Parlor Games (47 page)

W
hen Ernest and I returned to London, I resolved to prove myself an agreeable companion, which required me to please him unerringly and avoid sparking his ire over even the smallest matter. I only occasionally ventured into London to visit friends, and I always invited Ernest to join me. He typically declined to do so, often discouraging me from going on my own. When I did find a lady friend to accompany me, I made a point of returning at a reasonable hour and informing him of the play or opera I’d attended, placing a great deal of emphasis on conversations with my lady friends.

By the winter of 1908–1909, our relations had calmed, so I ventured a proposal: “Mrs. Baker has invited me to stay at her home after the opera Saturday, should the weather turn to freezing.”

Ernest and I were on our way back from London, where we had shopped for a new bedroom set. As Ernest drove the Calthorpe over the somewhat bumpy roads approaching Maidenhead, he replied, without turning his head, “I’d rather you not. We have our Sunday routine, you know.”

“Yes, of course. I wouldn’t want to disrupt that.”

I tried a few similar ploys to see if I might ease my way out of the house by degrees, but they did not meet with success. It became clear to me that I would have to make a clean and clandestine break, but before I could do so, Ernest once again whisked us off to Monte Carlo.

I did not object to the trip, even though Ernest’s suspicious watchfulness greatly reduced my leeway and enjoyment of our exotic getaway. I had taken stock of my finances and determined it would
be prudent to enhance my holdings in anticipation of life after Bray Lodge. Thus, I heaped praise on him for his gambling prowess and begged him to humor me by wagering some of my money—with me as his lucky charm at the table (which had the dual benefits of reducing my boredom and assuring him I was not spending time with other men). And I always had him sign for the amount ventured. His skill at
chemin de fer
was extraordinary, though he seemed reluctant to pad my pocketbook too much, perhaps sensing that a full purse might bestow on me a dangerous degree of freedom.

So, when I learned Mr. Zaharoff had checked into the Hôtel Métropole, I found a private moment to phone him.

“Basil, how nice to hear your voice.”

“How are you?” he asked.

“Unfortunately, a little under the weather.” I cleared my throat. “The doctor has ordered me to stay in my room for the next few days.”

“I’m so sorry. Is there anything I can do for you?”

“No, that’s very kind of you.”

“What a shame. I must leave Friday. I’m afraid I won’t see you this visit.”

“I fear not. But I did want to discuss something with you. Do you have any investment opportunities at present?”

“Quite possibly. For a cash investment of fifteen thousand pounds.”

I quickly calculated. That amounted to roughly fifty-eight thousand dollars. “And what is the return on it?”

“If the deal goes through, it would be eighteen percent.”

“The deal is not set?”

“It’s being negotiated. But I have worked with these parties before.”

“And would you require me to contribute the whole of the fifteen thousand pounds?”

“Yes, though you could find other investors. That would be between you and them. Of course, my name should never be mentioned.”

“Very well. I will get the funds in London. Can we make the transfer there?”

And that is how I came to figure in a private munitions deal,
which I presumed would not benefit the Kaiser or his collaborators in any way. I found two other investors in my circle of London friends, and in March 1909, I withdrew forty-four thousand dollars, nearly all the money I had in the world. But that is how desperate I was. Women may have been gaining power all around the world—on March 12, they had voted for the first time in Denmark—but that mattered little to me, since I lived each day with a man who had threatened to throttle me. It made me mourn my dear, sweet Johnny all over again: Life with him would have been carefree and passionate, precisely the opposite of my present lot.

Mr. Zaharoff had informed me it could take months for our investment to materialize, and I waited anxiously through the summer, then the fall and winter, all the time worrying that I might lose the money—and the means to escape Ernest’s jealous and menacing grip—if the deal failed.

Finally, in December of 1909, Mr. Zaharoff contacted me through the agent at his London bank. He informed me that Britain’s discovery of vast oil supplies in Persia had delayed the deal, which was now back on track, and he desired my services to complete it. This did not please me. I immediately wrote back, requesting a meeting in London, as well as a schedule of repayment on my sizable investment. To my great relief, he agreed to the meeting.

Mr. Zaharoff instructed me to wear plain clothes, take a train to the London Cannon Street Station, and meet him at the nearby Anchor Bankside Pub on Monday, December 20. In order to escape the house, I left while Ernest was out and told Daisy to inform him I’d been called to the bedside of a friend’s dying mother. (I also alerted my friend to this necessary subterfuge—just in case Ernest made inquiries.)

Dressed in modest attire, I boarded the train to London. I emerged from the Cannon Street Station and made my way through cloudy veils of fog, the streetlights appearing and disappearing like a sleepy cat’s eyes, the street signs elusive in the rolling brume. I doubted anyone could have followed me, for I myself lost the way meandering the streets, and finally resorted to asking a local for directions. At the pub I found Mr. Zaharoff waiting inside the door, wearing a worn black coat, scuffed work boots, and a floppy deerstalker.

He had secured a corner table for us, and as soon as we ordered—he
suggested a simple fare of fish and chips with ale—informed me, “I do not wish you to think me dishonorable in my dealings. I have deposited half the original investment in your bank account.”

“I don’t consider you dishonorable, but quite tardy.”

“It’s best I not tell you too much. It’s a three-way deal, and each transaction requires many steps. With Germany turning more bellicose each day, relations in Europe are delicate and complicated.”

“You said you require my services. I have no idea what you mean by this.”

“I need someone to travel to Alsace with an important document. I prefer a woman who can travel unobtrusively and with ease.”

“This was not part of the original understanding.”

“I do not require
you
to play this role. I can find someone else, but it will take more time. And I believe you could manage it quite well.”

“What are the risks?”

“There are none—unless the lady traveler unnecessarily attracts the attention of a spy or soldier and bungles the delivery. My agent in Alsace is completely trustworthy.”

“And if I were to undertake this, could I expect to be compensated?”

“Most certainly. I am prepared to deposit another five hundred pounds for the trip preparations, and, upon your return, the originally agreed-upon sum plus an additional twelve hundred pounds.”

I straightened the folds of my dress. “It will be two weeks before I can travel. Christmas is approaching, and I am in the midst of a move to London.”

Mr. Zaharoff’s payment provided just the funds and incentive I needed to enact my plan. Christmas celebrations at Bray Lodge went off splendidly, and I purchased an especially nice gift for Ernest: a Norfolk jacket well suited for his automobile outings. Three days after Christmas, on one of Ernest’s regular Tuesday evenings at his club, I hired two men to bring a coach around. Daisy and I hurriedly packed our clothes and personal effects, and the coach transported us to London’s Shaftesbury Hotel, where we had stayed on our very first visit to London. We took a suite overlooking the avenue, so that we could keep an eye on goings-on. The next day, I visited the hotel manager’s office to inform him I might require the assistance
of the security staff should a certain Ernest Whidbey attempt to disturb me.

The second week of January 1910, I donned a mourner’s garb, complete with veil, and made my lonely pilgrimage to the village of Nancy in Alsace. The wheres and hows of my meeting with the Alsatian agent are not terribly interesting; suffice it to say that I concluded my business with Mr. Zaharoff to the satisfaction of all parties. However, I later learned that someone had taken note of my journey.

AN IMMORAL CONSIDERATION
LONDON—1910

S
hortly after nine on the morning of February 14, 1910, a sharp knock sounded at our hotel door. I sprang from my bed, reached for my house robe, and rushed out of the suite’s bedroom. Daisy, who had already risen, looked up at me from the couch, her expression etched with concern. My God, I wondered, could it be Ernest? I whispered to her, “Ask who’s calling.”

She nodded and approached the door. “Who is it, please?”

“Constable Barrett. With some papers for May de Vries.”

I shook my head.

Daisy spoke through the door. “My lady is not available to receive visitors.”

“I’ll wait. I’m instructed to hand some papers to her.”

Daisy and I bustled to the bedroom and closed the door behind us.

I plopped down on the bed. “What in the world could this be about?”

“Maybe Ernest is with the constable.”

“I doubt it. He couldn’t very well strangle me in front of an officer.”

I took my leisure dressing, for I doubted the “papers” brought good news and I wanted time to consider the possibilities. “I suppose, once Ernest got past his ranting,” I said to Daisy, “he hatched some elaborate plot to corner me.”

In fact, I almost hoped the matter did involve Ernest—and not my recent trip to Alsace. Or some sinister trap set by Reed Dougherty. An hour later, I opened the door to find Constable Barrett reposed against the wall.

He snapped to attention and turned to face me. “May de Vries, please.”

“I am she.”

“Oh … in that case”—he fumbled through a leather bag and extracted an oversized envelope—“this is for you, ma’am. You must sign for it.”

I did the officer’s bidding and joined Daisy on the couch. Opening the envelope, I pulled out a two-page document and skimmed it: “Dr. Ernest Whidbey … sues for repayment.”

“My God,” I said, snapping my head up. “He’s suing me.”

I clapped my eyes to the document again: “… black pearl brooch … valued at £4,217 … by order of court … appear before King’s Bench Division … March 24, 1910.”

Gaping at the page, I exclaimed, “For over twenty thousand dollars.”

“What gall,” said Daisy.

I threw the papers on the coffee table. “He’ll not get the brooch back, or the money.”

I strode into court on the designated date, with Daisy at my side. We navigated the maze of wooden compartments in the windowless chamber, Daisy to the adjacent witnesses’ room and me to a seat beside my solicitor, Henry Brewster. Mr. Brewster was reputed to be a tough-minded counsel; he certainly looked the part, with his severe, overhanging brow and stern demeanor. During our preparatory meetings, I found his manner diligent and no-nonsense. He’d been thorough in gathering background and subsequently suggested we levy a counterclaim—for the roughly fourteen thousand dollars I had lent Ernest to gamble in Monte Carlo, as well as fifteen thousand dollars for damages to my reputation. As Mr. Brewster explained, a civil suit is like a chess game: Strategy and cunning are everything. And, after all, I had been ill-used by Ernest, kept under his roof against my wishes after he’d promised marriage. (If my marriage to Rudolph came up, I could easily explain that Rudolph had drawn up the divorce papers and stood ready to sign.)