Fielding winked. ‘I won’t let you down, sir. Best bib and tucker already packed. They’ll think I was born to it.’

‘That’s what I like to hear. You wanted the story and God knows we’ve paid enough for the privilege of sending you there.’

‘Well, it’s not every day you get the chance to sit down to dinner with a Hollywood star. I don’t think I’ve taken a decent picture of that woman in five years of trying.’

‘So make sure you get more than a good meal out of this trip and don’t ruffle any feathers. I know what you’re like.’ He glanced down into the street where the snow was deepening, stealthily undoing the hours of work that had gone into clearing it. ‘Mind you, it’ll be a miracle if you get 31there at all at this rate – you or any of the other guests. It would have to be at the other end of the bloody country, wouldn’t it?’

‘Don’t worry – I’ll get there, come hell or high water.’ The words came out more passionately than intended, and Robertson raised an eyebrow. ‘It’s such a good story,’ Fielding added, worried that too much enthusiasm might betray a more personal motive for wanting to be part of the Christmas gathering at St Michael’s Mount. ‘People are really getting behind Baldwin and this refugee fund, and the more closely we associate ourselves with that, the better the publicity we’ll get out of it. Throw in a glamorous film star with a point to make …’

There was no need to preach to the converted. Robertson sat down at his desk and took a bottle of whisky from the top drawer; he poured two glasses, never seeming to remember that Fielding hated the drink. ‘There’s something else I want you to keep an eye on while you’re down there,’ he said.

‘Oh yes?’

‘I’ve been having a word with a friend of mine who runs one of the Cornish papers. Rumours are that Hitler’s got his eye on Cornwall, and the Mount in particular.’

‘What?’

‘Von Ribbentrop spent a lot of time there when he was the British Ambassador, and apparently he’s been promised St Michael’s Mount. Alf was in the room when he announced it, at some do with the High Sheriff. Spitting nails, he was, after two hours in that idiot’s company.’

‘Now that I can believe.’ The Nazi Foreign Minister was a figure of ridicule in the press for the gaffes he made on a regular basis. ‘So why hasn’t Alf printed the story?’ 32

Robertson scoffed. ‘He can’t, can he? Not while the official line is still appeasement – but that won’t last for ever, so get plenty of shots of the castle while you’re there. You never know when they might come in handy.’

‘The High Sheriff’s coming for Christmas, isn’t he?’

‘That’s right, with his daughter – and she’s been very friendly with Von Ribbentrop’s aide, if you know what I mean, but for God’s sake don’t mention that at the dinner table. Now, I’ve got a final list of guests for you somewhere.’ Fielding waited while the editor rummaged through a full in-tray, eventually pulling out two lists of names and discarding the older one in an overflowing wastepaper basket. ‘Here it is. We’ve got a vicar, a policeman, two writers …’