together O’Gilroy’s notes and handed them back. “Here, you make a report to the Commander tomorrow. Give him the full
à la carte
and he should invite you to join our charmed circle and we can do this properly.”

O’Gilroy put on his lopsided smile that, once you knew him, could have so many variants; this time it was rueful cynicism. “Nice of ye to say so . . . Only I wisht it was a real job and not hauling the King’s wild oats out of a fire.”

5

Major Alfred St Claire looked
correct,
but also as if he hadn’t been born that way. You could well imagine his stocky, broad-shouldered figure leaning on a farm gate and being knowledgeable about turnips. Instead, a service career and then the Royal Household had smoothed him. His dark hair was now sleek, his long face pink and shiny, even his wide cavalry moustache (he hadn’t actually been in the cavalry; he was nominally a Marine) looked sleekly dashing.

And by now he had a courtier’s or woman’s ability to wear anything and make it seem natural. On him, a frock coat wasn’t awkward or old-fashioned; indeed, it made Ranklin in his severe dark lounge suit feel like a tradesman. Perhaps he should have worn uniform, like the Commander, only that wouldn’t have been correct because he had thankfully got rid of the regulation moustache which, on him, refused to grow to more than a schoolboy wisp. And the Palace was, after all, the fountain-head of correctness.

With old-fashioned courtesy, St Claire did his best to make them feel at home, coming out from behind his writing-desk and joining them in the elegantly uncomfortable chairs crowded around the tiny fireplace. The room was small, with a view over the inside courtyard, and true to the Palace’s reputation, cold even when it was unseasonably warm outside.

When the Commander had been given permission to smoke and stuck his pipe in his mouth, he began: “There’s a lad, an American citizen, now in Brixton jail because the French want us to extradite him for setting fire to a police station in Paris.”

He paused, and St Claire said: “Yes, I read about the case in this morning’s papers. He’s an anarchist, isn’t he?”

Ranklin said: “Yes, but it’s legally important to keep that out of court – according to the lad’s lawyer.”

The Commander resumed: “It appears that if he is extradited, he’ll claim publicly that he’s the son of the King.”

Perhaps Ranklin was disappointed when St Claire merely nodded.

“His mother was an English girl called Enid Bowman. She wrote the American consulate here a letter that can be read as endorsing the boy’s claim. We think she’s in Paris – France, anyway – and probably in hiding.”

When the Commander didn’t go on, St Claire asked: “Is that all you can tell me, Commander?”

“We know more about the crime itself, but what seems to matter most is what the mother may claim. Even if we could go direct to her, it might be a mistake to do so – but an indirect approach is difficult and slow to do secretly. For example, we don’t want to involve the police.”

“How far have you gone with investigating this?”

“Hardly anywhere. We only heard the exact nature of the threat yesterday evening. I thought it best to come to you before going any further.”

St Claire tried to put his coffee cup down on a small table already overloaded with the tray, then put it on the floor instead. “Do you expect me to ask His Majesty if there could be any truth in this?”

The Commander took it evenly. “It would short-cut our investigations. And however careful we are, just asking questions endangers secrecy.”

St Claire shifted in his seat. “You do remember that We are going to Paris next week?” There was a definite capital letter on that “We”.

The Commander nodded.

“Is this just a coincidence?”

“With what little we know, we simply can’t tell,” the Commander said blandly.

St Claire gazed out of the window, stroked his moustache, and then, staring at the merely smouldering fire in the grate, began to speak. “His father would simply have brazened this out; sworn it couldn’t be true in the highest court and on any bible you cared to hand him. On the grounds that the honour of a British king was far more important than any truth – possibly more important than perjuring his immortal soul. But at least that would have been a matter between him and his God, and not involved us of the Household.” He sighed. “I suppose that the upbringing of royal children must always be a problem, but I doubt the answer is to shunt them off into the Navy at the age of twelve. Whatever is said about Queen Victoria not letting Prince Edward see state papers and the like, at least he was
around.
He met people, knew who was who in Europe. Whereas chugging around the Cannibal Isles shaking hands . . . hardly the best preparation for the subtleties of a modern state. The one thing one can say about His Majesty is that he sets an example to us all as a husband and family man . . .” His voice dwindled into silent thought. Then he said, almost to himself: “I certainly find it difficult to accept that a British king is for no more than
that . . .
Nevertheless, it is virtually the only strong card in his hand.”

“And you’d like to keep it that way,” the Commander nodded. “I quite understand that. But if His Majesty would say if this
could
be true—”

“Forgive me, but you may have missed my point. His Majesty is
learning
what being King of Great Britain means. That said, if he were now told that he might have fathered a bastard, he may well, given his inexperience except in the naval tradition of accepting personal responsibility, admit it openly. And where would we all be then?”