The Windsor Protocol Read online

  “So you’ve just arrived on the island, Mister Carson?” the Duke murmured politely. “So have we.”

  Conroy smiled courteously at the Royal jest and passed on to bow to the Duchess. She barely noticed him.

  Mrs Kedgeworth was hard on his heels.

  “How thrilling, oh how thrilling. Such a lovely couple, aren’t they? So good to have them here on the island.”

  He said something polite and made to turn, deciding he needed some respite from her overwhelming personality, but she caught at his arm.

  A stocky red-haired man with bright blue eyes stood in their path. The eyes were made more piercing by the man’s deep tan.

  “‘Evening, Mrs Kedgeworth.”

  He spoke without taking his gaze from Conroy. It was obvious that he was waiting for an introduction. The woman obliged, though without enthusiasm.

  “This is Mister Leen,” she said. “Mister Leen, this is Mister Carson.”

  Conroy shook hands. The man’s grip was hard, the hands felt calloused.

  “You’re a new arrival, I hear?” Leen’s manner was abrupt.

  “You hear correctly.” Conroy’s reply was curt.

  “Business, I guess?”

  “No. On vacation,” replied Conroy.

  “From England?”

  Mrs Kedgeworth was fretting with annoyance at Leen’s brusque tone.

  “And you?” Conroy decided to bounce the ball back into the red-haired man’s court. “I suppose you are an American.”

  “Irish, born in America,” he replied belligerently.

  Mrs Kedgeworth couldn’t restrain herself. It was apparent that Leen’s attitudes were well known in the islands.

  “I am surprised to see you here, Mister Leen. I thought you had a strong dislike of our Royal Family.”

  Leen grinned crookedly.

  “No harm in your Duke, now he ain’t King. Anyway, our attitude is one of detachment to your Royalty mess.”

  “Our attitude?” queried Conroy in amusement.

  “Ireland’s attitude. My attitude,” replied Leen. “Don’t forget, it was only the Irish Prime Minister, alone of the Dominion Prime Ministers, who advised against the Abdication, suggesting that Mrs Simpson and the King could be married but that Mrs Simpson need not necessarily become Queen. It was De Valera who pointed out that as divorce was a recognised institution in England, Baldwin ought to have no problem about recognising the proposed marriage between the King and a divorced woman.”

  “Hardly detachment,” sniffed Mrs Kedgeworth.

  “Of course it was detachment. Damned good advice if only Baldwin had taken it. It would have saved a lot of trouble for the English.”

  “Excuse us,” intervened Mrs Kedgeworth, her voice heavy, “there is someone I particularly wish you to meet, Mister Carson.”

  She drew him away whispering in his ear: “A horrid, objectionable little man. Luckily, he doesn’t often come to Nassau. A pity he lives in the islands at all.”

  She was steering him again towards the bar. Then she halted. She suddenly quivered and blushed like a young girl.

  “Oh, Sir Harry, let me introduce you to a new arrival on the island.”

  The man was in his mid-sixties; squat, with massive shoulders and a once powerful physique that was running to fat. He was short, with an aggressive square jaw and a beak of a nose. He stared up at Conroy belligerently. His pugnacious stand made Sarsfield Leen appear like a mild-tempered minister.

  “Yeah?” his voice was harsh and uncouth.

  “This is Oscar Carson. He’s just arrived from England.”

  “Well, not quite,” Conroy said pedantically. “I had some business in the States and then in Jamaica. Decided to hire a yacht there and tour the islands.”

  “Mister Carson, this is Sir Harry Oakes.” Mrs Kedgeworth made the introduction with almost as much awe in her voice as she had used to address the Duke and Duchess.

  Conroy met the belligerent gaze of the little man who was unquestionably one of the richest men in the world. What had Adams said — the uncrowned king of the Bahamas?

  “Delighted to meet you, Sir Harry.”

  “What business are you in, Carson?” The question was brusquely put. Conroy thought that abruptness must be part of the Bahamian white culture. It seemed a common trait.

  “Agricultural implements, import and export.”

  “Make a living?” The tone was rude, sneering.

  “I can’t complain.”

  “Can’t complain, eh? When I was your age I didn’t have a damned penny to my name. One change of clothes and a pick and shovel. Staked a claim around the Lake Shore back in Ontario and dug the gold ore out with my bare hands. Struck lucky but it took me ten years to see the money running in. Struck a rich field. I don’t even know how much I am making. Don’t care. But not complaining never got me anywhere. If you don’t complain then you don’t get.”

  Conroy smiled politely.

  “We’ve just been introduced to the Duke and Duchess,” interposed Mrs Kedgeworth proudly. “Such a lovely couple.”

  Sir Harry looked indifferent.

  “Yeah?” Again it sounded like a sneer.

  “Yes. I think the Duke will make a marvellous governor, don’t you, Sir Harry,” Mrs Kedgeworth pressed on smilingly.

  “Good? Yeah, he might learn our ways. The best way to govern the Bahamas is not to govern at all. If the Duke sticks to golf then he will be a good governor. Shoot! They might even put up statues to him. But if he tries to carry out reforms or make any serious decisions or help the niggers, like Dundas tried to do, he will just stir up trouble and make himself unpopular.”

  Conroy could feel the cold animosity and almost felt sorry for the Duke for being forced to deal with such people. He felt a desire to get some fresh air. He made some excuse and began to turn away.

  There was a startled “oh” as he bumped into a girl who was passing behind him.

  He began to offer his apologies but stopped, staring at the ash blonde in the emerald green evening gown. Her green-grey eyes returned his astonished gaze.

  “It’s a small world, Lise Fennell,” he smiled. For some reason he was not able to analyse, he felt extraordinarily happy at the girl’s appearance.

  “A small island,” she corrected gravely. Her eyes were bright and mischievous as if she, too, shared his moment of joy.

  “Sorry for being so clumsy.”

  “My fault.”

  Conroy turned, taking her arm in an unconsciously friendly manner and guided her away from the suspicious gaze of Sir Harry and Mrs Kedgeworth.

  “Glad you came by,” Conroy said in a low voice. “I’ve been trying to escape from that lady all even-mg.

  Lise Fennell threw a glance across her shapely shoulder and turned back with a grin.

  “Mrs Kedgeworth?”

  “Do you know her?”

  “Everyone in Nassau knows Mrs Kedgeworth if they are anyone. She makes it her business to know them. I’ve only been here a few days and I’ve already had the third degree from her. When you arrive, she’s about the second or third person you meet.”

  They halted at the edge of the dance floor and stood awkwardly.

  Conroy glanced around. The band was playing a slow dance. He wasn’t sure what it was.

  “Can we dance? I’m not much good, but this seems to be a ‘smooch’ so I can walk round the floor, if you’ll follow.”

  Lise Fennell hesitated, glanced round and then nodded.

  “Are you here with anyone?” Conroy asked as he led off onto the floor. She was an excellent dancer.

  “Matter of fact, yes.” She spoke without enthusiasm.

  “I see. Boyfriend? That blond fellow who came to collect you yesterday?”

  “He’s not my boyfriend.”

  Was there something defensive in her tone?

  “Sorry,” Conroy apologised. “He just seemed a little proprietorial. Boyfriends usually are.”

  She did not answer. For a while he c
ontented himself with the proximity of her softness against him and the odour of her fragrant perfume, with the freshness of her hair close to his face. He wondered why he felt an attraction towards her. Rebecca had been his ideal but Lise Fennell was so unlike Rebecca.

  “I was hoping to see you again,” he began after a while.

  Her green-grey eyes flickered up for a moment into his face, openly curious.

  “Oh?”

  “Are you staying long in Nassau? I was hoping that maybe we could have dinner one evening.”

  Her eyes seemed to cloud over. He saw her lips compress. She shook her head.

  “That would be…inconvenient.”

  He raised an eyebrow wonderingly.

  There was something troubling her. Strange how she had been so bubbling with laughter, fun loving, that day on the beach. Now she seemed suddenly ill-at-ease, reserved, almost scared to be with him. Damn it! Why did he keep thinking that she was so like Rebecca?

  “Inconvenient?” he pressed. It was an odd choice of a word.

  She gave a low sigh.

  “Sorry. It was a wrong word. It’s just not possible.” Her eyes abruptly focussed beyond his shoulder and she looked momentarily troubled.

  Conroy glanced over his shoulder and saw Roger Albright approaching them.

  “Lise, you promised me this dance,” there was mild accusation in his American drawl.

  The girl halted and coloured slightly.

  “So I did, Roger,” she said quietly. “I’m sorry,” she added in Conroy’s direction as she disengaged herself from him.

  “It’s getting to be a habit,” muttered Conroy in annoyance. “Perhaps some other time?”

  The blond haired man turned piercing blue eyes at Conroy. His lips formed a thin smile. The eyes were not humorous.

  “Hello…haven’t we’ve met before?”

  “That’s right,” replied Conroy unhelpfully. Albright didn’t seem to be put out. He merely stared for a moment at him before leading the girl off into the dancers.

  “A pretty girl,” observed a voice behind him.

  He turned to find Jordan perspiring at his elbow.

  “Yes. Do you know who she is?”

  Jordan’s lips turned down as if in disapproval. He reached into his sleeve and took out a white handkerchief to mop his brow.

  “Not really. She is with Mister Serafini’s party.”

  Conroy’s brows came together.

  “Serafini? Alfredo Serafini?”

  “Yes, yes. American businessman who has now retired to the islands. Do you know him?”

  Conroy shook his head.

  “Mister Serafini lives on Cat Island, one of our out-islands, as we call them,” went on Jordan. “You might have seen his motor yacht anchored in East Bay. The large one. It has an Italian name — Lupo di Mare.”

  Conroy’s eyes sought out Lise Fennell and her partner on the floor.

  “And who is Roger Albright?”

  “Albright? I thought you knew him?”

  “No. We’ve now met twice…briefly. If you recall, yesterday it was you who asked me if I knew what hotel he was staying at — which I did not.”

  Jordan’s face puckered as he dredged the memory and then relaxed.

  “Oh, of course. Well, he’s just an American tourist but I was told that he is an important one. Something about being in oil. He’s from Houston, anyway. He came in from Miami on one of the Pan American flights a few days ago. I think he came to see the Duke and Duchess. You know how Americans are about royalty? Do you know that the American airlines and shipping companies were trying to organise special services to Nassau to satisfy the demand of tourists who wanted to come here to catch a glimpse of the Duke and Duchess? Some of them are really the most frightful people. Albright does not seem the usual brash type, however. But we have to ensure we keep most of these tourists at arm’s length. We have to ensure that we repel the gate-crashing social climbers. Can’t say I know much about Albright. A likeable fellow. Now you must excuse me for a moment, I see Captain…”

  He was gone in the throng before he had finished the last sentence.

  The dance had ended and Conroy began to move forward to reclaim Lise Fennell but, as the people cleared away from the dance floor while the band took a rest, he saw Albright guiding Lise to a table at which two men and two woman were seated. Something made him halt.

  One of the men, tall and dark-haired with an olive complexion, stood up as she approached. He was handsome, almost a stereotype Latin, about forty years old. He had a thin, dark moustache which made Conroy think uncharitably of dark corridors and silently turning bedroom door handles. The other man was equally swarthy but elderly and fleshy faced. He also stood up. One of the women was young, dark haired and obviously Latin. She was staring at Lise as she approached with little sign of friendship. Her angry expression deepened as the dark haired man drew out a chair for Lise to sit down in and positioned it with flamboyant old world courtesy. The other woman, slightly older, was obviously the companion of the fleshy faced man.

  Roger Albright inclined his head to the company and moved off without further greeting.

  The dark-haired man returned to his seat and then leant forward to pat the girl’s arm in a manner which seemed to indicate proprietorial intimacy. Lise turned and smiled up at him. Conroy saw a look of utter hatred spread over the features of the young, dark-haired woman. Whoever she was, she was certainly not Lise Fennell’s friend.

  Conroy bit his lip. He supposed there was some reasonable explanation to the apparent mystery of Lise Fennell. After all, it was no concern of his. Then why the urge for him to develop his acquaintanceship? He was about to move forward again when he noticed the muscularly built man, with the face of a pugilist, standing a little way behind the dark-haired man’s chair. He looked distinctly uncomfortable in his tuxedo. He was a “heavy” if anyone was, thought Conroy. He reasoned that the dark-haired man must be Alfredo Serafini.

  What the devil was the American girl doing in his company? He could not have assessed her character so wrongly as to believe that she would choose to mix with a Mafia boss.

  He moved back to the bar speculating on the unlikely relationship between the young girl and the former rumrunner.

  Mrs Kedgeworth ambushed him at the bar.

  “I didn’t know you knew Miss Fennell,” she greeted in accusation.

  Conroy suppressed a compulsion to groan aloud.

  “I don’t really,” he decided to stick to the truth. “I just bumped into her on the beach the other day.”

  “Nice girl. A friend of Mister Serafini.”

  “So I see.”

  “He’s so generous to the island charities,” she went on. “A very nice man. American, you know.”

  “So I understand.”

  “He lives on one of the out-islands. He’s just on New Providence to pay his respects to the new Governor.”

  Conroy took up two glasses of champagne from the tray of a passing waiter and handed one to Mrs Kedgeworth. A desire to learn more about Lise Fennell overcame his irritation.

  “Mr Serafini seems to have quite an entourage with him.”

  “Those are his house guests. The pretty woman is the Cuban singer, Magda Montego. Actually, I think she is a night club singer rather than grand opera, you know. But I understand she is very well known in Miami as well as Havana.”

  From her tone it was apparent that Mrs Kedgeworth did not rate night club singers highly.

  “And the others?” prompted Conroy.

  “Luis and Maria Soriano. I think Mister Soriano is a business associate of Mister Serafini.”

  “I see. And Miss Fennell is a friend?”

  Mrs Kedgeworth gave a little chuckle and leaned forward conspiratorially.

  “I think she is a very, very good friend of Mister Serafini. They are all staying on his yacht.”

  Conroy found himself controlling his features and wondering why he felt a surge of annoyance at the information wh
ich Mrs Kedgeworth had given him.

  “I hear Mister Serafini has a nice yacht?”

  “Oh yes. A lovely vessel. You may have seen it in East Bay?”

  “No.”

  “Oh well, you’ll see it the day after tomorrow, no doubt.”

  Conroy did not understand.

  “I’m sorry. What do you mean?”

  “Why, the party. Mister Serafini’s special party for the Duke and Duchess which will be held on board his yacht, the Lupo di Mare. You are invited, aren’t you?”

  “Oh, yes, yes. I’d forgotten about it,” he lied.

  “I know that it is a small affair but I knew you would be invited. After all, a man in your position…”

  She took a large swallow of her champagne and chuckled happily.

  Conroy sighed. Mrs Kedgeworth seemed typically representative of the petty colonial atmosphere of Nassau; the provincial, claustrophobic town with its palm trees, coral beaches, quasi-American shops and sense of remoteness from the real world and, yes, futility. He disliked her intently for that. However, she was a good source of information and without Mrs Kedgeworth…He reasoned that if he could wangle an invitation to Serafini’s party he might be able to get closer to the Duke and Duchess and study those who were contacting them. One of those people would have to be the Nazi intermediary. What was the name Colonel White has passed on to him? Olbricht. Rudi Olbricht.

  His thoughts kept being interrupted by the image of Lise Fennell. He found himself glancing across the room to where she was sitting next to the swarthy Italian-American mobster. He found it hard to believe that she could be having some relationship with him, as Mrs Kedgeworth had implied.

  And what of her relationship with Roger Albright? He kept thinking that he ought to know that name but he knew that he had not met the man before yesterday.

  He realised that Mrs Kedgeworth was still talking and dragged his attention back to her.

  “I hear that the poor Duke and Duchess don’t like Government House,” the woman was saying. “Well, I don’t suppose it’s what they are used to. It’s a bit dark and rambling. I organised the placing of fresh flowers in all the main rooms on the day of their arrival but I noticed the place was musty. The furniture has certainly seen better days and the rooms could do with painting. I did suggest that the pool be cleared out. It’s been disused for a long time now and the leaves have just gathered there, rotting. The Duke has asked that the house be redecorated and refurbished.”