Mr Campion's War

Prologue

Hôtel Beauregard, Mentone, Alpes-Maritime, Zone of Italian Occupation. February 1942

M. Étienne Fleurey had been a person of some importance in the self-contained world of the Hôtel Beauregard: the master of all he surveyed; an emperor who knew every bottle, knife, fork, towel, napkin, cocktail stick and fruit bowl in his empire and their exact strategic disposition at any given time. That, however, was before the war. Now he was little more than a flunky performing tasks which would have previously been delegated, with great and serious ceremony at a morning roll call, to a phalanx of smartly laundered busboys, housemaids, bellhops and waiters.

The defeat of France by the Germans in the north had given Signor Mussolini the chance to extend his greedy fingers in the south, to clutch at Savoy and Nice, and for a thankfully brief period in June 1940, Mentone had been in the front line of the fighting. The Beauregard had been fortunate. It had not suffered from the shells and mortar bombs which had destroyed the Hôtel Rives D’Azur and the nearby Majestic Bar; indeed, calamities such as those would, in peacetime, have been seen as good for business. But if the war had reduced the local competition, the price paid had been a concomitant reduction in both staffing levels and clientele.

Staff at the Beauregard, as with many hotels along the Riviera, had always been drawn from the bubbling cosmopolitan stew-pot of French, Italian and North African stock. The coming of war had seen the younger French employees, following patriotic impulses of one sort or another, decamp for ‘Vichy’ – the unoccupied southern half of France, which nodded allegiance to the German invaders but had, so far, avoided giving them house-room – whereas those of Italian stock had forsaken the Beauregard’s kitchens and wine cellar to proudly serve Il Duce, and those of North African origin had scampered to Marseilles, seeking a passage to Algiers or Tunis in the mistaken belief that the war would not cross the Mediterranean.

The war had left M. Fleurey with few reliable staff, a host of additional tasks and duties to perform personally and, most depressing of all, a much-reduced clientele in terms of both quantity and quality. M. Fleurey longed passionately for the days when the hotel’s lobby and cocktail bar bubbled with the refined chatter of young English voices, always polite if occasionally too loud, for the English had discovered Mentone and taken it and the Beauregard to their hearts. Up until that fateful late summer of 1939, the young English lords and ladies (as M. Fleurey referred to them with pre-revolutionary deference) had arrived in convoys of open-topped touring automobiles, each with more equipment, it seemed, than the invading Italian Alpine Corps troops who replaced them the following season.

Now all M. Fleurey had to remind him of those golden days was a Lost Property cupboard stuffed with forgotten tennis racquets, discarded woollen swimwear, parasols, two bags of golf clubs, a picnic hamper, a wind-up gramophone and a dozen records, numerous garishly jacketed novels by an author called Francis Beeding (whose publisher insisted the reader would ‘Sit up all night’ with), two ukuleles with broken strings, a guitar with no strings at all, a trombone slide but no trombone, and at least five leather rugby balls – the latter being explained by the determination of visiting English males to play the game in the town where the Reverend William Webb Ellis was buried.

But that was not quite all, for M. Fleurey, a dedicated Anglophile, had also retained a series of photographs of his most distinguished English visitors – the ones who had always been polite, returned for several years running and whose accounts were always settled promptly, with generous gratuities. M. Fleurey had a gallery of such framed photographs hanging on the wall of the mahogany-lined sanctum which he called his office, the one place of peace and privacy he had managed to retain while the rest of the hotel was, in the main, given over to the Italian army and naval officers and their mistresses, many of whom, Fleurey was ashamed to admit, spoke in the Mentonasc dialect.

That night, however, he had three legitimate guests, which is to say paying customers who were not likely to require any of the more delicate, and unadvertised, services usually provided by the housekeeping staff in the dead of night.

They had arrived late in the evening, on the last train from Genoa, and had been urged towards the Beauregard by the Italian military policeman on duty at the station, who would no doubt be calling on Fleurey in the morning for his ‘commission’. They were an unlikely trio, dressed in civilian clothes of good quality but in need of cleaning and pressing, and gave the impression that they had been reluctant travelling companions, for they regarded each other uneasily and seemed anything but relaxed in each other’s company.

Their papers were spectacularly in order: two Frenchmen and one German, all with addresses in Marseilles. The younger of the Frenchmen – a tall, strongly built man of hard muscle and unblinking eyes, who spoke with a thick Corsican accent – demanded a double room with twin beds and specified that only one room key was required. His older companion, a smaller, balding man in his mid-forties, avoided eye contact with anything except his own dusty shoes and spoke not a word. He was, Fleurey guessed, an ‘Israelite’ – a French Jew – and oddly seemed warier of his Corsican companion than he was of the German, who spoke good French and courteously asked if the hotel kitchen could find them something to eat.

Fleurey himself prepared and served them a dinner of fish soup and what his English guests in happier days would have insisted on calling ‘cold cuts’ (Étienne was fond of most things Anglais but did draw the line at their culinary skills), and took some relief in the knowledge that, not being Italian, his guests would not complain about the quality of the wine he provided.

As they ate, Fleurey observed them through a peephole in his office; on his side a discreet sliding frame in the wood panelling, on the lounge side an unremarkable small round window high enough up the wall to be, it seemed, redundant.

The curious hotel manager, who was now also concierge, cook, waiter and sommelier, did not find his new vocation as a spy particularly rewarding, for he could see but not hear. Not that the three travellers seemed remotely interested in engaging in energetic debate or even polite conversation, although it did appear that the German, who had registered under the name Dr Haberland, was the only one making any attempt at conviviality.

Their sparse dinner devoured, the two Frenchmen, with the Corsican thug taking the lead, stood up abruptly and left the German at the table. M. Fleurey slid back the cover of his peephole and attended to his duties, collecting plates and glasses and apologizing to the remaining guest for not being able to offer coffee. The German, Dr Haberland, gave a suitably Gallic shrug of his broad shoulders, told Fleurey not to distress himself, and then concentrated on smoking a small, pungent black cheroot.

M. Fleurey paused on his way to the kitchen to make sure – for old habits die hard – that the two Frenchmen were climbing the stairs to their bedroom and requiring nothing further. The thought struck him that the young Corsican one was escorting rather than accompanying the older one up the stairs, but he put it out of his mind and made a perfunctory assault on the washing up.

If his German guest did not require his attention, then he too would retire for the night, but on his return to the lounge he found it empty and the door to his office ajar. Biting back his outrage at such an invasion of his sanctum, remembering of course that the Germans had recently proved themselves expert invaders, he approached his office door. His straining ears picked up a stream of guttural German and then the loud click of a telephone receiver being replaced.

‘May I be of assistance, m’sieur?’ he announced from the doorway.

The German turned to face him, blissfully unconcerned at being discovered.

‘Forgive me, M’sieur Fleurey, for appropriating your telephone,’ said Dr Haberland. ‘I was making my transport arrangements for the morning. There will be a car coming at eight o’clock to take me to Marseilles.’

‘Your journey has been … disrupted, I suspect,’ said Fleurey, examining the face of the soft-spoken interloper in detail for the first time since his arrival.

‘You could say that,’ said the German with a resigned smile. ‘Our ship was warned of the presence of enemy submarines and so we were diverted to Genoa under the protection of the gallant Italian air force. Consequently, we had to impose on your hospitality for a night.’

‘It is no imposition, I assure you. It is a pleasure to have guests who are not in uniform.’

Instinctively the small Frenchman bit his tongue. These days one had to be careful what one said and to whom, but the word ‘uniform’ had escaped from his brain because the tall, athletic man before him would surely be as comfortable in a uniform as he was in his crumpled linen suit. With his clean facial features and his sharp blue eyes, he exuded the self-confidence often automatically thought of as arrogance among Germans. There was no doubt he would be considered a handsome man by the female of the species, and there was every indication that he was well aware of the fact. The only blemish that Fleurey could see – and he was a man who saw many every morning in the shaving mirror – was a livid purple scar some four centimetres long which snaked down the left side of his nose from the bridge almost to his upper lip.

‘These must be difficult times for you, m’sieur,’ said Dr Haberland, with a slight deferential nod, ‘and not as life was before the uniforms came.’

The German pointed a finger along the line of framed photographs on the office wall, each one showing a group of happy faces smiling from bar, from beach, from harbour wall, outside St Michel Archange, inside the Jardin Serre de la Madone, or from around a well-stocked table into a camera.

‘They were happy days,’ Fleurey said wistfully.

‘Your visitors were mostly English?’ the German asked, but there was no threat in his question. Not yet, at least.

‘Many of them, yes. It is fair to say we were popular with the young English. Some would come every year and we got to know them quite well.’

Dr Haberland’s tracking finger paused, indicating one photograph in particular which showed four men in blazers, flannels and white, open-necked shirts, strolling on the beach, their arms looped over each other’s shoulders, their legs outstretched as if in a chorus line. They were middle-aged men, not boys, but they all had youthful, almost innocently foolish expressions as they grinned – no, the word they had taught Fleurey was ‘gurned’, though he had no idea what it meant – into the lens.

‘Were those four regular visitors?’ asked the German conversationally.

‘They had stayed here before,’ said Fleurey, ‘individually, that is, but I believe they were friends in England and perhaps two or three times they had holidays here together, or with their wives or girlfriends. They were all very pleasant gentlemen.’

‘Have you thought that these pleasant gentlemen will all now be wearing uniforms?’

Fleurey shrugged his shoulders and opened the palms of his hands. ‘I had not considered that, m’sieur. It is something I find difficult to comprehend.’

The German’s finger closed in on the photograph like a slow-moving arrow, indicating one of the four happy faces shown, the tallest and thinnest of the group, with a shock of unkempt fair hair and large, round-framed spectacles.

‘He for one’ – said Dr Haberland with certainty – ‘will certainly be serving his king and country in some capacity by now, take my word for it.’

Étienne Fleurey knew that for reasons he could not explain he should be worried and that mental alarm bells should be ringing, but instead he was consumed with curiosity.

‘Do you, perhaps, know that gentleman?’ he asked, determined to keep any trepidation out of his voice.

‘Oh, yes,’ said the German, and his hand moved, index finger still extended, until it was pointing at the scar wriggling down his face. ‘He gave me this.’

ONE

Birthday Boy

The Dorchester Hotel, London. 20 May 1970

It was said by almost all who knew him that the war had changed Mr Albert Campion.

It was as if the air of exuberant gayness he had worn in the 1930s, rather like a loud and vulgar waistcoat, had been exchanged, after 1945, for a more sober, sombre frame of mind, grey and austere enough to fit perfectly with the changing times. Mr Campion’s supporters always maintained that this was the necessary psychological camouflage for a man who had made a career of not being noticed emerging into a new world.

Of the guests, mostly distinguished, who gathered at the Dorchester Hotel to celebrate his seventieth birthday, there were some who had seen the transformation at first hand, some who had suspected that a change in his character had taken place due to his embarking on both marriage and fatherhood in wartime, and there were those blissfully too young to have known Mr Campion before the war, or indeed the war itself.

Knowing that on such an august occasion his guests would demand a speech from him (much as an angry village mob made demands, though without the pitchforks and torches), Mr Campion had taken the precaution of making a few notes. Confident that at least some of his audience would appreciate his nod towards Horace’s famous Ab ovo usque ad mala dictum, he intended that his personal life-menu from egg to apple would sweep gloriously from being a child of the Victorian era to a New Elizabethan pensioner. Along the way he would note numerous cultural and social milestones. The Wright brothers for one, or rather two, must certainly be mentioned, having started the craze of men flying which had culminated, last year, with man making a firm boot-print on the moon. The BBC, Campion was sure, was bound to be accepted sooner or later as a cultural institution, despite its diversification into television, a popular drug which really ought to be available only on prescription, and he really must make a point of thanking Al Jolson for inventing talking pictures, Mr Disney for the gift of Technicolor and the Duke of Ellington for providing the soundtrack.

‘I don’t think you are taking this seriously,’ said Amanda.

‘A leopard can’t change his stripes,’ rumbled Mr Lugg.

‘Don’t you encourage him! He really has to learn that music hall is dead and he doesn’t have to play the fool. All the people at this party know what you’re like and they’ve come because they love or respect you, not to suffer your end-of-the-pier act.’

Mr Campion smiled fondly at his wife.

‘I notice you said love or respect, inferring that I am not entitled to both. So if I cannot persuade our guests to love me for my witty patter, do you think I can gain their respect by pointing out that I have, so far, lived under six monarchs and fifteen different prime ministers, perhaps sixteen if I can hang on until the election next month? Or are they just coming for the cake? There will be cake, won’t there? I only agreed to have a birthday on condition there was cake.’

‘Yes, there will be cake,’ Lady Amanda relented and smiled, ‘with thick white icing strong enough to stand on.’

‘And marzipan, I ’ope. A proper birthday cake ’as a good half-inch underlay of marzipan.’

The Campions looked at the bald fat man, both of them thinking that the mere mention of cake, icing and marzipan should by rights have turned the straining buttons on Lugg’s starched white shirt into death-dealing projectiles and his bow-tie into a garrotte.

‘Haven’t you got an elsewhere to be?’ Mr Campion suggested airily as Lady Amanda tied his bow-tie for him, her delicate fingers manipulating the back silk as skilfully as a pair of spiders cooperating on the perfect web. ‘Downstairs, in the party room perhaps? Surely there must be minions to intimidate, spoons to count, napkins to fold, guests to insult; things like that.’

Lugg’s Easter Island statue of a head trembled in mock indignation, an expression the Campions were all too familiar with.

‘I fort I was an ’onoured guest at this shindig, not being a flunky as per usual,’ grumbled the fat man. ‘But since you’re taking your own sweet time getting dressed and having your hair done, I don’t mind doing a bit of meeting-and-greeting downstairs while you keep the crowds waiting.’

‘I won’t be long,’ said Campion, deliberately running the fingers of his right hand through his still luxuriant, if white, hair, ‘but when you do have a good head of hair …’

‘All right, don’t rub it in,’ grumbled Lugg, noticing in the mirror in front of which Campion was preening that the room’s overhead lights were producing a reflective glow from his bald pate.

‘You could go and say hello to the guests, I suppose, as long as you don’t start frisking them or chucking bricks at any you don’t like the look of.’

‘We expecting the usual suspects, then?’

Mr Campion turned sideways on to the mirror, appreciating both the slim figure inside the sleek dinner suit and the slender arms of his wife around his shoulders.

‘They’re a motley crew but you’ll know most of them, although there are one or two guests arriving from the Continent from whom I have successfully managed to conceal your existence for many years.’

‘Foreigners, eh? I might have known,’ muttered Lugg, making no attempt to hide his distaste; not at nationality but at being kept in ignorance.

‘There will be an important French lady, a German gentleman and two ladies of Spain, so best behaviour, please.’

‘And ’ow will I recognize ’em?’

‘As they are neither family of mine nor friends of yours, they will be the ones standing politely to one side, behaving themselves, not shouting for a waitress and demanding more aperitifs and canapés.’

‘Do you want me to converse with them, or do I just stand there like a wooden Indian?’

‘Probably best if you say as little as possible. Get Rupert and Perdita to do the small talk. Oh, and you should know, the German gentleman is a Freiherr.’

‘A friar? Wot, like a monk?’

‘Freiherr; it’s a title, somewhere between a knight and a baron, so show some respect.’

Lugg sighed dramatically and shifted his considerable bulk in the direction of the door of the suite. ‘Another case of up the workers, eh? Don’t worry, I know my place.’

‘I have never seen any evidence of that,’ Amanda whispered in her husband’s ear.

‘And don’t mention the last World Cup,’ said Campion to Lugg’s broad retreating back.

Two private function rooms had been booked for the party on the ground floor of The Dorchester, a dining room with a view out over Hyde Park and immediate but discreet access to the Grill kitchens, and an adjoining reception room which housed an exceptionally well-stocked bar and a small area of staging just big enough to allow a trio of jazz musicians to entertain without causing a riot.

It had fallen to Mr Campion’s son Rupert and his wife Perdita to be in the front line of welcoming the guests. It was a duty they had volunteered for; or rather, Perdita had volunteered them in lieu of providing, in her opinion, a decent birthday present. As both were aspiring thespians, their thoughts on seventieth-birthday presents suitable for a man who lacked nothing and desired even less tended towards the theatrical, but when the best Rupert could come up with were tickets to the premiere at the Garrick of Sing a Rude Song, a show based on the life of Marie Lloyd which the pair had seen earlier in the year when it had been developed at the Greenwich Theatre, Perdita bridled that the gift seemed rather pusillanimous. Rupert’s defensive pleading that the show did, after all, star Barbara Windsor cut no ice, and neither did Perdita’s counter-suggestion of the new Beatles LP Let It Be. So they compromised by offering their services as unofficial maître d’s for the event. They had even suggested that they could perform their roles in any character or period dress of the birthday boy’s choosing, but Lady Amanda had rapidly and quite violently vetoed Mr Campion’s immediate suggestions of ‘Tarzan and Jane’ and insisted on formal evening wear. Rupert had also been put firmly in his place by his mother when he had suggested, as he would be in a dinner jacket, that he might entertain arriving guests with a display of magic. ‘Absolutely not!’ Lady Amanda had thundered. ‘If I won’t permit your father to do his card tricks and his juggling act, I am certainly not allowing you.’

The younger Campions had therefore taken up their stations with solemn professionalism, making sure they were in position before Lugg could interpose his personality on the arrivals before they had taken off their coats.

‘You really should have briefed me,’ Perdita complained as the cars and taxis began to flock down Park Lane.

‘About what, darling? It’s a party, just enjoy yourself,’ soothed her husband.

‘About the guests, you twit. You’ve got to remember I won’t know half of them.’

‘And I won’t know the other half,’ said Rupert, ‘so we’ll cancel each other out, but we’re not ushers at a wedding. We’re supposed to get everyone to mingle, so let’s introduce ourselves to everyone, whether they want to meet us or not. I’ll try and whisper a few crib notes if any of the family black sheep show up.’

‘Your family has black sheep?’

‘A whole flock of them, so I’m told, and speak of the Devil, here’s one now – well, not a black sheep so much as a grey one with black spots.’

Outside the hotel, a man was decanting himself in somewhat ungainly fashion from a black cab, the raincoat he carried folded over his arms seemingly acting like handcuffs as he hopped on one leg, freed a hand and began to search his pockets for the fare due.

‘Is that a Campion?’ Perdita asked as she frantically signalled for a waiter with a tray of drinks to come and stand by her side.

‘Of a sort,’ answered Rupert, ‘it’s a cousin of mine, Christopher, youngest son of Dad’s younger brother.’

Perdita watched the man approach the hotel lobby. He tripped once, over a rebellious shoelace, and appeared sincerely relieved when a liveried doorman demonstrated how the glass doors opened to allow him entry. He had the Campion height but at least double the usual portion of Campion girth, and his decision to go hatless exposed a prematurely balding head and a half-hearted attempt at what Perdita understood to be called a ‘comb-over’. As he came under the strident lighting of the hotel interior, she could see that his complexion was what – on a farmer in a Dorset field – would be called ‘ruddy’, but on a middle-aged man in a dinner jacket is usually classified as ‘florid’. She also noticed that he had large, thick-fingered hands, which added to the initial agricultural impression.

The new arrival’s rather horsey face lit up as he recognized Rupert across the lobby, but no sooner had he begun to stride purposely towards the younger Campions than he seemed startled by the fact that he was still carrying his raincoat, and he swivelled precariously on his heels through ninety degrees and set off with great purpose towards the cloakroom.

‘Poor old Christopher,’ said Rupert plaintively, ‘he was always slightly odd. Lugg always put it down to the fact that his father had been dropped on ’is ’ead when he was at Eton, but I don’t really believe any diagnosis which comes from the likes of Lugg. Still, some of the family had high hopes for Christopher at one time.’

‘So what happened?’

‘He went into public relations,’ Rupert said smartly, then turned his attention to the main doors, beyond which several well-dressed guests were being decanted from a large and stately Bentley.

‘The Earl of Pontisbright, unless I’m very much mistaken,’ observed Perdita. ‘We are duly honoured.’

‘We are, actually. Hal is rarely in the country these days.’

‘The woman is his daughter?’

‘Yes, Sophia Longfox and the juvenile lead at her side is her son Edward; he’ll be about seventeen now but he’ll still probably get put on the kids’ table with Cousin Christopher.’

‘Christopher? But he’s ancient! Well, you know what I mean; he’s old if he’s not quite ancient, like Lugg is ancient.’

‘Christopher was thirty-four last birthday,’ said Rupert grimly.

‘Good grief! Public relations must be harder than they say. And who’s that in the Rolls-Royce? I am so glad we left the Mini at home.’

‘That, my dear, is a genuine war hero; if you believe his autobiography, that is. Lord – and Lady – Carados; Johnny was a Spitfire ace and Pa helped him out of a spot of bother at the end of the war.’

Perdita’s eyebrows jumped to attention. ‘I have come to know just what a spot of bother means in your family. I do hope the oldies are not just going to sit around talking about the war.’

Rupert sighed. ‘I think that’s inevitable, given the guest list I saw. I was warned there would be an important German gentleman coming and an equally important Frenchwoman, both people Pa knew in the war, though I’m not sure whether we’re supposed to keep them well apart or not.’

‘Well, should we need a peacekeeper or a bit of law and order, then here’s the very man.’

Without having to check, Rupert knew to whom his wife referred and, sure enough, marching towards the hotel with the precision of a colour sergeant major showing a class of graduating officers how it should be done was the solid-oak figure of Commander Charles Luke of New Scotland Yard.

‘I’m surprised they let you in here, you old recidivist.’

‘Aw, come on, Charlie, draw it mild. You’re supposed to be off-duty and having a good time at this ’ere party. In fact, I’ve been delegated to make sure you ’ave a good time whether you want one or not.’

The hapless waiter Lugg had summoned with an imperious flick of his neck, as though heading home the winning goal at Wembley, offered the pair a tray of champagne cocktails and surrendered two glasses as though paying a ransom.

‘Well, I wouldn’t want you to strain yourself, Mr Lugg, so I’ll join in the fun and frivolities and start by wishing you the best of health.’

As the pair chinked glasses in a toast, Luke’s eyes scanned the room.

‘Checking for photographers?’ Lugg asked with a sly grin. ‘Wouldn’t look good in the News of the World on Sunday, would it, the star copper of New Scotland Yard sipping champagne with the lower classes at a society birthday bash?’

Luke peered down from his considerable height at Lugg’s already empty glass.

‘I’d hardly call that sipping,’ he said drily, ‘but in fact I was looking for the birthday boy.’

‘’Im an’ the boss lady is upstairs in the suite they’ve taken for the night. He’s having his nails done and she’s showing him how to tie his dicky bow so it doesn’t look like a bat’s flown into a mirror. He’ll be down shortly to soak up the applause and adoration and take stock of all his presents. Speaking of which, what did you get ’is nibs?’

‘What do you get the man who has everything?’ Luke asked rhetorically. ‘Especially when you know that if you asked him, he’d say that what he’d really like would be an electric train set or a Dan Dare annual, if they still do them. So we had a powwow down at the Yard, where there’s plenty think very highly of him and even wanted to chip in.’ Luke reached into the inside pocket of his dinner jacket and produced what appeared to be a fat sharkskin spectacles case. ‘In the end we got him these as a bit of a joke, from All At The Yard, as it’ll say on the card.’

Lugg took the case and opened it, then raised it closer to his bulging eyeballs. ‘Strewth! Silver bracelets!’

Instinctively Lugg recoiled from being in close proximity to a set of handcuffs, even if they were clearly made for decorative rather than custodial purposes, nestling in a presentation case on a bed of red velvet. But curiosity conquered instinct, and he brought the open case up to his nose, peering intently at the shining object nestling within.

‘I ’aven’t got my jeweller’s loupe with me, but that looks to me like the leopard’s-head silver hallmark for London, and the date letter looks like a little aitch, which would make