Wilde dropped her at the OSS bureau. He refused point-blank to tell her what he planned, and he was adamant that he would do it alone. ‘It’s too dangerous for you, Harriet. Look what happened when we let our guard down and walked together through St James’s Park. Remember what they did to your father.’
‘Then at least take me back to Tallulah and Mimi.’
‘You really want to do that? Your very presence there puts them in mortal danger.’
‘But the OSS office was being watched before – we were followed and attacked.’
‘A mistake we won’t make again,’ he said. ‘Anyway, I want you to stay here and work your magic on Coburg. See if he has any more recollections of Hitler – something that would really place him at the murder camp.’
Sullenly she accepted his judgement.
Now it was deep into the chilly hours before dawn and he was on the road west out of London.
He was too early for what he wanted to do, so he stopped in a layby and waited, huddling into his summer jacket. The nights were getting cooler and he wasn’t dressed for this. At dawn he rode on until he found a workman’s cafe and bought himself some breakfast. He took his time over it and drank several cups of tea. At nine, he paid the bill and rode on towards the large village of Iver, then turned northwards until he came to a gate at the end of a lane, where he was stopped by the raised hand of a liveried servant.
The house was called Coppins. He knew about the place from his discussions with Bill Phillips. Apparently, John Winant had been here after the plane crash to pay his respects and offer his condolences. Wilde had no idea how he would be received, but what was the worst that could happen? If he was slung out without a hearing, then so be it. At least he would have tried.
‘Can I help you?’ the gateman said, eyeing him up and down with a complete absence of respect.
‘Message for the Duchess,’ Wilde said, exaggerating his American accent. ‘From the United States embassy.’
‘American, eh? That explains everything.’
Wilde had no idea what he meant. Some obscure prejudice, he supposed. He took out his diplomatic passport and presented it to the man.
The man looked at it with uncomprehending eyes, then handed it back. ‘All right,’ he said, ‘give me the message. I’ll make sure she gets it.’
‘I have to hand it to her in person. Ambassador’s orders.’
‘Is that so?’
‘Yes, sir. I’m told it’s a wired message from President Roosevelt himself.’
The gateman hesitated, then shrugged. Everyone had heard of Roosevelt, because he was Britain’s best friend these days. ‘Better go on through then, hadn’t you?’
Wilde rode slowly up the curving driveway, past pristine lawns and glorious cedars. Even in the midst of war, there were gardeners at work.
The house loomed out of a backdrop of woodland. It was wide-fronted with high chimneys and clearly had not been intended for a royal palace. It looked Victorian, a comfortable country house, perhaps originally the home of a well-to-do gentleman farmer. Now it was substantially improved and enlarged and was the home of the widowed Duchess of Kent and her three children and their staff.
This was the difficult bit.
A Daimler and an open-topped sports car were parked on the forecourt. Wilde drew up directly in front of the main door, switched off the engine of his motorbike and dismounted. He imagined there must be a tradesmen’s entrance for delivery of telegrams and mail, but that wouldn’t serve his purpose. A young footman approached him.
‘Yes?’
‘Message for Her Royal Highness.’
The footman held out a gloved hand to receive the letter.
Wilde went through the same series of replies that he had given at the gate.
‘Wait here,’ the footman said. Two minutes later he returned in the company of an older man whom Wilde took to be the butler, head of the household serving staff.
‘I’m told you wish to see Her Royal Highness, Mr Wilde.’
‘I have a personal message to give her.’
‘I take it, sir, that as you are in possession of a diplomatic passport you are a man of some standing and not merely a courier?’
‘That’s correct.’
‘What is your position with the diplomatic mission?’
‘I will explain all to the Duchess in person.’
‘But if you could at least tell me who you are and the nature of the message you wish to deliver, I will be better placed to see how Her Royal Highness wishes to proceed.’
‘It is a personal message from the President of the United States. As I am sure you are aware, he is godfather to the Duchess’s newborn son.’
‘Still, a little further information would be appreciated.’
‘I am not at liberty to say more.’
The butler knew when to cut his losses and gave a reluctant nod of acknowledgement, then disappeared back inside the house. Five minutes later he returned. ‘Follow me if you would, Mr Wilde. Be aware that Her Royal Highness is still in deep mourning, so hand over your message then back out of the room. Be sure to bow on entry and leaving.’
‘Of course.’
*
The Duchess of Kent, otherwise known as Princess Marina, was sitting at an escritoire close to the window with views across open lawns. The room was large and airy and extremely comfortable. When Wilde was introduced to her presence, she turned towards him, her gold fountain pen held like a cigarette holder between her delicate fingers. The butler bowed, then retreated to the open door, where he hovered.
Wilde bowed his head graciously. ‘Your Royal Highness.’
‘I believe you have a message for me.’
‘Might we speak alone, ma’am?’
‘Why do you not just hand me the note?’
‘It is to be delivered verbally and is for your attention only.’
‘How very odd.’ She sighed, then nodded to the butler. ‘Leave us, Jermyn. Remain outside the door if you would.’
The servant was obviously unsure about leaving his mistress alone in the presence of a stranger, but he knew his place. He bowed and stepped outside, closing the door behind him.
‘Well now, Mr Wilde, where were we?’
Wilde was struck by the lack of expression in the woman’s eyes. There was a distance there, perhaps unsurprising after the loss of a loved one, but there was something else, too; it seemed to him that she was examining him in the detached way a scientist might study a specimen from a formerly undiscovered species. Her English was good, but her accent was indeterminately European, the result of being born in Greece and spending many years there and elsewhere on the Continent. Even though she remained seated, he could tell from the way she held her shoulders back that she was slender and quite tall. She wore a perfectly tailored suit in widow’s black, with just a single opal brooch at the lapel. She wasn’t pretty, but she had presence.
‘Mr Wilde?’
‘Forgive me, ma’am, I am trying to work out the best way to explain myself.’
‘I think straight talking is the best, don’t you?’
‘Yes, of course, and I so must immediately confess that I have gained access to you through a subterfuge. Before you have me removed, I beg you to listen – for what I have to say touches on the sad death of your husband.’
‘Does that mean you are not from the American embassy – and that you do not have a message from Mr Roosevelt?’
‘I do indeed work for the United States, but while I have diplomatic accreditation I am not actually part of the mission. I am attached instead to the Office of Strategic Studies in Grosvenor Street, America’s new intelligence operation. You may not have heard of it.’
‘Indeed, I have not. But please continue.’
She was still holding her pen but began screwing the lid on to close it. The room was both homely and lavish, with little gold and silver trinkets and boxes scattered tastefully on antique inlaid tables.
‘I went to Scotland on behalf of the President. He had a great affection for you and your husband and was concerned that he wasn’t being given the full story about the crash. I discovered things which have not been made public.’
‘Such as?’
‘The Sunderland was not leaving Invergordon for Iceland but returning to Scotland from Sweden. I also discovered that there was a second survivor of the crash.’
‘Go on.’
‘You don’t sound surprised, Your Royal Highness.’
‘I am listening to your message, Mr Wilde. Do not expect me to respond. You said something about a second survivor.’
‘A Miss Harriet Hartwell, a civil servant and secretary.’
‘Ah.’
‘Perhaps you have heard of her?’
‘Mr Wilde, I am not here to answer your questions.’
‘Of course not, ma’am. Once again, forgive me. Well, in Stockholm, there was a meeting between your husband and Prince Philipp von Hessen. It is possible you know him, because I believe you have German relations. Certainly, I believe him to have been an old friend and cousin of the Duke.’
She waited; her expression did not change. She said nothing.
‘This meeting was ostensibly to discuss the possibility of some sort of truce between Britain and Germany. But that was far from the case. Your husband was authorised only to listen to what the Germans had to say – as a way of determining the morale among the senior Nazis. To see how desperate they were to end the war with Great Britain. But there was something else, something seemingly unconnected: Miss Hartwell was contacted by a man named Rudolf Coburg, whom she knew back in the 1930s. In Stockholm he was a member of the German delegation and it was his intention to defect to Britain or America. He informed Miss Hartwell that he had evidence of terrible atrocities being committed by the Nazi occupation force in Poland and he wanted to give his testimony to the world. He begged her to help him get to Britain and claim political asylum.’
‘Stop there, Mr Wilde. This is all very painful for me.’
‘Of course. Forgive me.’
‘Because, you see, it is clear that you know exactly what you are talking about. Everything you have told me I know to be the truth.’
‘You do?’
‘Indeed. Do you imagine my husband would have kept me in the dark about such matters?’
‘But he could not have known about Coburg . . .’
‘Of course he did. It was the reason he agreed to go. And it was the reason that he took Miss Hartwell along.’
‘But how could he have known?’
‘Have you heard of a man named Axel Anton, Mr Wilde?’
‘Yes, I have met him.’
‘Apparently, he’s not a nice man, but he has his uses, and so there’s your answer. I haven’t met him myself but I know that his idea was that my husband would bring Herr Coburg back in the Sunderland with him. Of course, that was never on. It would have been misunderstood, you see – misunderstood by our friends. But at least the first part could be put in place: the separation of Herr Coburg from the delegation by Miss Hartwell so that he might be placed in hiding until a decision was taken about his future.’
‘Then Miss Hartwell knew about this before the trip?’
‘I believe not. No one but Georgie and his brother knew about Coburg. Oh and me, I’m afraid. Georgie could never keep a secret from me.’
Wilde was silent for a few moments, his brow knitted in concentration. ‘Could I ask you a question, Your Royal Highness? Does Churchill know about this?’
For a brief moment, a smile seemed to pass across the princess’s sallow features. Then she picked up a small bell from her desk and tinkled it. Her butler immediately came back in and gave a bow. ‘Ma’am?’
‘I’d like some coffee please, Jermyn.’ She turned to her visitor. ‘Would you care for some, Mr Wilde?’
‘That would be greatly appreciated. Thank you.’
After the butler had gone, Marina began to walk slowly around the room. Wilde watched her. He had asked her a question and she hadn’t answered, and so he felt it right to wait.
At last she stopped. ‘Where is Herr Coburg now? For that matter, where is Miss Hartwell? You say she is alive, yes?’
‘She is alive, as is Rudi Coburg.’
‘But you don’t wish to tell me where they are?’
‘I’d rather not for the moment. Their lives are in danger.’
‘Do you believe the crash of the Sunderland was an accident?’
‘I have my doubts. Do you?’
She smiled wanly again, but this time the smile remained. ‘Everyone is losing loved ones in this war, Mr Wilde. Accident or enemy action, the outcome is the same – my three children have lost a father. And so I won’t dwell on it.’
‘I asked you whether Churchill knew all this.’
‘Yes, I heard you. And you will have noticed that I chose not to answer. You must remember that the King is head of state in this country.’
‘So the King knew what his brother was doing?’
‘Well, Georgie would not have undertaken such a mission without the knowledge and approval of the sovereign. I think it will always be difficult to be the brother of a king, don’t you? Well, be that as it may, my husband was always utterly devoted to his King and country.’
Wilde took it as a no, that the Duke of Kent had not informed Churchill of his plans. Whether the King had done so was another matter.
The butler returned with the coffee and poured cups for his mistress and Wilde, then exited the room again.
‘Now then, Mr Wilde,’ Marina said, stirring milk and sugar into her coffee. ‘It is clear to me that you haven’t come here merely to disclose these matters to me, interesting though they are. You have come because you want something from me. What might that be?’
‘I want Mr Churchill to meet Herr Coburg, to listen to his testimony. At the moment, he is declining to do so.’
‘Do you blame him?’
‘I see that it might be difficult to meet a German, yes. But this is different. I would hope you might be able to persuade him that the world needs to be told what is happening in Poland. Your husband died trying—’
She cut him short with a flicker of her fingers. ‘Please, do not bring my husband into this. You do not need to tell me my duty to him.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘Drink your coffee, Mr Wilde.’
‘Will you help?’
‘I will consider my options.’ She tinkled her bell and the butler reappeared. ‘Ah, Jermyn, Mr Wilde is just leaving.’