The Quality of Mercy (4 page)

Mountbatten looked at Frank speculatively and seemed to like what he saw. ‘Be glad to,’ he said abruptly. He tended to talk as if he were barking out orders. Before he could say more, he was distracted by a woman he obviously knew well, wearing an alarming amount of jewellery with a décolletage revealing – unwisely, Edward considered, given that she was not in the first flush of youth – an acre of heavily powdered flesh. Seeing his opportunity, Sunny, hopping around uncle and nephew like a schoolmistress gathering up her charges, shepherded them over to meet his wife and children.

Ayesha proved to be a classic Indian beauty, fine-boned, with large lustrous black eyes. She wore an exquisite sari of the most delicate silk with the natural grace of a princess. She was not tall but she towered over her husband. Edward liked her immediately. She was quietly spoken for one thing, which Edward appreciated in a woman as he had often told Verity. What was more, she had an enchanting smile. Frank was buttonholed by Sunny who was telling him all about the Phantom III’s unreliability. Out of the corner of his eye, Edward saw that the boy was hardly listening. Instead, he was taking in Sunita. It was not long before Sunny also noticed that Frank was finding his story of the accident that did not quite take place less than fascinating.

Taking pity on Frank, he summoned Harry and Sunita over to be introduced. Harry was a good-looking, though rather sulky, sixteen-year-old. Sunny’s daughter was seventeen and took after her mother. She was long-limbed, dark with thick glossy hair that hung down almost to her shoulders. She was blessed with her mother ’s fine bones and clear, black eyes. When she raised them modestly and smiled, Frank was suddenly bereft of speech. He gaped, then recovered himself and started asking questions which she laughingly answered. Harry mooched off looking disconsolate, obviously familiar with the effect his sister had on young men. Edward sighed to himself. He had seen that look in his nephew’s eyes before. He was smitten and, for the moment at least, everyone else was invisible.

Sunny called his son back to shake hands with Edward who asked him how he was enjoying Eton. Harry was at first monosyllabic despite his mother’s prompting. However, Edward persevered and was rewarded. He knew two or three boys at the school – sons of friends of his – one of whom turned out to be Captain of Cricket and Harry’s hero. Edward soon discovered that Harry was a typical schoolboy with a love of all things sporting – particularly cricket – and a fascination with cars. Inevitably, they discussed the embarrassing technical faults of the Phantom, the strengths and weaknesses of the Lagonda, which Edward rashly promised he might drive in the grounds if Lord Louis did not object. Harry, by this time, had lost his sullen expression and Edward saw that Sunny and Ayesha were grateful for the trouble he was taking with their son.

‘Gosh, may I really, sir? That would be wizard! I’m a bit of a nut over cars. In fact, I’m building one myself.’

‘You are
what
?’ Frank broke in, momentarily distracted from his admiration of Sunita.

‘At home, in India. My father’s got lots of cars, you know,’ he said earnestly. ‘Some he’s never even got round to driving.’ Sunny looked embarrassed but proud of his son. ‘I’m taking one of his old Rolls-Royces apart and building something else with the bits. I’m going to call it the Batiala Bullet.’ Frank looked impressed. ‘I say,’ Harry continued excitedly, ‘Lord Louis was showing me his collection of motorbikes this morning. Would you like to see them?’

He looked at Frank appealingly. Frank hesitated and Edward thought he was going to refuse but he caught Sunita’s eye and her message was clear. ‘Of course, I’d love to see the bikes, Harry. You’ll come, won’t you?’ he asked the boy’s sister, his admiration so naked Edward winced inwardly.

Harry again looked annoyed that his sister might spoil things but when she said to him gently, ‘If you don’t mind, Harry,’ he relented and smiled his assent.

‘Don’t be long, Baby,’ Sunny said anxiously. ‘You mustn’t be late for lunch.’ He looked at Edward with a half-smile of apology. ‘We call her Baby at home but she made me promise not to call her that in public so now she’ll be cross with me.’

When the three young people had departed, Edward looked over to the other side of the room. ‘Who is that woman over there? She must be a film star. I almost feel I recognize her.’

‘She is beautiful, isn’t she,’ Ayesha said, smiling. ‘All the men keep looking at her, have you noticed? But I’m not sure it gives her pleasure. She has hardly spoken a word, even to Dickie.’

‘But who is she?’

‘Joan Miller. She’s married to that man over there, Helmut Mandl.’ Edward saw a coarse, heavily built man smoking as if his life depended on it.

‘He looks a nasty piece of work,’ he whispered. ‘Is he German?’

‘Austrian, like her. Joan Miller’s just her stage name.’

‘And Mandl?’

‘He’s very rich – the owner of Hirstenberger Patronen-Fabrik, so Dickie tells me.’

‘The arms manufacturer? Of course! I’ve read about him. It comes back to me now. Joan Miller’s the girl who cavorted naked in that film everyone was talking about. What was it called?’

Ayesha giggled. ‘
Last Night in Vienna
. Now you see why the men are gawping at her.’

Before Edward could comment, Mountbatten brought over a young man.

‘Lord Edward, I want you to know Stuart Rose,’ he said in his commanding bark. ‘Stuart’s over from Noo York.’ Mountbatten’s attempt at an American accent was pitiful. ‘I think we should keep him here. I gather you have a friend in common.’

Mountbatten turned to talk to Ayesha and Edward saw him briefly take her hand. She tried to look angry but Edward had the feeling there was something between them and felt sorry for his friend. He decided he disliked Mountbatten. He was one of those men who must have what they wanted whatever the cost – like a small boy demanding another child’s toy.

‘You know that lady?’ Rose said, seeing his face.

‘The Maharani? I have only just met her,’ he answered abruptly and then, feeling he was being rude, added, ‘I was at school with her husband.’

‘Ah, you English and your school friends!’ Rose said, laughing. ‘Cigarette?’ He proffered a silver case. Edward took one and Rose lit it for him with a florid-looking lighter decorated with a camel. ‘I have studied at St Paul’s Concord, Harvard, Yale and Columbia and picked up a few friends on the way but, damn it, we Americans never label our friends by their education the way you do.’

‘I don’t believe that,’ Edward said, smiling. ‘What about your fraternities? Aren’t you loyal to your “frat house” for life?’

‘Touché!’ The young man grinned engagingly. ‘I guess you’re right. The friends of our youth have a special place in our affections.’

Edward thought Frank might like him and said as much.

‘It would be an honour. Does he like art?’

‘Not that I’ve ever heard,’ Edward replied drily.

‘Well, with your permission we’ll change all that.’

Edward was taken aback. The man was presumptuous but he supposed it might just be his American frankness. ‘You don’t need my permission and his parents will be pleased if you take him off their hands,’ he offered, giving him the benefit of the doubt. ‘But didn’t our host say we had a friend in common?’

‘Bernard Hunt.’

‘Hunt? I wouldn’t say he was a friend – more an acquaintance. We met on the
Queen Mary
. He knows a great deal about Poussin, I recall.’

‘He’s a first-class critic. It’s what I want to be,’ Rose added ingenuously. ‘I worked at the National Gallery of Art in Washington and Bernard’s going to introduce me to Kenneth Clark and get me a research job at the National Gallery.’

‘You sound as if you have your future mapped out,’ Edward said with a touch of envy.

‘I guess. There’s a war coming so I need to get my education before the shooting match starts.’

Hunt was a predatory homosexual and Edward was pretty sure Rose was also that way inclined. Should he warn Frank, he wondered? No, the boy was old enough to look after himself. He glanced over at Mountbatten who was still talking to Ayesha and wondered about
his
proclivities. Was he rather too obviously a ladies’ man? Was flirting with his friend’s wife just a cover for his taste for young men? He was angry with himself for indulging in cheap cynicism but he was beginning to share Gerald’s instinctive distaste for the man. He caught Sunny’s eye and read pain, embarrassment and shame in that quick glance. His friend was the most peaceable of men but, in the last resort, he would not allow himself to be made to look a fool. Sunny was happy when his wife was admired but he would never countenance infidelity.

Edward thought the best thing he could do was to interrupt the tête-à-tête. Making his excuses to Rose, he joined Mountbatten. If the latter was annoyed, he did not show it but courteously involved him in a discussion of polo. Apparently, Ayesha was an accomplished player.

‘Do you play, Lord Edward?’ she inquired.

‘I never have.’

‘It’s not too late to learn,’ Mountbatten said with genuine enthusiasm. ‘You and your nephew must try it.’

‘Yes, you must,’ Ayesha urged him. ‘There’s no game like it. If you have a good eye and you can ride . . . It’s more exciting than hunting.’

After a moment, Mountbatten drew Edward to one side and told him there was someone he particularly wished him to meet.

‘Who is that?’ Edward asked, looking round.

‘He’s waiting for you in the Gun Room. I wanted to say . . . to warn you, he’s not like Stuart, say, immediately likeable. He’s austere – even cold – but he’s able . . . very able and he’s . . . he’s a patriot.’

Edward was curious. It was not like Mountbatten to sound uncertain. ‘What’s his name? Why does he want to see me?’

‘His name’s Guy Liddell. He’s a great-nephew of Alice-in-Wonderland, if you follow me. I have known him for many years but I’ll let him tell you why he wants to meet you.’

‘But
who
is he?’

‘Well, he’s a gifted cellist and a superb dancer. He won an MC in the war serving with the Royal Field Artillery. Afterwards, he joined Scotland Yard and liaised between Special Branch and the Foreign Office. Will that do?’

‘He’s a policeman?’

‘I can’t tell you any more but, believe me, he’s one of the best men we’ve got. He’s like me in one respect – he doesn’t suffer fools gladly.’

Mountbatten showed him where to go but did not offer to accompany him.

The Gun Room was smaller than Edward expected. There were Purdeys locked in the gun cabinet, rods in some sort of basket, fishing tackle including nets and gaffes, walking sticks piled in a corner, wellington boots, a few stuffed birds – in other words the type of room found in every country house including Mersham Castle. The head of what Edward thought might be an elk grinned at him from just above one door. On every wall, nondescript sporting prints competed with photographs of Mountbatten at play – standing in heroic pose over a, presumably, dead tiger, on a polo pony swinging a stick, and at the helm of a yacht.

A row of heavy leather-bound volumes, no doubt recording the game killed on the estate, filled a bookcase. The sole window was shuttered and it took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the gloom. The pool of light spilt by the table lamp did not extend beyond its immediate environs but he could just make out a cheap clock on the wall behind the battered table on which so many guns and rods, not to mention dead animals, had been thrown over many years.

‘Lord Edward, how good of you to spare me a few minutes. Forgive the cloak-and-dagger stuff but I try to keep in the background as much as possible. I have heard very good things about you from the people at Special Branch and I gather you sorted out a nasty little problem for the FO. Van said you cleared up the mess with the minimum of fuss.’ Van was Sir Robert Vansittart, until recently the Permanent Head of the Foreign Office. ‘In fact, you seem to have made your mark with a number of people whose opinion I value, without drawing attention to yourself. Not something Dickie would understand.’ Liddell chuckled mirthlessly.

There was something cold and even repellent about his manner which made Edward glad Mountbatten had warned him not to rush to judgement. His clipped, patrician accent sounded as though it had been marinated in lemon juice. He was of average height, with receding hair and an officer’s obligatory toothbrush moustache. As his eyes got used to the gloom, Edward saw he had the upright posture of the professional soldier and the expressionless face of a man with too many secrets.

‘Sir Robert is a remarkable man. I was sorry that he felt he had to resign,’ Edward ventured.

‘Hmm,’ was Liddell’s only comment. His eyes seemed never to leave Edward’s face and he found himself having to look away at a photograph of Mountbatten with Errol Flynn.

‘I wondered if you’d be willing to help your country once again?’

‘Would I be working for Special Branch?’ Edward found himself asking.

‘You’d be working for me.’

‘May I ask who you are, sir?’ Edward persisted. ‘I mean, Lord Louis told me a little bit about you but not who you work for.’

‘I work for a government organization preparing for the next war with Germany. We are particularly concerned with subversive activity in this country by agents of foreign powers.’

‘Does it have a name – your organization?’ Edward asked daringly.

Liddell looked down his nose and coughed. ‘It does not exist so how can it have a name?’ A thin smile indicated that this was a joke. He hesitated and then said, ‘You took an oath of secrecy when you were working for Special Branch so I suppose I can tell you this much – I run a section called MI5. It is never to be referred to nor its existence even hinted at. You understand me?’ Edward, intimidated by the man’s steely authority, nodded his head in assent. ‘If at any time your authority is questioned, you can, as a last resort, imply that you work for Special Branch but that is only when you have no alternative. I should perhaps say, however, that we in MI5 have no powers of arrest. We make use of the police when we need to use brute force. By the way, what does Miss Browne know of your – what shall I call them? – your activities on behalf of the government?’