Authors: Michael Ridpath
‘Are you now? Well, I’m very pleased to meet you. You’re the spitting image of a friend of my ex-husband.’
‘Do you know where Lord Oakford is?’ Theo asked.
Veronica glanced at Theo. ‘Perhaps we should go for a little walk?’
They wandered through the hotel to a door leading out into gardens overlooking the Atlantic and the beaches. It was a lovely afternoon; the sun had lost some of its midday strength and the breeze from the sea brought the smell of salt and the sound of surf into the garden.
‘Well?’ said Theo.
‘You know who is staying here?’ said Veronica.
‘I do,’ said Theo. ‘The Duke of Windsor. Lord Oakford is on his way to Biarritz to persuade him to go back to England to take the throne. And I am here to stop him.’
Veronica pulled out a fresh cigarette. Theo lit it, shielding the flame from the sea breeze. Should Veronica trust Theo? Conrad did. He had been dead right about the invasion date when they had met in that café in Holland. This was no time to be cautious; Veronica decided to trust her instinct. And her instinct was to trust Theo.
‘Lord Oakford is dead. He died on the road somewhere south of Tours. You are right: he was on his way here to get the duke to Britain.’
‘How did he die?’
‘Shot by mistake by a lunatic Englishwoman.’
‘Constance Scott-Dunton?’
‘That’s her. She’s dead too. Shot by a perfectly sane French lady.’
Theo paused to think through what he had just heard. ‘Where’s Conrad?’
‘I hope he is on a boat from Bordeaux to England to warn the government that Henry Alston plans to overthrow them.’
‘And you? What are you doing here.’
‘My plan is to try to persuade the duke not to go to England.’
‘How are you going to do that?’
Veronica told him her idea.
Theo listened, nodding. ‘Not bad. But I think we need something more. Something to do with Wallis.’
Ten minutes later, Veronica returned to the hotel lobby. A hotel flunkey of medium rank, under-manager or something, was searching for her in a state of mild agitation. He showed her up to a suite on the third floor, opened the door and announced her.
Although Veronica had met the duke two or three times in the past, he was more recognizable from the newsreels. Short, with a slender figure, thick golden hair and a small upturned nose, he was in Veronica’s estimation pretty rather than handsome. His wife looked thin, tired and grumpy.
But the duke stood up and gave Veronica one of his charming smiles. Veronica curtsied.
‘We’ve met, haven’t we?’ the duke said. ‘You’re Isobel Haldeman’s sister?’
‘That’s right, sir,’ said Veronica. ‘I stayed with my sister only three nights ago.’
‘What a shambles,’ said the duke. ‘I’m glad I’m out of Paris. I felt in the circumstances I should be with Wallis. Would you like some tea?’
He poured Veronica a cup from the tray on a coffee table. The sitting room of the suite was large with a view over the Atlantic waves. Wallis was embroidering something and ignored Veronica entirely. She did not seem happy.
‘I believe you were expecting a visit from Lord Oakford, my father-in-law?’ Veronica said.
At this, Wallis looked up.
‘Yes, I was,’ said the duke, carefully.
‘I’m afraid he can’t make the journey himself, so he sent me instead.’
‘Oh, yes? And does he have a message for me?’
‘He does,’ said Veronica. ‘He says there is no need for you to return to England, sir.’
The duke glanced at his wife. They were both frowning. ‘That’s odd,’ said the duke. ‘I would have thought that given the current circumstances in London, Oakford would be recommending I fly over there at once.’
Veronica shook her head. ‘No need, he says. He was quite firm about that.’
‘Did he say why not?’
‘Not to me, he didn’t. Sorry. Can’t help.’
‘Strange,’ said the duke.
‘Surely you must have some idea?’ said the duchess witheringly.
‘None at all,’ said Veronica, summoning all her confident ignorance. Then she stood up and looked out at the ocean. ‘Sir? Would you mind showing me your balcony?’
Another glance between the duke and his wife. It was a pretty unsubtle way of demanding to speak to the duke out of Wallis’s presence, but it worked.
The duke opened the windows and he and Veronica stepped out on to the balcony. She was horrified to see that it overlooked the garden where she and Theo had just been talking.
Veronica leaned on the railing, with the duke next to her. They stared out over the beach and the Bay of Biscay. The surf created enough noise to drown out their conversation from the woman waiting inside.
‘Your Royal Highness,’ Veronica said, ‘I have a personal message to add to that of my father-in-law. You may not be aware of this, but there are some misguided men in London who want you to return to England and become king again. They hope to lead a government which will make peace with Germany and become a strong ally of Hitler.’
‘Really?’ said the duke.
‘There is another group of men, senior figures of the aristocracy and their sons, twelve good Englishmen in all, who have sworn to shoot your wife, should you do that.’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘You won’t know who they are. They are the kind of men who find themselves close to the king and queen, if the duchess were to become queen. There is nowhere in England she would be safe. Probably not in France. Perhaps if she were to shut herself up in a
Schloss
in Germany she would be protected. But that wouldn’t be much fun, would it? Your wife locked up in a castle, while you sat on a throne alone?’
The duke looked shocked. And angry. ‘Who do you think you are, threatening me like that? Get out! Get out now!’
‘Of course, Your Royal Highness,’ said Veronica, dipping a quick curtsy as she returned inside. She curtsied again to the duchess and scampered out of the room.
She hurried out of the hotel to her car, or rather her sister’s car. She had lied comprehensively to the Duke of Windsor from beginning to end, and she thought she had done it rather well, with some help from Theo. Now for some honesty: she had promised to return the Cadillac to her sister. No point in hanging around; it would be nice if she could get to Paris before the Germans.
As she turned the car around in the street, she saw the good-looking Yugoslav businessman sitting outside a café opposite. He raised his hat to her, and she gave him a little wave.
Then she drove north out of town.
Extract from Lieutenant Dieter von Hertenberg’s Diary
26 May
We have penetrated the old ring of fortifications around Calais and are in the town. The British won’t last much longer.
General Kleist arrived, but this time he congratulated our efforts. First time I have seen him since he bawled out Guderian. He acknowledged me and we had a friendly conversation, but I can’t forgive him for the way he treated my commander.
At last the halt order is rescinded and we are allowed to attack Dunkirk.
Calais, 26 May
Colonel Rydal ducked as the first Stuka peeled away from its formation and dived. The scream was chilling, but the British soldiers had learned that the Stuka’s bark was worse than its bite. Hell came and went amid a deafening cacophony of sirens and explosions, but providing you were in cover, you were nearly always all right. It was the sniper watching your position who was more likely to pick you off the instant the Junkers 87s had flown off.
They were in Bastion No. 1, just to the north of the elegant Gare Maritime, which was now crawling with German infantry. The bastion was part of the sixteenth-century fortifications of Calais, which could hold out against the English siege cannon of the time, but not modern German artillery. Or tanks, for that matter.
After nearly nine months of patient preparation, action had come thick and fast. The battalion had been sent from Suffolk to Southampton and then across the Channel to Calais, where they were ordered to cover the possible withdrawal of the British Expeditionary Force. It was pretty clear to Rydal when his orders were explained to him that it was unlikely he or any of his men would be returning to England. They seemed to be going in rather the opposite direction to everybody else, but he knew his men would do their duty.
And they had. They had fought bravely and well for three days, but they couldn’t last much longer. Across the harbour, Rydal could barely see through the dust and smoke to the medieval citadel where Brigadier Nicholson was holed up. Between the two positions were German infantry and tanks. Nicholson had refused to surrender, on the basis that every hour they could hold out was an hour longer other soldiers could be evacuated from Dunkirk, just to the north. Soldiers who could defend Britain from invasion.
A shell thudded into the breastwork just below them.
‘There’s another tank in range, sir.’ It was Lieutenant Dodds, who had acquitted himself well in battle so far. ‘Have a look, sir.’
Rydal peered over the parapet. There was indeed a German panzer squatting in the street belching fire at their position. And another. And another. Rydal had abandoned the last of his anti-tank guns in the Gare Maritime. There was nothing he or his men could do apart from wait to be pummelled into submission.
A bullet whistled past his ear and struck stone behind him. The German infantry were getting closer all the time.
‘I could take some men and try to disable it, sir,’ said Dodds. ‘Those houses to the left are still unoccupied.’
Rydal swept his binoculars towards the street Dodds pointed to. He could see grey figures crouching and running barely fifty yards away from them.
‘They would be occupied by the time you got there.’
Colonel Rydal scanned the devastated town. The Germans on three sides were closing in. There were Germans above him and the sea behind. There was nowhere to run. It was time.
‘Mills, get me Brigade,’ Rydal said to the wireless operator. He would inform the brigadier that he was about to surrender. He wondered who among his officers spoke German. De Lancey. He could have used de Lancey these last three days.
‘Mr Dodds, organize a white flag.’
The look of disappointment, almost shame, on Lieutenant Dodds’s face as he looked at his CO touched Rydal. ‘Yes, sir,’ he said.
Dodds pulled himself to his feet.
And a bullet ripped out the back of his head.
Extract from Lieutenant Dieter von Hertenberg’s Diary
27 May
Calais taken yesterday with thousands of prisoners of all nationalities.
Moved north to attack Dunkirk, but given another order to hold off. Why? It’s a mystery. We could see a mass of ships off the coast
– not just Royal Navy warships, but also little civilian boats. They are taking the British Army off the beaches. It is so frustrating! Unless we do something now, they will get away!
Who knows how many British soldiers have escaped?
Pall Mall, London, 27 May
The Civil Servant was waiting in Alston’s favourite corner in the club library. He looked uncharacteristically flustered.
‘I don’t have long, I must be back in Downing Street in half an hour,’ he said.
‘What’s happening?’ Alston asked.
‘Halifax has taken the gloves off. He is arguing for sending peace feelers out through the Italians. He’s also asking the Italians what it will take to keep them out of the war. He’s pushing hard in the War Cabinet.’
‘And how is Winston taking it?’
‘He’s pushing back. Chamberlain is supporting Churchill for now.’ Chamberlain was important. Although Chamberlain’s reputation with the general public was low, the Conservative Party still respected him; most of them regretted ditching him for Churchill. ‘Halifax is threatening to threaten to resign.’
‘Threatening to threaten?’ said Alston.
‘You know what I mean,’ said the Civil Servant. ‘Halifax will never take the direct route when an indirect route is possible. But he means it.’
‘Excellent!’ said Alston. Churchill would not survive a minute without Halifax’s support.
‘The two of them are talking in the Downing Street garden as we speak. And there’s something else.’
‘Yes?’
‘Churchill is going to ask Chamberlain if he objects to Lloyd George joining the government.’
‘Lloyd George will refuse,’ said Alston. He had discussed timing with the old fox; Lloyd George had no intention of being co-opted into a failing government. Halifax had lost his nerve. Chamberlain had lost the country’s confidence. Hoare was ambassador in Spain. There were no other major politicians in British politics. Apart from Lloyd George. They would have to turn to him for Prime Minister, and Alston would be right there with the old man.
‘Now, I must be going,’ said the Civil Servant.
‘Thank you for keeping me so well informed,’ said Alston.
He sat alone in his leather armchair in the library, thinking. Tomorrow or perhaps the day after, Churchill would fall. The twenty-ninth would be the day to act. But where was the Duke of Windsor?
Alston hadn’t heard from Lord Oakford, or from his travelling companion Constance, since they had left Paris four days earlier. Alston’s sources at the Foreign Office had told him that the duke had arrived in Biarritz. Perhaps something had happened to Oakford and Constance on their journey across France? A delay? An accident?
He hated the idea of something happening to Constance. He depended on her so much for things his wife couldn’t give him, or his political friends for that matter. When his triumph came, he wanted to share it with her. He wasn’t quite sure how that would work, but there had been prime ministers with mistresses before.
The thought excited him.
There was the duke to think about. It would be much better for Oakford to persuade him face-to-face that he should return to England, but if Oakford hadn’t made it, then Alston would have to risk a telegram.
He shifted to a writing desk in the library and composed something brief and unambiguous.