Gavin Lyall - Honourable Intentions

O’Gilroy was loitering on the pavement, wearing a rather papist expression.

“Nothing on the wedding,” Ranklin said, “except that Enid Langhorn’s sister was asking about it a day or two back.”

“Mrs Simmons? She was asking at Abercromby Road, too. Staying at the Queen’s Hotel.”

“Right, then . . .” He looked at his watch. “No, time’s getting on. You get round to the Town Hall and see if there’s any trace of the women witnesses.”

“Enjoy yer tea,” O’Gilroy said sourly.

“If she’s left, I’ll see you at the Town Hall.”

But luckily she hadn’t. She sent down a message that she’d join him in the lounge in fifteen minutes. The Queen’s was clearly one of the top hotels in town, so Mrs Simmons had done better in life than Enid with her last-known La Villette address. Ranklin waited among the inevitable potted palms and gazed out across Southsea Common to the sea, sparkling in the afternoon sun but dotted with the grey industrial shapes of the Navy coming and going. Why do they say “steaming” when they’re so obviously smoking?

“Mrs Simmons?” She was short, with a cottage-loaf figure and dressed a few years behind fashion in layers of cream muslin – probably – for a skirt, a tightly corseted waist, a lace stock and a wide hat. A year ago, before he had met Corinna, Ranklin wouldn’t even have noticed this much about her; he wouldn’t have been sure it was proper to.

He introduced himself under the well-worn alias of James Spencer, and tried to regularise the position by explaining: “I was asked by Mr Noah Quinton, the solicitor who’s defending your nephew at Bow Street -I assume you’ve heard about that? – to see if I could trace your sister.”

“Yes.” She smiled a little wanly. “That’s what I’m trying to do myself.”

They sat down, Mrs Simmons – or her corset – keeping her back rigid. But the face peeking out from under the hat was snub-nosed and perky, a young expression betrayed by the creases of age. She offered to pour her own tea, but Ranklin said he might as well carry on. It gave him something to do, because he was baffled about what to say next.

Mrs Simmons said: “I know she was in Paris, but I didn’t get any answer to my letters, so I came here just on an off chance. She lived in Abercromby Road for several years, you know.” Her voice was clear, but somehow studied and careful. Perhaps a sign that marriage had taken her a step up in the world.

“Yes. We got that address from her marriage certificate.” But how did he broach the question of what she had been doing in Abercromby Road? Let alone with whom. “Mr Quinton very much wants her to appear as a character witness for young Grover.”

“I’m sure he does. I really can’t understand why she hasn’t been in touch with him.” Then a thought seemed to flit across her neat, round face. “Unless it was . . . well, it was something May told me, though-”

“May? I thought her name was Enid?”

“Oh, May was her stage name. Didn’t you know she was an actress? She wasn’t one of the lucky ones, but she had a few small parts at the Theatre Royal. Of course, that caused a terrible row with our parents, Pa in particular; he didn’t want any daughter of his going on the stage. That’s why she left home, of course.”

“Was this in Portsmouth?”

“Oh no, we come from Northumberland.”

Ranklin offered more tea. “You were saying that your sister told you something . . . ?”

“Yes.” She paused. “She said . . . well, as I say, I think she was having trouble making ends meet as an actress and she did have a lot of evenings free and . . . well, a girl has to live, doesn’t she? She began to . . . well, entertain gentlemen. I do hope I’m not shocking you, Mr Spencer.”

“Not at all. Please go on.”

“So – she told me – one day a gentleman came to see her and he said that someone very important had seen her on the stage and would like to meet her and, if it went well, then perhaps they could come to an arrangement. He meant an arrangement about money, that she wouldn’t entertain any other gentlemen except this very important gentleman. And May said she’d meet this very important gentleman and see how it went and, well . . . you’ll never guess who this gentleman was. It was Prince George who’s now King George. There! I said you wouldn’t believe it.”

For a moment, Ranklin didn’t know what expression to put on: shock? disbelief? certainly not ready acceptance. He quickly settled for saying: “I see,” in an impressed tone.

“So this went on for about a year, I think, but you know what a naval officer’s life is like: off to sea and coming back at odd times and feeling frisky right there and then and . . . well, one of them made a mistake and she found herself in pig. Pregnant,” she explained quickly. “Naturally, she wasn’t saying anything to him, and he was off to command a gunboat at Chatham by the time she was sure, and then he went to the North American Squadron for a year and she married a bo’sun from the American Line and went to live in America.

“So you see, Grover’s really the son of the King and I suppose that makes him the next king, doesn’t it?”

“Oh Lord, no,” Ranklin said instinctively, and was then surprised at her startled expression. Had she really been thinking of a luxurious future for herself as a royal aunt? “That is,” he went on, “I’m no lawyer myself, but I’m sure that only the legitimate son of the King could accede. And even if it were possible, it would be your sister’s word against all the ranks of . . .” he’d been going to say “Tuscany” but she wouldn’t recognise the quotation; “. . . the Royal family, the courts, the government . . . And against the evidence of his birth certificate, I dare say. You don’t happen to know if she pretended to her husband that he was the real father?”

“I suppose she must have done,” she said, with her thoughts elsewhere; she really must have dreamt of a courtly life.

“So if we can get your sister to see Mr Quinton, I don’t think it would help Grover if she repeated what she told you.”

“Not even if she could prove it better? I mean there’s others who must’ve seen George visiting, she had a maid – she told me – at the time, if I could find her-”

“Mrs Simmons, I’m quite sure there’s no power on this earth that can make young Grover the next king.”

“No, I suppose not, with them out to stop it.” She sounded surprisingly vicious.

“And I think she’s got a more urgent problem with Grover at the moment.”

“How’s that going?”

“I understand from Mr Quinton that the chief witness for the French police turned out to be very unreliable in court, but now he’s vanished with his evidence unfinished. I don’t think anybody knows what’s going to happen next. Do you have your sister’s last address in Paris?”

She fiddled inside her handbag and then said: “I thought I had it here, but perhaps I can remember: 18 Rue Castelnaudry . . .” That was the same address they’d got already, but Ranklin noted it down.

“And are you coming to London to see Grover? I’m sure Mr Quinton could arrange it.”

She hesitated. “I don’t hardly know him, what with him being born and brought up in America. I thought perhaps I’d go to Paris and see if I can find May myself.”

“It’s a bit city – and the area they were living in, La Villette, is a pretty rough neighbourhood. Be prepared for that.”

She smiled. “I’ve been in some rough neighbourhoods in my life, Mr Spencer. I’ll get by.”

“Let me give you Noah Quinton’s address. I hope you’ll let him know if you find anything.”