Authors: Dennis Wheatley
Strange Conflict
Dennis Wheatley
Edited by Miranda Vaughan Jones
4 For Those in Peril on the Sea
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
A Fantastic Theory
The Duke de Richleau and Sir Pellinore Gwaine-Cust had gone into dinner at eight o'clock, but coffee was not served till after ten.
The war had been in progress for many months and the bombing of London for some weeks. A small shower of incendiary bombs having fallen in Curzon Street, just outside the Duke's flat, had caused an interruption of the meal while they went down to lend a hand in extinguishing them, but both were by now so hardened to the blitzkrieg that after a wash they returned to the table as though nothing very out-of-the-ordinary had happened.
The Duke and his guest had much in common. Both had been blessed with an ancient name, good looks, brains and charm, which had made them outstanding figures in the European society of their day. That day was passing, but they had made the most of it and regretted nothing of their tempestuous early years when they had fought and loved to the limit of their capacity, or the quiet period that had followed, during which they had dabbled most successfully in high finance and played a hand in many of the secret moves behind the diplomatic scene. That a better world might emerge with the passing of the privileged caste that they represented they both hoped, but rather doubted, and as each was unshakably convinced that it would not do so if the Nazis were not utterly destroyed it is doubtful if Hitler had two more inveterate enemies.
These men had lived their lives, and it meant very little to them now if they lost them. They had no jobs to lose,
no favours to seek, no ambition which was not already satisfied, and neither acknowledged any master except the King of England; so they said what they thought, often with brutal frankness, and used every ounce of power and prestige that they possessed, through their many contacts in high places, to force the pace of the war regardless of all considerations except that of Victory.
Although they had so much in common, they were very different in appearance. Sir Pellinore, who was considerably the older of the two, stood six feet two in his socks. He had a head of fine white hair, bright blue eyes, a great sweeping cavalry moustache, a booming voice and an abrupt, forthright way of speaking. The Duke was a slim, delicate-looking man, somewhat above middle height, with slender, fragile hands and greying hair but with no trace of weakness in his fine, distinguished face. His aquiline nose, broad forehead and grey âdevil's' eyebrows might well have replaced those of the Cavalier in the Van Dyck that gazed down from the wall opposite his chair.
It would have been utterly against the principles of either to allow the war to interfere with their custom of changing for dinner, but instead of the conventional black the Duke wore a claret-coloured vicuna smoking-suit with silk lapels and braided fastenings. This touch of colour increased his likeness to the portrait.
During dinner they had talked of the war, but when coffee was served there fell a short silence as Max, the Duke's man, produced the long Hoyo de Monterrey cigars which were his master's especial pride, and the Duke was thinking: âNow I shall learn what old Gwaine-Cust really wanted to see me about. I'll bet a monkey that he didn't propose himself for dinner here just to discuss the general situation.,
As Max left the quiet, candle-lit room the anti-aircraft guns in Hyde Park came into action, shattering the silence. Sir Pellinore looked across, and said a little thoughtfully:
âWonder you stay here with this damn'd racket goin' on night after night.'
De Richleau shrugged. âI don't find the bombing particularly terrifying. Perhaps that's because London covers such a vast area. Anyhow, it's child's play compared to some of the bombardments which I have survived in other wars. I
think that American journalist hit the nail on the head when he said that at this rate it would take the Nazis two thousand weeks to destroy London and he didn't think that Hitler had another forty years to live.'
âDamn' good!' guffawed Sir Pellinore. âDamn' good! All the same, it makes things deuced uncomfortable. They've outed two of my clubs, and it's the devil's own job to get hold of one's friends on the telephone. As you've no job that ties you here I wonder you don't clear out to the country.'
âFor that matter, my dear fellow, why don't youâsince you're in the same category? Or has the Government had the wisdom to avail itself of your services?'
âGood Lord, no! They've no time for old fogeys like me, They're right, too. This is a young man's war. Still, it wouldn't be a good show if some of us didn't stick it when there are so many people who darned well have to.'
âExactly,' replied the Duke smoothly. âAnd that is the answer to your own question. I loathe discomfort and boredom, but no amount of either would induce me to leave London when there are such thousands of poor people who cannot afford to do so.'
There was another silence as de Richleau waited with inward amusement for Sir Pellinore to make a fresh opening, and after a moment the elderly Baronet said:
âOf course, by staying on one is able to keep in touch with things. The very fact of knowing a lot of people enables me to push the boat along here and there.'
A mocking little smile lit the Duke's grey eyes, which at times could flash with such piercing brilliance. âPerhaps, then, you would like to tell me in which particular direction you are now contemplating pushing
my
canoe?'
âHa!' Sir Pellinore brushed up his fine cavalry moustache. âYou're a shrewd fellerâalways were. I might have known you'd guess that I didn't ask myself here for the sake of your drink and cigars, superb as they are. I've hardly seen you alone for a moment, though, since the slaughter started; so d'you mind telling me what you've been up to so far? I'm damned certain you haven't been idle.'
The smile moved to de Richleau's strong, thin-lipped mouth. âI have fought in many wars, but I am too old to become again a junior officer and far too young in temperament
ever to become a Civil Servant; so, like yourself, I have not even the status of an unpaid Warden. In consequence, you will forgive me if I suggest that neither of us has any right to question the other.'