Date: Tue, 4 Apr 2017 20:37:17 +0000
From: Henry Hilliard <h.h.hilliard@hotmail.com>
Subject: Noblesse Oblige Book 4 (Revision) Chapter 12

From Henry Hilliard and Pete Bruno h.h.hilliard@hotmail.com  This work
fully protected under The United States Copyright Laws 17 USC 101, 102(a),
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at the beginning of Chapter One.)

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you're enjoying the story and please keep writing to us and watch for
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Noblesse Oblige
by Henry H. Hilliard
with Pete Bruno
Book 4
The Hall of Mirrors
Chapter 12
Save Me the Waltz

"Why don't you look where you're going, you fat ejut?" said the driver of
the motor lorry.  He hopped out of his cabin and breasted the driver of the
wagon that contained a large quantity of piping, which had now spilled
noisily over the road, quite blocking it.  Two wagons of sand and another
containing bricks were now banked up and the one o'clock 'bus from Wareham
was just coming over the hill and it too would be held up until the path
was cleared.

The road that ran through Branksome-le-Bourne was really a country lane and
it was unused to coping with all the activity that Martin and Stephen had
set in motion. Already the abutment to the little bridge had been
demolished when a lorry bringing a forest of semi-mature trees for the new
golf links had swerved to avoid Mr Destrombe on his bicycle.  Mr Destrombe,
in his own defence, had said he had been distracted while composing a
sermon on the verse in Isaiah that ran: `The glory of Lebanon will come to
you, the Cyprus the Plane and the Pine', although the trees in this case
were Larches about which Isaiah said very little.

The driver of the vehicle containing the piping for the central heating at
Croome objected to being called fat-- his wife had called him an idiot only
this morning when he attempted to leave their house in odd boots-- and he
refreshed himself by making disparaging remarks about Ireland.  The first
man slandered the carthorse's origins and the piping man threw a punch,
which only succeeded in knocking the cap off the native of County Kerry.

Things threatened to get ugly just as Martin and Stephen pulled up on their
cycles, Stephen's dogs bounding alongside.  Stephen leapt between the
drivers to the annoyance of the drayman who had begun to think he could get
the best of the Irishman who was quick-witted but small in stature.  Martin
came over and pulled rank and the pipe man removed his hat.  The driver of
the lorry (which contained building timber) went to take his cap off but
realised it was on the ground and now the carthorse had put his hoof on it
in support of his owner.

Martin organised the crowd to clear the road and the two drivers were put
back in their respective vehicles and departed in opposite directions and
maintaining opposing views as to who was in the wrong, but without the
question being settled to the mutual satisfaction of either party.

Up on the downs at Lesser Branksome, the golf links was under construction.
Mr Colt had drawn a plan and Martin was surprised at how, what he
considered to be merely inconvenient obstacles like tors, hollows and rough
heath, were actually valuable features to make the game more difficult and
these were augmented by additional fiendish devices such as sand traps and
doglegs.  In other places trees were felled to create `fairways' to make it
seemingly easier and new trees were planted at their margins.  Colt had
explained that this was the `naturalistic' approach to links architecture.

"Derby, do you think we should learn to play golf?  I mean if we own a golf
links, we should at least be able to play."

"Why don't we go over to Broadstone for a couple of days and take lessons?"
asked Stephen who was keen on all sports, but had never played golf.  That
was agreed upon and Martin determined to write to Lord Wimbourne that
evening.

The hotel was already under construction to the design of a Mr Hepworth.
It was, according to the drawings, to be rather like a large house of two
storeys plus an attic floor. It's front to the `first tee' curved like a
banana and presented five steep gables in white rendered masonry, relieved
here and there by fancy tan bricks.  As yet there was little to see, but
there would initially be ten bedrooms, all with their own bathroom, a large
lounge and dining room and a flat for the manager.  One of the gabled
sections contained the clubroom with a built-in trophy cabinet over the
fireplace and an `Associates' Room', which was to be more feminine in
decoration.  In the basement, which opened to the outside where the ground
fell away, a room with lockers and showers for the members would be fitted
out.  There was a second flat and a small shop for the `professional'.  Sir
Bernard Bonnington was looking at recruiting a good one and Martin hoped
Sir Bernard would accept the post of `Hon. Sec.', as he knew the most about
the game of any of the board members.

It had already been decided that there would be a joining fee of a guinea
and annual fees of a guinea per annum, or two guineas for outsiders.  The
costs of both the hotel and the links was more than Martin and Stephen had
expected, but many of their friends had been eager to invest.  Miss Tadrew
alarmed them by investing £50 and Stephen determined to make sure that
she did not lose it if the links did not prosper and he explained carefully
that there would be no dividends for some years, even if it did succeed.
She was not to be dissuaded and said she wanted to play, having played golf
a few times with Miss Tapstowe in her younger days.

"You know, Derbs, I think the construction of the golf links has given the
whole estate a lift.  It has already employed a number of local people and
the hotel and the clubhouse will need staff when they're up and running.
Apart from the infirmary, it's the first big building project since the War
and with the electric light now--well Branksome is galloping into the
Twentieth Century."

"Have you thought any more about what Sachs said?"

Martin had and was sorely conflicted by the ghost of his father.  "I still
don't know, Derby."

"Well, tell me what you think might happen?"

Martin was lost in thought.  Daniel Sachs, when he had come down to Croome
for the board meeting, had suggested to Martin that he should lease--for a
period of 99 years--plots of land on the west side of the course for the
building of new villas. Already Blake, Martin's agent, had reported that
there had been inquiries for villa sites both in the villages and now
overlooking the golf links.

"Well," said Martin, "it will mean a loss of valuable farming land.  After
all, it is our national duty to be growing..."

Stephen made a disgusted noise.  "You know as well as I that the land up
there is good for little else.  If people want to buy it and build new
homes well..."

"But what sort of houses will they be?  They won't be cottages; they will
be horrible, glaring, new redbrick villas with half-timbering and cocktail
cabinets, or they might be terraces or semi-detached bungalows like in
Edgware.

"Well, you can decide that.  You can make the allotments an acre or two and
even have approval over their design."

"But supposing the people who come don't fit into the village?  I mean they
might spend all their time up in London..."

"Like us?"

"No, I mean they might be that sort who wear loud checks and say: `Cheerio,
pleased to meet you!' and `l've been out horse riding' and pass `cruets'
and use `serviettes' when they eat their `greens'."

"And wipe their arses with `toilet paper' and not `lavatory paper'?"
completed Stephen.  "You really mean you are frightened that they will be
middle class and will challenge your authority around here from their
`lounges'."

"Well, yes, I suppose so," conceded Martin.  "But I'm not a snob, Derbs.  I
like the working class well enough--especially the workers on my estate."

"Yes your Estate, your lordship," said Stephen who rolled his eyes in the
manner that Martin usually affected.  Martin saw him and began to laugh.

"Well maybe just a little bit of a snob.  I suppose the middle class have
to live somewhere and they might bring money into the village and I suppose
they will need servants.  It will be good for Louch."

"And good for you, Mala.  The sale of land could offset your investment in
the golf links."



The consideration of admitting the bourgeoisie to Branksome was postponed
for the moment as it was time to motor down to the railway station. The
train puffed in on time and the boys scanned the platform.  From a
second-class compartment stepped a large man with a suitcase.  He was
wearing a caramel coloured suit and a flat straw hat with a coloured band.
On his feet was an extraordinary pair of tan co-respondent shoes.  The boys
blinked.

"Your lordship, Mr Stephen," said the figure.

 "Chilvers!  Welcome home.  Look at you!" cried Martin.

"I will change immediately I get to the house.  I best not let the servants
see me like this."

"You will have a hard job doing that," said Stephen, for as the motorcar
pulled up at the kitchen entrance, all the staff was lined up in a parody
of how they lined up for their betters at the front door.  Chilvers passed
down the line in his extraordinary clothes and received their greetings and
entered the servants' hall where a paper streamer spanned the width of the
room and proclaimed its printed welcome.

It was a more soberly dressed butler that met with Martin and Stephen in
the Spanish Dining Room some hours later.

"Must you do that Chilvers?"

"Oh I'm dreadfully sorry, your lordship.  I quite forgot myself."  He
removed the chewing gum from his mouth and waited until the boys were
looking at the papers spread out on the table and then pressed the
well-masticated wad under a Churrigueresque consol that stood beneath the
Velasquez, making a mental note to lever it off later.

"I suppose you had a good time in America, Chilvers."

"Indeed your lordship, very fine indeed."

"And you weren't gunned down in Chicago?"

"No sir, but I did see a Senor Torrio in a café in the Loop, sir.
He is a very famous and respected `bootlegger'."

"And prohibition, Mr Chilvers?" asked Stephen.

"Well, at least it's better than no alcohol at all, sir," replied the
butler drolly.

"I'm surprised you came back to us at all, Chilvers."

"Oh, your lordship!" cried Chilvers, wounded.  "It is a very fine country
and I did receive thirteen offers of employment-- at far higher wages--
but..."

"But what?"

"Well, your lordship, they do things differently over there."

"Such as?"

"Well, some of them wanted to call me by my first name."

"What is your first name Mr Chilvers?" asked Stephen.

"I'd rather not say, sir."

"And some of the `gentlemen' would play cards in their shirtsleeves and
braces and one `lady'-- whose husband made his fortune from something that
Americans apparently voluntarily consume at breakfast called `Shredded
Wheat'-- ate her own breakfast wearing her fur coat and diamonds."

"That's appalling, Chilvers."

"There was worse, sir: the master's relatives came to visit in one house--I
won't say in which part of Philadelphia it was, your lordship--and asked if
there was to be `high tea'."

"What's that?" asked Martin.

"It is the main meal eaten by the class of people who live in Huddersfield,
your lordship.  The last straw was when the cook in another house drove me
to the station in her motorcar."

"I see, Chilvers, you're a snob."

"I hope so, sir, now would you care to look at this information I have
gathered?"

Chilvers had filled a book with meticulous notes and had gathered many
advertising brochures.

"I am pleased to see you are installing central heating, your lordship.  It
is oil-fired?" Yes, it was and the unoccupied wings of the great house
could be isolated.  "In nearly all the big houses I saw in America, sir,
they required a much smaller staff simply because they did not have to run
up and down stairs to keep the fires going and to clean out the ashes and
set them again."

"Is that a lot of work, Chilvers?" asked Martin.

"Indeed sir, but you would not see it because it is done by the maids very
early in the morning."

Chilvers had made a study of the laundries in big houses and in hotels.
Large machines could wash and iron clothes.  "Two maids could do all the
laundering in this house if you had these machines and a good supply of hot
water," he said.  Apparently lifting and carrying the heavy ceramic buckets
of hot water for the kitchen, scullery and laundry was a great part of the
daily work of their army of maids.  This, it seems, could be eased with the
use of lightweight aluminium receptacles that one person could lift and by
having hot and cold plumbing to more points.  "The outlay would be more
than a hundred pounds, I estimate, but you would save 30 pounds a year in
wages plus keep."

This sounded impressive and Stephen asked a series of insightful questions
which Chilvers could answer.  There were pictures of small electrical
`appliances' for making toast and heating small quantities of water.  "If
we could have a small room or large cupboard set up as a miniature
kitchen-- `kitchenette' as our American cousins put it-- your breakfast
toast would no longer be cold as it would not have to travel all the way
from the main kitchen and change hands twice."

"Could I operate it?" asked Martin.

"Possibly with some intensive training, your lordship."

"In the city, your lordship, many of the houses are `spring cleaned' by
outside tradesmen and the household washing is sent out to those
establishments that wash for hotels.  They have comparatively small staffs
in my estimation."

There were many other pictures of furnaces, house telephones, vacuum
cleaners, food warmers and electric irons.  There was one machine that even
washed dirty dishes. "I say, I'd like one of these, said Martin, pointing.
It was an electric fan that sat on a table.

"And I think a larger one in the kitchen would be of benefit to the
servants, your lordship.  They cost only pennies to run.  And I think this
sort of thing is very important, your lordship," said Chilvers as he fanned
out some brochures from companies that manufactured refrigerators and cool
rooms, "athough they are costly, every American home has one.  They can
freeze meat, make ice-cream and make ice cubes for your cocktails.  You
would not need the old icehouse and you could give Jones and his son some
other employment, if I may be permitted to suggest, your lordship."  Martin
nodded but was worried about the price, at some hundreds of pounds.

"Thank you, Chilvers.  I will get Myles to file these away and we will
discuss it all later.  And Chilvers, did you have many adventures?"

"A few, sir," said Chilvers, looking down and making small adjustments to
his cuffs. "Moses LeRoy, the factotum of Mr Hoyt and Mr Wilbur, was
hospitable enough to provide some diverting entertainment when I had an odd
moment of idleness.  He gets paid $400 per annum, you know, and I might add
that he was most generous.  He has Sundays and Wednesday afternoons free,
you see, and he has a wireless set in his own bedroom..."

"That will be all, Chilvers."



Martin and Stephen departed for London on the afternoon train with Carlo
and Myles.  Martin enjoyed dictating a letter to Lord Wimbourne asking if
they might inspect his splendid golf links and take some lessons.  "Myles,
have you seen those machines where one speaks into a tube and the machine
records the words on a roll which can be played back for typing?"

"A Dictaphone, Martin?"

"Yes, I suppose so.  They look like fun, would you purchase one for
Croome?"

"Very good," said Myles who knew that the volume of Martin's correspondence
did not justify this obvious `toy'.

They reached Branksome House and Martin and Stephen immediately took Vesta
and Billy out for a walk in Green Park.  "I love London in the autumn,"
said Martin as they waded through the leaves in the lengthening shadows.
Stephen struck at the great piles of fallen oak leaves with his stick.

"Yes, it does something to the senses.  Would you like to hold my hand,
Mala, it's quite dark and no one would see us?"

Martin did and shifted his stick to the left hand.  They walked close
together and talked in hushed tones as befitted the location.  After a few
minutes a policeman strolled into view and two clerks from the Foreign
Office, who had been working late, could be seen making for the Tube
station.  They dropped their hands and called to the dogs.  When it was
safe, they held hands again, Martin going so far as to slip his hand down
the back of Stephen's trousers where he could feel his muscular buttocks
flexing with each stride.

When they returned Carlo had laid out their evening clothes and Glass
appeared with a pair of frosty cocktails-- a Side Car and a White Lady--
which they sipped as they dressed.

A taxi then took them out to a small theatre in Hampstead where there was a
new play that The Plunger and almost everyone else had recommended they
see.  It was called The Vortex and was written, directed and produced by a
young writer who also played the part of the son.  The dialogue was brittle
and witty in parts and Martin could detect many of the fashionable
affectations of his own friends in Mayfair and Belgravia.  Its subject
matter was, however, quite disturbing.  The mother was quite abandoned and
the son doped.

"Do you know what a `nymphomaniac' is, Mala?" asked Stephen in the
intermission.

"Is it what they call today a `sex complex', Derbs?  Is it a woman who has
an uncontrollable urge for sexual relations?"

"I believe so, Mala-- like Nicky's mother in the play.  It doesn't paint a
very nice picture of some mothers, does it?"

"Yes, it is shocking Derbs, but probably realistic.  I mean women are
probably like some men..." Stephen nodded and he knew that he had a strong
`sex drive' as they said nowadays and it wasn't impossible to imagine that
modern women, who worked and made up and smoked and drove about London,
sometimes did too."

"You know, that shocking `secret' that Nicky's drug use is covering up is
surely that he fancies his mother's lovers, don't you think?"

"Yes, I agree; it's pretty obvious.  I'm sure Mr Coward is one of us."

"I've never thought of it that way before, Mala.  Is there an `us' and
`them'?"

"Oh yes, Derbs. Don't you think so?"

"I've just always taken people one at a time, but you are probably right,
of course, but I sometimes just like to imagine it is a universe made up of
just we two."

They continued their conversation at home.  Martin made sure that Stephen
got into bed first and was sitting up before he slid in, feeling the thrill
of his own body running down the naked torso and legs of his young lover.

"Do you think the people in Mayfair in 1924 are particularly wicked and
debauched, Derbs?"

"No more than the people in Golders Green or Dagenham and no more than they
were in 1824-- perhaps even less so.  I don't think people change much,
Mala.  Of course writers like Noël Coward now write frankly about
them, but look at the people in Shakespeare's plays; they were pretty
rotten in their day."

"Will we make ourselves ill by unhealthily repressing our urges?  I was
reading this book--or magazine article really--about psychological
complexes.  Is there something wrong with both of us, I mean should we be
psychoanalysed?"  Stephen just scratched himself and so Martin went on.
"It's all the fashion, isn't it?  Perhaps we can take a ski-ing holiday to
Switzerland and be done at the same time.  I believe you have to look at
inkblots and tell the doctor exactly what you see and it is usually about
snakes and wanting to sleep with your mother in your unconscious mind and
things like that.  Perhaps they can cure us?"

"Do you really feel you want to be cured, Mala.  Would you rather have been
born preferring girls to boys?"

Martin thought for a few minutes and ran his palm over Stephen's chest.
"Well, it would be convenient, I suppose, for dancing-- and for having
babies," he suddenly thought.  "My father may have approved of me more, but
I can't be sure that he knew and I can't really imagine it; I couldn't
imagine wanting anything more than loving you, Derbs.  So no."

"Then there's your answer.  You're not sick so can't be cured and I've
saved you three guineas."  Martin was still lost in thought when Stephen
gently rolled him over.  He planted kisses all down Martin's spine and then
licked and kissed his Mala's sweet, full, rosy cheeks.  With no more
depravity or psychosis than found in certain parts of Dagenham or among the
citizens of Golders Green, Stephen made love to Martin and, by practical
example convinced him of the rightness of his choice.



The next day The Plunger was holding an exhibition in the Grafton
Galleries.  Archie had a new suit made for the occasion as well as having
brought a pair of enormously wide flannel trousers.  He was admiring these
last in the looking-glass by his bed and noted with approval that only the
tips of his tan shoes could be seen from beneath the generous folds of
these `bags'.  "Well, what do you think, Gertie?" asked The Plunger,
shifting from side to side.

"I couldn't really say, dear," said his manservant.  "You won't wear them
tonight?"

"No, the new grey suit and that new short overcoat with the astrakhan
collar, I think"

"You're not frightened of being mistaken for a profiteer?"

"No, Gertie.  It's called taste and I can't expect a servant to understand
its finer points."

"Will they be coming here tonight?"

"Who?"

"The blond one and the big one."

"Gertie, why is it you can never remember the names of my friends?  I
presume you are referring to Lord Branksome and Mr Knight-Poole whom you
have known for eight years."

"If their names are not on the dressing room door under a star I can't be
expected to remember all your friends.  I got some bottled beer in for the
big one."

"Well done, Gertie, and what did you get in for his lordship and me?"

"Nothing, although there is some Coleman's Wincarnis in the cupboard if
you're not too particular."

"Well I am particular!" roared The Plunger.  "Why the devil did you get
beer and not some champagne?"

"Well, it's him wot does all the work, isn't it?  Works up quite a sweat he
does.  I mean it's you and Lord Thing that gets all the treats."

The Plunger had to agree privately that this was so and he hoped that
Stephen and Martin would stay the night and that treats would be
distributed.  His valet continued:

"I mean if it was me I wouldn't mind if he pulled my hair out by the very
roots if it meant that he could get just another inch..."

"I think that's quite enough, Gertie," said The Plunger cutting him off.
"Go and buy some champagne at once.  I think you'll find the wine shop next
to the Labour Exchange in the Kings Road will have what I want.  I'll
finish dressing myself."



The champagne and the beer were gratefully consumed and then the three of
them set out for the exhibition.  It was a foggy evening.  There was a big
crowd who politely applauded the artist when he entered in his new finery.
He bowed and gave his hat and stick to an attendant and said a few words of
welcome and a few more about the decline of cubism in Europe.  Martin
didn't follow it all.  However Martin and Stephen brought two paintings--an
amusing scene on the Tube where all the passengers looked like teeth in
cogwheels and a portrait of a heroic workman in a foundry eerily lit on one
side from the fire of the blast furnace.

Naturally many of their friends were there and Jean introduced the boys to
the Australian painter, Henry Lamb.  Lamb was somewhat older than they
were, but was still a very handsome man.  He was accompanied by two former
debutantes, a few years younger than the boys and whom they knew already.

"Hello Pans," said Martin to the Hon. Pansy Pakenham.

"Hello, Evelyn," said Stephen to the other one. "Are we going to dine after
this?"

Evelyn Gardner said they wanted to go to the Savoy to hear the band.
Martin was enthusiastic about this too.  He loved the `Savoy Orpheans', as
they called themselves and had purchased all their gramophone recordings.

Evelyn was very young and fair and had a cute turned-up nose.  She wore her
hair in a fashionable `Eton Crop' and was very pleasant and enthusiastic
about everything.

Rather daringly she shared a flat off Sloane Square with the older Pansy
who was one of the several children of the Duke of Longford and, while
great fun, was also calm and dependable, even when they were racketing
around London attending parties and making mischief.  Pansy and Lamb, who
must have been more than ten years her senior, made a very nice couple,
thought Martin.

So it was arranged to meet at the Savoy and the boys went to their
respective homes and climbed into their evening clothes and had their
servants tie their white ties.  At the Savoy they were joined by some more
people, including another handsome painter named Philpot, who had also been
at the exhibition, and Martin's cousin Sophia and her fiancé Brian
Chetwold.

"No champagne for me," said Jean then whispered to the three boys, "Antony
and I are going to have a baby."  Congratulations were hissed and The
Plunger had a look on his face as if he'd been struck with a blunt object.

"Uncle Archie, it will be lovely fun," whispered Martin.

"I suppose I can teach him to paint and play with trains," he said slowly
trying to imagine himself up in a nursery with an infant, who at this point
was of the male sex.

There was lots of dancing and the popular song of the moment was a foxtrot
with an insistent beat called, It Had to be You.

They were joined by another man called Captain Spencer whom Philpot knew
from somewhere.  Harold Spencer said he was a journalist and said he was
born in the United States, although he had served in the British Army.
Spencer and Evelyn seemed to get on well were full of energy and insisted
that they go next to the Embassy Club in Old Bond Street.  So it wasn't
very long after they had eaten that they piled into taxis and made the
short journey to where Luigi Naintre, the maître d'hôtel,
remembered the Marquess of Branksome and his good-looking friend and a
large table was quickly found just inside the door with an upholstered seat
around three sides which could accommodate them all with a bit of a
struggle.

The room was both discreet and glittering, and the slightly frosty patrons
were dancing aloofly to Bert Ambrose's band.  More champagne was ordered
and Martin began to think this would be another costly evening.  Still, he
couldn't stop himself from wanting to dance and even went as far as to ask
ladies of slight acquaintance at other tables to dance when those at his
own table said they must rest their feet.

Then a murmur went around the room and a striking young man walked in with
a woman on his arm, followed by two older men.  "It's Prince George," said
Brian Chetwold and he was right.

This new group sat at the table on the other side of the entrance and the
Prince and the young woman seemed to be in very good spirits while the
other two men seemed more sober.  "They must be detectives," whispered
Antony and this seemed to be correct.

Captain Spencer and Evelyn returned from the floor and Martin and Stephen
got to their feet to dance with Jean and Pansy when Ambrose broke into Tea
for Two.  They were going back to the others when they saw the young lady
talking to the Prince and nodding in their direction.  Therefore it was of
little surprise when one of the detectives came over and, excusing himself,
asked Martin and Stephen if they would join His Royal Highness.

They went over and bowed and, to their surprise, the lady made the
introductions. "You obviously don't remember me," she said.  Mrs Allen was
a very beautiful and disdainful young girl with an elfin face.  She was in
her mid-twenties and therefore slightly older than the fresh-faced Prince.
Her accent betrayed her as an American.

"I met you in New York during the War, Captain Knight-Poole, when you came
to my great-aunt's house and you were talking a great deal to my father's
cousin, Corny. And you, Lord Branksome, were trapped between two competing
young ladies."

"Mrs Vanderbilt's reception!  I'm sorry I don't remember it better, Mrs
Allen, and it's just Knight-Poole now, but I prefer Stephen."

"Then I am Kiki."

"We were on a recruiting mission to the United States, sir," explained
Martin to the Prince.

"And you were recruiting the young ladies of New York?" he said with
amusement.

"Something like that, sir.  It was a confused but wonderful time, really."

They were asked to sit down.  Prince George was quite young and
good-looking.  He had his mother's mouth but he smiled a good deal more
readily and his hair was dark and brushed to a gloss whereas his oldest
brother's was very fair.  He was in evening clothes, although he said that
he was on leave from the Navy.

They chatted about London nightlife and that of Paris from whence Kiki had
apparently descended.  Their meeting with the Murphys and Picasso was very
helpful in this smart conversation.  Then the Prince asked about the others
at the table they had deserted.  Martin sketched the artistic group and
talked a little about The Plunger's exhibition.

"And he is Sir Gordon Craigth's son, Poole?"

"Yes sir, and that is his sister, Mrs Vane-Gillingham."

"I wonder if you'd introduce me.  I think I'd like to dance."  Martin made
no mention of her pregnancy, as it would spoil her treat.  He took the
Prince over and introduced the table to His Royal Highness.  The orchestra
was now playing The Half of it Dearie Blues and several other popular tunes
of the year.  The Prince was an excellent dancer.  Stephen danced with Kiki
Allen and Martin danced with Pansy Packenham. Thus The Plunger was
compelled to ask Evelyn Gardner while Brian, Antony, Glyn Philpot, Lamb and
the Captain were left to talk amongst themselves.

Luigi brought some extra chairs and the Prince and Kiki joined their table,
leaving the two detectives to eat their supper alone.  There was a good
deal of champagne drunk. Kiki Allen said the most outrageous things and
didn't seem to care what anyone thought.  At one point, as she was
explaining what a terrible lover her ex-husband had been, she knocked over
the silver stand holding the ice bucket and the bottle shattered, with wine
spilling all over the floor.  The waiters rushed over to clean up the mess
and she neither apologised nor even looked at the menials who were bent
over with cloths.  In fact Martin watched with horror as she continued
talking and actually flicked the ash from her cigarette, which burned in a
long amber holder, onto the bent head of one of the young men who was
brushing up the broken glass.

"I'm bored here.  Let's go to The Bag O'Nails, sir," she said suddenly to
the Prince in a loud and petulant voice.  She got up and marched to the
door to retrieve her coat. Prince George followed her like a puppy.  The
bill had not been made up and Stephen apologised to Luigi.

"I will see you tomorrow, Luigi," said Stephen.

"I understand how it is, Mr Knight-Poole" said the Maître d' and
Stephen had to run to catch up.

Out in the thick November fog, Jean, Sophia and Poppy asked the Prince if
they might be excused from going on and Evelyn reluctantly joined them as
they went home with their partners.  Two taxis took the more lively party,
plus the two detectives, to Kingly Street behind Regent Street and they
piled down the stairs to the basement club.

The Savoy had been elegant and public and the Embassy had been elegant and
exclusive.  The Bag O'Nails was none of these.  However it was agreeably
noisy and there was music from a small orchestra that played incessantly.
The Prince was not recognised but the party of toffs was quickly found a
table under the modernistic murals when Captain Spencer proffered a
gratuity.  The champagne had been watered and it was expensive.  Some food
was brought, but none ate any.

Stephen decided to talk to Philpot who was a very serious portraitist,
steeped in the traditions of the Renaissance.  However he was a Roman
Catholic, he explained, and found it difficult to reconcile `all this' he
said with a wave of his hand, with his faith. Stephen took this to mean
also his love of good-looking boys whom he could not help but comment on as
they passed.  He also had a feel of Stephen under the table.  The Prince
may have seen this and that Stephen did not object.

The Prince danced with Kiki and then Stephen did.  She was a wild and
abandoned dancer and quite exciting.  When he returned to the table Martin
whispered, "I wish I could dance with you, Derbs."  Martin must have been a
little drunk for he said it a trifle too loudly and just as the orchestra
ceased playing.  The whole table must have heard and Martin went red.  He
couldn't retract what had been uttered and so he simply took a leaf out of
Mrs Allen's book and brazenly went on to talk about something else.

Spencer, who had been taking all this in, whispered something to The Prince
who nodded.  More champagne was ordered and then the Prince declared he was
going to the lavatory.  The first detective went to go with him, but he
waved at him to sit down.  The champagne arrived and some of it was
consumed while Spencer talked about the War.  The Plunger and Philpot then
gave a critique of the decorations. Prince George hadn't returned and the
two detectives became worried and got to their feet and headed in the
direction of the lavatory, which was on the other side of the club and up
some stairs.

"Come on!" cried Spencer and he threw some money on the table and propelled
the group out into the fog-shrouded street, just giving them time to snatch
their coats and hats.  "What are you doing?" asked Martin, who swayed a
little unsteadily on his feet.

"We're going to another club; one where you can dance with your boyfriend."

"But His Royal Highness?"

"He knows it and will meet us there."

Given no time to think, they almost ran through the yellow pea soup and
plunged down a nearby street and stopped at a green door with a light above
it that loomed out of the mist.  On the door a sign read: `Lady Austin's'.
Spencer knocked and the door was opened slightly.

"Oh Harold its you is it?  You're all dressed up, Queenie.  How many with
you?"

"Four chaps and a lady."

"Well, you are getting broadminded.  Come on up."

They filed in and climbed some steep stairs.  The carpet stopped at the
first floor and they continued up another two flights.  The sound of music
grew louder and when the final door was opened it proved to come from a
small orchestra.  There was no cloakroom or visitors' book, just some
tables and chairs around a grubby dance floor in a smoky haze.  A quick
look at the orchestra showed it to be composed of young men in `drag' and
Martin and Stephen immediately knew what kind of place they were in.  Two
men shuffled listlessly around the floor while the `ladies' in the
orchestra demonstrated the art of smoking and playing musical instruments
at the same time.  The drummer adjusted his brassiere with one hand as he
dusted the brushes over the snare drum with the other.

Terrible wine, worse than at The Bag O'Nails, was served in teacups.  The
doorman, in a shabby dinner jacket whose bald spots had been blackened with
ink, said something sharp to the band and they put their cigarettes out and
quickened into life to punch out, Charley My Boy.

"Do you want to dance, Mala? Now's your chance."

Martin followed Stephen onto the floor and they moved briskly to the
foxtrot, compromising in the matter of the more traditional male and female
positions of the arms and in the matter of who was to lead and who to
follow.  They stayed on the floor as the band drifted into the waltz,
What'll I Do.

Martin clung to Stephen with his arms around his strong neck.  This was
both romantic and a useful support for he was rather drunk.  "I love
dancing with you, Derbs.  You dance beautifully and I can feel your cock
waltzing in your trousers," added Martin with a giggle.  They looked back
at the table.  Prince George had arrived, without the detectives, and he
had just asked Philpot to dance.

Captain Spencer seemed to know one of the boys there.  He was only
young--perhaps 15 or 16--and was thin and painfully Nancy.  He sat on
Spencer's knee and Spencer whispered something to him and he got off
abruptly and headed for the door with some urgency and never returned.

Several other couples came to the floor.  Next The Plunger was dancing with
Stephen while Martin was pumping Spencer's arm to a silly thing called,
Yes! We have No Bananas.  Everyone, including the Prince, joined with the
band in singing the chorus. Martin found that he was laughing.

Kiki was sitting at the shabby table all alone and Martin felt sorry for
her.  Her cigarette smouldered bad temperedly in the ashtray.  He left
Spencer and went over to ask her to dance, but when he drew near to the
table he saw that she had reached into her bag and had drawn out a silver
box.  He halted and watched, fascinated.  From it she took a syringe and,
taking a final drag on her cigarette, plunged the needle into her arm.

Martin thought himself naïve, but not so that he didn't realise that
it was cocaine or heroin.  He felt sick.  He turned quickly about and in a
panic went back to the dancers. Prince George grabbed him and they did a
silly one-step and Martin tried not to think of what he had just seen.
Even drunk, Prince George was very light on his feet. Martin was just about
to compliment him when he noticed that His Royal Highness had on a quantity
of talcum and had rouged his cheeks while his lips were painted with two
shades of lipstick to form a `cupid's bow'.  His eyes too had been rimmed
with kohl.  He therefore looked quite different to the usual pictures
Martin saw of him in the Daily Express.

The band paused for refreshment and the dancers were slowly returning to
the tables when there was a commotion at the door.  A shout went up: "It's
a raid!" and the sound of policemen's heavy boots could be heard on the
stairs below.

www.youtube.com/watch?v=iSlfQ49Bq1s



To be continued. Thank you for reading.  If you have any comments or
questions, Pete and I would really love to hear from you.  Just send them
to h.h.hilliard@hotmail.com and please put NOB Nifty in the subject line.