In the silvered reflection, the world suddenly seemed upside down and terribly confusing.  The straight lines of the room were all bent and the lights of the dance floor flared like comets.  How long had he been staring at the polished silver box on the table he didn’t know— perhaps only a second or two.  He saw Stephen approaching from behind him; he was inverted and distorted like in the Hall of Mirrors at the Wembley Fun Fair.  Martin turned around.

“Hurry Mala!  This way Kiki” When Martin turned back the box was gone from the table and Mrs Allen crossly got to her feet.

Lady Austin’s Club was in terrible confusion.  There was hysterical shrieking and a confusion of men running about in clouds of scent and powder.  Stephen took charge of his little group.

“This way, Your Royal Highness,” he called and forcibly propelled the royal personage in the direction of the lavatory, which was behind the bandstand.  Prince George looked dazed but obeyed.  The Plunger was rounded up and Stephen roughly pushed him in the same direction.  “Bring Philpot!” called Stephen to Captain Spencer. 

The police could be heard on the stairs and the manager of the club, Lady Austin, was attempting to stall their approach and the barman had locked the door to the main room.  Most of the crowd were too paralysed with hysteria to act rationally, but some headed for the kitchen in the vain hope of escape that way.  Stephen, however, led his men to the filthy lavatory on the other side of the room.  He pushed them inside.  “I’m sorry Mrs Allen, but this is for the best.”

“I’ve been in gentlemen’s bathrooms before,” she said wearily, “it don’t bother me.”  And indeed she took events quite calmly and with weary resignation.

There was a window, high up.  Stephen hammered his fist on it and the whole frame gave way and dropped to the roof of the adjoining building with a crash as the glass shattered. Stephen then turned to the door.  There was no key, but he took a mop and a broom (who must have seen very little action in their lives in Lady Austin’s lavatory) and was just about to use them to jam the door closed when there was a pitiful howl and a hammering from outside.  It was not the Police, so Stephen opened the door.  It was a woman in a torn evening dress—no it wasn’t— it was the clarinettist from the band.  Stephen reached out and pulled him inside and then barricaded the door with the cleaning utensils.

He looked out of the window.  “It’s a drop of only about eight feet.  Plunger, you first.”  Stephen lifted him to the sill and the Plunger was able to put his feet through first.  He paused on the ledge and dropped from sight.  Martin hurled his overcoat after him.”

“I’m alright” he called faintly.  The sound of the broken window being pushed aside with The Plunger’s patent leather pumps could be heard.

“Your Royal Highness— come on sir, do hurry!”

The prince was dazed.  Martin wondered if he doped too, however Stephen had a natural authority and he submitted to being helped to the sill; he was, after all, a young and athletic naval officer.  He too disappeared from sight.  The clarinettist presented himself next and hitched up his frock to reveal hairy thighs above the rolled tops of his stockings.  “Oh, I’ve lost a heel!” he cried.  Mrs Allen had very little sympathy and actually pushed him off the ledge before he could change his mind.  Next went Philpot who ripped his trousers on the sharp edge of the brick.  Kiki required very little help and Stephen heard the others assist her descent so she didn’t have to jump.  Martin went next and Stephen looked around for Captain Spencer.  He wasn’t there and Stephen could no longer remember if he had even made it safely to the lavatory.

He pulled himself up— there was no one to assist him—just as he could hear voices outside the door.  It was tried, gently at first, then with more force.  If the broom and mop held, Stephen never knew because he was already on the roof with the others.  “Where’s the Captain?” he asked.  No one knew.

The clarinettist took the initiative.  There were fire stairs nearby that lead down to the street. He dashed off, lopsidedly.  The others looked down into the foggy depths.  A squeal went up; the clarinettist had obviously been nabbed by the Police.  Stephen led his party in the other direction.  They had to scramble down a sloping roof and there was a drop of four feet to the building at the rear; it was a lodging house and they found they could use a skylight and a ladder to gain the corridor.

When they were safely on civilized drugget and under the gas light, Stephen took a look at them.  “Is anybody injured?” he asked.  Martin and The Plunger had some grazes and Philpot’s evening trousers had a big tear in them, but nobody complained to Stephen.

Mrs Allen merely looked annoyed. “Shall we go on to the Ritz?” Martin couldn’t tell if she was making a joke or not.  He didn’t really want to find out.

“Has everybody got their possessions?”  Have you left anything behind that could identify you?”  There was a frantic tapping of pockets.  The Plunger had lost a glove, but no one had left anything else.

Stephen took out his handkerchief and spat on it.  “I’m sorry your Royal Highness, but this is for the best.   He put his strong arm about him and applied the moistened handkerchief to his face and wiped away most of the powder and rouge.  Some more spit was applied and he rubbed hard.  Prince George leaned into Stephen, pressing his groin into Stephen’s and he smiled stupidly.

“No more the Merry Wife of Windsor, just plain George Edward Alexander Edmund Saxe-Cobueg and Gotha now.”  He laughed.

They made it to the street.  It was foggy, but they quickly found they were trapped in a cul-de-sac and to make their escape they would have to pass close to the club.  They drew nearer and could hear the commotion of the arrests even through the fog.  Stephen made them wait and went on ahead alone.  He found a main street.  Thank God! There was a taxi.  He practically stood in the middle of the road to make it stop and told the driver to wait.  He dashed back to the group.  He could hear cries.  In the mist he could see a struggle taking place.  A policeman had caught one of them by the overcoat coat.  It was Martin’s coat.  Stephen felled the policemen with a blow and Martin wriggled free.

“Your Royal Highness, Kiki, come with me, quickly!”  He propelled them to the waiting taxi.  Just across the street under a lamp he could make out two men.  He was alarmed for a moment but then he saw that they were the Prince’s detectives. He dashed across the road. “Get them home,” he said.  “There’s been some trouble.”  The startled detectives went to the taxi and looked inside, then they jumped in and the taxi was away.

Stephen returned.  The policeman was concussed but not dead.  Stephen didn’t want to call out any names so he just sang quietly: “Yes! We have no bananas.” His friends emerged from their hiding places in the fog.

“Did you get them away?” asked Martin quietly.

“Yes,” hissed Stephen, “come on!”  They followed him through the nicotine hued fog.  Martin thought of the Sans Culottes following their Captain through No Man’s Land.  It must have been like this.  Despite his narrow escape, Martin felt strangely safe.

At Wardour Street they found another taxi.  Philpot said that he would walk to his rooms in Soho Square.  He was shaken, he said, and the walk would do him good.  Thus the three friends shared a ride to Branksome House in Piccadilly.

Glass was in his dressing gown and he brought some tea and toast up to their bedroom.  Carlo appeared and the boys told them much of what had transpired.  Carlo applied iodine to the scratches that Martin and the Plunger had received and Stephen made it clear that The Plunger was to stay the night with them.

They discussed the events: Mrs Allen’s use of dope and the King’s fourth son making up his face and Captain Spencer who seemed likely to have been arrested.

“You know, I think there only were four policemen in that raid.  I thought I saw only four when I looked down the street and they had no Black Maria.”

“So there were only three left after you saved me Derby,” said Martin. “Thank you.  How shall I ever make it up to you?”

“And me too, Stephen, you saved my neck,” said The Plunger. 

“I will think of something.  There’s nothing to connect us to that club, you know, nor to my dreadful action on that poor policeman.  I feel bad about that; he was only doing his job.”

“Yes, Derbs, but why should anyone be arrested and have their life ruined simply because they were dancing with a boy?  Who has been harmed?  ‘The law is a ass’,” he quoted.

The Plunger and Martin gave themselves up to their hero, Stephen, and pleasured him with their mouths. “Oh deeper, Mala, I like it when you can take it right down into your throat!” He moaned.

Martin pulled off. “Derby, every boy likes it deep like that—it’s not something peculiar to you.  I would take more if I could manage without passing out.  Isn’t that so Plunger?

The Plunger had been sucking on Stephen’s low-hanging balls but confirmed this assertion.

At last Stephen spilled into their eager mouths, Martin never tiring of the taste.  Stephen was breathing hard.

“Did that make you forget tonight’s troubles, Derby?” asked Martin, kissing him so that Stephen might judge if he still tasted the same.

“It did, Mala, but I wouldn’t worry; we won’t hear any more about it, I’m certain.”

The Plunger spoke: “Will you fuck us, Stephen? I’ve been looking forward to it all day.”

“I don’t think I can, Archie, that was an enormous load and I think I’m too done in.”

Martin and Stephen, kneeling on the disarranged bed, looked terribly disappointed.

In the event, Stephen was proved wrong on both counts.  It was early in the morning when he spilt deep in The Plunger who thought he was going to pass out from the pain and joy.  By first light, Martin was also filled with Stephen’s seed, and he promptly went to sleep curled up with his head on Stephen’s chest while The Plunger had his face pressed into Stephen’s shoulder.

Stephen too snored on and so didn’t hear the doorbell far below.

Glass opened the door and there stood two policemen.  There was a sergeant and a young constable.

“Is this the residence of Lord Branksome?” asked the sergeant.

“It is,” replied Glass.

“And does Mr Knight-Poole live here too?”

“He does.”

“May we have a word with them?”

“I’m sorry sergeant, but they are not at home.”  The constable groaned and touched his head, which Glass saw was bandaged.

“Well, would you ask them…”

“Are you alright, constable?” asked Glass, interrupting him.

“I just have a bit of a headache—line of duty you know.”

“Well you may not come in this way, but if you go to the kitchen door, I will have cook make you both a cup of tea and we can continue our conversation.”

The two policemen looked at each other and nodded.  Glass closed the front door and went down into the kitchen where he saw them standing in the area and he invited them in and sat them down.  He asked Lily to put the kettle on then excused himself and came back five minutes later.

The water was boiling and he poured it into the pot and put two thick china mugs on the table. “Now sergeant, you were saying?”

“Well perhaps you can help me so as I don’t have to bother his lordship, like.  Did his lordship and Mr Knight-Poole come home last night?”

“They did indeed.  They had forgotten their latch keys and I let them in myself.”

“What time was this?” asked the constable.

“It was on towards midnight.  They had been out—to the Savoy Hotel and the Embassy Club, I believe.  That is a nightclub in Bond Street.”

“We know that, Mr…?”

“Glass.”

“Mr Glass, did they go out again after that?” asked the sergeant, taking a sip from the mug.

“No sergeant, they did not.  They went to bed.”

“Do you know a Mr Archibald Craigth?” asked the constable.

“The Honourable Mr Craigth is a great friend of my master’s and he stayed here last night.”

“And did he go out after midnight?”

“No, I went to call him a taxi, but the fog was too thick so he stayed.”

“Who else saw them come in?”

“Lily!” he called to a maid who was passing, “What time did you make his lordship’s tea last evening.”

“Five past twelve, Mr Glass, and I gave the tray to Carlo to carry up.”

“And there is no one else who can confirm what time they came home?” persisted the constable.

“Only his Royal Highness.  He…”

“Never mind,” said the sergeant, putting away his book.”

“Which…?”

“Never mind Tibbits, come along,” insisted the sergeant.

“Would you like His Lordship to come by the Police Station when he returns?  Which one are you from”

“Oh… er…never mind, Mr Glass; we have imposed enough on your time and we would not like to trouble his lordship over trifles.”

They left and a few minutes later Martin walked into the kitchen.  Glass and Lily stood. “Thank you both for lying,” he said.  He walked over to the service lift and closed the door. 

“I assure you, Lily that no one was hurt last night and nothing was stolen.”

“That was a nasty bump of Constable Tibbitt’s noggin, your lordship.”

“Well, almost no one,” conceded Martin.

“I think that new wireless receiver would go quite well on the shelf over there, Mr Glass, don’t you think?” asked Lily, with a sly grin.

“Lily!” exploded Martin, laughing.  “Is this blackmail?”

“That’s an ugly word, your lordship.  The servants just want to listen-in, same as you,” she said looking at the service lift.

“Very well, Lily.  You’re as bad as Chilvers.”

Martin returned to the others who were still in the dining room.

“I can’t understand how they got our names,” said Stephen.  We left no clues behind.  It’s very mysterious.  We better get you home, Archie.”  Shall we go out through the mews just in case?” 

***** 

The Plunger put his key in the Yale lock and let the boys in to his studio.  Immediately there was a shriek and Gertie popped his head out of the scullery like a rabbit.

“Oh sir, it’s you!” he cried.  The Plunger was taken aback.  Gertie was clearly on the verge of hysteria.

“I stayed at Branksome House last night.”

“Why didn’t you telephone?  I was worried sick.”

“I didn’t think you’d even notice,” replied The Plunger, “let alone care.”

“Oh, you bitch!” screeched Gertie and slapped his face and then immediately collapsed onto his chest in a flood of tears.”

The Plunger looked at Martin and Stephen helplessly.  Stephen peeled Gertie from his master and produced a clean handkerchief and, for the second time in twelve hours, applied it to another’s face.

“Gertie have the police been here?”

Gertie sniffed and nodded. “They were horrible to me, called me a queenie and said rude things.”

“Were there two of them, Gertie?” asked Martin suddenly.  The others looked at him.

“Yes, dear,” said Gertie, evidently recovering.  “An old one with a face like a boot and a pretty young one with a bandage on her head.”

“Strange they should be down here too,” said Martin.

“Well I’m alright,” said The Plunger, “but your concern is touching, Gertie.”

“I wasn’t worried about your sad arse,” said the servant, readjusting his coiffed hair with moistened fingertips.  “I was just worried that I would be out of a job if you were in gaol, that’s all; poor sweet Gertie would be reduced to selling apples down Drury Lane.”

“That’s oranges, Gertie, now go out and get us something to eat and buy some beer for Mr Stephen.”

The Plunger went off to his sybaritic bathroom and while he was gone Martin and Stephen climbed the ladder and sprawled on the luxurious leather mattress with its furs and silks.  They were tired and Stephen lay with his arm around Martin.  They were half asleep.

Suddenly Martin sat up. “Derby!” he said shaking him.  “It’s what Lily said or rather what I said to her.”

“Lily who?”

“I don’t know who—Lily our maid!  She said blackmail; that’s what this is all about.  Those two policemen were trying to ‘rent’ the people they nabbed at that club— people like us.  They probably weren’t even on an official raid.  Didn’t you say there were just a couple of them?”

“There were very few that I saw.  You’d think they have had a least a dozen if it was a serious raid and they’d have brought a van.”

“And how do you think they got our names, Derby?  Think!”

“Captain Spencer!” said Stephen with awakening consciousness.  “He stayed behind to let himself be arrested and it was he who suggested we all go there.  He even knew Lady Austin.”

“And I saw something else, Derbs.  He had a particular boy there.  You were dancing and didn’t see, but he told him to get out before the raid.  I saw it.

“My God, Mala.  Do you think he was intending to ‘rent’ His Royal Highness?  That’s a bit rich.”

“Derbs, he couldn’t have known that he’d walk into the Embassy Club, but it may have just been his good luck.  He may also know that the Prince dopes because I think he does and that’s why he is friends with Mrs Allen.”

The Plunger was fetched dripping from his bath just as Gertie returned with the lunch. “Philpot knows Captain Spencer, Plunger,” insisted Martin. “Telephone him and find out what he knows.  He must know what newspaper he writes for.”

The Plunger ate some chips that Gertie had bought along with some plaice wrapped up in newspaper.  He swallowed half a glass of beer and picked up the telephone.  The exchange got him a number in Soho.  Evidently Philpot answered himself.

“We’re fine but we’ve had a visit from the police…we told them we were home by midnight…haven’t you?—Well, be prepared.  I can’t be sure how they knew— or perhaps I can. Glyn, what can you tell me about the Captain?”  The Plunger listened for a long time.  “Yes, yes, The Imperialist?  Never heard of it… well he did seem to splash it around… I don’t know how much journalists make…we think it might be blackmail…Well telephone him to see if he’s been let free and let me know straight away…And remember, you came home at midnight, straight after the Bag O’Nails.  And it is alright to say you saw Prince George at the Embassy; that’s hardly a secret.” He hung up the receiver on the hook and turned to the others.  “He will telephone Spencer.”

They ate the fish and chips and drank the beer, mainly in silence.  Gertie willingly made them tea.  The telephone bell sounded and Gertie answered it and handed the instrument to The Plunger.  The Plunger didn’t say much and then hung up.  “Captain Spencer was released with no charge.  He made some excuse about the charge sheet being mucked up.  I bet he went nowhere near the police station.  In any case, he and Philpot are going to the theatre tonight.”

“Mala,” said Stephen. “I think we should let Prince George know that the whole thing might be a blackmail attempt.”

“Well I can’t just walk through the gates of Buckingham Palace, Derbs.”

“No but you could use the telephone.”

“I can’t telephone Buckingham Palace.  Are you mad?  What would I say?”

“Ask to speak to the Prince.  You’ll get his secretary, but say who you are.  If he’s there I’m sure he will speak to you.”

Martin did as he was told.  He was terribly nervous and took some Dutch courage.  He did speak to the secretary and gave his name.  Only a few minutes later he heard Prince George’s voice down the line.  He must have been jovial for Martin replied, “Yes it was fun, I suppose…yes she is charming…yes, Stephen is a lovely dancer…I will tell him.  Sir, I suspect that Captain Spencer was in league with those policemen and the whole thing was an attempt to blackmail us— that is people like us… Yes, that’s right, yes…no, I can’t prove it…no, I’d never met him before last night.  All I know is that he claims to be a journalist with a publication called The Imperialist…no neither have I…yes, His Majesty may well take it…very good, your Royal Highness…and please be careful sir.” He hung up.  Martin was perspiring.

“He was having luncheon with his parents, but will get his detectives to look into Captain Spencer.  Oh Stephen, I feel that I want to be sick!” 

***** 

The boys remained in London for a few days more.  They rode and walked the dogs.  Stephen boxed in the mews and at The Plunger’s studio on the Thursday.  They went to their respective clubs and saw the Gershwin musical ‘Primrose’ at the Winter Garden Theatre.  Martin was excited by the score.

Stephen came home from the Saville Club with a newspaper.  When Martin came in from Boodles he showed it to him.  The publication was called ‘The Vigilante’ and it seemed to consist of overly patriotic pieces, but then, as Martin turned the pages he saw attacks on the Jews.  They were silly pieces with claims of conspiracies about the Jews aiming to seize control of the world’s finances.

“This is rubbish Derbs,” said Martin looking up.  “Yes, there are a lot of rich Jews who run banks and big businesses, but there are an awful lot of poor ones down in the East End.  They must feel pretty left out.  I notice there are no articles on the Scotch conspiracy to control the world’s whisky or the Greco-Italian one to control restaurants and ice-cream in London, and I don’t see many Jewish sheep farmers in the West Country.”

“Look who wrote it, Mala.”

“H.S. Spencer!” exclaimed Martin.

“And look across the page at the article, ‘Lesbia’.”

“Why it’s our old friend Pemberton-Billing senior.”

“And your chum The Fly has a small article on bomber aeroplanes— that was actually not rubbish.”

“What does this mean, Derby?”

It means that ‘The Imperialist,’ now called ‘The Vigilante’, is the vile rag that Spencer writes for and he must surely be mixed up with the Pemberton-Billings.  He seems hell-bent on exposing homosexuals in high places, just as he attacks the Jews— just like he was doing during the War.”

“Then why doesn’t Pemberton-Billing just publish an article naming you and me and The Plunger and Prince George as having been seen at Lady Austin’s club?”

“I think Captain Spencer is financing himself with a little blackmail on the side— as well as being a complete hypocrite with his boy at the club, don’t you think?  If he succeeds in closing the club, then he is cutting off his source of income.”

“And working in with a few policemen too?”

“Yes, of course.”

Martin thought that was likely, and he threw the journal into the fire where it burned merrily. 

***** 

They left London with a sour taste in their mouths and returned to Croome.  Winter was setting in and soon it would be another Christmas.  Mrs Chadwick came ‘home’ in mid-November to England accompanied by Mr Worth from the English Church at Nice.  Martin didn’t like him but, noblesse oblige, he was duty bound to invite him to stay at both Branksome House and at Croome.  The Plunger, however, only invited Mrs Chadwick to Fayette to meet his parents.

“Mr Sachs, how much do we have in the Boy Scouts’ fund?”

“£70, Mrs Chadwick.”

“Well I propose that all that sum be distributed immediately as the Scout Master, M. Duclos, has been on a recruiting drive and many of the sons of the poor have flocked to him, but they cannot afford uniforms and they will be in need of equipment.  One doesn’t think of the French as being enthusiastic Scouts—but there you are.”

“Would you excuse us for a moment, Mr Worth, I wish to say something in confidence to his Lordship.”

Mr Worth did not seem put out by the strange request, whilst Martin could not imagine what Mrs Chadwick wanted to talk about.

“Your lordship, she began, but included the others; “I have been worried about the girls down at the Fisherman’s Quay.  I come across them—not quite socially”— she gave a tight smile at her naughtiness—“but at the Little Sisters, where many of their children are fostered.  I do not like to talk in front of Mr Worth as he has no time for them; I have lived in Antibes for many years and I know it is different to Tunbridge Wells and, well, the girls are a part of the indigenous scenery, if I can put it that way.  I hope I am not being too modern here?”  They assured her that her frankness was refreshing.  “Well I would like to start a clinic for the girls and…” and here she took a long pause before being able to get the words out.  When they came it was in a rush: “and-the-young-boys-who-cater-for-the-sailors’-needs.”

Stephen came to her rescue. “That is entirely sensible, Mrs Chadwick.  There can be no higher priority than public health and there are precedents in the Bible for just such actions.” He couldn’t think of any at that moment but felt that there ought to be.

Mrs Chadwick looked relieved.  “I was thinking of just hiring a room where a doctor or a nurse could attend once a week.  I am sure I can get the madams of the more reputable houses to cooperate. They all know me.”

Martin wanted to laugh but kept control and Mr Worth was brought back in to the room and they moved on to discuss contributing to the fund to restore the tower in the old fort. 

***** 

Martin and Stephen had taken golf lessons at the links on Lord Wimbourne’s estate.  The first instruction that impressed itself upon them was to allow better foursomes to ‘play through’ so as not to earn their ire.  The democracy of the links made the Marquess of Branksome the equal of Mr Blake, his estate manager, and indeed of Bradshaw his one-armed assistant, as Martin was quite dreadful.

“I can hit it along the ground, but I mustn’t use my wood again after the tee,” complained Martin in frustration, and he wanted nothing more than to belt the blasted ball.  He then did a reasonable stroke, and the ball sailed into a sand trap.  Martin actually felt quite pleased as the stroke made a pleasant sound and landing in the sand was no real disgrace for even experienced players. “Bother, it’s in the sand, Derbs,” he said as if this were a regular occurrence.

Stephen specialised in the powerful swing, but the ball was propelled a great distance into rough ground.

“I’ve hooked it again,” he lamented.

“Your shots hang to the left like your cock, Derbs,” giggled Martin after checking that no one was around.  Stephen marched off, wishing he carried a pruning saw in his bag.

After six holes they gave up and returned to the professional to be instructed how to hold the clubs again.  Martin apologised for the destruction to the turf at the third.  The fellow went pale but said that it was quite alright, and it would be repaired overnight.

They went home in Stephen’s motorcar and practiced for some hours in the Great Hall until Martin knocked the marble arm off Circe.  “I don’t know how it happened, Chilvers,” said Martin.  “I think it must have been loose already.”

“No doubt Ruby was careless with the feather duster, your lordship,” said Chilvers as he gently but firmly removed the mashie niblick from his master’s hand.

The next day Chilvers again pressed Martin about the staffing problem and Martin gave way, if only so he could concentrate on his putting.  In the weeks following, Chilvers went full steam ahead with the modernisation of the house.  Every day, it seemed to Martin, Myles had him sign cheques for Messrs Hoover & Co. for a whole flotilla of vacuum cleaners and there were others for plumbers and for people who manufactured boilers and freezers.

“It’s all necessary, sir,” said Chilvers, “if you want to keep this house and enjoy it.  We don’t want to become shabby like Highclere, your lordship?”

“You mean Lord Carnarvon’s place?” said Martin thinking of Evelyn’s grandfather’s Victorian pile that looked like a combination of the Houses of Parliament and a railway hotel.

“Yes sir.  They try to run that large house with a ridiculously small staff; the cook has just two kitchen maids and there wouldn’t be half a dozen parlour and chamber maids.  They can all sit down together at quite a small table in the servants’ hall.  There was some trouble with their chauffeur before the War,” he added.

“I seem to remember. Yes, Harry?” he said as Myles walked in.

“Mr Chilvers has had an idea, and he was in trepidation of putting it to you.”

“Will it cost me money?”

“Quite the reverse.  Tell him Chilvers.”

“Well, your lordship,” he began with equanimity.  “In the United States many of the owners of large houses allow their names—and even their photographs—to be used in advertisements for things they have purchased.”

“I know.  I’ve seen Lady Oxford ‘endorsing’ Spong’s Soothing Cold Cream—can you imagine?—and Lady Pamela saying she adores the taste of Egyptian Cork cigarettes when I know for a fact she doesn’t even smoke.”

“Well, like that, sir.  As you did with the cottage bathrooms, you might find that the manufacturers would be generous.”

“Do it Myles.  Write letters and we’ll prostitute ourselves.  ‘Everybody’s doin’ it.’”

Within a fortnight a photographer and a young man from an advertising company arrived at Croome.  Chilvers was just about to send them around to the kitchen door when he thought the better of it and they were ushered into the Great Hall.  They looked around, goggle-eyed, and eventually Martin came down the stairs in a new suit.

“How do you do?” he said pleasantly and shook their hands.

“You represent the…?”

“We’re from the Pangloss Advertising Company, your lordship and we have the account for Maytag.”

“And what is a Mayfly?” asked Martin.

“Maytag, your lordship and it is line of washing machines for laundries.  You have purchased one for Croome, sir— the large commercial model.”

“Have I?  Chilvers, take us down to the place where we do the washing.”

They went down through the kitchen where the servants were having their dinner.  They stood.  Martin passed on through the scullery and into the washhouse.  On the stone floor, next to some new piping, stood a large steel machine into which the washing was evidently deposited and there was a mangle above it powered by a small electric motor.  Chilvers explained how the laundry maid operated it.  Martin wanted a go, but was persuaded not to touch it.

“Well, where do you want me to stand?” he asked the photographer.  There was a hurried and whispered conversation between the two visitors.

“If it’s alright with you, your lordship, we’d rather have a photograph of Mr Chilvers with the Maytag.  It would be more fitting for a great house like this.”

“Chilvers!  In a magazine!  Oh very well,” conceded Martin grumpily.

It took a long time to get the photograph taken and Martin became bored so he left them, not even saying goodbye.

In the weeks that followed Chilvers endorsed Hoover vacuum cleaners, Goddard’s Silver Polish, the company that made the hot water boiler, and the Magnet Electrical Appliance Company— this last presented Chilvers with a silver watch which he offered to Martin who told him, dispiritedly, to keep it.

Martin put his foot down and insisted that he at least endorse the rubber linoleum that was laid over the stone flags in the kitchen and scullery.  He had subscribed to ‘Home’ and every week he found Chilver’s baleful visage staring out from its pages.  When he did find an advertisement from the linoleum company it asserted that: ‘Lord Branxton [sic], the scion of the lovely and ancestral Croome in Dorset, insists on mopping the Flexokushion in the servants’ hall himself, so easy and delightful is the experience.’

“I should take an action in the courts, Harry.”

“We shouldn’t, sir we got all that lino at cost.”

To add insult to injury, every time Martin went to Boodles someone would make a remark about his housemaid’s knee, or ask how he spared the time from mopping the servants’ floor to come at all, until Lord Whitstable was found to have said how he and her ladyship enjoyed consuming a certain type of soapy cheese that came in foil-wrapped wedges after a good dinner when it was public knowledge that they had lived apart, acrimoniously, since 1912. 

***** 

Chilvers was anxious to obtain a second footman before Christmas.  “It’s been a difficult job,” complained the butler to the boys.  “It is not the sort of work that young men are anxious to take up, sir, not since the War.  Service isn’t what it was.  I blame Ramsay McDonald,” he said hotly.

“Well, Chilvers, his government has been defeated and we weren’t all murdered in our beds and we will get our kindergarten.”

“But sir, if the County Board has raised wages of an agricultural labourer to thirty shillings, who will be left to enter into service?”

“That is a problem,” conceded Martin, “almost as thorny as tariffs and reparations.  Now whom have we got to interview?”

“Well, I have two, sir.”  He handed over some references for the first—a chap named James McEachern— who was about Martin’s age.  The references from Lord Totness and Sir Robert Ulm spoke in glowing terms of James and it seems he knew about wines and could assist in writing out menus because he had some French, having been a servant for Lord and Lady Totness at Biarritz.”

“Wheel him in!” cried Martin after showing the documents to Stephen.

James McEachern was very upright (a good sign) but possessed of a long and mournful face. “I am teetotal, your lordship, despite my knowledge of vintages.”

“What wine would you serve with Dover sole, James?” asked Martin.

“Well it would not be up to me to select sir, but I would suggest a Pouilly-Fuissé, the 1920, not the 1919, or a Vouvray, depending on the sauce, your lordship.”

Martin didn’t know the answer but he nodded sagely and made a squiggle on a piece of paper with his pencil.

“And how do you address the Lord Lieutenant of Ireland, James?” asked Stephen.

“Well, sir,” he replied gloomily, “it would depend if he were a duke or not: ‘Your Grace’ or ‘Your Excellency’.”

“Do you have any hobbies, James?”

“Hobbies, sir?  I don’t see what that has to do…Well I do make models from spent matches. I have quite a collection.  Mr Chilvers, I might ask you to collect matches from the servants for me.”

James was dismissed.

“I say Derby, we’d be lucky to get him, what with experience and everything.  Did you write down the names of those wines?

The next candidate shambled in, getting his boot caught in the door as Chilvers tried to close it.  He was just a boy— 17— when Martin looked down at his papers. “What is your name?” he asked.

“Lancelot Oldmeadow” replied the creature with a foolish grin, “but the Vicar said I can’t be called that in service, like, so it will be Lance.  That is, if I get this position…your lordship.”

“The vicar at Durston, yes, but I don’t see any other references?”

“There are none, sir.  I’ve never really been in service before.  It was Mr Urquhart our vicar said to my marm that I would be best placed in service—in a ‘good berth’ as he put it— and he gave me a few weeks at the vicarage like to learn the ropes, like.  My marm said I was eating her out of house and home and I’d best shift for myself, but she didn’t mean no harm really, it were just her way of talking, like.”  When he finished this he panted for breath and then gave a dimpled smile.  He was very good looking and had nice teeth and an open but stupid countenance under a mop of blond hair.

“Which side would you take the soup plate away from, Lance?”

“I don’t rightly know, the side that I wouldn’t spill it from, I suppose.  I’d look at the other footman,” and here he was moving his hands and imagining, “and do it the same side, ’cept it would be reversed like if I was on the other side of table.”

That actually seemed to make sense so Martin pretended to write again.

“What wine would you serve with a pudding?” asked Chilvers.

“Never drunk wine; beer for me.  I’d serve whatever you said to, Mr Chilvers, and keep a sharp eye out not leave glasses empty to shame your lordship, but I’d go easy on ’em that were tiddly like,” he added.

“Could you lift a portmanteau onto a taxi roof?” asked Martin.

“If that’s a fancy suitcase sir, I could lift it easy.”  He was just about to show his muscles when Chilvers put a warning hand on him.

“And what would you say to the King?”

“Blimey, the King?  No, I wouldn’t say that, I wouldn’t talk at all unless to say ‘Your Majesty’, is that right?”  Three heads nodded and tried to imagine such a scene.  “Then I’d ask for his autograph,” they looked at him in horror.  “I was joking, your lordship; I suppose I shouldn’t make jokes when a job is on the line.  My ol’ marm will kill me.”

“Do you have any hobbies, Lance?” asked Stephen.”

“Cricket, I’m a spin bowler back in Durston— that’s near Taunton— and I like fixing things, but sometimes I makes them worse, my marm says.”

Lance was dismissed.

“On one hand, Chilvers, we have James who has excellent references, knows his job, and has that deep knowledge of wine that you were after.  He’d make a good match for Mathew because he is so thin,” said Stephen.

“Then we have Lance who is half-witted, clumsy, inexperienced and cheeky.  He has no references of any use at all,” said Stephen.

“Tell Lance he has the job” said Martin.

“Very good, your lordship,” said Chilvers wearily.

“And get him measured for a set of livery.” 

***** 

Martin went up to London just a few days before Christmas for he wanted to buy Stephen a luxury printing of The Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam with a binding by Pierre Legrain.  There was a note at Branksome House when he arrived.  Martin opened it without thinking much.  In it was a letter asking if Martin intended on dropping in to Boodles that evening.  It was signed by his brother’s old school friend, Alan Lascelles, who added that he was assistant private secretary to the Prince of Wales.  When he looked at the top of the paper it was embossed with three feathers and dated from St James Palace.

Martin hurried around; it was already quite late.  Presently he saw Lascelles, who drew Martin into a corner of the clubroom.

“His Royal Highness wishes to thank you, Martin—and Mr Knight-Poole—for your timely help recently with his Royal Highness’s brother.  We are naturally very concerned about his friendship with Mrs Allen but you were quite right in suspecting that there was a blackmail ring.”

“Were any policemen involved, Tommy?”

“Four policemen have been dismissed,” he took a sip of his whisky and was thoughtful,  “We couldn’t risk a prosecution, I’m afraid, and Captain Spencer— whom you might like to know had been discharged from the army during the War for mental instability— has unfortunately had some trouble with his papers and has returned to the United States.

“Their Royal Highnesses are most grateful to you in avoiding any complications and we thought it advisable for Prince George to return to sea; he’s on the Iron Duke in the Mediterranean.

“By the way Poole,” said Tommy, “The Prince of Wales was asking when your golf links would be opening.  He’s quite keen.”

Martin beamed. “Would he be available in April?”

“He leaves for West Africa on the 28^th of March; could it be before then?”

“Well perhaps the 25^th March?  I’ll have to hurry the workmen along.” 

To be continued….