Half a Crown (3 page)

“It won’t be deportations though; they’ll have to call it something else when we have our own facility.”

Carmichael observed the distress in every line of his subordinate’s expression and hastened to reassure him. “You’re safe, anyway, Jacobson. You’re useful to them because they think they have something on you. And your family—”

“My family are safe in Newfoundland with impeccable papers, except my wife, who just won’t go,” Jacobson said, quickly. “No, that’s not what I’m worried about. It’s just—how many Jews have been massacred now, in Europe? How many are left? And in a way, they’re all my people. Oh, we get some away—”

“It would be a lot worse if not for us. We get a lot away. Twenty percent this year.” Carmichael did not want to mention 1955 again, did not even want to think of it. He dreamed about it, sometimes.

“Twenty percent of those innocents we arrested in this country we managed to save. They weren’t all Jews.”

“They were all innocent,” Carmichael said, vehemently. “We do as much as we can without risking being found out—because if we are, that’s the end of it, you know that; it would be as bad as it is on the Continent. The Inner Watch does as much as it safely can, and we’re increasing that all the time. Now that document issue is in your division instead of Ogilvie’s, we can increase what we’re doing there. We do have to keep being careful about who we recruit. We can’t slip up there or we can lose everything. And it’s such a lot to ask. Not everyone is prepared to live with death in their mouth.” Carmichael touched the side of his jaw where his false tooth was concealed.

Jacobson reflexively touched his own cheek. “It all feels so futile in the face of—”

Jacobson fell silent as the door swung open and Carmichael’s other Lieutenant-Commander, Ogilvie, came in. Carmichael didn’t like Ogilvie. He never had, though over the years he had learned to appreciate his efficiency. He was gleaming this morning; his balding head seemed to shine, his teeth flashed, and the effect was set off by a thin gold stripe in his tie. “Good morning Chief, Jacobson,” he said. “Heard the news?”

Carmichael knew from experience that nothing could repress Ogilvie. Nevertheless, he replied with the morning’s
Times
headline, “‘Factory Owners Gun Down Strikers in Alabama’?”

Jacobson choked, but Ogilvie sailed over it as Carmichael had known he would, with another flash of his teeth. “No, that the Duke of Windsor wants to come to the conference,” he said, taking up a position leaning on the wood paneling at the side of the door.

“Edward the Eighth?” Jacobson said, twisting in his chair to look at Ogilvie. “He can’t!”

“I don’t think the terms of his abdication actually included exile,” Carmichael said, slowly. “Certainly he hasn’t been back to Britain since, though. Why does he want to come now?”

“He wants to come to the conference because he feels he has something to contribute to the peace of the world, or so he apparently says,” Ogilvie said. “He, or rather his minder, equerry, or whatever, Captain Hickmott, contacted the Home Office, the HO contacted us, and the flunky they spoke to had the sense to kick it up to me. I got on the blower to them, and so now I’m kicking it up to you, sir.” He stepped forward and handed Carmichael a piece of paper with Captain Hickmott’s name and number written neatly.

“What did the HO say?” Carmichael asked, waving Ogilvie to the other chair.

“Said they wanted to know about the security aspects of it before making a political decision,” Ogilvie said, pulling the chair closer to the desk. “Don’t want to get caught with a hot potato, if you ask me.”

Carmichael sighed and looked down at the drifts of papers. “It was going to be a nightmare anyway. Adding one spoilt Royal Duke won’t make much difference from a security point of view. It’s the political side they need to think about, bringing him back, how people are going to react. The abdication is still an emotional issue for a lot of people.”

“He shouldn’t get any special security, or special attention either. You can’t pack in being king because you’re sick of the responsibility and then expect everyone to treat you just the same,” Jacobson said, with a vindictiveness that surprised Carmichael.

“Hark the herald angels sing, Mrs. Simpson’s pinched our king!” Ogilvie put in, musically.

Carmichael remembered that being sung in his school in 1936, the year Edward VIII had, astonishingly, preferred to marry an
American divorcée to being King of England. Wallis Simpson was twice-divorced, older than the King, and not even pretty. “He isn’t planning to bring her, is he?”

Ogilvie shrugged. “Don’t know, sir. Captain Hickmott didn’t mention her. But the conference starts next week, so they’d need a pretty quick answer.”

Wallis?
Carmichael wrote on the paper Ogilvie had given him.

“Anyone asked the Palace how they feel?”

“Not so far as I know, sir,” Ogilvie said.

“Well, your instinct to kick it upstairs seems sound, and I’m going to do the same. I’ll speak to the Duke of Hampshire about it today, and if necessary get him to talk to the Palace,” Carmichael said, making another note and underlining it. “Anything else? Anything else important?”

“No, sir,” Jacobson said, getting to his feet. “I’ll get on if that’s all right with you.”

“Thanks again for bringing up my parcel,” Carmichael said, as Jacobson slipped out. “Ogilvie?”

“Couple more things on the conference front. Thought you might like to know that the Spanish security people have joined the Eye-Ties and the Gestapo in poking around London already.” Ogilvie rolled his eyes. “They came in on the regular airship from Rome yesterday. I had a meeting with their top fellow last night. The Japs are arriving today, so no doubt we’ll have them underfoot as well. Fortunately, everyone else seems happy to trust us or doesn’t have much choice about trusting the Jerries.” He laughed heartily, and didn’t seem to notice that Carmichael didn’t join him. “The Frogs aren’t sending anyone except a few guards with Marshal Desjardins, and the same with the other Continental states, King of Denmark and so on. I suppose they’re right thinking that there are enough Gestapo around to look after the pack of them.”

On Carmichael’s desk sat three black telephones, heavy with
authority, one of them half buried in the drifts. He put out a hand to the nearest of them, then thought better of it and looked back at Ogilvie. “You’re doing well with all this,” he said. “Here’s another job. After the state opening of the conference—the procession and all that—it’s just a case of getting everyone from their embassies and hotels to St. James’s every day. The top people won’t be staying the whole course. Franco, Hitler, and so on, they’ll stay a few days and party, then come back to sign the treaty when it’s all settled. I expect the Japanese will stay, as it’s such a long way for them. I’ve been working on that regular conference security, but I’d like to delegate the procession to you. Make plans that’ll let the people out to cheer and wave flags but prevent assassins from being among them.”

“Yes, sir,” Ogilvie said, beaming. “Can I alter the route, if necessary?

“Do what you need to. Set up as many checkpoints as you like. Cooperate with the foreign security people if you can, while keeping a discreet eye on them. Talk to the FO about precedence, they’ve hammered something out. I’ve got a list here.” Carmichael fished on his desk and came up with it. “Here you are. The Queen goes first, then Herr Hitler, then Mr. Normanby, then the Japanese; after that it gets complicated.”

“Worse if the Duke of Windsor comes,” Ogilvie said, taking the paper and rapidly glancing down it. “What, the South Africans are coming after all? And President Yolen is actually deigning to care about the affairs of the world outside America sufficiently to send a representative? Wonders will never cease. Though since we’ve put his man in between the Indians and the Ukrainians, it won’t help their good opinion of us. Still, ours not to reason why, eh? Oh, what about the Met? Are they cooperating with us?”

“As usual, they’re dragging their feet,” Carmichael said.

“Whose side are they on, anyway?” Ogilvie asked. “When this
flap is over we ought to have another go at getting a mole into their top levels. I heard that Penn-Barkis will be hiring a new secretary this year. We could try something there.”

“Make a note of it,” Carmichael said. “But be careful. And with the procession business, be polite. They do have nominal supervision over us, after all.”

“I’ll be polite.” Ogilvie grimaced. “Better get on with it, then.”

He stood, nodded at Carmichael cheerfully, and went out. Carmichael stared for a moment at the print he had selected for the wall opposite his desk: Grimshaw’s painting of a deserted London street. The bare trees and single figure struck some people as bleak, but they reminded Carmichael of days investigating simple crimes with clear solutions.

He sighed and reached for the nearest telephone.

Betsy knocked on my door on her way back from the bathroom and caught me standing in my bra and pants with all the dresses I’d brought back from Paris the week before spread out on the bed. “So you don’t know what to wear either!” she said.

“Well, what does one wear to a rally that starts at sunset?” I asked. “An evening dress? An afternoon dress? Leni always said you should make up for candlelight by candlelight, but what about torchlight?”

Betsy was wearing an old toweling dressing gown that had originally been pink and was now so faded as to own no color at all except at the seams. “It’s such a pity we can’t wear black,” she said. “From what I gather we’d blend into the crowd if we could.”

“Young ladies neffer neffer wear black,” I said, but Betsy didn’t so much as smile.

“I made you this,” she said, and handed me a blue silk lavender sachet, just the right size to go inside my bra, embroidered with an exquisite
E
in the style we had both acquired over many hours in Arlinghurst. Though it was only April the bag brought the faint smell of summer.

“Thank you! But what’s it for? It isn’t my birthday until May.”

She sat down on the end of my bed, tucking the dressing gown
around her. “I just wanted to give you something. To thank you for drawing the cross fire, and for being here. And because Mummy’s a pig about me lending you jewelry, which seems so stupid after Switzerland, and well, for Zurich and everything. I just felt fond of you and—it’s only a little lavender bag, but I know you like them.”

“Love them,” I said firmly, tucking it into my bra right away. I didn’t want Betsy to get started on Zurich and what she owed me. She needed to put that out of her mind, and dwelling on it was the worst thing. “That’s really sweet of you, Elizabeth. Thank you. Now tell me what to wear?”

“We’ll be wearing raincoats, because it’s a chilly evening and we’ll be outside, so you want something that works under that,” Betsy said. “And we should wear comfortable shoes, because we might have to stand about or even walk. Mummy always says if you’re not sure what to wear you can’t go wrong with tweeds.”

“But tweeds are for the day! What if he suggests a nightcap afterwards somewhere dressy?”

“We could always say no,” Betsy said, fervently. “Besides, did Sir Alan look to you like a nightcap-at-the-Ritz sort of man?”

“He looked like a pirate,” I said, honestly. “But if you’re so off him, why are we going again? You were the one who wanted to.”

“I put the immediate pleasure of annoying Mummy yesterday above the disadvantages of this evening,” she said, picking up one foot in her hands and examining the sole. “I’m sorry. But it’ll be an experience, anyway.”

“How about being twins for once and both wearing tweed skirts, with silk shirts and cashmere sweaters?” I asked. “If we go anywhere dressy later, we can take the sweaters off and leave them with our coats. And you could wear that pretty seed pearl thing you wore yesterday, and I could wear your pearls, and your mother wouldn’t know because she wouldn’t see us. You could put them in your pocket and we could put them on in the bathroom.”

“Genius!” Betsy said.

I picked up my pale pink silk shirt and pulled it over my head. “Do me up,” I said, turning my back to Betsy. She began to hook me, then stopped.

“Mummy wants me to get a proper maid. She’s sick of us borrowing Olive and Nanny to do our hair or button us up.”

“Well, you do what you like, but I’m sure I don’t want one.”

“I don’t want to either, Mummy’d be sure to get me one who’d spy on me to her,” Betsy said, her fingers resuming their work on my hooks. “I’m better off with Nanny if I need to go away anywhere.”

“I don’t know what I want. I don’t even know if I want to come out, really. I’m not really a deb type. It’s such a waste of time for me.”

Betsy leapt up from the bed and came around in front of me. “You have to come out!” she said, taking my hands. “You promised. We’re doing it together! That’s the only thing that makes it endurable. Or affordable, for that matter. It’s only a week until the Court. You can’t back out now, Ellie!”

“I won’t abandon you,” I said. Her dressing gown had fallen open, revealing one pink-tipped breast and the curve of her stomach below it. “I’ll go through with it now I’ve gone this far, have my season and be presented and all that. All the same, I’m not going to make a respectable alliance, and there’s no point pretending I am.”

“You might,” Betsy said, letting go of my hands and refastening her shabby dressing gown. “You’re awfully pretty, and your uncle is awfully powerful. He’s part of the new nobility, practically, and that means you are too. Your parents might have been working people, but your father died a hero, almost a war hero. He got a medal, didn’t he? You’re not going to marry a duke, but neither am I, and I think there are lots of men who would overlook the disadvantages and want to marry you, especially once they knew you and saw how terrific you are.”

“But I’m not at all sure I want to marry someone that way,” I said. “I want to graduate from Oxford and then take up a profession. But what is there? Teaching, ick, and nursing, double ick. Unless I could stay on in Oxford, or maybe become a journalist.”