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  Copyright & Information

  Blood Royal

  First published in 1929

  © Estate of Dornford Yates; House of Stratus 1929-2011

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

  The right of Dornford Yates to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted.

  This edition published in 2011 by House of Stratus, an imprint of

  Stratus Books Ltd., Lisandra House, Fore Street, Looe,

  Cornwall, PL13 1AD, UK.

  Typeset by House of Stratus.

  A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library and the Library of Congress.

  EAN ISBN Edition

  1842329685 9781842329689 Print

  0755126882 9780755126880 Kindle

  0755127099 9780755127092 Epub

  This is a fictional work and all characters are drawn from the author’s imagination.

  Any resemblance or similarities to persons either living or dead are entirely coincidental.

  www.houseofstratus.com

  About the Author

  Born ‘Cecil William Mercer’ into a middle class Victorian family with many Victorian skeletons in the closet, including the conviction for embezzlement from a law firm and subsequent suicide of his great-uncle, Yates’ parents somehow scraped together enough money to send him to Harrow.

  The son of a solicitor, he at first could not seek a call to the Bar as he gained only a third class degree at Oxford. However, after a spell in a Solicitor’s office he managed to qualify and then practised as a Barrister, including an involvement in the Dr. Crippen Case, but whilst still finding time to contribute stories to the Windsor Magazine.

  After the First World War, Yates gave up legal work in favour of writing, which had become his great passion, and completed some thirty books. These ranged from light-hearted farce to adventure thrillers. For the former, he created the ‘Berry’ books which established Yates’ reputation as a writer of witty, upper-crust romances. For the latter, he created the character Richard Chandos, who recounts the adventures of Jonah Mansel, a classic gentleman sleuth. As a consequence of his education and experience, Yates’ books feature the genteel life, a nostalgic glimpse at Edwardian decadence and a number of swindling solicitors.

  In his hey day, and as testament to his fine writing, Dornford Yates’ work often featured in the bestseller list. Indeed, ‘Berry’ is one of the great comic creations of twentieth century fiction; the ‘Chandos’ titles also being successfully adapted for television. Along with Sapper and John Buchan, Yates dominated the adventure book market of the inter war years.

  Finding the English climate utterly unbearable, Yates chose to live in the French PyrenÉes for eighteen years, before moving on to Rhodesia (as was), where he died in 1960.

  ‘Mr Yates can be recommended to anyone who thinks the British take themselves too seriously.’ - Punch

  ‘We appreciate fine writing when we come across it, and a wit that is ageless united to a courtesy that is extinct’ - Cyril Connolly

  Dedication

  To

  OXFORD,

  as I remember it, when I had the honour

  to wear a commoner’s gown

  1: We Fish in Troubled Waters

  No sooner had George Hanbury and I decided to visit Austria in the summer of 192– than I began to wonder what our stay in that land would bring forth. This, I think, was natural; for, though we had been there but twice, we had each time been party to matters of life and death, and, indeed, our fortunes seemed to be so bound to that handsome country that I felt I had agreed not so much to revisit a region as to re-enter an arena.

  The reason for our decision was simple, namely, to put to the touch the knowledge which we had acquired of the German tongue, and, though we could have done this as well in Baden or Saxony, we naturally inclined to a district we knew and liked.

  It may seem strange that two young men of leisure, not given at all to study but rather to minding their acres and hunting five days a week, should have hired a tutor to make their evenings a burden for the best part of eighteen months; but upon the two visits I have mentioned our ignorance had been the source of so much embarrassment and peril that, late in the day as it was, we determined to master German at any cost.

  That we were most happy in our tutor there can be no doubt. He was an Austrian and, though he never said so, plainly of high degree. He was learned, courteous and understanding, and I can think of no company which his presence would not have improved. Of Maintenance, our home in Wiltshire, he grew, I think, very fond and, since he was so pleasant in his ways, I am sure we should never have dismissed him, but one May morning he suddenly took his leave.

  “You need me no more,” he said quietly, “and I must go. I have much to thank you for.”

  This abrupt declaration took us aback, but, when it was plain that he had made up his mind, we begged him to wait for a fortnight and go to his country with us.

  He thanked us and shook his head.

  “I have business,” he said, “to which I must go at once: and, though our ways are the same, I do not think we shall meet.”

  With that, he spoke of our kindness in terms which it did not deserve and, promising to send an address to which we might write, asked that a groom might drive him to catch a train to London which left at midday.

  It seemed best to argue no more, and so we parted; and that was the singular end of a relation which I am glad to think I always valued.

  Fifteen days later we left for Austria by road. Bell and Rowley, our servants, went with us, and, although George Hanbury did not know it, we carried arms. We took no chauffeur because we had none to take, for we always drove and cared for the car ourselves; but we had taught the servants how a Rolls-Royce should be handled and the general attention it deserved, and no chauffeur that I have known was ever so jealous of his charge.

  Bell and Rowley were ex-soldiers – quiet, steady men who knew no fear. They were most able and trusty, did with goodwill all manner of duty which no mere bodyservant could well have been desired to essay and seemed content with their lot. To their unswerving devotion this tale will testify.

  The evening before we started I had strolled round to the coach-house where Bell, who was my servant, was packing the car.

  When he saw me, he glanced about him, as though to be sure that he and I were alone.

  “Rowley’s asked Mr Hanbury, sir, and he says we won’t need any arms.” He hesitated. “Is there anything else I can put in the locker below?”

  There was a secret locker which few, I think, would have found. This had been made to take arms and had served its turn.

  I looked at Bell.

  The man was appealing to Caesar as plain as could be. Yet never before had he done this, for Hanbury and I were equal and each did as the other said.

  For a moment the man’s eyes held mine. Then he looked down.

  “Why do you think we should take them?” said I.

  “That I can’t say, sir.”

  He was a man of few words.

  “I’m glad you asked me,” I said, and gave him my keys. “Mr Hanbury is perfectly right. There is no earthly reason why we should take the things, but – well, you needn’t let anyone see you, but put them in.”

  “Very good, sir.”

  So was Bell also among the prophets.

  We came to Salzburg quietly, entering the city at the close of a beautiful day. The
re we proposed to stay for a fortnight or more, and the landlord of an old-fashioned inn had been advised to expect us that very night.

  We knew the house and preferred it to another hotel, for it stood in a quiet street, and so slight was its custom that a guest who was willing to pay was very well used. The kitchen was at his service, and such food as he wished was made ready at any hour: his rooms were kept as pleasant as they could be: all his ways were studied, and, indeed, so much was made of him that the host might have been his steward and the inn his private house.

  There, then, we took up our quarters without any fuss, not at all sorry to be again in Salzburg and much looking forward to roving the familiar landscape, fishing the streams we remembered and drinking our fill of a sunlight that did our hearts good.

  As we proposed, so did we for nearly a month, for the weather was continually fine, and I never remember keeping so healthy a holiday. Often enough we were abroad at daybreak and would take our rest by some brook in the heat of the day, and more than once we spent the night in the open, to wake up among the mountains like giants refreshed.

  We did not neglect our German, but spoke with peasants and others whenever we had the chance, and we solemnly read the papers and more than once went to the play. George was far better than I, who was very halting and had to rehearse whatever I wanted to say; but at least I could understand the speech of another and, if he was content to be patient, we could converse.

  We neither sought adventures nor found them and met with nothing more startling than a catch of five great trout in one afternoon. Of this we were very proud, for on no other day did we ever catch more than two, and on two out of three we caught none, for, though we enjoyed our angling, I fear the show we made was beneath contempt.

  Bell or Rowley went always with us, and often we took the two, for they were both countrymen and were never, I think, so happy as when they were among meadows and within sound of a stream.

  So we lived and moved very simply, till the twenty-eighth day of June.

  That day we left Salzburg betimes, with both the servants and a hamper of food and drink. We drove deep into Carinthia, intending to prove once more that gracious water which had yielded our famous catch and more than half expecting to pass the night that followed under the stars.

  For the first time the weather was sultry, which seemed to predict a storm, but the heaven was clear enough, and, when about sundown George Hanbury caught and landed two very fine trout, we determined to stay thereabouts and to fish the same stream the next day. Whilst we were busy, Bell and Rowley had found a little clearing in the heart of a wood and, since this was very private and was fed by a track by which we could bring up the car, we were very soon eating our supper within its green walls.

  There had been no cool of the day, and when the meal was over, Hanbury and I went strolling to take the air. Of this there was very little and I was just wondering whether we should not have been wiser to rest on the brow of some hill, when, happening to look skywards, I perceived that half the heaven was blotted out.

  That the storm we had feared was coming was now very plain, and, since we were not at all ready to defy a downpour, we decided to run for Salzburg without delay.

  Ten minutes later we had taken the road, and, though I had hoped that we might run out of the storm, before we had covered ten miles the lightning began to play.

  I never remember such a night.

  The elements might have agreed to dispute our passage. Thunder and lightning apart – and these were monstrous – the tempest beset us as the seas a labouring ship; so savage was the rage of the wind that I expected every moment our hood to be carried away, while the violence and volume of the rain beggar description.

  Our progress being so hampered, it soon became plain that, unless the storm abated, our journey to Salzburg would take twice as long as it should, and, after a little discussion, we decided to make for St Martin, which was a village we knew. This lay some forty miles off, and, though we might have found shelter nearer to hand, the landlord of the inn at St Martin was our very good friend and would, we knew, make us welcome, though we came as thieves in the night.

  Now, had it been day, so well did we know the country that, rain or shine, we should have been at St Martin within the hour, but, with none of our landmarks to guide us and the lightning, the rain and the darkness confounding our sight, we had to depend upon signposts until we should strike some road which could not be disguised. And this was the devil; for, though we had a searchlight with which to illumine the legends the signposts bore, so dense was the rain that they could not be read from the car, and Bell and Rowley, who took it in turns to alight, were very soon drenched to the skin.

  At last we came to cross roads that seemed familiar, but, though George Hanbury would have chanced it, I turned the beam on to the signpost and Rowley got out.

  He had not been gone ten seconds when I heard a deep voice speaking German at the door he had used.

  “Your Highness will please to enter.”

  Another younger man answered.

  “I demand to be told where I’m going. I demand—”

  The first speaker cut short the protest.

  “Your Highness will enter the car.”

  There was a moment’s silence.

  Then—

  “Oh, damn the rain,” said the younger sullenly, as though, I thought, to suggest that but for the foulness of the weather he would have refused to comply.

  With that, he entered the Rolls and flung himself down beside Bell. His companion followed heavily.

  It was, of course, plain that the elder, if not both of the strangers had been expecting some car and that, when we stopped at the place and time appointed, he had directly assumed that ours was the car that he sought. On such a night such a mistake was natural, and, since all the light in the Rolls was the hooded glow that illumined the instrument board, I was not at all surprised that even his entry had not discovered his mistake.

  Hanbury’s lips were close to my ear.

  “Dirty work,” he whispered. “Let’s carry them on to St Martin and see what’s what.”

  As a figure whipped under the curtain I let in the clutch.

  “We’re all right, sir,” said Rowley. “The road’s straight ahead.”

  “Good,” said Hanbury. “Shut the door behind you, but don’t sit down.”

  There was a moment’s silence, broken by the slam of the door.

  Then—

  “What the devil’s this?” cried the man who had spoken first.

  The question was put in German, and Hanbury answered at once.

  “That’s what I was going to ask you.”

  “Who are you? And what is this car?”

  “It happens to be mine,” said Hanbury.

  The younger man let out a yell.

  “My name’s Duke—”

  “Silence!” roared the other, rising. “Tell your chauffeur to—”

  Whatever else was said was not to be heard, for the Duke was shouting like a madman and trying his best to make the other give way, the wind was slamming at the canvas as though it would drive it in and a long peal of thunder diminished all lesser noise.

  Hanbury was speaking.

  “Your Highness may rest assured that we are not going to stop.”

  “I tell you,” raged the other…

  “Understand this,” said Hanbury. “I take no orders from you.”

  For a moment there was no sound behind me but the heavy, rapid breathing of a furious man at bay. The next instant all was uproar.

  Though I could see nothing, I guessed that the man had drawn arms. And so it was.

  Exactly what followed I do not think anyone can tell, for, seeing no reason to stop, I continued to drive the car at a good round pace, and this confounded the confusion which the darkness and confinement made. Bell was involved with the Duke, who had been thrown upon him, and could not get free; Rowley and the other were grappled and were swaying and stumblin
g and striking their heads on the hood: George had the fellow by the wrist and was being flung to and fro in his efforts to point the weapon out of harm’s way, and everyone, I think, was raving to try to make himself heard. In the midst of all this disorder the pistol was fired, and the ear-splitting shock of the explosion brought us all, more or less, to our knees. Without so much as thinking, I set a foot on the brake, and when we had come to a standstill, I found the struggle over and George and the servants behind me regarding their late opponent, who was back on the seat.

  For a moment nobody moved. Then George’s hand came over and slid a heavy pistol into my lap.

  “All clear,” he said quietly.

  I let in the clutch…

  Thanks to George Hanbury’s efforts, the shot had passed through the hood. Indeed, but for his energy, the battle must have gone to the stranger, or some one of us must have been hit; for the fellow was left-handed, and Rowley, who was on his right side, could not have captured his arm.

  Here let me say that I shall not set down his true name or, indeed, the true names of some others of whom I shall tell. These and the names of some places I have been careful to change, for, if I had not done so, I could not have written so freely and more than one passage must have been excised from this tale.

  As we ran into St Martin, George spoke again.

  “We are coming to an inn,” he said, “where my friend and I are well known. They’re simple, honest people who value their friends, and, if I were to tell them that you had drawn upon us, you’d find a very rough house. I do not propose to tell them, and I’m sure you will give me no cause to change my mind.”

  A low laugh came from the Duke, and his fellow let out a curse.

  “What the devil’s your game?” he snarled.

  “Frankly,” said George, “it’s to put you where you belong. We obviously can’t do it until we know where that is, and, as this car’s almost as unpleasant to argue in as to fight in, we’re going to have things out in front of a fire.”