GUARDIANS OF THE GREAT.

Star (Christchurch), Volume XLIV, Issue 697, 25 February 1933, Page 22 (Supplement)

GUARDIANS OF THE GREAT.

WHEN SCOTLAND YARD WAS HOAXED

JOKE OF ATTEMPT TO ASSASSINATE AN EXILED MONARCHINTIMATE STORIES OF BRITAIN’S SPORTING KINGS—ROYAL VICTORY IN ENGLISH TURF CLASSIC—WHEN RACE CROWDS WENT WILD WITH ENTHUSIASM AT EPSOM—KING EDWARD'S PRIVATE CELEBRATION—DEMOCRACY OF KING GEORGE—GOOD NATURE OF THE PRINCE OF WALES.

(By

EDWIN T. WOODHALL.— All Rights Reserved.

One of my most vivid recollections is when Scotland Yard was tricked. The late ex-King Alanoel, of Portugal, was residing in London at the time, and about 11 o’clock one night I walked into Scotland Yard, and was informed by the night duty inspector that an anonymous telephone call had been received from a man at the Spartan Beer Hall, in Piccadilly Circus, informing us that two men were on the way to the ex-King’s house with the intention of murdering him. A Yard detective had been dispatched to the Spartan Beer Hall to endeavour to trace the mysterious informant, but returned disappointed. I was sent off by taxi to the house of Superintendent Sir Patrick Quinn of the Special Branch, to inform him of the communication. I woke his housekeeper. She went upstairs to tell the chief that one of his men was waiting below with an urgent message. A moment later I was ushered upstairs, to find Sir Patrick in bed. An automatic pistol lay on a table at his bedside. I told him the news, and he gave orders that my colleague and I were to go to ex-King Alanoel’s house without delay. “ Act according to the circumstances which arise,” he said, “ using tact and discretion, but at the same time firmness if anything untoward transpires.” It was nearly four o’clock in the morning whin we reached thefhouse, and found everything quiet. Near the house we saw a local policeman, and explained to him our predicament. He burst out laughing. “ So far as I know you are on a fool’s errand! ” he chuckled. “ King Manoel is away! He left early this morning by car for Scotland, and is staying with the Royal Family at Ballater! ” Subsequent confirmation proved this fact to be correct. Not a little annoyed, we returned to Scotland Yard as the first streaks of dawn lightened the sky. The sender of the message that night had tricked the Yard with a vengeance. Had we not been so hasty in our zeal we could have saved ourselves a fruitless all-night expedition. Royalty Behind the Scenes. * In concluding this series, let me give some intimate stories of Royalty behind the scenes. I cannot do better than turn to sport, and naturally, first of all, the King of sports and the sport of Kings—the horse race. “They’re off!” A mighty burst of cheering, swelling to a crashing crescendo of sound. The thunder of hooves, like a muffled rolling drumbeat, a throbbing tattoo of tremendous endeavour. Straining eyes, turning heads. The rise and fall of flailing whips. “ Go on! Go on! ” Excitement at white heat. The mighty surge of sound as a multitude calls its favourite to greater effort. Then a shout that seems to rock the heavens and eddy throbbing into space as the winner flashes past the post—the Sport of Kings! The British Royal Family has always been keen on horse racing. This sport reached the zenith of its popularity in England with the accession of King Edward VII. I have known and have served King Edward, King George, and the Prince of Wales, and all three are sportsmen in the best sense of the word. King Edward was first and foremost a racing man. He loved races. Nothing was so exhilarating to him as to see his colours carried to victory in a classic race. King George also attends race meetings, but he is nothing like the keen racing man his father was. King George is only really happy when he is afloat on his yacht. After yachting, he finds enjoyment in shooting. King Edward was a moderate shot. I have known him at Chatsworth, Bolton, and Balmoral make some good hits, but on the other hand I remember when his shooting was execrable, and when he was obviously thinking of other things. Few people realised, when he was alive, how intensely keen King Edward was on racing. The late Lord Marcus Beresford was entrusted with King Edward’s racing arrangements. He deposited £IOOO with Messrs. Weatherby, and was never called upon for another shilling. At one time he had £50,000 to his credit. At the year of his death (1910), the King had 22 horses in training, and on the date of his death, May 6, 1910, his horse, Witch of the Air, won the Spring Two-year-old Plate at Kempton Park from Air. Carroll’s Queen Tie by half a length. The message was conveyed to Buckingham Palace at 5 _ o’clock, and the dying monarch received the news with a happy smile. By midnight, Edward VII., of beloved memory, was dead. An officer who attended him upon many occasions told me that he remembered accompanying King Edward to Egerton House to see his trainer, Mr. Richard Marsh. Another season of failures had just come to an end, and the King was miserably disappointed. They met Mr. Marsh on the way to the house, and the King ordered his car to stop. After a few words of greeting. King Edward bluntly said:—‘‘Marsh, I do not blame you at all, but I have decided that we must get rid of some of these cart-horses of ours. We are becoming a laughing stock.” The trainer respectfully agreed that the horses were most disappointing, but he counselled patience. “No,” said the King, “I am sick of losses. We require new stock. It is for your credit as much as mine that I am concerned. I have arranged for you to go over to Colonel Hall Walker’s place. There you will choose six horses. I have seen some of them already. Whatever else you choose you must bring Oakmere and Minoru.” Royal Victory in the Derby. Mr. Marsh agreed and the result was that six horses were brought across from the present Lord Wavertree’s stables, including the King’s own choice, Minoru, which was to win the Derby for him in 3909. The Derby of 1909 was the happiest day of King Edward’s sporting career. With him in the Royal Box at Epsom were Queen Alexandra, the present King and Queen, and several personal friends. When the horses came up to the tapes the King turned with an impatient expression to the Marquis de Soveral and’ said: “I’ve drawn on the inside, wretched luck! I wish I’d been further out.” The race began, and from the moment the horses were off the King’s excitement was intense. Sir Martin, an American horse, challenged the Royal candidate from the beginning. Then something happened. The American horse bumped another horse, which in turn cannoned Baj'ordo, another dangerous rival, and the King’s horse got a slight advantage. But it was not enjoyed for long. Louviers, a French horse, ridden by a jockey named Stern, challenged and drew level. The race to the end was neck and neck, the crowds cheered, and the King in the Rojal box, kept his eyes glued to his binoculars. “What is it? What is it?” asked the King, for the finish was so close that from where he stood it was impossible to tell which horse had won. Then the result went up. Minoru had won by a short neck. The cheering was tumultuous.

I do not believe that in the whole history of Epsom there was ever such another incident—the King of Britain pushing his way through a cheering, shrieking multitude. The very .police had forgotten their functions, constables Avere waving their helmets and cheering. Bookmakers, tipsters, punters, every manner of person, were surging round the King, slapping him on the back with shouts of: “Good old Teddy.” “Bravo the King.” “Good luck to you, sir,” and a thousand other congratulations. The King was mobbed. We detectives had a rough time. I pulled one girl back—but not before she had tried to kiss his hand. His hands were seized, his shoulders must have been a mass of bruises from the number of congratulatory slaps he had to endure. I was told by my colleague, Avho remained in the Royal box, that the Queen, who followed his progress through her glasses, was so touched by the tremendous demonsti*ation, that she cried as she tried to laugh. Only by the exertion of tremendous strength did a small gang of volunteers succeed in opening a way for the King to reach his horses’s head, and when he began to lead in the winner the tumult was renewed. Celebrating a Victory. To say he was delighted is to underestimate the King’s pleasure. He positively trembled with joy, and that night when he returned and dressed for dinner he sent for some of his personal attendants and performed one of his very rare acts of Bohemian spontaneous hospitality. His personal detective told me that when lie arrived at his ante-room he found the

King sitting on a settee. In his room were Fehr, his courier, Meidinger, his valet, and Mr. Chandler, the Superintendent of the Wardrobe—all favourites. The King was still wearing his frock-coat, his hair slightly untidy and his collar slightly crumpled. He was smiling happily, and when the detective entered the room he said: “Officer, I have sent for you as we are all going to drink a glass of wine to celebrate the victory. The official congratulations will be made at dinner, but this is our ten minutes. Give my detective a glass, Meidinger!” That was King Edward to the life. In all the great events of his career —and the victory of Minoru was certainly one —he liked his most intimate associates, of whatever rank, to share his joys or his sorrows. And so they cracked a couple of bottles of “Duminay.” Air. Chandler and Meidinger, who had remained respectfully standing, were forced to sit down at the King’s invitation; the detective also had to sit. The King raised his glass: “To Minoru, to Alarsh and to Jones!” he called and they drank to the horse, the trainer and the jockey. “What a race!” exclaimed the King, and in his excitement he overlooked the fact that as he spoke he had slightly tipped his glass and the wine was trickling down the silk facings of liis frock-coat. Meidinger, horrified, jumped forward to attend to him, but the King rebuked him half seriously, half jestingly: “If you can’t behave yourself, you’ll be put out!” he exclaimed, and Meidinger had to submit. In the midst of the little celebration a footman entered to say that Sir Edward Grey awaited the King. “I shall see Sir Edward presently,” said King Edward. He refused to interrupt the little festivity in which he was entertaining his humble servants, even for the Foreign Secretary. “And,’’ said King Edward before the little session broke up, “I chose the horse myself!” King George’s Homely Manner. King George can be very democratic, but in a totally different manner from his father, King Edward VII. I have never known the present King to take wine with his servants, but he is in a somewhat different manner quite homely. When I relate an incident like the foregoing I am almost afraid lest I should give a totally wrong impression. King Edward was capable of an act like that, yet generally he was far more a stickler for ceremony than our present King. King George has always tolerated ceremonial, but in liis heart he prefers simplicity. With King Edward the reverse was the case. He occasionally could be exceedingly democratic, as when he Avon the Derby, but upon public occasions he lo\ r ed the dignity of ceremony. Upon liis return from a visit to the Kaiser in 1909 the King developed the idea that his Councils were not being held with sufficient ceremony, and he passed word to the Chamberlain that in future no excuses were to be made by Privy Councillors for not appearing in uniform. At the next Council the Archbishop of York —now the Archbishop of Canterbury—had to be present, and he was instructed to appear in the Court dress of a Prelate with full State robes. He did so, but as it happened there was an amusing accident. The Archbishop was backing aAvay from the King’s presence to the ante-room in which T was Avaiting, when he backed into Lord North cote, who is a little man. The Archbishop wore so many robes that I am certain he never even felt the contact of the peer. Little Lord Northcote dodged to one side and then to the other, but wherever he stepped he was entangled in the archiepiscopal train and robes. The King, who was watching, rose and stenped forward to assist, then his sense of humour restrained him. With a twinkle in his eye. but a mock gravity in his A'oice. he exclaimed: “Now. Lord Northcote. when you’ve quite finished • with the Archbishop, I will receive you.

Democracy of King George. But though King George is of a different temperament, he can be truly democratic. Another thing about our present King is his unfailing loyalty. King Edward was loyal enough to his friends, but lie was very much a man of moods. He could smile on you one minute and be furiously angry with you a moment later. King George is more reliable. Upon one occasion on the yacht Victoria and Albert at Cowes, several officers a-ere talking politics, and the words he heard when he entered the cabin were:— ‘— and Will Crooks. A positive disgrace to the nation that such persons should be permitted to enter Parliament. Wretched tub-thumpers. Unpatriotic and revolutionary.” Evidently it was the end of a longer statement. The King did not prefix his interruption with courtesies. He spoke immediately. “You are discussing a personal friend of mine,” he said, “and you are stating Avhat is definitely untrue. The gentleman of whom you speak is a patriot. When did you say you Avere going to Scotland? To-morrow?” The officer who had spoken was proceeding to Scotland the following week, but he took the hint and went next day. In a quite different manner, the Prince of Wales is a true democrat. To illustrate his tact and goodfelloAA-ehip, I will relate a story which has as its setting the National Sporting Club during the Avar. The Prince was on short leave from France. Noav at that time there was an organisation in being, of which Lord Beaverbrook was the moving spirit, to entertain American and Canadian forces in London. This excellent organisation arranged for theatrical performances, boxing contests, dinners, and all manner of entertainments. It Avas patronised by His Majesty and the Princes. Amongst the supporters of the organisation was the late Air. “Jimmy” White, the financier who committed suicide after the Prince of Wales at Boxing Match. Upon the night of which I write, a boxing match had been staged at the National Sporting Club, and the Prince of Wales and Prince Henry were in attendance. Air. James White was late. He had been expected early in the evening, but had failed to appear. Very late, just as the Princes were taking their departure, “Jimmy” White appeared. Ilis manager saAv at once that the financier was slightly intoxicated, and tried to get him aside lest he should offend the Royal guests. But Air. White was a very forcible and commanding gentleman. With a wave of his arm he

brushed his manager aside and went straight up to the Prince of Wales: “Hello, your Highness,” he greeted him, extending his hand, which the Prince took with a grin—“How have you enjoyed yourself?” “Fine, thanks,” replied the Prince. “And how about your brother?” said Mr. White in his rich Lancashire brogue. Prince Henry smilingly acknowledged that he also -had enjoyed himself. “That’s the stuff,” said “Jimmy,” while the little gr-oup of sycophants gasped. Then he put a confidential hand on the Prince of Wales’ shoulder: “Don’t forget to tell your father what Ave’re doing for the boys,” he admonished him. The Prince burst into laughter and shook hands again. “Sure,” he said. “Good-night, old chap.” And the incident passed off with perfect good humour all round. (Concluded.)