about their plans. The idea is, Hitler should
subsidize it and the whole enterprise will assist Mosley’s movement by broadcasting fascist propaganda to southern England. Diana has had several private late-night meetings at the
Chancellery already, and apparently he’s invited her to Bayreuth.’
‘I’ll pass on whatever I hear,’ said Clara.
‘Yeees . . .’ The door banged, bringing with it a gust of chill wind, and Dyson fell silent as he assessed the raddled figure in a worn overcoat making his way to the bar.
‘It’s appreciated, Clara, though—’
‘Though what?’
‘I suspect the Mosleys are a bit of a busted flush now.’
‘Why’s that?’
‘We’re hearing that Goebbels in particular is annoyed at the amount of money they’re asking for. He’ll be suggesting to Hitler that they’re spoiled goods. He knows
that any political influence they had at home is rapidly dwindling. But he’ll do it subtly, because he realizes how much the Leader likes young English maidens. Unity is the only foreign
woman allowed in his inner circle.’
Dyson tapped out a cigarette and offered one to Clara.
‘And the fact is we’ve got some rather more important visitors on our agenda.’ He paused. ‘Well, I say more important, but in another way, they’re not important at
all.’
‘I’m not that good at puzzles, Archie.’
Dyson cupped his chin and fanned his fingers out, masking his mouth, a gesture, Clara noticed, that was instinctive to him. He hesitated, she was sure for effect.
‘It’s a little bridal party. The ex-king and his wife are about to arrive here on honeymoon.’
Clara could not suppress a gasp of astonishment. Edward VIII, the Duke of Windsor as he now was, had abdicated the previous December to marry an American divorcée, Wallis Simpson, in a
scandal which had blazed around the world. The couple settled in France and their wedding in June had been covered obsessively in all the magazines. Like everyone else, Clara drank in the details
and pored over the photographs. The Duchess, slender as a reed in her box-shouldered Mainbocher dress – in a shade now rechristened Duchess Blue in her honour – reclining with her
husband against the balcony of the Château de Cande. Sapphires and diamonds at her throat, her hair violet black with an inky shimmer. Wedding photographs by Cecil Beaton. Roses and lilies by
Constance Spry. For the wedding breakfast they ate lobster, salad, strawberries and, with a certain poignancy, chicken à la king.
‘They’re coming here? Why on earth?’
Though she asked, she knew the answer. The Duke’s mother was German, he spoke the language fluently, and his past comments suggested a robust admiration for the Nazi regime.
‘You may well ask. The Foreign Office is absolutely hopping. The whole thing has been arranged behind their back by the Germans. It’s a massive propaganda coup for the Reich.
They’re going to make enormous capital out of it and it’s going to be terrifically embarrassing for Britain. They arrive at Friedrichstrasse Station on the sixteenth. The ambassador has
been ordered not to attend.’
‘Ordered?’
‘Prime Minister’s orders. They’re not to be treated as having any official status. No official interviews, no special ceremonies. Not so much as a gin and tonic and a cocktail
onion at the Embassy. The Government don’t want anyone getting the idea that this is any kind of official visit, rather than an entirely private occasion. The result being that yours truly
has been deputed to greet them.’
Though he affected a jaded weariness, Clara could see that Dyson rather liked the idea of meeting the former king.
‘Not that we’ll be rolling out the red carpet, exactly. I’m sure the Nazi top brass will be doing that for them. Apparently Robert Ley, head of the Labour front, will be there.
The Reich is paying for the entire thing. The fact is, the couple are going to be mobbed wherever they go.’
‘Where
subsidize it and the whole enterprise will assist Mosley’s movement by broadcasting fascist propaganda to southern England. Diana has had several private late-night meetings at the
Chancellery already, and apparently he’s invited her to Bayreuth.’
‘I’ll pass on whatever I hear,’ said Clara.
‘Yeees . . .’ The door banged, bringing with it a gust of chill wind, and Dyson fell silent as he assessed the raddled figure in a worn overcoat making his way to the bar.
‘It’s appreciated, Clara, though—’
‘Though what?’
‘I suspect the Mosleys are a bit of a busted flush now.’
‘Why’s that?’
‘We’re hearing that Goebbels in particular is annoyed at the amount of money they’re asking for. He’ll be suggesting to Hitler that they’re spoiled goods. He knows
that any political influence they had at home is rapidly dwindling. But he’ll do it subtly, because he realizes how much the Leader likes young English maidens. Unity is the only foreign
woman allowed in his inner circle.’
Dyson tapped out a cigarette and offered one to Clara.
‘And the fact is we’ve got some rather more important visitors on our agenda.’ He paused. ‘Well, I say more important, but in another way, they’re not important at
all.’
‘I’m not that good at puzzles, Archie.’
Dyson cupped his chin and fanned his fingers out, masking his mouth, a gesture, Clara noticed, that was instinctive to him. He hesitated, she was sure for effect.
‘It’s a little bridal party. The ex-king and his wife are about to arrive here on honeymoon.’
Clara could not suppress a gasp of astonishment. Edward VIII, the Duke of Windsor as he now was, had abdicated the previous December to marry an American divorcée, Wallis Simpson, in a
scandal which had blazed around the world. The couple settled in France and their wedding in June had been covered obsessively in all the magazines. Like everyone else, Clara drank in the details
and pored over the photographs. The Duchess, slender as a reed in her box-shouldered Mainbocher dress – in a shade now rechristened Duchess Blue in her honour – reclining with her
husband against the balcony of the Château de Cande. Sapphires and diamonds at her throat, her hair violet black with an inky shimmer. Wedding photographs by Cecil Beaton. Roses and lilies by
Constance Spry. For the wedding breakfast they ate lobster, salad, strawberries and, with a certain poignancy, chicken à la king.
‘They’re coming here? Why on earth?’
Though she asked, she knew the answer. The Duke’s mother was German, he spoke the language fluently, and his past comments suggested a robust admiration for the Nazi regime.
‘You may well ask. The Foreign Office is absolutely hopping. The whole thing has been arranged behind their back by the Germans. It’s a massive propaganda coup for the Reich.
They’re going to make enormous capital out of it and it’s going to be terrifically embarrassing for Britain. They arrive at Friedrichstrasse Station on the sixteenth. The ambassador has
been ordered not to attend.’
‘Ordered?’
‘Prime Minister’s orders. They’re not to be treated as having any official status. No official interviews, no special ceremonies. Not so much as a gin and tonic and a cocktail
onion at the Embassy. The Government don’t want anyone getting the idea that this is any kind of official visit, rather than an entirely private occasion. The result being that yours truly
has been deputed to greet them.’
Though he affected a jaded weariness, Clara could see that Dyson rather liked the idea of meeting the former king.
‘Not that we’ll be rolling out the red carpet, exactly. I’m sure the Nazi top brass will be doing that for them. Apparently Robert Ley, head of the Labour front, will be there.
The Reich is paying for the entire thing. The fact is, the couple are going to be mobbed wherever they go.’
‘Where
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