was mine.
I had been alone in the house for a few days when, one morning, an envelope among the mail caught my eye. It was larger the the rest of the post, edged with gold braid and, on the back was the crest of St James’s Palace. Iwanted to know what was inside, so I steamed it open. It read: ‘I am commanded by Her Majesty the Queen to invite you to a Royal Garden Party at the Palace of Holyrood House, Edinburgh.’
The ‘you’ in the invitation, of course referred to Mr Warren-Connell. Holyrood House is the Queen’s official Edinburgh residence. In the past I had been a guest of Her Majesty on a number of occasions, none of them enjoyable. This would help to redress the balance.
On the morning of the party, wearing a hired morning suit and driving the family Bentley, I quietly slipped out of Park Hall. I took care to make sure that none of the gardeners saw me. Looking every inch an upper class gent, I drove to Edinburgh to meet the Queen. After checking the guest list and then studying my invitation, a uniformed policeman saluted me and waved me through the gates to the Palace. The party was a grand affair. No sticky black resin oozing from mailbags for these guests of Her Majesty. Instead, it was paper-thin cucumber sandwiches, the finest teas, and Police Commissioners and Judges strolling around the lawns. En route to the Palace I had popped into Esther Henry’s antique shop. I presented her with a dozen red roses and casually mentioned where I was going. She was most impressed. Esther herself had royal connections. In her eyes my credibility was now beyond reproach. After the garden party, I retired to a first-class hotel and drank some brandy. It was obvious to the management where I’d been. They would remember my face and if I ever needed to cash a dud cheque or work another con they would be most receptive. A good thiefcontinually lays groundwork. I have always considered myself to be a professional person.
A couple of days later I was sunbathing in the garden when an unmarked car came down the drive. Two men got out. I didn’t need to be told they were police. They asked me the whereabouts of Roy Fontaine. I hadn’t committed any real crime since my arrival. Impersonating my employer at a royal garden party was hardly likely to get me sent to prison. I said that I was Fontaine. They asked me what I wanted in that area, why was I there? I told them I was tired of London and tired of prison. I wanted to build a new life for myself. I wanted to go straight.
They questioned me about a robbery at an egg packing station, where a safe had been blown. I said: ‘Look at my file, I’ve got absolutely no experience with safes.’ They questioned me about other robberies. For each one I had an alibi. I was clean. Before they left they wished me good luck.
Two days later at seven o’clock in the evening, just before dinner was due to be served, the phone rang in the hallway. I picked it up. At the exact same second in her upstairs bedroom, Mrs Warren-Connell also lifted the receiver. I remained silent and listened. A man’s voice at the other end of the line identified himself as a detective with the local CID. He asked the lady of the house whether she realised that her butler was a jewel thief with a prison record. I heard her gasp in astonishment. ‘Do you think he has come here to rob us?’. ‘Well, I don’t think he’s taken the job for the good of his health’ was the reply. She asked whether I was wanted by the police. To this he hadto answer no. ‘But,’ he carried on, ‘I have a map in front of me on my wall, and all I can see are danger points. I’d be much happier if he wasn’t in my area.’ By now I had the voice – it belonged to one of the detectives who had visited me, the one who’d wished me good luck. I waited for Mrs Warren-Connell to replace the receiver. Slowly I put mine down, too. It was time to think.
The Warren-Connells came downstairs, and I went about my duties of
I had been alone in the house for a few days when, one morning, an envelope among the mail caught my eye. It was larger the the rest of the post, edged with gold braid and, on the back was the crest of St James’s Palace. Iwanted to know what was inside, so I steamed it open. It read: ‘I am commanded by Her Majesty the Queen to invite you to a Royal Garden Party at the Palace of Holyrood House, Edinburgh.’
The ‘you’ in the invitation, of course referred to Mr Warren-Connell. Holyrood House is the Queen’s official Edinburgh residence. In the past I had been a guest of Her Majesty on a number of occasions, none of them enjoyable. This would help to redress the balance.
On the morning of the party, wearing a hired morning suit and driving the family Bentley, I quietly slipped out of Park Hall. I took care to make sure that none of the gardeners saw me. Looking every inch an upper class gent, I drove to Edinburgh to meet the Queen. After checking the guest list and then studying my invitation, a uniformed policeman saluted me and waved me through the gates to the Palace. The party was a grand affair. No sticky black resin oozing from mailbags for these guests of Her Majesty. Instead, it was paper-thin cucumber sandwiches, the finest teas, and Police Commissioners and Judges strolling around the lawns. En route to the Palace I had popped into Esther Henry’s antique shop. I presented her with a dozen red roses and casually mentioned where I was going. She was most impressed. Esther herself had royal connections. In her eyes my credibility was now beyond reproach. After the garden party, I retired to a first-class hotel and drank some brandy. It was obvious to the management where I’d been. They would remember my face and if I ever needed to cash a dud cheque or work another con they would be most receptive. A good thiefcontinually lays groundwork. I have always considered myself to be a professional person.
A couple of days later I was sunbathing in the garden when an unmarked car came down the drive. Two men got out. I didn’t need to be told they were police. They asked me the whereabouts of Roy Fontaine. I hadn’t committed any real crime since my arrival. Impersonating my employer at a royal garden party was hardly likely to get me sent to prison. I said that I was Fontaine. They asked me what I wanted in that area, why was I there? I told them I was tired of London and tired of prison. I wanted to build a new life for myself. I wanted to go straight.
They questioned me about a robbery at an egg packing station, where a safe had been blown. I said: ‘Look at my file, I’ve got absolutely no experience with safes.’ They questioned me about other robberies. For each one I had an alibi. I was clean. Before they left they wished me good luck.
Two days later at seven o’clock in the evening, just before dinner was due to be served, the phone rang in the hallway. I picked it up. At the exact same second in her upstairs bedroom, Mrs Warren-Connell also lifted the receiver. I remained silent and listened. A man’s voice at the other end of the line identified himself as a detective with the local CID. He asked the lady of the house whether she realised that her butler was a jewel thief with a prison record. I heard her gasp in astonishment. ‘Do you think he has come here to rob us?’. ‘Well, I don’t think he’s taken the job for the good of his health’ was the reply. She asked whether I was wanted by the police. To this he hadto answer no. ‘But,’ he carried on, ‘I have a map in front of me on my wall, and all I can see are danger points. I’d be much happier if he wasn’t in my area.’ By now I had the voice – it belonged to one of the detectives who had visited me, the one who’d wished me good luck. I waited for Mrs Warren-Connell to replace the receiver. Slowly I put mine down, too. It was time to think.
The Warren-Connells came downstairs, and I went about my duties of
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