Famous Last Words (29 page)

tablecloth still, unseen. He looked at Ricardo and the Doctor coughed.

All at once the Duchess of Windsor felt a draught. The

doors to the dining-room were thrown wide open behind

her.

If this is death, she thought, I should rise.

But before she could stand, a strangled voice—as “British”

as any she had heard—spoke from the doorway. “Please no one move,” it said.

The Duchess looked at the Duke.

He was ashen. His hands were laid on the table beside his plate and his head was slightly bowed. It was entirely evident he was expecting to be shot.

Doctor Ricardo had finally risen to the fact that his house was being invaded. He stood with his face in the shadows,

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“At whose instigation?”

“Not at liberty to say, sir.”

The Duke almost had a fit. “Not allowed to say! Bursting in here—manhandling our guests…! And not allowed to say!”

“If your Royal Highness will permit…?”

“The only thing I will permit, Major Gerrard,” said the Duke, “is an explanation.”

“Yessir.”

“Well, then?”

“Not before the enemy, sir. Cannot explain before the

enemy.”

“What enemy?”

The Duchess held her breath. Doctor Ricardo sat down.

Gerrard was rigid, at attention.

“Well, Major?”

Gerrard bit his lip. The Duchess admired his firmness. He was going to obey his orders, no matter what happened and no matter who bullied him to the contrary. Finally, she spoke in the Major’s behalf.

“Perhaps you should take Major Gerrard aside, sir,” she said, addressing the Duke with the utmost formality. “It is obvious he considers one of us to be the enemy.”

“Thankyou, ma’am,” said the Major.

“Is this true. Major?” asked the Duke. “That you consider someone in this room to be the enemy?”

“Someone. Yes, sir. Excepting, of course, Her Grace.”

“You mean, I take it, Her Royal Highness?”

There was just the slightest pause before Major Gerrard replied. “Yessir,” he said.

“Then say so, Major.”

“Yessir. Excepting, of course. Her Royal Highness.”

“I see,” said the Duke. “In that case, we shall use the study.” He began to lead the way, but paused to survey the scene. “I should prefer,” he said “not to leave my wife in the presence of all these guns.”

“Yessir,” said the Major. And then, to one of his cohorts in uniform; “Dennison!”

“Yessir!”

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Dennison, drenched to the skin, squelched forward from

the shadows and saluted. As he flung up his arm, droplets of water flew in all directions.

Major Gerrard turned to the Duchess and spoke above her head: “Your Royal Highness, I present Lieutenant Dennison.

Would Your Royal Highness be so good as to allow him

to…to…uhm…”

“Accompany me to my quarters? Of course, Major.”

The Duchess, having spent her first marriage on a Naval Base, knew the dialogue by heart. She rose and played it through like a consummate actress. Her performance was

matchless—and drew every man in the room to full attention as she passed.

Dennison saluted the Duke and squelched down the hall

behind her.

It was not until she was halfway up the stairs that the Duchess remembered the note in her sleeve. “Dear God,”

she said out loud, stopping dead in her tracks.

“Is there something wrong, ma’am?” Dennison asked.

“No,” she said. “No. I just felt faint. But I’m all right,now.”

She

continued to climb. The Lieutenant, revolver in hand,

was only three steps behind her all the way to the top.

What have J done? the Duchess was thinking. What have

I done? I’ve played right into their hands. David and J are separated now/rom all the others, each of us aJone with an armed English soldier. British. British.

British friends.

An hour passed. Two hours. Midnight approached. Along

every hallway and corridor, every door was closed.

Major Gerrard, who was in charge of the whole operation, was in the study with the Duke. Upstairs, Lieutenant Dennison was standing on call by the door which led to the

Windsor drawing-room where the Duchess was safely ensconced with her secretary taking care of her needs.

Outside, the storm had already done its worst, having tried

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its strength against the house and the trees and brought down nothing but a few dead branches. Now, it was reduced to squalls and rain, the rain intermittent. Dennison noted that from time to time, the moon made a brief appearance. He could see it through the windows out beyond the stairwell.

de Estella and Doctor Ricardo had been removed to the

library. As host, the Doctor was allowed to serve his guest from the whisky decanter on the reading table. He was most distressed and kept apologizing.

The “prisoners”, for so they were termed, were in the

charge of Lieutenant Harold Asquith Mudde, whose plaintive voice had been raised all through his life with the cry: “My name is not Mud—it is Muddy!” No one ever got it

right. He lived, perhaps because of this, in a constant state of frustrated fury and he barked at everyone.

Doctor Ricardo was very shaken by what had happened.

He drank a great deal of whisky. He spoke extensively in Spanish to the Marques, and the Marques merely nodded

and stared at space. It was clear that de Estella’s mind was somewhere else; more than likely down the hall in the study—

with his friend the Duke of Windsor.

In the study, the Duke of Windsor made certain he stayed in the shadows. He disliked intensely the feel of bright light when he was alone with a stranger. Major Gerrard could

only see the shape of his head and the lights in his buttercup hair. Also his hands, which gripped and ungripped the arms of the chair in which he sat. There was a glass nearby, and a decanter, but the Duke resisted.

The Duke’s reaction to Gerrard’s story was strangely muted—

or so the Major thought, since the story contained sensational elements that might have led to the Duke’s being dead at this moment instead of sitting there alive and relatively safe.

Certainly safe so long as Gerrard and his men were in charge of the Villa Cascais.

What had just been thwarted was a plot to kidnap the

Duke and Duchess and to hold them as political prisoners

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in Spain. What Major Gerrard did not tell the Duke of Windsor was that B.M.I, had been forewarned the attempt was to

take place that night.

“Has Your Royal Highness been acquainted with the Marques de Estella long?” Gerrard asked.

“Years,” said the Duke. “And I think you should know

I consider that question to be the height of impertinence.”

“I beg your pardon, sir. I was merely trying to ascertain.

. .”

“You are suggesting, Major, that one of my dearest, closest and oldest friends has just attempted to kidnap me and my wife.”

“No, sir. I am not suggesting it, sir. I am stating it.”

The Duke’s hands flew about his pockets until he had

located his cigarette case and lighter.

Major Gerrard stepped forward with a match.

“Sod off,” said the Duke, and lighted his cigarette with a flame that would have done a flame-thrower justice.

After two or three revivifying inhalations of smoke, the . .Duke at last was prepared to continue the conversation.

“You realize, of course,” he said. “I shall have you up on charges—coming in here argy-bargy—accusing my best

friend…And what, might I ask, would a Spanish Marques do with an English Prince? Not as if the bloody Hispanics were in the war, you know.”

Major Gerrard was gallantly patient. He knew his story.

He told it well and without embellishments, either patriotic or emotional.

“The Germans have wanted you for some time. sir—as

Your Royal Highness must be aware. The idea was that the Marques de Estella would plav upon your friendship…”.

“Acquaintanceship.” said the Duke.

“Yes, sir. He would play upon his acquaintanceship with Your Royal Highness and persuade you to cross back into Spain where you and Her…”

“…Royal Highness…”

“…would join the Duke and Duchess of Avila at their hunting lodge in the Sierra de Gredos.”

“And this would be kidnup?”

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“Yes, sir. Because you would be held there under house

arrest.”

“I think you mean ‘hunting-lodge arrest’, Major.”

Gerrard smiled. “Yes, sir. Hunting-lodge arrest.”

The Duke tapped out a message of impatience with his

fingers and then said; “the buggers.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And the Germans. You said this was a German plot.”

“In time, an arrangement would have been made to transfer Your Royal Highness into German hands.”

“And then?”

“Presumably ransom. Maybe blackmail.”

The Duke of Windsor was silent for a moment. Then he

said, “Well. At least it’s gratifying to know one has some value.”

Gerrard did not respond to this.

The Duke said, “You chaps at B.M.I, seem awfully up to

date on all of this. May a person ask just how you came to know of it—and how in hell you came to arrive in the nick?”

“It’s delicate, sir. And there are details I don’t even know myself. But I think it’s fair to tell Your Royal Highness we received the news of de Estella’s move only two days ago.

We were only just able to get here.”

“I see. And now what?”

“Well, sir…” Major Gerrard blushed.

“Yes?” The Duke of Windsor narrowed his eyes—so that

all he could see was a mascara view of the redfaced soldier.

“Our first objective has been accomplished, which is to say, we have thwarted the Marques.”

“And your second objective?”

“Excalibur.”

“I trust that doesn’t mean you’re asking me to fall on my sword like some absurd Roman general.”

“No, sir. Hardly, sir. No. Excalibur is a ship. And you and Her Royal Highness are to be on board when she sails

for…”

“England?”

“No, sir. Your destination is the Bahamas.”

The Duke of Windsor’s reaction to this was to break ranks

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with discipline and reach for the Calvados.

“That bugger…” he said.

“I beg pardon, sir.”

“The bugger, Winston!” The Duke was spilling brandy—

more of it onto the table than into the glass. “Sends yon here on the pretext you’re preventing kidnap by the Germans and all the while you’re out to kidnap us yourself!”

“Hardly kidnap, Your Royal Highness. All we’re meant

to do is to see that you reach the ship in one piece.”

There was a knock at the door.

The intruder was Lieutenant Dennison, looking rather

pale. He saluted the Duke and turned to the Major. The Duke was busy spilling more Calvados over the arm of the chair.

“I beg your pardon, sir, but I think this ought to be seen to.” Dennison presented Major Gerrard with a small, white card. “It was given me by the secretaria….”

“Estrade?” said the Duke.

“Yes, sir.” Dennison turned back to Gerrard. “The secretaria’s instructions were that this was to be presented to His

Royal Highness.”

“Then why the hell have you given it to Major Gerrard?”

The Duke leapt up to his feet.

Gerrard was just as quick with his explanation. “Senora Estrade is under suspicion, sir. We cannot allow her to freely communicate with Your Royal Highness.”

The Duke made a move towards the door. “Where is she?

Where is Estrade?” he demanded of Dennison.

“I left her with the Duchess, sir.”

The Duke turned, completely livid. He shook as he shouted at Major Gerrard, “You bloody sodding fool! One minute

you tell me Estrade is under suspicion and the next

I’m informed she is with my wife! Give me that bloody

card…!” and he snatched it from the Major’s hands. The Major, too, had gone as white as a corpse. “What does it say?” the Duke raged, thrusting the card beneath the nearest lamp. “Some kind of ransom note, no doubt!”

He read. He looked at Major Gerrard. He read again. He

completely lost his voice. He then tried to run. But he fell.

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The Duchess of Windsor was standing in her bedroom. She was wearing her slip.

On returning to the royal apartments, she had decided to change her dress, since the blue one with the long buttoned sleeves had been spattered with wine and food. It was also quite unbearably hot. She had given the dress to Estrade and Estrade had disappeared with it into the dressing-room with instructions to bring back a sleeveless evening gown of a lighter colour. Lighter shades were best in this kind of heat.

But Estrade had not returned as quickly as she might. She had lingered far too long in the dressing-room. Nor could the Duchess hear her, and on going to discover what might be happening, she had found herself entirely alone in the apartments…and locked in.

She also discovered something else: something curious

that sent a chill down her spine. Some of the clothing had been removed from her cupboards and closets and placed

in suitcases. Shoes, dresses, lingerie, gloves and nightclothes.

. .everything a person needs for a journey—except

her jewelry, which was kept in the Doctor’s safe downstairs.

Quickly she went to the door that led to the hall and

knocked. She thought, if the Lieutenant answers, I’m only wearing my slip—but to hell with it. This is real danger. She knocked again.

“Lieutenant…Lieutenant…” She could not remember

his name. “Lieutenant…Please.. -Hello…? Hello?”

But there wasn’t any answer. He must not be there.

Yet who, if not the Lieutenant, had locked the door? And where was Estrade? Where was…?

Automatically, she felt her wrist. The note was not there.

She ran to the dressing-room. There was the blue dress

worn at dinner: spotted. There were its sleeves—she fumbled with them, one and then the other. Where? Where? Where