Dennis Wheatley was my grandfather. He only had one child, my father Anthony, from his first marriage to Nancy Robinson. Nancy was the youngest in a large family of ten Robinson children and she had a wonderful zest for life and a gaiety about her that I much admired as a boy brought up in the dull Seventies. Thinking about it now, I suspect that I was drawn to a young Ginny Hewett, a similarly bubbly character, and now my wife of 27 years, because she resembled Nancy in many ways.

As grandparents, Dennis and Nancy were very different. Nancy's visits would fill the house with laughter and mischievous gossip, while Dennis and his second wife Joan would descend like minor royalty, all children expected to behave. Each held court in their own way but Dennis was the famous one with the famous friends and the famous stories.

There is something of the fantasist in every storyteller, and most novelists writing thrillers see themselves in their heroes. However, only a handful can claim to have been involved in actual daring-do. Dennis saw action both at the Front, in the First World War, and behind a desk in the Second. His involvement informed his writing and his stories, even those based on historical events, held a notable veracity that only the life-experienced novelist can obtain. I think it was this element that added the important plausibility to his writing. This appealed to his legions of readers who were in that middle ground of fiction, not looking for pure fantasy nor dry fact, but something exciting, extraordinary, possible and even probable.

There were three key characters that Dennis created over the years: The Duc de Richleau, Gregory Sallust and Roger Brook. The first de Richleau stories were set in the years between the wars, when Dennis had started writing. Many of the Sallust stories were written in the early days of the Second World War, shortly before Dennis joined the Joint Planning Staff in Whitehall, and Brook was cast in the time of the French Revolution, a period that particularly fascinated him.

He is probably always going to be associated with Black Magic first and foremost, and it's true that he plugged it hard because sales were always good for those books. However, it's important to remember that he only wrote eleven Black Magic novels out of more than sixty bestsellers, and readers were just as keen on his other stories. In fact, invariably when I meet people who ask if there is any connection, they tell me that they read âall his books'.

Dennis had a full and eventful life, even by the standards of the era he grew up in. He was expelled from Dulwich College and sent to a floating navel run school, HMS Worcester. The conditions on this extraordinary ship were Dickensian. He survived it, and briefly enjoyed London at the pinnacle of the Empire before war was declared and the fun ended. That sort of fun would never be seen again.

He went into business after the First World War, succeeded and failed, and stumbled into writing. It proved to be his calling. Immediate success opened up the opportunity to read and travel, fueling yet more stories and thrilling his growing band of followers.

He had an extraordinary World War II, being one of the first people to be recruited into the select team which dreamed up the deception plans to cover some of the major events of the war such as Operation Torch, Operation Mincemeat and the D-Day landings. Here he became familiar with not only the people at the very top of the war effort, but also a young Commander Ian Fleming, who was later to write the James Bond novels. There are indeed those who have suggested that Gregory Sallust was one of James Bond's precursors.

The aftermath of the war saw Dennis grow in stature and fame. He settled in his beautiful Georgian house in Lymington surrounded by beautiful things. He knew how to live well, perhaps without regard for his health. He hated exercise, smoked, drank and wrote. Today he would have been bullied by wife and children and friends into giving up these habits and changing his lifestyle, but I'm not sure he would have given in. Maybe like me, he would simply find a quiet place.

Dominic Wheatley, 2013

1
The Prophet of Disaster

The bright July sunshine gave the ultimate degree of brilliance to the many coloured flowers in the Stationmaster's garden. From a field not far away the sweet scent of clover drifted in through the windows of the waiting train, and in the drowsy heat the hum of insects came clearly to the man and girl seated in one of the third-class compartments.

They were strangers and had not spoken, yet he had been very conscious of her presence ever since she had scrambled in, just as the train was leaving Cambridge.

For a time his paper had absorbed him. It seemed that the curtain had gone up on the last act of that drama entitled: The Tragedy of Isolation,' which the United States Governmentâforced by the pressure of their less educated massesâhad produced in the middle 1930's.

From that time onwards America had been driven more and more in upon herself, while Europe rotted, racked and crumbled. Now, faced with critical internal troubles of their own, the States had finally closed the door upon the outside world by a sweeping embargo; prohibiting all further exports to bankrupt Europe which could no longer pay, even in promises; refusing entrance on any terms to all but their own nationals, and enforcing a rigid censorship on their news.

The girl was staring out of the window at a placid cow, which ambled down a lane beyond the station under the casual guidance of a ragged boy, who swished now and then at the hedgerows with his stick. As the young man glanced at her his quick blue eyes took in the headline of the paper lying at her side:

âFURTHER SABOTAGE BY POLESâMORE GERMAN GARRISONS WITHDRAWN'

and his mind leapt back to the previous summer. With superb generalship, the veteran officers of the German army had carried
out a classic campaign, subduing the whole of Poland in the short space of ten weeks while the French army looked on, biting their nails with fury yet impotent to help their allies, being themselves in the throes of that revolution which terminated the nine months' reign of the Fascist puppet-king, Charles XI of France.

And now Poland was slowly driving out the conqueror, compelling the Germans to concentrate their forces in the larger towns by interference with supplies, the destruction of waterworks, electric plant, railway lines and bridges.

âWhere will it all end!' he speculated for the thousandth time; starvation rampant in every city in Europeâmillions of unemployed in every country eking out a miserable existence in so-called Labour Armies on state rations; Balkan and Central European frontiers disintegrating from month to month, while scattered, ill-equipped armies fought on broken fronts, for whom, or for what cause, they now scarcely knew; Ibn Sa'ud's dynasty dominant in the near East, gobbling up the Mesopotamian kingdoms created by Britain after the first Great War, and, with the simple, clear-cut faith of the Koran for guide, turning their backs contemptuously upon the protests of the Christian powers, now impotent to stay their Moslem ambitions.

France was rapidly becoming Communist; Germany in a desperate plight, her commerce at a standstill, and only kept from open Bolshevism by martial law.

England had kept out of the strife for the last ten years; the will of the people for once dominating the folly of the politicians, but creeping poverty was driving her horribly near the precipice, and if the United States could no longer help, another month might see her too in a state of anarchy.

Looking out upon the little wayside station and the country all about it flooded with sunshine, serene and peaceful, it seemed impossibleâyet he knew it to be true.

The clang of a couple of milk-cans farther down the platform shattered the silence, a whistle blew, and the trainâan unhurried localâchugged on in the direction of Ipswich.

Weary unto death with his thoughts of folly, bloodshed and disaster, the young man glanced again at the girl and caught her eye for a second. The thought that she might be willing to talk offered a most pleasing distraction. He pulled off his soft hat and flung it on the seat beside him, disclosing a crop of auburn hair;
then he leaned forward, his hands clasped between his knees and smiled at her:

âI see you've finished your paperâam I being rude, or would it amuse you to talk for a bit?'

She regarded him steadily for a moment from beneath half-lowered lids. He looked a nice young manâblue-eyed and slightly freckled; he wore a suit of brown plus-fours, ancient but still retaining the cachet of a good tailorâand his hands were well cared for.

âWhy not?' she said lightly; âbeing a lazy person I left it to the very last moment to get up this morning and forgot my book in the rush to catch the train, so you may fill the gap and entertain me if you like!'

âSplendid! My name's Kenyon Wensleadaleâwhat's yours? That is unless you'd rather remain anonymous?'

She shook her dark head: âIt is Ann Croome.'

âWhat a nice old-fashioned name,' he said; âand may I ask if Mistress Ann Croome often travels on this antiquated line?'

âNo, only I've been staying with a friend in Cambridgeâone of the four year students at Girton, and I'm spending the rest of my holiday at Orford; the air-buses were full, so I thought it would be quicker to come this way than via London.'

âIt is too; though not much since they've fitted the main lines with the mono-rail. Were you at Girton yourself?'

âYes, came down last yearâI'm a full-blown secretary now!'

âAnd how do you like it?'

âIt's a bore sometimes, especially on the sunny days; but at least it means independence. The only alternative is a life of good works on a microscopic allowance with an aged uncle at Orford; in fact, if my firm crashes I shall have no choice, and I'm afraid they may before long.'

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