“Why don’t you look where you’re going, you fat ejut?” said the driver of the motor lorry. He hopped out of his cabin and breasted the driver of the wagon that contained a large quantity of piping, which had now spilled noisily over the road, quite blocking it.  Two wagons of sand and another containing bricks were now banked up and the one o’clock ’bus from Wareham was just coming over the hill and it too would be held up until the path was cleared.

The road that ran through Branksome-le-Bourne was a country lane really and was unused to coping with all the activity that Martin and Stephen had set in motion.  Already the abutment to the little bridge had been demolished when a lorry bringing a forest of semi-mature trees for the new golf links had swerved to avoid Mr Destrombe on his bicycle.  Mr Destrombe, in his own defence, had said he had been distracted while composing a sermon on the verse in Isaiah that ran:  The glory of Lebanon will come to you, the Cyprus the plane and the pine, although these trees in this case were Larches about which Isaiah said very little.

The driver of the vehicle containing the piping for the central heating at Croome objected to being called fat— his wife had called him an idiot only this morning when he attempted to leave their house in odd boots— and he refreshed himself by making disparaging remarks about Ireland.  The first man slandered the carthorse’s origins and the piping man threw a punch, which only succeeded in knocking the cap off the native of County Kerry.

Things threatened to get ugly just as Martin and Stephen pulled up on their cycles, Stephen’s dogs bounding alongside.  Stephen leapt between the drivers to the annoyance of the drayman who had begun to think he could get the best of the Irishman who was quick-witted but small in stature.  Martin came over and pulled rank and the pipe man removed his hat.  The driver of the lorry (which contained building timber) went to take his cap off but realised it was on the ground and now the carthorse had put his hoof on it in support of his owner.

Martin organised the crowd to clear the road and the two drivers were put back in their respective vehicles and departed in opposite directions and maintaining opposing views as to who was in the wrong, but without the question being settled to the mutual satisfaction of either party.

Up on the downs at Lesser Branksome the golf links was under construction.  Mr Colt had drawn a plan and Martin was surprised at how, what he considered to be merely inconvenient obstacles like tors, hollows and rough heath, were actually valuable features to make the game more difficult, and these were augmented by additional fiendish devices like sand traps and doglegs.  In other places trees were felled to create ‘fairways’ to make it seemingly easier and new trees were planted at their margins.  Colt had explained that this was the ‘naturalistic’ approach to links architecture.

“Derby, do you think we should learn to play golf?  I mean if we own a golf links, we should at least be able to play.”

“Why don’t we go over to Broadstone for a couple of days and take lessons?” asked Stephen, who was keen on all sports, but had never played golf.  That was agreed upon and Martin determined to write to Lord Wimbourne that evening.

The hotel was already under construction to the design of a Mr Hepworth.  It was, according to the drawings, to be rather like a large house of two storeys plus an attic floor.  It’s front to the ‘first tee’ curved like a banana and presented five steep gables in white rendered masonry, relieved here and there by fancy tan bricks.  As yet there was little to see, but there would initially be ten bedrooms, all with their own bathrooms, a large lounge and dining room and a flat for the manager.  One of the gabled sections contained the clubroom with a built-in trophy cabinet over the fireplace and an ‘Associates’ Room’, which was to be more feminine in decoration.  In the basement, which opened to the outside where the ground fell away, a room with lockers and showers for the members would be fitted out.  There was a second flat and a small shop for the ‘professional’.  Sir Bernard Bonnington was looking at recruiting a good one and Martin hoped Sir Bernard would accept the post of ‘Hon. Sec.’, as he knew the most about the game of any of the board members.

It had already been decided that there would be a joining fee of a guinea and annual fees of a guinea per annum, or two guineas for outsiders.  The costs of both the hotel and the links was more than Martin and Stephen had expected, but many of their friends had been eager to invest.  Miss Tadrew alarmed them by investing 50 pounds and Stephen determined to make sure that she did not lose it if the links did not prosper, and he explained carefully that there would be no dividends for some years, even if it did succeed.  She was not to be dissuaded and said she wanted to play, having played golf a few times with Miss Tapstowe in her younger days.

“You know, Derbs, I think the construction of the golf links has given the whole estate a lift. It has already employed a number of local people and the hotel and clubhouse will need staff when they’re up and running.  Apart from the infirmary, it’s the first big building project since the War and with the electric light now—well Branksome is galloping into the Twentieth Century.”

“Have you thought any more about what Sachs said?”

Martin had and was sorely conflicted by the ghost of his father.  “I still don’t know, Derby.”

“Well, tell me what you think might happen?”

Martin was lost in thought.  Daniel Sachs, when he had come down to Croome for the board meeting, had suggested to Martin that he should lease—for a period of 99 years—plots of land on the west side of the course for the building of new villas.  Already Blake, Martin’s agent, had reported that there had been inquiries for villa sites both in the villages and now overlooking the golf links.

“Well,” said Martin, “it will mean a loss of valuable farming land.  After all, it is our national duty to be growing…”

Stephen made a disgusted noise. “You know as well as I that the land up there is good for little else.  If people want to buy it and build new homes well…”

“But what sort of houses will they be?  They won’t be cottages; they will be horrible, glaring, new redbrick villas with half-timbering and cocktail cabinets, or they might be terraces or semi-detached bungalows like in Edgware.

“Well you can decide that.  You can make the allotments an acre or two and even have approval over their design.”

“But supposing the people who come don’t fit into the village?  I mean they might spend all their time up in London…”

“Like us?”

“No, I mean they might be that sort who wear loud checks and say: ‘Cheerio, pleased to meet you!’ and ‘l’ve been out horse riding’ and pass ‘cruets’ and use ‘serviettes’ when they eat their ‘greens’.”

“And wipe their arses with ‘toilet paper’ and not ‘lavatory paper’?” completed Stephen. “You really mean you are frightened that they will be middle class and will challenge your authority around here from their ‘lounges’.”

“Well yes, I suppose so,” conceded Martin.  “But I’m not a snob, Derbs.  I like the working class well enough—especially the workers on my estate.”

“Yes your Estate, your lordship,” said Stephen who rolled his eyes in the manner that Martin usually affected.  Martin saw him and began to laugh.

“Well maybe just a little bit of a snob.  I suppose the middle class have to live somewhere and they might bring money into the village and I suppose they will need servants.  It will be good for Louch.”

“And good for you, Mala.  The sale of land could offset your investment in the golf links.” 

***** 

The consideration of admitting the bourgeoisie to Branksome was postponed for the moment, as it was time to motor down to the railway station.  The train puffed in on time and the boys scanned the platform.  From a second-class compartment stepped a large man with a suitcase.  He was wearing a caramel coloured suit and a flat straw hat with a coloured band.  On his feet were an extraordinary pair of tan co-respondent shoes.  The boys blinked.

“Your lordship, Mr Stephen,” said the figure.

“Chilvers! Welcome home.  Look at you!” cried Martin.

“I will change immediately I get to the house.  I best not let the servants see me like this.”

“You will have a hard job doing that,” said Stephen, for as the motorcar pulled up at the kitchen entrance, all the staff was lined up in a parody of how they lined up for their betters at the front door.  Chilvers passed down the line in his extraordinary clothes and received their greetings and entered the servants’ hall where a paper streamer spanned the width of the room and proclaimed its printed welcome.

It was a more soberly dressed butler that met with Martin and Stephen in the Spanish Room some hours later.

“Must you do that Chilvers?”

“Oh I’m dreadfully sorry your lordship.  I quite forgot myself.”  He removed the chewing gum from his mouth and waited until the boys were looking at the papers spread out on the table and then pressed the well-masticated wad under a Churrigueresque consol that stood beneath the Velasquez, making a mental note to lever it off later.

“I suppose you had a good time in America, Chilvers.”

“Indeed your lordship, very fine indeed.”

“And you weren’t gunned down in Chicago?”

“No sir, but I did see a Senor Torrio in a café in the Loop, sir.  He is a very famous and respected ‘bootlegger’.”

“And prohibition, Mr Chilvers?” asked Stephen.

“Well, at least it’s better than no alcohol at all, sir,” replied the butler drolly.

“I’m surprised you came back to us at all, Chilvers.”

“Oh, your lordship!” cried Chilvers, wounded.  “It is a very fine country and I did receive thirteen offers of employment— at far higher wages— but…”

“But what?”

“Well your lordship, they do things differently over there.”

“Such as?”

“Well, some of them wanted to call me by my first name.”

“What is your first name Mr Chilvers?” asked Stephen.

“I’d rather not say, sir.”

“And some of the ‘gentlemen’ would play cards in their shirtsleeves and braces and one ‘lady’— whose husband made his fortune from something that Americans apparently voluntarily consume at breakfast called ‘Shredded Wheat’— ate her own breakfast wearing her fur coat and diamonds.”

“That’s appalling, Chilvers.”

“There was worse, sir: the master’s relatives came to visit in one house—I won’t say in which part of Philadelphia it was, your lordship—and asked if there was to be ‘high tea’.”

“What’s that?” asked Martin.

“It is the main meal eaten by the class of people who live in Huddersfield, your lordship.  The last straw was when the cook in another house drove me to the station in her motorcar.”

“I see, Chilvers, you’re a snob.”

“I hope so sir, now would you care to look at this information I have gathered?”

Chilvers had filled a book with meticulous notes and had gathered many advertising brochures.

“I am pleased to see you are installing central heating, your lordship.  It is oil-fired?”  sYes, it was and the unoccupied wings of the great house could be isolated.  “In nearly all the big houses I saw in America, sir, they required a much smaller staff simply because they did not have to run up and down stairs to keep the fires going and to clean out the ashes and set them again.”

“Is that a lot of work, Chilvers?” asked Martin.

“Indeed sir, but you would not see it because it is done by the maids very early in the morning.”

Chilvers had made a study of the laundries in big houses and in hotels.  Large machines could wash and iron clothes.  “Two maids could do all the laundering in this house if you had these machines and a good supply of hot water,” he said.

Apparently lifting and carrying the heavy ceramic buckets of hot water for the kitchen, scullery and laundry was a great part of the daily work of their army of maids.  This, it seems, could be eased with the use of lightweight aluminium receptacles that one person could lift and by having hot and cold plumbing to more points. “The outlay would be more than a hundred pounds, I estimate, but you would save 30 pounds a year in wages and keep.”

This sounded impressive and Stephen asked a series of insightful questions which Chilvers could answer.  There were pictures of small electrical ‘appliances’ for making toast and heating small quantities of water.  “If we could have a small room or large cupboard set up as a miniature kitchen— ‘kitchenette’ as our American cousins put it— your breakfast toast would no longer be cold as it would not have to travel all the way from the main kitchen and change hands twice.”

“Could I operate it?” asked Martin.

“Possibly with some intensive training, your lordship.”

“In the city, your lordship, many of the houses are ‘spring cleaned’ by outside tradesmen and the household washing is sent out to those establishments that wash for hotels.  They have comparatively small staffs in my estimation.”

There were many other pictures of furnaces, house telephones, vacuum cleaners, food warmers and electric irons.  There was one machine that even washed dirty dishes. “I say, I’d like one of these, said Martin, pointing.  It was an electric fan that sat on a table.

“And I think a larger one in the kitchen would be of benefit to the servants, your lordship. They cost only pennies to run.  And I think this sort of thing is very important, your lordship,” said Chilvers as he fanned out some brochures from companies that manufactured refrigerators and cool rooms.  “Although they are costly, every American home has one.  They can freeze meat, make ice-cream and make ice cubes for your cocktails.  You would not need the old icehouse and you could give Jones and his son some other employment, if I may be permitted to suggest, your lordship.”  Martin nodded but was worried about the price, at some hundreds of pounds.

“Thank you Chilvers.  I will get Myles to file these away and we will discuss it all later.  And Chilvers, did you have many adventures?”

“A few, sir,” said Chilvers, looking down and making small adjustments to his cuffs.  “Moses LeRoy, the factotum of Mr Hoyt and Mr Wilbur, was hospitable enough to provide some diverting entertainment when I had an odd moment of idleness.  He gets paid $400 per annum, you know, and I might add that he was most generous.  He has Sundays and Wednesday afternoons free, you see, and he has a wireless set in his own bedroom…”

“That will be all Chilvers.” 

****** 

Martin and Stephen departed for London on the afternoon train with Carlo and Myles.  Martin enjoyed dictating a letter to Lord Wimbourne asking if they might inspect his splendid golf links and take some lessons.  “Myles, have you seen those machines where one speaks into a tube and the machine records the words on a roll which can be played back for typing?”

“A Dictaphone, Martin?”

“Yes I suppose so.  They look like fun, would you purchase one for Croome?”

“Very good,” said Myles who knew that the volume of Martin’s correspondence did not justify this obvious ‘toy’.

They reached Branksome House and Martin and Stephen immediately took Vesta and Billy out for a walk in Green Park. “I love London in the autumn,” said Martin as they waded through the leaves in the lengthening shadows.  Stephen struck at the great piles of fallen oak leaves with his stick.

“Yes, it does something to the senses.  Would you like to hold my hand, Mala, it’s quite dark and no one would see us?”

Martin did and shifted his stick to the left hand.  They walked close together and talked in hushed tones as befitted the location.  After a few minutes a policeman strolled into view and two clerks from the Foreign Office, who had been working late, could be seen making for the Tube station.  They dropped their hands and called to the dogs.  When it was safe, they held hands again, Martin going so far as to slip his hand down the back of Stephen’s trousers where he could feel his muscular buttocks flexing with each stride.

When they returned Carlo had laid out their evening clothes and Glass appeared with a pair of frosty cocktails— a Side Car and a White Lady— which they sipped as they dressed.

A taxi then took them out to a small theatre in Hampstead where there was a new play that The Plunger and almost everyone else had recommended they see.  It was called The Vortex and was written, directed and produced by a young writer who also played the part of the son.  The dialogue was brittle and witty in parts and Martin could detect many of the fashionable affectations of his own friends in Mayfair and Belgravia.  Its subject matter was, however, quite disturbing.  The mother was quite abandoned and the son doped.

“Do you know what a ‘nymphomaniac’ is, Mala?” asked Stephen in the intermission.

“Is it what they call today a ‘sex complex’, Derbs? Is it a woman who has an uncontrollable urge for sexual relations?”

“I believe so, Mala— like Nicky’s mother in the play.  It doesn’t paint a very nice picture of some mothers, does it?”

“Yes, it is shocking Derbs, but probably realistic.  I mean women are probably like some men…”  Stephen nodded and he knew that he had a strong ‘sex drive’ as they said nowadays and it wasn’t impossible to imagine that modern women, who worked and made up and smoked and drove about London, sometimes did too.”

“You know, that shocking ‘secret’ that Nicky’s drug use is covering up is surely that he fancies his mother’s lovers, don’t you think?”

“Yes, I agree; it’s pretty obvious.  I’m sure Mr Coward is one of us.

“I’ve never thought of it that way before, Mala.  Is there an ‘us’ and ‘them’?”

“Oh yes, Derbs.  Don’t you think so?”

“I’ve just always taken people one at a time, but you are probably right, of course, but I sometimes just like to imagine it is a universe made up of just we two.”

They continued their conversation at home. Martin made sure that Stephen got into bed first and was sitting up before he slid in, feeling the thrill of his own body running down the naked torso and legs of his young lover.

“Do you think the people in Mayfair in 1924 are particularly wicked and debauched, Derbs?”

“No more than the people in Golders Green or Dagenham and no more than they were in 1824— perhaps even less so.  I don’t think people change much, Mala.  Of course writers like Noël Coward now write frankly about them, but look at the people in Shakespeare’s plays; they were pretty rotten in their day.”

“Will we make ourselves ill by unhealthily repressing our urges?  I was reading this book—or magazine article really—about psychological complexes.  Is there something wrong with both of us, I mean should we be psychoanalysed?” Stephen just scratched himself and so Martin went on:  “It’s all the fashion, isn’t it?  Perhaps we can take a skiing holiday to Switzerland and be done at the same time.  I believe you have to look at inkblots and tell the doctor exactly what you see and it is usually about snakes and wanting to sleep with your mother in your unconscious mind and things like that.  Perhaps they can cure us?”

“Do you really feel you want to be cured, Mala.  Would you rather have been born preferring girls to boys?”

Martin thought for a few minutes and ran his palm over Stephen’s chest.  “Well it would be convenient, I suppose, for dancing— and for having babies,” he suddenly thought.  “My father may have approved of me more, but I can’t be sure that he knew and I can’t really imagine it; I couldn’t imagine wanting anything more than loving you, Derbs.  So no.”

“Then there’s your answer.  You’re not sick so can’t be cured and I’ve saved you three guineas.”  Martin was still lost in thought when Stephen gently rolled him over.  He planted kisses all down Martin’s spine and then licked and kissed his Mala’s sweet, full, rosy cheeks. With no more depravity or psychosis than found in parts of Dagenham or among the citizens of Golders Green, Stephen made love to Martin and, by practical example convinced him of the rightness of his choice. 

***** 

The next day The Plunger was holding an exhibition in the Grafton Galleries.  Archie had a new suit made for the occasion as well as having brought a pair of enormously wide flannel trousers.  He was admiring these in the looking glass by his bed and noted with approval that only the tips of his tan shoes could be seen from beneath the generous folds of these ‘bags’. “Well, what do you think, Gertie?” asked The Plunger, shifting from side to side.

“I couldn’t really say, dear,” said his manservant. “You won’t wear them tonight?”

“No the new grey suit and that new short overcoat with the astrakhan collar, I think”

“You’re not frightened of being mistaken for a profiteer?”

“No, Gertie.  It’s called taste and I can’t expect a servant to understand its finer points.”

“Will they be coming here tonight?”

“Who?”

“The blond one and the big one.”

“Gertie, why is it you can never remember the names of my friends?  I presume you are referring to Lord Branksome and Mr Knight-Poole whom you have known for eight years.”

“If their names are not on the dressing room door under a star I can’t be expected to remember all your friends.  I got some bottled beer in for the big one.”

“Well done, Gertie and what did you get in for his lordship and me?”

“Nothing, although there is some Coleman’s Wincarnis in the cupboard if you’re not too particular.”

“Well I am particular!” roared The Plunger. “Why the devil did you get beer and not some champagne?”

“Well, it’s him wot does all the work, isn’t it?  Works up quite a sweat he does.  I mean it’s you and Lord Thing that gets all the treats.”

The Plunger had to agree privately that this was so and he hoped that Stephen and Martin would stay the night and that treats would be distributed.  His valet continued:

“I mean if it was me I wouldn’t mind if he pulled my hair out by the very roots if it meant that he could get just another inch…”

“I think that’s quite enough, Gertie,” said The Plunger cutting him off.  “Go and buy some champagne at once.  I think you’ll find the wine shop next to the Labour Exchange in the Kings Road will have what I want.  I’ll finish dressing myself.” 

The champagne and the beer were gratefully consumed and then the three of them set out for the exhibition.  It was a foggy evening. There was a big crowd who politely applauded the artist when he entered in his new finery.  He bowed and gave his hat and stick to an attendant and said a few words of welcome and a few more about the decline of cubism in Europe. Martin didn’t follow it all.  However Martin and Stephen brought two paintings—an amusing scene on the Tube where all the passengers looked like teeth in cogwheels and a portrait of a heroic workman in a foundry eerily lit on one side from the fire of the blast furnace.

Naturally many of their friends were there and Jean introduced the boys to the Australian painter, Henry Lamb.  Lamb was somewhat older than they were, but was still a very handsome man.  He was accompanied by two former debutantes, a few years younger than the boys and whom they knew already.

“Hello Pans,” said Martin to the Hon. Pansy Pakenham.

“Hello, Evelyn,” said Stephen to the other one.  “Are we going to dine after this?”

Evelyn Gardner said they wanted to go to the Savoy to hear the band.  Martin was enthusiastic about this too.  He loved the ‘Savoy Orpheans’, as they called themselves and had purchased all their gramophone recordings.

Evelyn was very young and fair and had a cute turned-up nose.  She wore her hair in a fashionable ‘Eton Crop’ and was very pleasant and enthusiastic about everything.  Rather daringly she shared a flat off Sloane Square with the older Pansy who was one of the several children of the Duke of Longford and, while great fun, was also calm and dependable, even when they were racketing around London attending parties and making mischief.  Pansy and Lamb, who must have been more than ten years her senior, made a very nice couple, thought Martin.

So it was arranged to meet at the Savoy and the boys went to their respective homes and climbed into their evening clothes and had their servants tie their white ties.  At the Savoy they were joined by some more people, including another handsome painter named Philpot, who had also been at the exhibition, and Martin’s cousin Sophia and her fiancé Brian Chetwold.

“No champagne for me,” said Jean then whispered to the three boys, “Antony and I are going to have a baby.”  Congratulations were hissed and The Plunger had a look on his face as if he’d been struck with a blunt object.

“Uncle Archie, it will be lovely fun,” whispered Martin.

“I suppose I can teach him to paint and play with trains,” he said slowly trying to imagine himself up in a nursery with an infant, who at this point was of the male sex.

There was lots of dancing and the popular song of the moment was a foxtrot with an insistent beat called, It Had to be You.

They were joined by another man called Captain Spencer whom Philpot knew from somewhere.  Harold Spencer said he was a journalist and said he was born in the United States, although he had served in the British Army.  Spencer and Evelyn seemed to get on well were full of energy and insisted that they go next to the Embassy Club in Old Bond Street.  So it wasn’t very long after they had eaten that they piled into taxis and made the short journey to where Luigi Naintre, the maître d’hôtel, remembered the Marquess of Branksome and his good-looking friend and a large table was quickly found just inside the door with an upholstered seat around three sides which could accommodate them all with a bit of a struggle.

The room was both discreet and glittering, and the slightly frosty patrons were dancing aloofly to Bert Ambrose’s band.  More champagne was ordered and Martin began to think this would be another costly evening.  Still, he couldn’t stop himself from wanting to dance and even went as far as to ask ladies of slight acquaintance at other tables to dance when those at his own table said they must rest their feet.

Then a murmur went around the room and a striking young man walked in with a woman on his arm, followed by two older men. “It’s Prince George,” said Brian Chetwold and he was right.

This new group sat at the table on the other side of the entrance and the Prince and the young woman seemed to be in very good spirits while the other two men seemed more sober.  “They must be detectives,” whispered Antony and this seemed to be correct.

Captain Spencer and Evelyn returned from the floor and Martin and Stephen got to their feet to dance with Jean and Poppy when Ambrose broke into Tea for Two.  They were going back to the others when they saw the young lady talking to the Prince and nodding in their direction.  Therefore it was of little surprise when one of the detectives came over and, excusing himself, asked Martin and Stephen if they would join His Royal Highness.

They went over and bowed and, to their surprise, the lady made the introductions.  “You obviously don’t remember me,” she said.  Mrs Allen was a very beautiful and disdainful young girl with an elfin face.  She was in her mid-twenties and therefore slightly older than the fresh-faced Prince.  Her accent betrayed her as an American.

“I met you in New York during the War, Captain Knight-Poole, when you came to my great-aunt’s house and you were talking a great deal to my father’s cousin, Corny.  And you, Lord Branksome, were trapped between two competing young ladies.”

“Mrs Vanderbilt’s reception!  I’m sorry I don’t remember it better, Mrs Allen and it’s just Knight-Poole now, but I prefer Stephen.”

“Then I am Kiki.”

“We were on a recruiting mission to the United States, sir,” explained Martin to the Prince.

“And you were recruiting the young ladies of New York?” he said with amusement.

“Something like that, sir.  It was a confused but wonderful time, really.”

They were asked to sit down.  Prince George was quite young and good-looking.  He had his mother’s mouth but he smiled a good deal more readily and his hair was dark and brushed to a gloss whereas his oldest brother’s was very fair.  He was in evening clothes, although he said that he was on leave from the Navy.

They chatted about London nightlife and that of Paris from whence Kiki had apparently descended.  Their meeting with the Murphys and Picasso was very helpful in this smart conversation.  Then the Prince asked about the others at the table they had deserted.  Martin sketched the artistic group and talked a little about The Plunger’s exhibition.

“And he is Sir Gordon Craigth’s son, Poole?”

“Yes sir, and that is his sister, Mrs Vane-Gillingham.”

“I wonder if you’d introduce me.  I think I’d like to dance.”  Martin made no mention of her pregnancy, as it would spoil her treat.  He took the Prince over and introduced the table to His Royal Highness.  The orchestra was now playing The Half of it Dearie Blues and several other popular tunes of the year.  The Prince was an excellent dancer.  Stephen danced with Kiki Allen and Martin danced with Pansy Packenham.  Thus The Plunger was compelled to ask Evelyn Gardner while Brian, Antony, Glyn Philpot, Lamb and the Captain were left to talk amongst themselves.

Luigi brought some extra chairs and the Prince and Kiki joined their table, leaving the two detectives to eat their supper alone.  There was a good deal of champagne drunk.  Kiki Allen said the most outrageous things and didn’t seem to care what anyone thought.  At one point, as she was explaining what a terrible lover her ex-husband was, she knocked over the silver stand holding the ice bucket and the bottle shattered, with wine spilling all over the floor.  The waiters rushed over to clean up the mess and she neither apologised nor even looked at the menials who were bent over with cloths.  In fact Martin watched with horror as she continued talking and actually flicked the ash from her cigarette, which burned in a long amber holder, onto the bent head of one of the young men who was brushing up the broken glass.

“I’m bored here.  Let’s go to The Bag O’Nails, sir,” she said suddenly to the Prince in a loud and petulant voice.  She got up and marched to the door to retrieve her coat.  Prince George followed her like a puppy.  The bill had not been made up and Stephen apologised to Luigi.

“I will see you tomorrow, Luigi,” said Stephen.

“I understand how it is, Mr Knight-Poole” said the Maître d’ and Stephen had to run to catch up.

Out in the thick November fog, Jean, Sophia and Poppy asked the Prince if they might be excused from going on and Evelyn reluctantly joined them as they went home with their partners.  Two taxis took the more lively party, plus the two detectives, to Kingly Street behind Regent Street and they piled down the stairs to the basement club.

The Savoy had been elegant and public and the Embassy had been elegant and exclusive. The Bag O’Nails was none of these.  However it was agreeably noisy and there was music from a small orchestra that played incessantly.  The Prince was not recognised but the party of toffs was quickly found a table under the modernistic murals when Captain Spencer proffered a gratuity.  The champagne had been watered and it was expensive.  Some food was brought, but none ate any.

Stephen decided to talk to Philpot who was a very serious portraitist, steeped in the traditions of the Renaissance.  However he was a Roman Catholic, he explained, and found it difficult to reconcile ‘all this’ he said with a wave of his hand, with his faith.  Stephen took this to mean also his love of good-looking boys whom he could not help but comment on as they passed.  He also had a feel of Stephen under the table.  The Prince may have seen this and that Stephen did not object.

The Prince danced with Kiki and then Stephen did.  She was a wild and abandoned dancer and quite exciting.  When he returned to the table Martin whispered: “I wish I could dance with you, Derbs.”  Martin must have been a little drunk for he said it a trifle too loudly and just as the orchestra ceased playing.  The whole table must have heard and Martin went red. He couldn’t retract what had been uttered and so he simply took a leaf out of Mrs Allen’s book and brazenly went on to talk about something else.

Spencer, who had been taking all this in, whispered something to The Prince who nodded. More champagne was ordered and then the Prince declared he was going to the lavatory.  The first detective went to go with him, but he waved at him to sit down.  The champagne arrived and some of it was consumed while Spencer talked about the War.  The Plunger and Philpot then gave a critique of the decorations.  Prince George hadn’t returned and the two detectives became worried and got to their feet and headed in the direction of the lavatory, which was on the other side of the club and up some stairs.

“Come on!” cried Spencer and he threw some money on the table and propelled the group out into the fog-shrouded street, just giving them time to snatch their coats and hats.  “What are you doing?” asked Martin, who swayed a little unsteadily on his feet.

“We’re going to another club; one where you can dance with your boyfriend.”

“But His royal Highness?”

“He knows it and will meet us there.”

Given no time to think, they almost ran through the yellow pea soup and plunged down a nearby street and stopped at a green door with a light above it that loomed out of the mist. On the door a sign read: ‘Lady Austin’s’.  Spencer knocked and the door was opened slightly.

“Oh Harold its you is it?  You’re all dressed up, Queenie.  How many with you?”

“Four chaps and a lady.”

“Well you are getting broadminded.  Come on up.”

They filed in and climbed some steep stairs.  The carpet stopped at the first floor and they continued up another two flights.  The sound of music grew louder and when the final door was opened it proved to come from a small orchestra.  There was no cloakroom or visitors’ book, just some tables and chairs around a grubby dance floor in a smoky haze.  A quick look at the orchestra showed it to be composed of young men in ‘drag’ and Martin and Stephen immediately knew what kind of place they were in.  Two men shuffled listlessly around the floor while the ‘ladies’ in the orchestra demonstrated the art of smoking and playing musical instruments at the same time.  The drummer adjusted his brassiere with one hand as he dusted the brushes over the snare drum with the other.

Terrible wine, worse than at The Bag O’Nails, was served in teacups.  The doorman, in a shabby dinner jacket whose bald spots had been blackened with ink, said something sharp to the band and they put their cigarettes out and quickened into life to punch out, Charley My Boy.

“Do you want to dance Mala?  Now’s your chance.”

Martin followed Stephen onto the floor and they moved briskly to the foxtrot, compromising in the matter of the more traditional male and female positions of the arms and in the matter of who was to lead and who to follow.  They stayed on the floor as the band drifted into the waltz, What’ll I Do.

Martin clung to Stephen with his arms around his strong neck.  This was both romantic and a useful support for he was rather drunk.  “I love dancing with you, Derbs.  You dance beautifully and I can feel your cock waltzing in your trousers,” added Martin with a giggle.  They looked back at the table.  Prince George had arrived, without the detectives, and he had just asked Philpot to dance.

Captain Spencer seemed to know one of the boys there.  He was only young—perhaps 15 or 16—and was thin and painfully Nancy.  He sat on Spencer’s knee and Spencer whispered something to him and he got off abruptly and headed for the door with some urgency and never returned.

Several other couples came to the floor.  Next The Plunger was dancing with Stephen while Martin was pumping Spencer’s arm to a silly thing called Yes! We have No Bananas.  Everyone, including the Prince, joined with the band in singing the chorus.  Martin found that he was laughing.

Kiki was sitting at the shabby table all alone and Martin felt sorry for her.  Her cigarette smouldered bad temperedly in the ashtray.  He left Spencer and went over to ask her to dance, but when he drew near to the table he saw that she had reached into her bag and had drawn out a silver box.  He halted and watched, fascinated.  From it she took a syringe and, taking a final drag on her cigarette, plunged the needle into her arm.

Martin thought himself naïve, but not so that he didn’t realise that it was cocaine or heroin. He felt sick.  He turned quickly about and in a panic went back to the dancers.  Prince George grabbed him and they did a silly one step and Martin tried not to think of what he had just seen.  Even drunk, Prince George was very light on his feet.  Martin was just about to compliment him when he noticed that His Royal Highness had on a quantity of talcum and had rouged his cheeks while his lips were painted with two shades of lipstick to form a ‘cupid’s bow’.  His eyes too had been rimmed with kohl.  He therefore looked quite different to the usual pictures Martin saw of him in the Daily Express.

The band paused for refreshment and the dancers were slowly returning to the tables when there was a commotion at the door. A shout went up: “It’s a raid!” and the sound of policemen’s heavy boots could be heard on the stairs below.

To be continued… 

Thanks for reading.  If you have any comments or questions, Henry and I would love to hear from you.  Just send them to pbruno@tickiestories.us and please put the site name in the subject line.

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