The day before Joanna was leaving to return to London to pick up the pieces of her life, she drove over to see Dora, her paternal grandmother, in nearby Keighley. In her mid-eighties, but with her wits as sharp as a knife, Dora lived in a comfortable flat in a sheltered-housing development.
As she was hugged and welcomed inside to great delight and a plate of freshly made scones, Joanna immediately felt guilty that she did not visit more regularly. Dora had always been a constant in her life, having lived only four miles down the road from her son and his family up until five years ago. Joanna had treated her cosy cottage as a second home, her granny as a second mother.
‘So, young lady, tell me exactly how you landed yourself in hospital, will you?’ Dora smiled as she poured tea into two fine bone-china teacups. ‘And I’m ever so sorry about your young man.’ Her warm brown eyes were full of concern. ‘You know your grandpa died at thirty-two in the war. Broke my heart, it did.’
Joanna provided the cursory explanation she’d been drilled by Simon to give everyone who asked.
‘That’s what your dad told me. That you almost drowned.’ Dora’s intelligent eyes studied Joanna. ‘But you can’t fool me. I remember all them badges and shields you won at school for swimming, even if they don’t. Dora, I thought to myself when I heard, there’s more to this than meets the eye. So, love –’ she took a sip of her tea and eyed her granddaughter – ‘who tried to drown you?’
Joanna could not help but give a weak smile – her grandmother was such a wily old bird. ‘It’s a long, long story, Granny,’ she murmured as she polished off her second scone.
‘I love a good story. And the longer the better,’ she encouraged. ‘Sadly, time is something I have in spades these days.’
Joanna weighed the situation up in her mind. Then, thinking that there was no one on earth whom she trusted more, and eager to put her still-confused thoughts into words, she began to talk. Dora was the perfect listener. She rarely interrupted, stopping Joanna only if there was something her failing left ear had missed.
‘So, that’s it, really,’ Joanna concluded. ‘Mum and Dad know nothing, of course. I didn’t want to worry them.’
Dora clasped Joanna’s hands in hers. ‘Oh love . . .’ She shook her head, a mixture of anger and sympathy in her eyes. ‘I’m proud of you for pulling through as well as you have. What a dreadful thing to happen. But, my, what a tale! The best I’ve heard for years. Takes me back to the war and Bletchley Park. I spent two years there on the Morse code machines during the war.’
This was a story Joanna had heard many times before. If one was to believe Dora, her decoding skills were what had won the Second World War. ‘It must have been an amazing time.’
‘The things I could tell you that went on behind closed doors, love, but I signed the Official Secrets Act and they’ll stay with me until the grave. However, it made me believe that anything is possible, that Joe Public’ll never know the half of it. More tea?’
‘I’ll make it.’
‘I’ll help.’
The two of them wandered into the immaculate kitchen. Joanna put on the kettle as Dora rinsed the teapot under the tap.
‘So, what’ll you do?’ Dora asked her.
‘About what?’
‘Your story. You haven’t signed any Secrets Act. You could go public and make a pretty penny.’
‘I don’t have enough proof, Granny. Besides, this is a secret that those in high places are prepared to kill people to protect, as I know to my cost. Too many people have died already.’
‘What do you have in the way of proof?’
‘Rose’s original letter to me, a photocopy of the love letter she wrote to Michael O’Connell, and a theatre programme from the Hackney Empire that seems to have little relevance to the story, apart from showing James Harrison using another name.’
‘You got them with you?’
‘Yes. They’re in my rucksack and they go under my pillow at night. I’m still looking behind me to see if someone’s lurking in the shadows. They’re no use to me any more. Maybe you’d like them to put with the rest of your royal memorabilia?’
Dora’s collection of old newspaper clippings and photos, betraying her status as an ardent monarchist, was a family joke.
‘Let’s have a look-see then.’ Dora walked back into the sitting room with the teapot, poured them both a fresh cup and settled herself in her favourite armchair.
‘I’m surprised you’d allow yourself to think that one of your precious kings might have had a fling outside the marital bed, especially one that was married to your favourite royal,’ Joanna commented as she dug inside her rucksack for the brown envelope.
‘Men will be men,’ countered Dora. ‘Besides, up until recently, it was the done thing for kings and queens to have mistresses and lovers. It’s a well-known fact there were a good few monarchs whose parentage was questionable. No birth control in those days, you know, love. I had a friend at Bletchley Park whose mother had been an undermaid at Windsor. The things she told me about that Edward VII. He had a string of mistresses and, according to her, he put at least two of them in the family way. Thanks, love.’ Dora reached out for the envelope and removed its contents. ‘Now, what have we here?’
Joanna watched as Dora studied the two letters, then opened the theatre programme.
‘I saw Sir James a good few times in the theatre. Looks different here, though, doesn’t he? I thought he was a dark-haired fellow. He’s blond in this picture.’
‘He dyed it black and added a moustache when he became James Harrison and assumed his new identity.’
‘What’s this?’ Dora was studying the photograph Joanna had found in the attic of Haycroft House.
‘That’s James Harrison, Noël Coward and Gertrude Lawrence. Given their evening dress, at some kind of first-night party, I’d imagine.’
Dora studied the photo intently, then glanced at the other photo of James Harrison in the theatre programme. ‘Good Lord!’ She let out a sigh and shook her head in wonderment. ‘Oh no, it’s not!’
‘Not what?’
‘That man standing next to Noël Coward is definitely not James Harrison. You wait here a minute and I’ll prove it to you.’
Dora rose and left the room. Joanna heard the sound of a drawer opening, then a scuffling, papery noise before Dora arrived back, her eyes glinting in triumph. She sat down, laid a heap of yellowing newspaper cuttings on the table and beckoned Joanna to her. She pointed at one faded, grainy photograph and then at the others. Then she put Joanna’s photograph next to them.
‘See? It’s one and the same person. No doubt about it at all. A case of mistaken identity there, love.’
‘But . . .’ Joanna felt breathless and slightly sick as her brain tried to make sense of what she saw. She pointed to the face in the programme, the face of the young Michael O’Connell. ‘Surely that can’t be him too?’
Dora took her glasses off her nose and looked at Joanna intently. ‘I doubt that the then second in line to the throne would be performing in a play at the Hackney Empire, don’t you?’
‘You’re saying the man standing next to Noël Coward is the Duke of York?’
‘Compare that photo of him with these: on his wedding day, in his navy officer’s uniform, on his coronation . . .’ Dora stabbed her finger at the face. ‘I’m telling you, it’s him.’
‘But the photograph of Michael O’Connell in the theatre programme . . . I mean, they look like one and the same person.’
‘Seems like we’re seeing double, dear, doesn’t it? Oh, and I brought you something else to look at too.’ Dora pulled out another cutting. ‘I thought it sounded odd when you mentioned the “visitor” arriving in Ireland in early January 1926. See, this shows the Duke and Duchess on a visit to York Minster in January 1926. My parents went to wave in the crowd. So it’s very doubtful the Duke could have been in southern Ireland around the same time, it was a long way to travel in those days. And besides, the Duchess was six months along with her first pregnancy. Far as I know, the pair of them didn’t leave England’s shores until their tour of Australia the following year.’
Joanna’s hands went to her head as her brain struggled to compute it all. ‘So, I . . . then it couldn’t have been the Duke of York in Ireland after all?’
‘You know,’ Dora said slowly, ‘in those days, a lot of famous people used doubles. Monty was known for it, and Hitler, of course. That’s why they couldn’t get him. They’d never know whether they’d killed the right man.’
‘You’re saying that Michael O’Connell might have been used as a double for the Duke of York? But why?’
‘Search me. The Duke’s health was never good, mind. He was sick as a young boy. And he always had that dreadful stutter. He suffered from bouts of bronchitis all his life.’
‘Surely someone would have noticed? All the photographs in the newspapers . . .’
‘The quality was not like it is these days, dear. No newfangled lenses pointing up your nose, and no television. You’d see the royals from a distance, if you were lucky, or hear them on the radio. I’d reckon if there was some reason they wanted a stand-in – say, if the Duke was sick and they didn’t want the country to know – they’d have got away with it easily.’
‘Okay, okay.’ Joanna tried to take in this new information. ‘So, if that was the case, and Michael O’Connell was used as a double for the Duke of York, why all this fuss?’
‘Don’t ask me, dear. You’re the investigative journalist.’
‘Christ!’ Joanna shook her head in frustration. ‘I thought I’d made sense of it all, and if what you’ve pointed out is right, then I’m back to square one. Why all the deaths? And what on earth was in that letter they were so desperate to get their hands on?’ She stared into space, her heart beating hard against her chest. ‘If . . . if you’re right, Simon has sold me completely down the river.’
‘Maybe he thought it was better than having you drown in it,’ Dora said sagely. ‘Simon’s a straight Yorkshireman and you’re like a sister to him. Whatever he’s done, he’s done to protect you.’
‘You’re wrong. Simon may care for me, but I’ve learnt where his true allegiance lies in the past few weeks. Oh Christ, Granny. I’m so confused. I thought it was all over, that maybe I could forget about it and get on with my life.’
‘Well, you can, of course, love. All we’ve done is spot a similarity between one young man and t’other . . .’
‘Similarity? In those photos anyone would be pushed to tell the difference! It’s too much of a coincidence. I’m going to have to go back to London and rethink everything. Can I borrow these cuttings?’
‘With pleasure, as long as you return them.’
‘Thank you.’ Joanna scooped the cuttings up and folded them into her rucksack.
‘Let me know how it goes, love. My instincts tell me you’re on the right track now.’
‘God help me, so do mine.’ She kissed Dora warmly. ‘This may sound rather overdramatic, but please don’t say a word to anyone about what we’ve discussed today, Granny. People involved in this have a horrid habit of getting hurt.’
‘I won’t, even though half the old biddies living around me are too senile to remember what day it is, let alone a story like this.’ Dora chuckled.
‘I’ll see myself out.’
‘Yes. You take care, Joanna. And whatever you say, if you trust anyone, trust Simon.’
Joanna called goodbye from the hall, opened the front door and headed for the car. As she drove away, she mused that Dora may have unwittingly led her to the truth of the matter, but that her final words of advice about Simon were fatally flawed.