In the Mouth of the Tiger (51 page)

‘You also said something about public relations,' Fleming reminded him.

‘We're going to need the world on our side in the next war,' Stewart said seriously, looking down at his hands. Then he suddenly grinned. ‘I suppose what I really mean is that we are going to need America on our side, which means we're going to have to win over the American people. That's going to be particularly hard in the Far East, because the Japs can so easily paint any war there as a war of liberation. You know, Asians shaking off the shackles of imperialism for other Asians. The Americans are by instinct on the side of anyone trying to shake off British shackles.'

‘So what do we do?' It was again Alan who asked the rhetorical question.

‘Well, I've got a tremendous chap in mind to handle things out in Singapore. A Fleet Street journalist called John Galvin. John and his team will feed stories slanted our way into the world's press.'

‘We'll need Galvin to be able to hit the ground running when he arrives,' Denis mused. ‘The Japs have already begun
their
propaganda war. There are stories all over the place about a thing they are calling the Greater Asian Co-Prosperity Sphere.'

‘Why is Galvin going to be in Singapore?' someone asked. ‘Surely, if Rob Draper is in Singapore too, we're putting all our eggs into one basket. What if Singapore were to fall to the Japs?'

‘Singapore will not fall to the Japs while there is a Royal Navy,' Stewart said emphatically. Then he shrugged. ‘That's not to say Malaya won't fall. I suspect it will. But if it does, just imagine the punch one of Galvin's stories will have, coming out of a Singapore besieged by Japanese soldiers!'

I shivered. The Singapore besieged by Japanese soldiers would be my home. An island so tiny and so close that if the Japanese did win Malaya they would be almost within shouting range. It might sound fine to the outside world with its brave echoes of Ladysmith, but a Singapore under siege would be an awful place to raise a family.

‘There is another thing that is going to change,' Stewart said, and the conversation that had broken out around the table subsided. ‘Simply gathering intelligence is no longer going to be enough. I want us to do some damage to the enemy as well. A little bit of well-judged mayhem. A bomb here, a welldirected bullet there, all done under the noses of the enemy.'

He was talking about SOE of course, and I saw young Fleming listening entranced, his wine glass paused halfway to his lips. I suppose it was during evenings like this that the James Bond character was born. Bond would have
been completely at home in this gathering, with the men all men of action, the women all beautiful and in their evening gowns. Stewart was of course the prototype for Bond's chief, even the fact that he was referred to as ‘M' being a play on Menzies' real title as ‘C'.

‘Who is going to lead these cut-throats of yours?' Harry asked. I got the impression that Harry was not quite a full member of the Linlithgow Hunt.

‘Colin McKenzie will officially run the Far East side of things,' Stewart said. ‘But it won't be quite as you imagine, Harry. Everybody will be in charge of his own patch. I want lots of initiative, people thinking for themselves. Last thing we want is to have people bound up in red tape.'

After dinner, it was a tradition at Millward Hall for weekend parties to adjourn to the Queen's Head in Burley for drinks and cheerful horseplay. Denis and I had not intended going, but Tony was sound asleep under the care of the Hillgarths' nanny, the night was still young, and perhaps Alan's Portuguese wine had worked a little bit of magic. So we tagged on to the end of the cavalcade of cars that purred out of the gates of Millward Hall and wound through the darkened country lanes before dipping down into one of the prettiest little villages in England.

The Queen's Head, a steeply-gabled old inn built in the same mellow brick as Millward Hall, lived up to the promise of the village. Mine host had opened the saloon bar for us as a private party, and a fire crackled in the grate while a couple of pretty girls circled the gathering with loaded drink trays.

‘Understand we've got to get you into the navy,' Admiral Godfrey said to Denis. ‘Happy to arrange a commission for you, old chap.' Several of us had been standing beside the ornately carved oaken mantelpiece, gin and tonics in hand, when Admiral Godfrey sailed into our midst and put a finger on Denis's solar plexus.

‘I see no need, sir,' Denis said promptly. ‘At least just yet. I think a uniform might cramp my style. It would signal that I'm formally part of the FMS Government. Some people might not be quite so forthcoming to an official.'

The Admiral looked somewhat taken aback. ‘Have it your own way,' he said. ‘Just as long as you're in uniform before the bullets start flying. Don't want you shot as a spy.' He seemed discomfited and moved away, leaving Ian Fleming behind.

‘How do you find him?' Denis asked Ian, gesturing towards the Admiral's departing back.

‘The DNI? I may end up his Secretary when the war starts, so I'd better like him,' Ian said. ‘Actually, he's not a bad stick. But perhaps just a bit of an old woman for Menzies.' Apparently Denis and Ian knew each other quite well, having done training of some sort together at the MI6 training house near Drum Castle on Deeside.

An hour later the party was really hotting up, with Alan Hillgarth risking his dignity by leading us into a game of charades. He had got hold of a wig and shawl from somewhere and was sitting on a low chair, pretending to have his hands full of knitting. Every so often he would stare upwards, then let his head drop sharply as if following some downward movement. Each time his head fell he would smile with evil delight and emit a ghastly cackle.

‘
Tale of Two Cities!
' Pamela Menzies screamed. ‘You're that awful woman who sat under the guillotine, knitting as the heads rolled!'

Alan straightened up with a laugh. ‘Too smart for words! You should be working for Stewart Menzies, m'dear!' He seemed just a little drunk. I think perhaps we all were.

‘I have to tell you how lovely you look in that dress,' Ian was saying to me. ‘It compliments those dark curls of yours absolutely beautifully.' Denis had been called over by Stewart and Ian had taken the opportunity to manoeuvre me into the inglenook, where we sat together with brandy balloons in our hands. ‘And your eyes! So deep and so wise for one so young! What marvels have they seen, Mrs Elesmere-Elliott?'

‘Well, I've seen tigers in the moonlight, and searched for pirate treasures on desert islands,' I said, entering into the spirit of things. ‘And I once watched a bird of paradise tumble from the sky with a poisoned arrow in its breast.' Well, bird of paradise might have been an exaggeration: I think it was a mynah that young Uda brought down from the forest canopy. But Ian looked suitably impressed.

‘You are an extraordinary woman,' he said quietly. ‘And I saw you jump Halfpenny Lane. Twice. You know of course that no woman has ever done that before?'

I suddenly couldn't help laughing. ‘I had a very good horse. It could probably have taken a sack of potatoes over Halfpenny Lane!'

Denis hove into view, pretending to look for his lighter. ‘Oh, there you are dear,' he said, patting at his pockets. ‘Do you mind if I borrow your lighter? Seem to have mislaid mine . . .'

He sat down between Ian and me in the inglenook while I lit his
cigarette for him, then leaned back, clearly intending to stay. I loved it. I felt the prettiest girl in the room, and I had the two most handsome men in the party at my beck and call. I looked across to Violet to savour the moment but she looked so diminished, so miserable, that my victory suddenly meant nothing at all to me.

Stewart had been induced to act the next charade, and he took to the floor with a thoughtful look on his fine-boned face. The category was ‘well-known sayings' and after a pause to ensure that all eyes were on him he began making strange, wild, prancing gestures like a startled horse. The room fell silent: Menzies had the presence, the magnetism, of a natural actor. Then he stopped, drew himself to his full height, and flung out his right arm in an unmistakable gesture of prohibition.

‘Do what you like but don't do it on the streets and frighten the horses'. The phrase popularly but incorrectly attributed to Edward VII leapt to my mind and I was about to shout it out when Ian, who had been watching my face, put a restraining hand on my arm. ‘He's teasing us,' he grinned. ‘Don't say a word!'

‘What do you mean?' I whispered fiercely. ‘I'm sure I know the answer!'

‘We all do,' Ian hissed back, still grinning. ‘He's always doing this. Wants to remind us who he's descended from.' I noticed that most of those in the room were grinning too, while one or two were scratching their heads in extravagant puzzlement.

‘Oh, fig!' Stewart said with a sudden gesture of surrender. ‘I seem to have flogged that one to death.' He wandered back to his seat to a scatter of sympathetic applause and one or two friendly jeers.

‘What on earth was all that about?' I asked Ian. Mary had joined us, squeezing into the narrow inglenook beside me, and she answered for him. ‘Didn't you know? Stewart Menzies is Edward VII's bastard. His mother had a notorious affair with Edward when he was Prince of Wales, and Stewart rather relishes the paternity. When he's had one or two drinks too many he tends to harp on the fact.'

I must have looked impressed because Ian leaned across. ‘He's probably not the old reprobate's son at all, you know. How on earth could one ever tell? His mother was married to Jack Menzies at the time he was born, and Black Jack was as randy as a billy-goat. But the
suggestion
that he's Edward's son has helped him no end.'

‘What do you mean, helped him?' I asked. ‘I would have thought that being illegitimate, even to a royal father, would count against one.'

Ian sipped his brandy. ‘Not at all. King Edward may have been a rake and a libertine, but he had tremendous style and his own unique brand of integrity. He introduced his ladies – and they
were
ladies – into his inner circle, the Marlborough House set. The Marlborough House crowd ran England before the war – still does to some extent. Oh yes, it's helped Stewart no end that his mother was one of Edward's royal fillies . . .'

I thought about that for a moment. ‘Did Edward have many lady friends?'

‘Oh, lots,' Ian said. ‘Alice Keppel, Maxine Elliott and Agnes Keyser for a start. They all have terrific influence even today. Some don't care to use it, others do. Maxine, for example, runs England's version of a political salon.'

Maxine Elliott a royal mistress? At first the thought seemed quite absurd. Portly, regal Maxine just didn't seem the type. But the more I thought about it the more reasonable it seemed. It explained her obvious influence in the highest circles. And it explained her friendship with George Keppel: they were both members of a rather unique club.

Late in the evening, Stewart came up to our group in the inglenook and took my hand. ‘The lady who conquered Halfpenny Lane,' he said brushing his lips on my fingertips. ‘You must be a superlative rider, Ma'am. I assume that you ride to hounds?' The conversation around me quietened. It was clearly an honour to have been singled out by the great man, and people were listening for my response.

‘I'm afraid I would side with the fox,' I said with a smile. It was the simple truth, but there was a drawing in of breath around me as if I'd said something witty and challenging. Stewart himself paused, looking intently into my face.

‘A true hunter would always side with the fox,' he said. ‘A hunter's thrill is in the chase, not in the kill. I hate the kill myself.'

Ian Fleming laughed. ‘That's tommy-rot, Stewart. You always try your damnedest to be first to the kill.'

Stewart did not take his eyes off mine. ‘I do get caught up in the excitement of the chase,' he said. ‘It is a weakness in me which I despise. But at the kill itself, all I feel is revulsion. I'm not a butcher, Norma, I'm a hunter. Now, may I have the honour of this dance?'

They were playing ‘Annie Laurie' on the gramophone, one of Denis's
and my favourites, and as Stewart and I drifted onto the dance floor I caught Denis's eye. He lifted his glass in a casual salute, but his back was stiff and I realised, with a perverse little thrill of pleasure, that he was actually a little jealous.

‘Some people say that you are the finest spymaster England has ever known,' I said, looking up at Stewart's face. ‘Eclipsing even Sir Francis Walsingham.' I was teasing a little but Stewart elected to take me seriously.

‘I'm not in the least like Walsingham,' he said. ‘Walsingham was a fanatic. He identified England's interests completely with those of the Reformation faction. That sort of single-mindedness makes it rather easy to keep on the straight and narrow. Black is black and white is white. For my part I'm a bit allergic to “isms” of any sort. I'm a pragmatist, which means I compromise. One day I'll compromise once too often and they'll hoist me up the nearest tree on the end of a noose.'

I was rather impressed by his candour. And then I remembered that this was the man who had risked his career to help Muriel de la Warr. ‘What put you off “isms”?' I asked.

Stewart didn't answer for a while, staring downwards as if concentrating on the dance step. ‘Probably the war,' he said finally. ‘It killed quite a lot of my generation, you know. I lost a lot of my school chums on the Western Front.'

I touched him gently on the cheek with the back of my hand. ‘I can see that the war still hurts you,' I said. ‘I'm sorry.'

‘It
does
still hurt,' Stewart said almost angrily. ‘It finished twenty years ago, but even now I think of one or another of the chaps I grew up with, and then remember that the poor blighter is dead. Cut off before he'd even tasted life.' He gave a small grimace. ‘I'm quite convinced that passions – beliefs – are amongst our worst enemies. Patriotism has killed a thousand times more Englishmen than murder ever did.'