A Grave Man (22 page)

Edward hoped he did not know, or had forgotten, that one of his guests was a Communist. There was something about his use of phrases such as ‘southern races’ that made Edward feel he must have been talking to Sir Simon and he risked saying, ‘May I ask you, sir, what you think of Castlewood’s views on purifying the race?’

The Duke took the cigar out of his mouth and plucked at his bow tie, a mannerism he had when he was nervous. He looked at Edward as if trying to decide whether he could talk frankly or not. Edward’s expression remained blandly interested.

‘I think he is right,’ he said simply. ‘In fact I have agreed to be patron of his Foundation. It is one of the things I shall be discussing with Herr Hitler – one of the ways in which our two nations can cooperate. Herr Hitler has had remarkable success, you know, in freeing his country from the tyranny of the Jewish bankers whose rapacity brought Germany to its knees.’

Edward was dumbfounded. He had guessed when he saw Sir Simon that he was there for a purpose but he never imagined Sir Simon devious enough to involve the Duke in the Foundation. And what he had said about Jewish bankers! Edward wondered who had taught him to spout such nonsense – Ribbentrop, perhaps. He was a close friend of the Duchess – some even said her lover. The Duke must have seen something in his eyes and, realizing he had been indiscreet, added hastily, ‘Just an idea, you know. I had rather you kept it to yourself.’

Edward was able to avoid making any promises as they were interrupted by a call from the Duchess, who seemed to sense the Duke was in danger of an indiscretion. The two men walked back on to the terrace, both relieved nothing more needed to be said. It was a lovely, starlit night and the flag bearing the Prince of Wales’ feathers hung motionless from a pole in the garden. Seeing Edward glance towards it, the Duke said, ‘When I became king, they had to take it down as there was no Prince of Wales. So I didn’t see why I shouldn’t have it here.’ Edward thought it was precisely because the Duke could not see why it was in poor taste to fly it here in exile that he had lost his crown.

At midnight, they thanked their hosts and made ready to depart. The Duke inquired when they were returning to London. Edward said the next day and he noticed the Duke’s left eye twitch as though in pain. He had been in high spirits throughout the evening, obviously happy to be with his ‘Wally’ whose hand he grasped at every opportunity, but he was homesick. He did not like foreigners other than Americans and Germans. His last words to Edward were surprisingly warm, ‘Do come again. We like visitors from England. Never enough . . . never enough . . .’

‘What was he doing there?’ Verity asked, as soon as the car had driven away and they were standing in the hotel foyer.

‘Sir Simon? He asked the same thing of me. I said you had come to interview the Duke and I had come along for the ride. How did you get on, by the way?’

‘I got enough to write my article but I need to think about it. What he said was all right – I mean he seemed genuinely concerned about unemployment, the need to tear down the slums and replace them with good quality housing, but there was something about the way he said it . . . I don’t quite know, but it was as if he was talking about an inferior race. Maybe I am being unfair. He could certainly quote the facts and figures.’

‘So what was your general impression of the “royal couple”,’ Edward inquired with studied sarcasm. Her response surprised him.

‘I felt sorry for them. Of course, he will live a wasted life now, with nothing to do but drink and idle away his time, but that’s the nature of royalty. If he had been an ordinary man, he might have done something useful with his life. He cares about the poor which is more than . . .’ Her brow furrowed. ‘The whole stupid arrangement ought to be swept away – and it will be soon. Royalty can hardly survive the war when it comes. Ordinary men and women will vote them out and we’ll have a republic.’

Edward wasn’t so sure but merely asked, ‘You think he would have made a good king?’

‘I don’t see why not. As I say, he cares about the working classes. He said he hoped he could bring a little glamour into blighted lives and I don’t say he is wrong.’

‘So you’ll write a sympathetic article about them?’

‘I haven’t thought what I shall say yet, but I think they have been hard done by. I shall describe what I saw.’

‘Did you find out who Voronoff was? I didn’t really speak to him,’ he said, changing the subject.

‘Yes. What an odd-looking man! He works at the Beauty Institute. He injects monkey glands into elderly women and they become young and beautiful. Some nonsense like that.’

‘Ugh!’ Edward shuddered. ‘What you women suffer to please us men.’ He winced, knowing his joke would not amuse.

Verity scowled but restrained herself from snapping his head off. Instead she said, ‘Does Jebb know Sir Simon is here?’

‘He gave him permission for a brief “business trip” but I doubt he knew he was visiting the Duke and Duchess. I certainly didn’t. She’s a looker,’ he could not resist adding, rather unwisely.

‘Who?’ Verity said coldly. ‘The Duchess?’

‘No, silly! Sir Simon’s girl. I saw you talking to her. I bet Ginny doesn’t know he’s escorting . . . what is she – a film actress? One can appreciate what he sees in her, of course.’

‘Can one?’ Verity’s tone had gone from cold to icy. ‘As a matter of fact, her name is Natalie Sarrault and she is making a film at the Victorine studios in Nice.’

‘And is she his mistress?’

‘Perhaps, I didn’t ask her. But I don’t see what it is do with us, as long as Ginny doesn’t mind.’

‘Or doesn’t know. You don’t mind seeing your friend betrayed?’ he added brutally.

Verity blushed but refused to be drawn. ‘I liked her. In fact, she has invited me to go and watch her filming tomorrow before we return to London. I thought it might be interesting. I think there’ll be time if I start early enough.’

Edward digested this. ‘Am I invited?’

‘Not specially, but I suppose if you want to come . . .’

‘No, I think I’ll check up on Montillo’s Beauty Institute. Sir Simon was telling me all about it. Apparently, it’s only a few miles out of town. I asked him if I could look round it and he was suspiciously keen that I should do. He said he couldn’t take me there himself as he has a business meeting with the Duke – which I think involves playing golf at Cagnes – but he would telephone and they would be expecting me. By the way, I very much fear he may induce the Duke to become a patron of his Foundation. It is just the sort of bloody silly thing the Duke would do. He wants to be seen to be doing “good works” and have it reported in the English newspapers.’

‘It may be all above board . . .’

‘I don’t think so, V.’

There was nothing more to be said so they wished each other goodnight and went off to their separate bedrooms. Edward would have given a lot to have been able to take her in his arms but that was impossible. Would they never again be at one with each other? Was this stiff politeness all that was left? It seemed so. It took him some time to get to sleep and he awoke with a headache.

Verity had never been to a film studio but she had a vague idea that it would be glamorous. She imagined she would see beautiful women and handsome men being ordered about by tyrannical directors like the Austrian-born Eric von Stroheim. A photograph she had seen of von Stroheim dressed in leather boots and riding breeches had made a considerable impression on her as dictators like Benito Mussolini had adopted the same style of dress.

The Victorine studios on the eastern outskirts of Nice were very different from what she had imagined. They consisted of several large hangars which reminded her more of Croydon Aerodrome than anything else. When she nonchalantly announced to the uniformed security guard at the gate that she had an appointment with Natalie Sarrault, she had half-expected him to bow and scrape before escorting her to some palatial dressing-room. In the event, he was singularly unimpressed and made her repeat the name before admitting he knew whom she was talking about. Then, in a bored gesture, he directed her across a swathe of tarmac to an ugly office building. There, an elderly woman, who seemed to be some sort of secretary, took her through a warren of passages to one of the hangars she had noticed earlier.

Here there was some activity. A simple wooden set representing a bedroom was raised on a platform. Several large and unwieldy-looking cameras were standing idle while a man, who she assumed must be the film’s director, was brushing Natalie’s hair. This was a very different Natalie to the beautifully dressed, shimmering girl with whom she had dined the night before. She was dressed in a flimsy cotton frock, rather dirty and torn near her breasts. She caught sight of Verity and gave her a little wave. Verity responded before perching herself on a broken-backed chair and making herself as inconspicuous as possible.

At first, she was interested and looked about her, planning in her mind an informed, light-hearted article on the French film industry. There were three or four men sitting on upturned crates playing cards, each with a cigarette in his mouth, who she thought might be cameramen. She was now inclined to think that the man brushing Natalie’s hair was not the director but to do with make-up as, having finished her hair, he began to dab at her cheeks with a powder puff. After twenty minutes nothing had happened and she began to get bored. Her chair was uncomfortable and she thought she might go for a walk. At that moment, the director did appear with a lanky youth who, Verity assumed, must be Natalie’s ‘lover’. At the director’s urging, the youth took Natalie in his arms and said something. Verity could not quite hear what it was but the director obviously thought he could say it better. For the next half an hour this scene was repeated until Verity, glancing at her watch, realized she would soon have to return to the hotel if she was to pack and catch the train.

Unexpectedly, a break was called and Natalie, seeming a little shy, made her way over to Verity. She spoke rapidly and, although Verity’s French was good, she had to concentrate to understand what she was saying.

‘That silly boy!’

‘Who?’

‘Henri. He can act but he is so scared of Jean, he is paralysed.’

‘Jean?’

‘Oh, I am sorry. I forget you do not know these people. That is Jean Marceau. He is very good but he does not know how to treat people to get the best out of them.’

‘What’s the film about?’

‘It’s about a young man devoured by jealousy. Every day when he leaves for work he believes his wife goes off to have an affair. It kills him in the end.’

‘And you play his wife?’

‘Yes. I am sorry to have kept you waiting. It takes so long. We have to make the film in two languages.’

‘Two languages at the same time?’

‘Yes, in French for our country and in German for UFA.’

‘UFA?’

‘They are a big German film company. Have you got time to eat? The canteen is just next door. It is not good food, you understand, but we can talk there.’

When they were seated at a trestle table with two bowls of cold soup in front of them, Natalie asked, ‘Is it true you are a Communist?’

‘Yes, it’s true. Who told you? I mean, it’s not a secret but . . .’

‘Simon told me.’

‘Ah!’

‘Yes, I am his mistress –
une femme de trente ans
, as we say. Does that shock you?’

‘No, but his wife is a friend of mine.’

‘He does not love me,’ she said with a shrug. ‘And I do not love him but it is amusing. We like each other and I am saving up to be married.’

‘To be married?’

‘To Henri, the young man in the picture.’

‘Simon pays you?’

‘Now you
are
shocked! He does not pay me but there are
cadeaux
. It is capitalism, is it not? He wants to be entertained and to have sex and I enjoy going out to smart places and meeting important people. It is fair, I think.’

‘You have known him for a long time?’

‘Since three years he has been coming here.’

‘Not on holiday?’

‘No. He says his wife does not like the sun.’

‘Then why does he come?’

‘Because of
l’institut
– the Institute of Beauty, of course. You know about it?’

‘I have heard of it. In fact my friend who you met last night, Lord Edward . . .’ Verity tried to sound casual and failed. ‘He is there now . . . to look around.’

‘He is very good-looking.’ Natalie looked sly. ‘Simon says he is rich. A rich, English milord,’ she repeated dreamily.

‘Yes, well. Tell me more about Simon Castlewood. Have you met his friend, Mr Montillo? He’s a doctor.’

‘Of course! He is often here.’ She seemed to take offence, perhaps because Verity had not confided in her about her English lord. ‘Why all these questions, Miss Browne?’ Suddenly alarmed, she said, ‘His wife . . . she does not want evidence for a divorce?’

‘No, no,’ Verity said hurriedly. ‘Nothing like that. It is just . . . This Institute . . . who goes there?’

‘It is very popular. All the rich ladies of a certain age go there to stay beautiful.’ She giggled. ‘You have heard of monkey gland injections? That was why Monsieur Voronoff was there last night. The Duchess . . . you understand? But that is – what do you say? – “old hat”. There is something new now . . . very secret. There are experiments . . . He can take away your wrinkles
comme ça
.’ In a brief but highly graphic gesture, Natalie ran a finger beneath her eyes as though it were a knife. ‘But you are a newspaper reporter, are you not? Simon . . . he says I must tell no one. You promise you will not betray me?’

She looked upset and scared. Verity reassured her. ‘I am a war correspondent, you understand. I do not report on beauty for my newspaper. I promise I will say nothing.’

Natalie relaxed. ‘A war correspondent! Then you must be very busy. There is so much war and there will be more. But why are you here? There is no war on the Côte d’Azur.’

‘Not yet,’ Verity agreed, ‘but I fear there will be soon . . . in a year or two.’

‘The Boches!’ Natalie almost spat the word. ‘They spoil everything.’