Martin was imprisoned in the dungeon and was being slowly roasted by unseen fires and now his torturers were placing great stones on his chest, crushing the breath from his body.  There was a final, undignified assault upon his face— a wet cloth was being placed over it and he could feel the hot, foul breath of his captors. 

He woke up.  There was a border collie only inches from his face staring lovingly into his eyes with its paws on Martin’s chest.  Encouraged, it delivered another wet kiss to Martin whose arms were imprisoned under the blankets.  Spluttering, he pushed the dog away and sat up.  On Stephen’s side it was a sea of black and white, with a border collie each side of him and one curled up on his feet.

“Derby!” he shouted.  “Get off Django!” he said as he received another wet lick.

“That’s Spisene, Mala,” said Stephen who had opened his eyes.  “What’s the matter, Rinkini?” he said as he roughly patted the one on his left, who was trying to get under the blankets and was digging furiously.

“Really!” said Martin, “They have become quite impossible lately.”

“Yes, ever since Mata and Erna became pregnant they have been acting silly.  The door must not have been shut properly. They don’t mean any harm.”

“What about the smell, Derby?” said Martin who was now patting Spisene behind the ear.

“They’re dogs, Mala, they won’t mind.”  He clapped his hands and said something like, “Nash avri!” which the dogs seemed to understand and they jumped off the bed as one and trotted out into the corridor in single file.

Mata, the German princess who had become Martin’s wife and as such the new Marchioness of Branksome, and her lover, Erna Obermann, were in the early stages of their pregnancies thanks to the fecund intervention of Stephen and now, in private moments, they allowed the boys to feel their stomachs which were just slightly swollen but not yet at the stage when daily life became tiresome and when unflattering garments must be adopted.  Mata was a little off colour in the hours before lunch, but Erna displayed no such weakness and had to be restrained from undertaking vigorous activities. 

Martin’s reaction to the babies, one of which would bear his name, was seen in his lavish preparations for a nursery at each of Croome, his country seat in Dorset, and at Branksome House in Piccadilly.  At Croome the workman had been brought in to renovate three rooms— a day nursery, night nursery and an adjoining room for a nurse, which would later accommodate a nanny.  In London the old school room on the top floor required very little alteration and there was a charmingly low window that would give infants a view out into the street and across to Green Park.

Martin had been dissatisfied with the mural friezes that were available from decorators’ establishments and so The Plunger had been sent for.  Archie Craigth arrived in a very smart little Renault, a new purchase.  It was painted bright yellow, like a Paris taxi, and nipped in and out of the traffic in a natty fashion.

“And congratulations to your pa as well, Plunger,” said Martin as he opened the Renault’s door for his old friend.  “Your mother must be pleased.”

“As Punch,” said The Plunger as he removed his sketchbook from the vehicle, “she always was ambitious for a peerage rather than a ‘beerage’.  Father is determined to sit in the Lords and angle for a job— I think he’d like the Board of Trade or the Duchy of Lancaster— that would give him plenty of time to play politics.” 

Sir Gordon Craigth Bt, had been elevated to a barony and had taken the name Altnaharra because he thought it would be good for business, although as far as his son knew he had only ever been to the highland village of that name for salmon fishing twice and had, in fact, been born in Glasgow and now preferred to live in Dorking when not in Lady Eudora’s home town of Philadelphia.

Martin took The Plunger up to the old schoolroom and explained that he wanted a painted mural.  This was the easy part; the subject had yet to be agreed upon.  “Mata wants scenes from Grimm Fairy Tales and Erna wants just abstract shapes and the alphabet for educational purposes.”

“What do you and Stephen want?”

“Well, Stephen suggested sports, with a particular emphasis on boxing and cricket and I wanted scenes from Wind in the Willows.”

“They might be hard to combine.  How about scenes of London?  After all you are in the middle of it and I could make it gay and modern.”

“Sounds fine.  Go ahead.”

The Plunger measured up and made some notes then together they inspected the model train that Martin had recently purchased and, an hour and a half later, they went downstairs for cocktails. 

***** 

Buckingham Palace sent word that Queen Mary would be calling in on a certain date for afternoon tea.  This announcement sent an electric thrill through Branksome House and Glass saw it as a test of his metal and he wasn’t too proud to consult Chilvers and to order a practice run for his staff.  In the days beforehand the afternoon teas were more than usually splendid both upstairs and in the servants’ hall as M. Le Faux tested his most special pastries.  The maids, under instruction for Mrs Beck, swept, Hoovered, dusted and polished all the rooms, from the largest to the smallest, that Her Majesty might conceivably visit.

“Now whom shall we invite?” Mata asked, for naturally it was she who had received the call from her Aunt May’s lady-in-waiting.

“Well, apart from Erna, there will be Stephen and me—is that alright?”

“Of course; I want you there.”

“…and could I suggest my aunt and Lady Eudora Craigth?”

“Martin, could I ask Princess Stephanie?”

“Of course, but who is she, Mata?”

“She is my new friend; I met her at the theatre—she knew me somehow and we have had tea with her twice.”

“Is she German?”

“Yes, well no… Stephanie von Hohenlohe-Waldenburg-Schillingsfürst—it is an old Austrian title.  She is quite glamorous and has promised to help me understand the English aristocracy as she came here some years ago herself.”

“Well you princesses should form a club,” laughed Martin.  “Will you invite her husband too?”

“Oh she is divorced, Martin.”

“Then I’m terribly sorry, Mata, but you can’t present a divorced woman to your Aunt May.”

“That is so unfair!” cried Mata.  “She knows everybody and is a particular friend of Lord Rothermere of the Daily Mail.”

“Then we will certainly have her down to Croome—but I draw the line at Rothermere.  I can invite Custard Featherstonehaugh who works for him too.  Would that make up for it?”

Mata was hurt, but agreed and substituted another new friend, Maie Casey, who was visiting London from her home in Australia.  “She likes me very much, Martin, and she is quite humorous.”

“Oh I’ve met the Caseys, Mata; yes she’ll be fine and Mata…”

“Yes Martin?”

“I’m very pleased you are making friends,” he said sincerely, squeezing her hand (which was allowed under the Potsdam Agreement) “and I’m sorry about your princess.”

The day of the tea party arrived and Mata looked beautiful in a little bolero jacket with enormous fur cuffs and even Erna had scrubbed up well in a tailored suit with a white blouse and floppy silk tie.  Erna sat down and read while Mata paced the floor, despite being told to relax.

The other guests arrived first and Lady Eudora’s loud American voice came to dominate the Pink Drawing Room while Maie Casey was blunt but witty.  Aunt Maud arrived and had a guest in tow; it was Mrs Buckweet, the widow of the American Senator whom Martin and Stephen hadn’t seen since their wartime visit to St Cloud, Minnesota.

Mrs Buckweet had changed yet again.  From the bold debutante of eighteen who had set her cap at Stephen in those far off days and whose conduct at a fancy dress ball where she had gone as a milkmaid and Stephen as a Roman soldier with a distressing interest in dairying that had caused Martin much pain, she had become an unhappy but resigned wife and mother on a remote ranch outside a prairie town.  Her marriage to Senator Buckweet, a man much older than her, had been a surprise, but had provided her with a fortune as well as with a son who was now 16 and apparently enrolled at Martin’s old school.  And now she was going to launch her renovated self on London society and attempt to pick up the threads that had been broken more than twenty years before.

Martin was unaccustomed to seeing her with fashionably bobbed and waved hair and recalled with a shudder the immense hairstyles of the far off days before the War.  Mrs Buckweet arrived was very elegantly dressed and she had regained whatever of her English accent that she may have lost in Minnesota.  And she was a handsome and self-assured woman, Martin had to conclude, with some misgivings, for he feared that Stephen, sitting across from him and smiling radiantly and adjusting himself in his new blue suit, was still a pillar of temptation to adventuresses.

These worries were hastily put aside when Glass announced the arrival of Her Majesty who came into the room followed by her lady-in-waiting, Lady Airlie.  There was bowing and bobbing and Martin made the introductions, although several of the guests were no strangers to royalty.  Queen Mary sat very straight with her umbrella, which she used for support, leaning against her chair.  She took a long time to pull off her gloves and did so while conversing, asking how Lord Craigth of Altnaharra was finding the House of Lords and what Mr Knight-Poole thought of the Mersey Tunnel which she and the King had opened only a short time before.  Stephen was shocked that she should have known that he had even gone there for the ceremony, taking, once again, Carlo to his old stamping ground.

“It was a most splendid sight, Ma’am and will make a big difference to the economic development of Liverpool.”

“Indeed that was the sentiment of His Majesty’s speech.  He pointed you out when you were standing next to Sir Basil.  He said: ‘May, there’s that the fine fellow, Knight-Poole who was so brave in the War.’  I believe that you were working with the engineers from the University of London.”

“Only in the most minor of ways, Ma’am,” said Stephen who was staggered and almost thought that Queen Mary was pulling his leg.  He had gone quite pale, but felt he was expected to say something more: “I had been helping to collect information on its construction so it could be used in future projects.”

“Yes, we are indeed living in times of Great Projects which give such encouragement to our people.   At Southampton our new graving dock we opened just last year— the largest in the World— and of course in the United States, Lady Eudora I’m sure it is the same thing.”

“Very much so, your Majesty. We go in for big thinking. Why in my Pennsylvania they will spend $77 million to electrify the railroad…”

“And I hope you all saw the newsreels of our launching of the new Cunarder,” said the Queen, cutting her short and looking around for an appropriate response.  Indeed everyone had, for the resumption of work on the giant hull of ‘534’ on the Clyde which had stalled with the Depression in 1931 had at long last resumed, perhaps heralding better times ahead and the Queen Mary had been launched in a blaze of publicity.  Her Majesty then gave an account of the wet and miserable day of the launch…“and dear Lord Spong’s firm provided 20 tons of Soothing Salve for the slipway and it was so effective that the great chains had a difficult job in slowing the hull’s descent into the Clyde…”

By this time tea had been brought in by Glass and a footman and all were exercising their best manners, trying to make sure that they did not spill or slop and praying that M. Le Faux’s pastries did not suffer any structural failures and fall negligently into laps, all the while continuing with the call and response of polite conversation.

Queen Mary only obliquely referred to the delicate condition of her ‘niece’, Princess Mata, and that of Dr Obermann, if it were known at Buckingham Palace at all, was not mentioned and she moved swiftly on to the marriage of her son, Prince George, the Duke of Kent, to Princess Marina of Greece and she seemed to make one unconscious gaff after another: “…and I do hope their marriage, Lord Branksome, will be just like yours,” she said managing a tight smile.

“I’m confident it will be similar, Ma’am,” said Martin, not daring to look at Stephen or anyone else and hoping he was not being betrayed by his blushes.

Quite quickly the afternoon came to an end and Queen Mary stood and the ceremony of her pulling on her gloves began.  “This is really a charming room, Lord Branksome,” she said.

“My mother’s work, Ma’am and Sir Edwin Lutyens remodelled it.”

“Ah, dear Sir Edwin, how hard he has worked for us in Delhi.  These are really exquisite pieces of porcelain,” she said eyeing a pair of ‘salts’—those cordons that safely separated those of noble birth from the hoi polloi in less democratic times.  They were in the form of slightly sinister Chinese courtesans in pink costumes and sat on a walnut table.  “They are clearly Meissen.”

“No, Your Majesty, they are English, from Bow.  My mother collected it.”

“Well, they are very fine.  We have a cabinet at Sandringham.”

Martin sighed.  He would now have to box them up and send them to Buckingham Palace.  Glass could take them; he would enjoy the experience. 

***** 

“Now don’t make such a fuss, Martin,” said Mata.  “We’ll be perfectly alright, won’t we, Dr Markby?”

“Yes, I expect so.  You are expecting a baby, Your Serene Highness; you are not ill, but I do urge you not to exert yourself with rock climbing, swimming and steep walks.  I know Jersey and I know holiday makers.”

“Well, Dr Markby, I know Mata and Erna and they will be very anxious to put the house to rights and I’m frightened that they will be shifting furniture and exhausting themselves with decorating and shopping.”

“But we will have Gertrude, Martin, and there is the housekeeper.”

“And I will look after Mata,” said Erna.

“Of course you will, Erna,” said Martin knowing that he had no real right to act like a husband, “and I understand your desire to see the house, but you must consider your own condition.”

“Ach! It is nothing; I just waddle a bit,” said Erna as she took another helping of roast beef.

“Could Lance or Mathew go with you Mata?  They could shift furniture and carry things,” said Stephen.

“They could stay at an hotel and help you during the day,” contributed Martin. 

There was a pause in the George V Dining Room while Mata considered the offer.  She selfishly wanted St Aubin to belong just to Erna and herself— and perhaps and their babies—and for it to be an outcome of their joint efforts, just as she had delightfully found in Martin and Stephen’s house in Antibes.  Would the presence of men spoil that intimacy?

“Lance is a strong Junge, Mata; him we would find useful,” said Erna with finality.  “Could you spare him Martin?”

“Of course.”

“I have a friend, a Dr Le Sueur, in St Helier, ladies,” said Dr Markby.  “If you like I could let him know you will be on the island.”  The hushed room was magical in the candlelight reflected, as it was, off the wall of mirrors. They were seated beneath the soft glow of evening that burnished the ceiling, just like the sky in the west in the hour after the sun was lost to sight below the horizon.  The Perspex arrow swung silently to the south-east and the wind over Croome may well have passed over Jersey on its endless journey, thought Mata for a moment.

“You are all so kind and I accuse you of fussing,” said Mata, smiling, and placing a hand on each of Martin and Dr Markby.  “Thank you Dr Markby and thank you Martin.  Lance can come with us.”

When Carlo heard of the plan for Lance to accompany the women across to Jersey, his mind began working at a great pace.  He had become greatly used to the young man’s urgent visits to his room where the buttons on his livery were feverishly unfastened with trembling fingers in response to yet another frustrating Sunday afternoon with the pretty teacher of the infant class.  Carlo had come to blame himself to some extent, for it was he who had suggested that Lance court the young woman, little realising that she would hold herself quite so chaste and for such a protracted period as she had, to the frustration of the lusty young footman.  Lance himself was a good boy who would marry the girl if only to consummate his passion, but circumstances, not the least of which was his position as a mere footman and the opposition of her parents for another, made this impossible.  Hence Carlo offered some measure of relief and indeed actual release with none of the scruples of the ungrateful teacher of the infant class.

“So you are off next week to Jersey, Lance,” said Carlo wiping his face while Lance stuffed his deflating member back inside his Sunday trousers.

“Yes, the Mistress has found me a room at The Somerville which is a posh place just below their house and I’m to report to them each day; they want me to move furniture about like ladies do and to carry any heavy stuff back from St Helier.”

“Should be easy?”

“I reckon so.”  He flexed his muscles.  “I never mind liftin’ n’ carryin’ and the rest should be a holiday, like.”

“You won’t be lonely?”

“Not so that I will be paying attention to Gertrude.”  He laughed and gave a mock shudder.  “Be nice if you could come, Carlo.”

“Well, it’s funny you should say that Lance,” he said, giving him a friendly slap on his juvenile rump as his brow furrowed in thought. 

***** 

“Your lordship, I have been thinking and if you will excuse me…”

“You’re excused for thinking, Carlo, and you may do it even when I don’t give you actual permission,” replied Martin with an attempt at repartee as he lifted his chin for Carlo to do his black bow tie.

Carlo ignored this and continued:  “The railway journey to Weymouth for Her Serene Highness will be on an uncomfortable local train and then there are the two trunks to be put on the ferry— and unloaded at the other end and then on and off the little train at St Helier.

“There are porters, Carlo, and Lance will be with Her Serene Highness and Dr Obermann.”

‘But the trains!  And supposing they want to tour the island; aren’t you afraid Dr Obermann will be hiring bicycles?”

“That is a point, but I will have to leave it up to them, Carlo; I can’t interfere.”

“Now if I were to drive them down to Weymouth, well, I could help with all the luggage, like, and it would be a much more comfortable trip than on the train.”

“Possibly, Carlo, but the five of you won’t fit in your Morris 7 I shouldn’t think,” said Martin admiring his new midnight blue dinner jacket in the glass.

“But we would all fit in the Bentley, your lordship, and the ride would be very smooth for the ladies,” said Carlo from behind him as he flicked the whisk over his shoulders.

“I should let you drive my new Bentley to Weymouth and back?”

“Well, yes sir, that is about the size of it.”  Martin turned around and gave him a beady look. “And I’ve just this minute had another idea, your lordship.”

“What?”

“Well, if I was to go to Jersey as well, I could assist Lance— keep an eye on him like— and I could drive a hired motor if the Mistress had a mind to see the other parts of the island.”

“I think Dr Obermann would be more suited than you in keeping young Lance in check and if they wanted to drive they could hire a chauffeur as easily as a motorcar, Carlo, but I gather that you are anxious for a seaside holiday with Lance.”

“Well that would be nice, your lordship— I hadn’t thought of that aspect— I suppose I would be company for him and another pair of hands about the new house might be useful.”

“So I’m supposed to not only pay your extortionate wages but provide seaside holidays for you and your boyfriend.”

“Oh your lordship, Lance is not my boyfriend!  He is like a younger brother to me— he looks up to me, I might say— although very often I am looking up at him,” he added ruefully, making Martin, who was not stupid, grin.

“And my Bentley?  What will you do with it in Weymouth?”

“The AA has a very respectable garage, your lordship; it will be quite safe there until our return.”

“I see you’ve thought of everything Carlo.

“I try to give satisfaction, your lordship.”

‘To whom, me or young Lance?”

“To all I service in my humble position, your lordship.  And Mr Chilvers would be only too pleased to see to your clothes and bath, sir, and you are free to make use of my Austin 7 while we’re away.”

Martin did not think Carlo’s Austin 7 compared to his Bentley.  “I will have to speak to Mr Stephen and the ladies first Carlo.”

“The Somerville Hotel is very fine your lordship and according to the Guide has a palm garden and billiards and electric light and a very good dining room…”

“I am not paying for you to live in luxury, Carlo.  You will have only a modest room and you will have to share with Lance.”

“Of course your lordship; I was forgetting myself.”

In the end, the party for the Channel Islands departed with the inclusion of Carlo in their number.  His strategy with the trunks was unnecessary as they could be sent on ahead in the care of the railways who worked in conjunction with the shipping company and only a few suitcases needed to be carried in the Bentley when Carlo pulled slowly and carefully away from the front door where Martin, Stephen, Chilvers and Mrs Capstick stood waving farewell.  It was not until they had passed sedately through the village on the road to Wareham that he depressed the accelerator to see what the big car was capable of.

In the Green Gables tearoom, Mrs Graham was in earnest discussion with Mrs Hebden who had come in from Pendleton to do her shopping. “She’s gone to France to confront that husband of hers,” said the teashop proprietress.

“Whom is you referring to, Mrs Graham?” said Mrs Hebden who liked her tea and scones sweet, but also spiced with gossip.”

“That German one: Mrs Komorowski who calls herself Doctor Obermann yet she knew nothing about my lumbago.”

“How is it, dear?” asked Mrs Hebden sympathetically as she suffered herself from the same malady.

“Oh it ebb and flows.  It’s worse just before rain comes on but my sister said that was a lot of nonsense and that I should look to the stains on the cocoa cup for the forecast.  If they look like cumulonimbus then we’re sure to be in for a downpour.”

“Well she was right about the assassination of that King Alexander of Joogoslavia in France.”

“That weren’t in the cocoa; that were in the Marcella serviettes, Mrs Hebden.  The way that two of them just ripped in half when Janet was ironing them made my sister say: ‘There’ll be two deaths in Marseilles’ and there you are!  Just the next day came the news of the assassinations right there in that city and I was quite sorry that I had scolded Janet for being rough when all the time it were a sign for us all, if only we knew how to see them like my sister does.”

Mrs Hebden wasn’t entirely convinced and knew Janet to be a rough ironer and so Mrs Graham passed on.  “I know she has gone to France because I heard Dr Markby talking in the Post Office.  He was sending a telegram in French to someone called Le Sueur who was to look out for Mrs Komorowski who would be arriving there shortly.  I know the husband lives in France because she told me and he can’t come to England because he is a Bolshevik.  So it is only logical that she should be going to him now that she is having his baby.  She will very likely demand that he comes back with her if he’s not entangled with some Russian woman who believes in free love.”

“Do you think the authorities might let him into England if his wife is all alone and having a little one?”

“Well that would depend on whether he is an anarchist or not.  We’re all friendly with the Russians now that they is trading with us, but them anarchists is quite another matter altogether, as you would know if you read the papers.”

Mrs Hebden did not take a paper other than the South Dorset Bugle which had very little news about trade with Soviet Russia and so she changed the topic slightly and asked if Miss Pettigrew had any higher knowledge as to whether Her Serene Highness’ baby would be a boy or girl and Mrs Graham informed her that the planchette and the tealeaves and the cocoa stains had been curiously silent on this question. 

***** 

“Oh I’m sorry, Chilvers,” said Martin.  “I forgot you were coming in this morning.”  Chilvers said nothing because he was still a little shocked.  His lordship had his arms around Stephen’s neck and his legs wrapped around his waist— one of his favourite positions.  They were both naked and had slid from the bed, which was now nothing but a stained and slatternly confusion of blankets and sheets.  Stephen was leaning back slightly, steadying himself on the bedpost behind him, but with his hips thrust out and his cock deep inside Martin who was quite impaled and now trying to converse normally with his servant with the silver tray.  “Thank you for the tea.  Please put it down and would you be so kind, Chilvers, as to open that telegram and read it to me.”

“I could come back later, your lordship, when it was more convenient.” murmured the servant.

“Don’t be silly Chilvers.  I know you don’t mind us having a little fun and I won’t climb off because Mr Stephen feels particularly nice just at the moment.” 

Stephen, although he was not conceited, could admire himself in the tall pier glass that stood behind Martin and, in fact, for this reason had chosen their present position.  He could see his own muscular legs with tiny points of sweat glistening on the hairs and they were splayed for stability with only his swinging balls and the broad base of his cock visible as Martin had manfully taken the rest up his rectum which he could also see to his delight was red-lipped and stretched as wide as the 18^th hole on the golf links— or nearly so, he corrected himself, for he mustn’t fall into exaggeration which was the vice of those overly fond of their own attributes.  What a champion Martin is.

Chilvers set the tray down, keeping his eyes lowered and he slit open the telegram and extended an arm, trying not to stare, and waved it in the general vicinity of his master.

Martin released his arms and took the paper in both hands while he balanced just on Stephen’s hard cock, rather like a unicyclist in a circus.  “Don’t jig up and down, Derbs, I can’t read it.”  There was a pause.  “It’s from Mata.  They arrived safely and in just five hours.  She loves the house.  They are all well, except for Lance who was seasick.  That’s delightful news, isn’t it Chilvers?”

“Most gratifying, your lordship,” he said taking a step backwards towards the door with his eyes on the carpet.

“Would you like to stay and watch, Mr Chilvers?” asked Stephen.

“Derby!” said Martin in rebuke.  “I’m sorry Chilvers, he was simply being honest; he didn’t mean to embarrass you.”

“Gosh I’m sorry,” said Stephen, never quite able to grasp that anyone might not like to watch him.  “I’ll see you up on the roof after I’ve taken his lordship to the station, Mr Chilvers; it looks like it is sunny outside this morning.”

“I will endeavour to find twenty minutes after I have done the National Insurance stamps with Mr Myles, Mr Stephen.  You may…er…resume.”

Stephen grinned good naturedly at him as Martin clasped his hands around his neck again and Chilvers backed out of the bedroom amazed but not surprised that Stephen should have remained rock hard during the whole thing.  He looked down at his own striped trousers, bending slightly so he could see over his stomach, and there was a pleasant lump, so he decided to take the main stairs to the Great Hall rather than risk, in his aroused condition, encountering on the busy kitchen stairs, one of the servants to whom he was a demi-god and who therefore should not be sway to human weaknesses.

Chilvers was already lying on his back on a tartan blanket in the shelter of the parapet.  A close inspection of the montane landscape of the naked butler showed that he was tinged with pink from several such mornings up on the roof where it was always warm on the lead flats.

Presently Stephen came bounding through the low door like a circus horse and threw off his dressing gown and flopped down next to him.  His reverie broken, Chilvers opened his eyes.

“Good morning Mr Stephen.”

“Good morning Mr Chilvers.  Isn’t it glorious up here?  Just feel that sun soaking right through to your bones!”

“Indeed sir; not like England at all.”

There was a pause.  ‘Shop’ was not allowed discussed under the club rules and heavy fines of sixpence, or even a shilling for really serious breaches, applied to this and also to improper physical contact.  “I say Mr Chilvers,” began Stephen, “I’m awfully sorry about this morning.  I had no right to embarrass you like that; it was thoughtless.”

“Thank you, Mr Stephen.  I’m afraid I’m from an older generation and perhaps we have clung to the old ways too fast— it is the upheaval of the War I always think— or perhaps that is just an excuse.  Sex was never discussed in my day let alone seen with the lights on and indeed I read that the frank behaviour of the young people of today is now considered a ‘healthy’ development.  I suppose you laugh at me for maintaining what the weeklies refer to as ‘Victorian standards’,” said the naked butler, “but when I hear some of the things that go on in some of the other great houses— we servants do have a kind of network you see…”

“We don’t laugh at you, Mr Chilvers,” lied Stephen, who had never heard him speak so much. “What things?  Which houses?”

“Oh I couldn’t say to you sir; you’re not in the brotherhood.  You’d be too shocked.”

“You mean there are people more depraved than Martin and I?  I don’t believe it!”

“Oh sir, if only you knew what went on in Highclere Castle or Croome Court in Worchestershire.  Let me just tell you of one incident.  I won’t mention the seat or the family, sir, but let us just say that the family name would be well known in ecclesiastical circles and at the BBC.”

“Not the BBC surely?”

Chilvers nodded gravely from his blanket.  “Did I say that the Viscount lived in Buckinghamshire?  I hope I didn’t.  It was his lordship’s son from his third marriage— the one to the American vocalist— but I mustn’t mention names—well, it seems he moved in a fast crowd that doped.  It would normally have been very distressing to the Dowager Viscountess of —there, I almost divulged it—except that far from disapproving, she actually came to join in their drug-fuelled orgies— do you know what an ‘orgy’ is Mr Stephen?  I had to look up the word.  And she was more than eighty!”

“Did the servants join in?”

“It did not go that far, Mr Stephen, I’m glad to say, but the butler was questioned by the police, I heard.  Well, the whole place was like one-long house party,” continued Chilvers, “with all these terrible people there for weeks at a time and the whole place was filthy and it was then his lordship noticed that the urn that contained his father’s ashes had been moved from its position on the mantelpiece and when he lifted the lid, to his horror, he discovered that nearly all the contents had gone.”

“What had happened?” asked Stephen.

“One of the guests—a French woman—had been stealing the contents and smoking them under the impression it was cocaine!”

“Good heavens.”

“Yes, so you can see that your activities with his lordship—not that they are any of my business, but you said we were all equal up here, Mr Stephen—are nothing compared to goings on in some other houses.  As I said, it is the times.”

“I’m still sorry, Mr Chilvers, but I’m glad you’re being such a good sport about it.”  Chilvers grimaced at the expression.   There was silence for a few minutes.  “And I’m sorry about this too, Mr Chilvers,” he said.  The butler looked down to where Stephen indicated an incipient erection.  “I’m afraid it likes the sun; I can’t help it,” lied Stephen again, as he clasped his hands behind his head.

“Oh Mr Stephen, have some consideration, I beg you!” cried Chilvers in distress  “Not all of us can share your brazen attitude.”

“I’m brazen am I?”

“Well, ‘carefree’, sir —as carefree as brass,” he added.

“Shall I turn over then?” said Stephen cheekily.  He was now as hard as a rock and Chilvers could not tear his eyes away.  “Or perhaps you would join me?”

“Well, it would be a shame to waste this sun…” And within minutes the dignified butler with his Victorian values and his brazen young master were like giggling boys together as they lay stretched out on the roof, naked and flagrantly aroused. 

***** 

Not long after Mata and Erna returned from Jersey where they had fallen in love with the scenic island and their pretty house, now more firmly their own place as the result their home-making activities, it was decided to have a particularly grand weekend with shooting.  Martin invited his cousins, Philip and Constance Rous-Poole whom, if they had not heard already, would now know that Martin might well sire (in the eyes of the law at any rate) a son and heir who, as heir apparent, would outrank the heir presumptive in the person of their own boy.  Martin also invited Mrs Buckweet, not caring any longer if she should seduce his Stephen and quite confident in any case that the presence of Lady Constance would neutralise any aggressive approach.  Then he suddenly had the terrible thought that Stephen might end up in bed with both of them, but it was too late, for Mathew had just taken the invitations to the post. 

To make up for the tea with Queen Mary, an invitation was sent to Princess Stephanie and, as Mrs Casey had returned to Australia, the romantic novelist, Elinor Glyn— now, at 70, a figure from the Edwardian age— was also invited.  Mata and Erna had met the author of the scandalous Three Weeks on Jersey where she had a house and she was coming with her sister, Lady Duff-Gordon, better known as the dressmaker ‘Lucile’, who had just written a sensational memoir.  It was thus the personalities of the women that it was hoped would prevent the weekend from being dull.

There had not been an organised shoot on such a scale for several years and Martin’s guests were joined by members of the local gentry, such as Sir Bernard Bonnington and Lady Bonnington, who was a better shot than even Mr Destrombe.  Mr Harkness from the Home Farm was also invited as it was he that would be most inconvenienced by the shooting on his land.  There was a plentiful supply of game birds this year in view of the good season and on the wetter ground there were brown ducks and snipe.

As always, however, the highlight was the splendid lunch brought out in the trap and served with great ceremony by Chilvers and the two footmen.  There was plenty to drink and Martin’s cousin, Philip Rous-Poole, who had bagged a dozen birds before the repast, became progressively more inaccurate in his gunfire and narrowly missed a beater, struck a wicker hamper causing considerable damage, and fired a shot that just missed one of Stephen’s dogs.

Martin had never seen Stephen so furious; he stalked over to his cousin and towered menacingly over him.  Martin could not hear the words that were exchanged, but it ended with Stephen seizing the weapon and banishing Philip to the brake where he had to sit with the ladies who had come out but declined to shoot.

Martin found himself with Custard on a patch of poor ground covered with bronze bracken.  Some partridges rose and they each fired off a shot but to no avail.  “I say Poole,” began Custard, “you do know about your friend Princess Stephanie, don’t you?”

“I’ve never met her before this weekend, but Mata knows her.”

“From Germany?”

“No, nothing like that; they only met a couple of months ago at the theatre,” said Martin reloading.  Custard fired off a shot at nothing in particular and Martin thought he had better follow suit.  “What do you mean ‘know about her’?”

“Well, she’s in thick with Rothermere.  He pays her £5000 a year as a retainer.”

“That’s a lot of money, Custard.  She must be a good reporter or else his mistress.”

“Keep this under your hat, Poole, but no, neither.  She has been paid to introduce Rothermere to all the influential people in Germany and that’s why he writes such favourable stuff in the Daily Mail and I suspect that the Germans are also paying her to butter up men like Rothermere.”

“So are you saying she is a Nazi spy, Custard?” said Martin now giving his chum his undivided attention.

“I suppose I am, but there’s worse.”  He looked up and saw the two princesses were at that moment heading in their direction.  “Could you come round to my place on Thursday?” he said quickly.  “Bring Stephen.” 

***** 

It was with some trepidation that Martin pressed the bell at Custard’s luxury flat in Half Moon Street the following week.  Keable, his servant, showed Martin and Stephen in.

“Look, Poole, what I’m going to tell you is for your own protection—I don’t know all of it but I’ve invited someone—a good friend—who knows a bit more and even he hasn’t got everything.”  He gave them drinks and they waited. 

1934 had begun with the Daily Mail sensationally publishing an editorial headed: ‘Hurrah for the Blackshirts’ and Custard told them he was disgusted at the stance his employer’s newspaper had taken, although he himself was not involved in political reporting, but he made it clear he had no time for the New Germany or Sir Oswald Mosley’s Fascists.  “Mosley pretends to be one of us, Poole, but he’s not.  I’m not even sure if he believes in what he says, but is merely in love with his own image and ambitious to be some sort of British dictator, but he and Rothermere have got one thing going for them over Macdonald’s government.”

Martin and Stephen said that they could not imagine what such a thing could be and so Custard continued: “Both men believe in the rearmament of Britain and in the appeasement of Hitler— giving them back their territories, cancelling reparations and that sort of thing; but Macdonald’s lot only believe in appeasement and are still wedded to reductions in the navy and disarmament and naively believe or live in hope that the others do too.  How can we negotiate with Stalin, Hitler, Mussolini and the rest from a position of weakness?  It’s one thing to want to avoid another war; it’s quite another to be incapable of fighting one.”

“But we mustn’t ever have another war,” said Stephen, “the last one…”

“I know Stephen, but we will have another war if we do not back up the desire for peace with some muscle to frighten those who are looking for an opportunity.  The Germans think we’re weak and are using our natural desire to avoid another war to strengthen their arm; they have absolutely no intention of limiting the size of their air force and army, despite what they say.”

Stephen was thinking hard on this when Keable announced Arthur Peuchen, a photographer from the Rothermere Press.  A tall fair man with a toothbrush moustache came into the room and shook hands.  Then to their surprise he kissed Custard.

“He is my boyfriend,” announced Custard as they both looked for a reaction.  Martin and Stephen merely murmured ‘how nice’ and ‘congratulations’.

“Vivian has told me a great deal about you both,” said the visitor.  Stephen was taken aback, for he had quite forgotten that Custard had a proper and more dignified name. 

Custard saw this and laughed.  “I will be Lord Delvees one day when grandfather is gone and I’ll have to keep you hidden, Arthur.  I doubt that we can pull off what Martin and Stephen have achieved.”

“You will have to take on your grandfather’s role as my godfather, Custard, and see to my moral welfare.”

“Lost cause.”

There was some general chatter and cigarettes before they got down to business.  “I was with Rothermere just a few weeks ago when he met Hitler,” said Peuchen, exhaling and tipping the ash into a Bakelite tray.  “I didn’t know what to make of him. He seemed rather ordinary to me and I can’t say that I found his eyes hypnotic or Rasputin-like.  Of course I have no way of telling how he sounds to the German ear, but he did seem to speak in long and complicated sentences and all those around him just seemed to hang upon his words.”  He continued with his impressions as he pulled some photographs from his pocket.  “There’s Rothermere and Mrs Goebbels; that’s General Goering and his girlfriend; Rothermere with Hitler and the translator; there…”

“That’s Princess Stephanie!” exclaimed Martin at a photograph of a woman in a glamorous gown talking to Hitler and Rothermere, “perhaps she is translating for them.”

“Yes, she seemed to be the only one who could have a proper conversation with Herr Hitler; he actually looked at her and listened and she seemed unrestrained—unlike the rest.”

“Good God!” said Stephen when they came to a group shot taken in some vast and chilly chamber.  “See who’s there between that square-looking man and Princess Stephanie.”

The square-looking man was Rudolph Hess, a top Nazi, but the other man was none other than Count Osmochescu.”

“Do you know him?” asked Peuchen.  “He spoke English but was Rumanian or Hungarian or something.”

Martin confessed he did and then Peuchen proceeded to another group of photographs taken in London.  “Do you know her?”

“No,” said Martin, passing the snap to Stephen who replied the same.

“She’s Mrs Ernest Simpson, an American.”  This meant nothing to the boys.  “She is the mistress of the Prince of Wales.”

“Oh,” said Stephen.  “I thought that was Lady Furness— I know he likes married ladies.”

“No, she’s the new one and she has her husband with her in London—her second husband mind you; here he is,” he said, handing over a photograph of a slightly Jewish-looking man dressed ever so slightly like a stage Englishman.

“And here is Mrs Simpson with the Princess.  They live in the same block of flats in Bryanson Square,” said Peuchen with a sinister undertone.

“Well I don’t see that that means anything,” said Martin stiffly, “lots of people must live there.  Have you a photograph of Mr and Mrs Simpson eating strudel with Herr Hitler?” asked Martin sarcastically.

“What Arthur is saying, Poole,” said Custard slightly annoyed, “what we are both saying, is that you must be careful of Princess Stephanie and tell your wife to be careful.”

“Really Custard!  My wife must make up her own mind about who her friends are.  In fact if I forbade her to see her then it would likely make things worse.” 

Stephen put his hand on Martin’s arm.  He had been disquieted by Custard’s earlier concise summary of British foreign policy and was now prepared to see the worst in others—particularly in princesses who hobnobbed with dictators and American mistresses of heirs to the throne.

“We understand,” said Stephen speaking for both of them, “and we thank you for the efforts you have taken, Arthur.  I hope you won’t get into trouble.”

“I’m always on the verge of strife, Stephen,” said Peuchen now sitting on the arm of Custard’s chair with his arm about him.  “If Rothermere knew I was a socialist I’d lose my job.  It’s also best that he doesn’t know about Vivian here either,” he said with a grin.  “I’ll just say one more thing:  If you are interested in knowing more, I think I know of someone who can tell you.  He is a communist, so you might not like to know him socially, but he is a doctor here in London— down in Rotherhithe.”  He wrote a name and address on his card and gave it to Stephen. “He’s a good fellow, Martin, and is concerned for the Jews in Germany.  Like me, he longs for a better world.”

“Well, we all want that,” conceded Martin, hoping that he hadn’t been too rude and then they fell to talking about other, more pleasant matters and Keable came with champagne and they all got a little bit tight and were laughing at the prospect of one day Martin and Custard sitting in the House of Lords together and acting as if they were still in school.  This lead to them singing a silly song by Gilbert and Sullivan and when Martin looked at the clock he found that it was well past the hour for decent departure and that he was sitting with his arm around Peuchen while Custard, on the other couch, was feeling Stephen’s biceps with one hand and had the other inside his trousers.  It was time to go.

Nothing was said about Princess Stephanie the next day and then the following one was devoted to two of Martin’s board meetings, but on the third day it was Martin himself who said that he wanted to go to Rotherhithe, perhaps prompted by the reports on the BBC of doings in far off Germany.

Martin consulted Peuchen’s instructions while Stephen unfolded a new map of the Underground.  Rotherhithe was on the Surrey side of the river and to get there necessitated changing at Charing Cross and at Whitechapel.  The district was a very poor one and Martin was glad he had not taken his Bentley.  They walked along Lower Road until they came to a hospital— St Olaves near the town hall.  By the look of it, the hospital had begun life as a workhouse infirmary.  They decided to wait in a nearby park until Dr Rosen’s clinic was likely to be finished and Martin turned over in his mind what he would say.

At last they thought the time was right and found the clinic on the ground floor.  Dr Rosen was running late and still had half a dozen patients to see, said the nurse as she took Martin’s card and the one from Peuchen.  She returned in a minute and bade them wait, which they did, sitting on a hard bench and looking quite out of place among poor women with unruly children, a young mother with her babe and a toothless old man with a puss-stained bandage on his shin.  One by one they were called in and Martin and Stephen slid up the bench to be closer to the door, but it was quite pointless really.  It was nearly 7 o’clock when at last they were admitted.  Dr Rosen was a tall and painfully thin young man, perhaps in his mid-thirties, Martin estimated, and he was markedly stooped when he stood to shake their hands and peer at them through a pair of owlish horn-rimmed spectacles.

“Dr Rosen,” began Martin after he had thanked him for seeing them, “I have been told to apply to you by Arthur Peuchen for more information on Her Serene Highness Princess Stephanie von Hohenlohe-Waldenburg…”

“…Schillinsfürst,” completed Stephen to Martin’s relief.

“This lady has befriended my wife and I would hate to see my wife wounded should this friendship be based on any falsity…”

“Because your, wife, Lord Branksome, is Her Serene Highness Princess Mata von Mecklenberg-Weid-Neuweid- Streliz and has only recently come as a refugee to this country and is, at this moment, expecting your first child,” completed Dr Rosen as he took his stethoscope from about his neck and packed it away into its leather case for the night.

“Why yes,” exclaimed Martin, “but how did you know?  And I wouldn’t exactly call her a refugee; she came here as my wife from Berlin.”

Dr Rosen didn’t respond but gave a little smile.  “I believe that she has every reason not to be a supporter of Hitler and his New Germany, is that not correct?”

“Yes, it is— although Mata is not really interested in politics.”

“And her Jewish friend, Dr Obermann?”

Martin was too shocked to react but simply said: “Obviously even less reason.”

“I was born in this country, Lord Branksome— right here in London, but I have lived in Germany and in Russia and a great many other places before returning here.  Peuchen would have told you that I am a member of the Communist Party.”  Martin nodded.  “I held great hope for Communism as being the saviour of this sorry world; the great moral force that would oppose fascism and authoritarian rule.”

“You said ‘held’, Dr Rosen,” interjected Stephen.  “You do not feel that way now?”

“I do not like the way the Soviet experiment has gone under Comrade Stalin and I have seen things in Russia that would make you sick to the stomach; things that Mr George Bernard Shaw and Lady Astor did not see.”

“Stalin is no better than Hitler or Mussolini,” said Martin.

“Or Oswald Mosley?  Could fascism ever have a polite British face?”

This question was left unanswered and Dr Rosen asked them to walk home with him.  It was a long walk along Rotherhithe Street, which threaded its way between the Thames and the Surrey Commercial Docks and it was lined by high brick walls, enormous warehouses, timber yards and tenement houses of the poorest type.  Washing was festooned across the road and whole families utilised the street for their front room.

Rosen was a good talker once he had begun and, as he pushed his thin frame through the streets, he told them about his experiences in Russia, the famine he saw there and the cult of dictator that had grown up around Stalin.  “He’s worse than any Tsar!” exclaimed Stephen at one point.  Rosen continued and gave his assessment of the Nazis and Hitler. 

“But with Stalin being so ruthless and evil, surely the Nazis can be useful in protecting us from Bolshevism,” said Martin.

“That is what their propaganda says and people like your Princess Stephanie dress it up in smart clothes, but Hitlerism is evil too— it is an evil creed whereas Marxism has simply been corrupted under the dictator Stalin— the core of it remains pure.”

Martin did not really believe this but he said nothing and noted Rosen’s sincerity.  He had all the signs of a religious man whose faith was being sorely tested.

“We cannot go on living like this,” said Rosen as he directed their attention to the squalor of the neighbourhood.  “The tremendous wealth of this country comes from the sweat of these poor, sick people down here.”  Indeed the worst cottage on Martin’s estate was a palace compared to the best of these terraces that opened directly onto the road and he knew they were divided up among many desperate families within their grimy walls. 

At last they came to a public house—The Blacksmith’s Arms.  It was a delightful old half-timbered structure backing on to the Thames and Martin pictured Mr Pickwick’s coach pulling up at its door.  “This is my place,” said Rosen, “I find it convenient now that my wife is dead.”

Stephen and Martin stole a glance at each other following this remark but said nothing and followed him inside.  They ordered some dinner and drank beer and Dr Rosen entertained them with amusing stories from the annals of his local patients.  Martin liked this side of him and was glad that he wasn’t always serious and gloomy.  The Princess was not, however, mentioned and neither of the boys wanted to be the first to raise her name so they waited until Rosen took them up the blackened timber stairs to the pair of crooked rooms he occupied that looked out over the Thames through latticed panes.  It was a remarkable view even at night.  Dr Rosen made them some coffee in a little pot that he placed on a spirit lamp.  He produced some kummel and appropriate glasses.  Martin had expected the room to be untidy but it wasn’t.  It was certainly filled with books and curiosities but it was the product of an orderly mind. 

Without any preliminaries Rosen took out an envelope from a locked drawer and handed it to Martin.  Inside were pages written in German accompanied by a list of names.  With a start Martin realised that the names were English.  He tried to decipher the text and passed it to Stephen.   “‘Leading Figures in British Society who are Friendly’,” he read.  They both scanned the list.  To Martin’s horror there was his own name quite early on.  “‘im Zusammenhang mit Familie von Oettingen-Taxis’,” read Stephen aloud.

“I am, but I’m not friendly towards Germany.  Why, they questioned me about an unfriendly letter I wrote to a newspaper when I was there just this year!”

“These Nazis are stupid when it comes to understanding other people and other nations,” said Rosen, “almost none of the top Nazis have ever been outside the country and they are apt to base a whole policy on just scraps of information.  They always assume that the aristocracy and the Royal Family actually run the government and exercise much hidden influence.  Look down here,” said Rosen

. 

“Mrs Ernest Simpson,” read Martin  “What does Mätresse mean?” he asked.

“It means ‘mistress’— they know she is the Prince’s mistress.  And see, they say her husband is a Jew,” said Stephen.

Martin looked down the list.  There were many names he knew.  There was Lord Lothian and Lord Londonderry, the Astors, Lord Halifax, Lord Mount-Temple (with a note that his wife was a Jewess), Lady Cunard, and Lord Rothermere.  Interspersed, curiously, were many from Boodles whom Martin knew for certain believed that the only good Hun was a dead one.  It was both alarming and silly.

“Where did you get this Rosen?” asked Martin at last.

“A friend, one Yanov, left it with me just before he was called back to Russia.  He was NKVD but he’ll be dead now if he’s lucky or in a labour camp in Siberia if he’s not.  His whole family will suffer the same fate.”

“But why?”

“After you’ve been outside of Russia for any length of time you are no longer trusted—you’ve been corrupted by counter-revolutionary ideas and someone informs on you and there is nothing you can do.  They can even assassinate you here, such is their reach.”

“Aren’t you afraid?” asked Stephen.

“They don’t know about me and I’m British.  When I give these to you I will have no evidence.”

“You’re giving these to us?” asked Martin in horror.

“Yes, our government can use them in the fight against fascism and the Russians would probably only use them for blackmail.  Wait, there’s more.”

“But why to me, Rosen?” insisted Martin, his voice rising.  “You could sell these if you were so inclined.”

“You still don’t recognise me Lord Branksome?”

“No, should I Dr Rosen?”

“Do you not remember, before the War, when you made a visit to Toynbee Hall with Miss Foxton?  I think it was your first visit and you came into the library…”

“Why yes… and you were the boy with the tin spectacles reading a thick medical book!” cried Martin recalling the scene.

“Yes, and I must return that copy of Grey’s Anatomy to Toynbee Hall one day.”

“Good heavens,” said Martin almost speechless and then he gathered his thoughts.  “Miss Foxton said you were very clever but you said that you would end up selling potatoes like your father.  We walked along Fashion Street and she pointed out where you lived…”

“And she convinced you to give scholarships.”

“Why yes, and the Trust still does.  Did you receive one?  My memory is so poor.”

“I did and I studied in London and then more scholarships took me to Europe and, well, you know something of the rest because I’ve talked a lot tonight.”

Martin sat back in his chair.  His eyes were shining and he was trying to make sense of it all and kept repeating ‘Well, well!’ at intervals until he found both men laughing at him.

Isador Rosen poured out more kummel and produced another envelope.  “I think that either the Princess produced that list or, more likely, it was compiled by others in Berlin for her to operate from.  I’d say that it is no accident that she met your wife at the theatre, Lord Branksome that is almost certain.”

“And I suppose she cultivates as many of the upper class as she can,” said Stephen, “even if some of her seed falls upon stony ground.”

“These papers are copies of the reports of her contact with Mrs Simpson,” said Rosen handing the second envelope over.  Martin did not bother to try to read the German but he recognised the Prince’s name and that of Herr von Ribbentrop, the German minister who had lately been in Britain talking up Anglo-German friendship.

“Then there’s this one,’ said Rosen handing over a third envelope.  “It is about Mrs Simpson herself.”  Where it came from was uncertain as it was written in English, but with certain Americanisms in the text.

“Who’s this man?” asked Martin looking a photograph pinned to the first page.  The snapshot seemed to have been taken in the Orient.  There was a woman who might have been Mrs Simpson a few years before wearing a silk dress with dragons on it. On her left were some Chinese people and on her right was a good-looking man with dark hair.

Stephen didn’t know but Rosen said that he thought it was Count Ciano, the Italian foreign minister.  Martin shrugged.  “She seems well connected.” Then they came upon personal information: firstly about the husbands-— the first being a naval officer named Warfield who was a drunk and whom she divorced for Ernest Solomon, whom it was noted, had changed his name to the less Jewish sounding ‘Simpson’. Then came the men with whom Mrs Simpson had affairs but whose names meant nothing to the boys.  “Look at this Derby, it claims Mrs Simpson learnt the ‘arts of love’ in Shanghai.”  They delved further into this salacious document, sitting closer together.

“You can do that, Mala,” said Stephen quietly.

“Can I Derbs?”

“Yes, and you’re very good at it and this one too,” he said pointing to another place on the page.”

“Well here’s one you’re good at Derbs; we’ll have to get you and this lady together.”

Stephen beamed but this was cut short by a cough from Dr Rosen.

“There’s a final one.  I’d stay sitting down.”

It was a report— a medical report from a doctor in Bubbling Well Road, which was presumably in Shanghai.  It was in a mixture of plain English and anatomical language.  As one they quickly began to read and Rosen saw both their mouths open in amazement.  In unison they turned to each other for a moment and then returned to the page, which riveted their attention.  At last they looked back to Dr Rosen and Martin, finding it difficult but speaking for both of them said:  “Dr Rosen, it says here that this Mrs Simpson is in actual fact…” Martin found himself stupefied.

“That Mrs Simpson is really a man!” completed Stephen. 

To be continued…