The Speedicut Memoirs: Some Like It Shot

By Christopher Joll

In Book 3 of The Speedicut Memoirs, in addition
to meeting many of the early movie stars of Hollywood,
readers will discover the true facts about a number of
previously unexplained events in the second quarter of the
twentieth-century including the reason why Princess
Fahmy was cleared of the murder of her husband; the truth
about the forging and publishing of the Zinoviev Letter,
the disappearance of Colonel Percy Fawcett in Amazonia and
the involvement of Winston Churchill in the plot to use
British Fascists to combat the rising tide of Communism in
England; the role played by the Peaky Blinders in the
rise to power of Adolf Hitler; and how and why
Wallis Simpson came to be introduced
to The Prince of Wales . . .


“In the Secret Intelligence Service’s arsenal of loose cannons,
few were as useful or as dangerous as Charles Speedicut.”
Major General Sir Stewart Menzies

“The things that Speedicut did in Berlin make my tales
of that city pale into trivial insignificance.”
Christopher Isherwood

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse UK
• Release date: May 21, 2019
• ISBN: 9781728388335

Christopher Joll

After serving time at Oxford University and the RMA Sandhurst, Christopher Joll spent his formative years as an officer in The Life Guards. On leaving the Army, Joll worked first in investment banking, then as an arms salesman before moving into public relations. From his earliest days Joll has written articles, features, short stories and reportage. In addition to the Speedicut books, in 2014, Joll wrote the text for Uniquely British: A Year in the Life of the Household Cavalry, in late 2018 he published The Drum Horse in the Fountain & Other Tales of the Heroes & Rogue in the Guards and in early 2020 he will publish Spoils of War: The Treasures, Trophies & Trivia of the British Empire. Since leaving the Army in 1975, Joll has also been involved in devising and managing major charity fund-raising events including the Household Cavalry Pageant, the Royal Hospital Chelsea Pageant, the acclaimed British Military Tournament, a military tattoo in Hyde Park for the Diamond Jubilee, the Gurkha 200 Pageant, the Waterloo 200 Commemoration at St Paul’s Cathedral, the Shakespeare 400 Gala Concert and The Great War Symphony at the Royal Albert Hall for which he wrote, researched and directed the 60-minute film that accompanied the symphony. In 2019, this led to a commission to write, present and direct five short films for the Museum Prize Trust. When not writing, directing or lifting the lid on the cess pits of British history, Joll publishes a weekly Speedicut podcast and gives lectures at literary festivals, museums, clubs and on cruise ships on topics related to his books and the British Empire. www.christopherjoll.com

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© 2019 Christopher Joll. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse  05/15/2019

ISBN: 978-1-7283-8834-2 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-7283-8835-9 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-7283-8833-5 (e)

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and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

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Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

For

Muhamad Khazi

CONTENTS

Notes On The Editor

Introduction

The Speedicut Family Tree

Foreword

Chapter One: French With Tears

Chapter Two: The Making Of A Merry Widow

Chapter Three: Sod’s Law

Chapter Four: A Woman Called Wallis

Chapter Five: School Photo

Chapter Six: Memory Lane

Chapter Seven: Reputational & Other Assassinations

Chapter Eight: From A To Z

Chapter Nine: Up The Creek

Chapter Ten: Without A Canoe

Chapter Eleven: The Awful Truth

Chapter Twelve: Monte Carlo Or Bust

Chapter Thirteen: The Luck Of The Leinsters

Chapter Fourteen: Manning The Dykes

Chapter Fifteen: Strikingly Different

Chapter Sixteen: Massacre In Wapping

Chapter Seventeen: La-La Land

Chapter Eighteen: The Windy City

Chapter Nineteen: Mortadella’s Moody Maidens

Chapter Twenty: Crash

Chapter Twenty-One: The KKK

Chapter Twenty-Two: In The Brown Stuff

Chapter Twenty-Three: Heil, Hitler!

Chapter Twenty-Four: Pricks In The Undergrowth

NOTES ON THE EDITOR

After serving time at Oxford University and the Royal Military Academy Sandhurst, Christopher Joll spent his formative years as an officer in The Life Guards, an experience from which he has never really recovered.

On leaving the Army, Joll worked first in investment banking, but the boredom of City life led him to switch careers and become an arms salesman. After ten years of dealing with tin pot dictators in faraway countries, he moved perhaps appropriately into public relations where, in this new incarnation, he had to deal with dictators of an altogether different type.

From his earliest days, Joll has written articles, features, short stories and reportage. One such piece of writing led to an early brush with notoriety when an article he had penned anonymously in 1974 for a political journal ended up as front page national news and resulted in a Ministerial inquiry. In 2012 Joll wrote the text for Uniquely British: A Year in the Life of the Household Cavalry, an illustrated account of the Household Cavalry from the Royal Wedding to the Diamond Jubilee, and in 2018 he published The Drum Horse in the Fountain, an illustrated history of the heroes and rogues of the Guards

Since leaving the Army in 1975, Joll has been involved in devising and managing charity fund-raising events. This interest started in 1977 with The Silver Jubilee Royal Gifts Exhibition at St James’s Palace and The Royal Cartoons Exhibition at the Press Club. In subsequent years, he co-produced ‘José Carreras & Friends’, a one-night Royal Gala Concert at the Theatre Royal Drury Lane; ‘Serenade for a Princess’, a Royal Gala Concert at the Banqueting House, Whitehall; and ‘Concert for a Prince’, a Royal Gala Concert staged at Windsor Castle (the first such event to be held there following the post-fire restoration).

More recently, Joll has focused on devising, writing, directing and sometimes producing events for military and other charities. These include the Household Cavalry Pageant (2007), the Chelsea Pageant (2008), the Diamond Jubilee Parade in the Park (2012), the British Military Tournament (2010-2013), the Gurkha Bicentenary Pageant (2015), the Waterloo Bicentenary National Service of Commemoration & Parade at St Paul’s Cathedral (2015), the Shakespeare 400 Memorial Concert (2016), The Patron’s Lunch (2016), the official London event to mark The Queen’s 90th Birthday, and the premiere of The Great War Symphony at the Royal Albert Hall (2018).

When not writing and directing ‘military theatre’ or editing Speedicut family papers, Joll is a Trustee of The Great War Symphony and The Art Fund Prize for Museums. He is also the Regimental Historian of the Household Cavalry and has written his yet to be published memoires, Anecdotal Evidence, an account which promises to cause considerable consternation in certain quarters.

www.christopherjoll.com

INTRODUCTION

The chance discovery in 2010 of a cache of letters written during his lifetime by Colonel Sir Jasper Speedicut to his friend Harry Flashman, led to my having the privilege of editing and then publishing The Speedicut Papers.

When I sent the last manuscript of the series to my publishers, I thought that would be the end of my involvement with Speedicut. Imagine my surprise, therefore, when shortly afterwards I received through the post the following letter and a bulky, typed manuscript:

Villa Larmes des Russes, Cimier, France, 1st April 2016

Dear Mr Joll

It has come to my attention that you are the editor of the letters of my great-grandfather, Colonel Sir Jasper Speedicut. Consequently, I thought that you might be interested to have sight of the enclosed typescript which is a salacious, probably libellous and hitherto unpublished autobiography written by his late (and illegitimate) son, Charles Speedicut, who was, by coincidence, a close friend of my father.

I inherited the enclosed document on Charles’ death in 1980 and, as he was something of a black sheep and not spoken of in my family, it has remained unread by me until recently. If you find that it is of interest to you, I might be willing to discuss the terms under which a suitably expurgated edition might be published.

Yours sincerely

Olga Lieven-Beaujambe, Duchess of Whitehall

A cursory glance at the manuscript was enough to show me that, despite the date on the letter, the covering note stated nothing less than the truth. On further reading, it quickly became clear that Charles Speedicut had been involved in as many of the intrigues and scandals of the twentieth century as had his father in the nineteenth…

Despite the Duchess’s strictures, I have limited my editing to the correction of Charles Speedicut’s grammar and spelling, and the addition of historical or explanatory footnotes.

CHRISTOPHER JOLL

www.christopherjoll.com

THE SPEEDICUT FAMILY TREE

Colonel Sir Jasper Speedicut, 1st Baronet (1821-1915) m. (1) Lady Mary Steyne (1828-1855), only daughter of 3rd Marquess of Steyne; (2) Lady Charlotte-Georgina FitzCharles (1825-1917), younger daughter of the 8th Duke of Whitehall

had legitimate issue

Dorothea Charlotte Speedicut (1865-1919) m. Prince Dimitri Lieven (1866-1919)

had legitimate issue

Princess Anastasia Lieven (1896-1919)

&

Princess Tatiana Lieven, 11th Duchess of Whitehall (1896-1955) m. Lord Tertius Beaujambe (1898-1939)

had legitimate issue

Olga Lieven-Beaujambe, 12th Duchess of Whitehall (1938-)

…

Colonel Sir Jasper Speedicut, 1st Baronet (1821-1915)

&

Sibella Halwood (1875-1941) from 1898-1910, Mrs Lionel Holland

had illegitimate issue

Charles Lionel Jasper Holland (28th February 1899-1980)

from 28th February 1916 known as

Charles Lionel Jasper SPEEDICUT

later Major C L J Speedicut MC & Bar, Order of St Stanislaus (2nd Class), Order of Franz Josef (4th Class)

FOREWORD

I barely learned to read at Eton, which is why I’m not much of a books man. So, it’s not surprising that I’d never heard of The Flashman Papers or Tom Brown’s School Days. But there’s bugger-all else to do in this dump except toss-off or read and as, at my age, the former holds few pleasures I asked the way to the library.

Once there I realised that I had a problem: where the hell was I going to start? Most of the library sections’ labels looked as though the contents of their shelves would be better than a sleeping pill: who the fuck wants to read about Philosophy, Law, Economics, Geography, Needlework or Home Improvement? I was about to give up the whole idea of whiling away my time with an intellectual pursuit when my eye caught a sign saying Biography.

As there was a sporting chance that on these shelves there would be a book or two about some of the people I’ve known - such as Philip ‘his baroque’s worse than his bite’ Sassoon, Dickie the upwardly mobile semi-royal Mountbatten, his millionaire bisexual wife Eddie, or David ‘suck my dick’ Windsor - I sauntered over for a closer look. What I found was shelf after shelf of unread tomes about people I’d never heard of who’d probably led worthy but infinitely dull lives: a bulky biography of someone called Benjamin Britten being a case in point.¹

Then my eye caught a gaudy set of spines. I pulled out the first book on the left, which was entitled Flashman. I confess that I chose it because I assumed it was about a fellow who exposed himself: it wasn’t, as I quickly discovered when I leafed through it. What it was, in fact, was the memoirs of an elderly Victorian General with a vivid imagination and a perpetually restless middle leg. I was about to put the book back on the shelf and head for the section that was sign-posted Adult Fiction when I tripped over the name Jack Speedicut.

Well, I knew I didn’t have any relations called Jack, but ours is an unusual surname so I started to read - and I carried on reading for the next half-dozen or so weeks until I’d finished the sixth and last book on the shelf.² It was good stuff and a lot of it had the ring of truth; it was even possible that the Jack Speedicut mentioned from time-to-time in the books was my Papa, thinly disguised with a new Christian name. This was a possibility that turned to a certainty when I glanced briefly through the utterly unreadable pages of Tom Brown’s School Days. However, from what I have gleaned over the years about my Papa, many of the events Flashman credited to himself were actually those of my forebear.

With the six volumes of The Flashman Papers under my belt, so to speak, I then searched for something else to while away the time but, unless one enjoyed reading about hypocritical parlour-pink Socialists or transvestite Tories, which I don’t, there was nothing further of interest under Biography. So, I turned to the Fiction section and there I found a series of books about carryings-on in high places called Alms for Oblivion by a disgraced ex-soldier called Simon Raven.³ It was clearly fact disguised as fiction and I even recognised several of the coves in it.

Anyway, the whole experience set me to thinking that my own adult experiences might make interesting reading, so I started to write. God knows if what follows will ever be published or if I’ll live to finish it. One thing is certain, however: thanks to the libel laws it won’t reach the reading public whilst any of those I’ve portrayed remain ‘above the sod’ – and there’s an appropriate turn of phrase if ever there was one…

Charles Speedicut

HM Prison Ford

CHAPTER ONE: FRENCH WITH TEARS

Those of my readers who haven’t popped their clogs in shock at the last instalment of my memoirs,⁴ should recall that I recounted in the closing chapters how I had been obliged to spend an inordinate amount of my time in Egypt during late-1922 and early-1923. My readers may also recall that I was in the Land of Sand on the orders of Stewart Menzies of the British Secret Intelligence Service (and the Brotherhood of the Sons of Thunder) tasked,⁵ with the help of my personal staff, Fahran and Atash Khazi, with recovering letters written by Britain’s answer to Valentino (but without his enormous schlong flopping around in baggy Arab pyjamas),⁶ otherwise known as The Prince of Wales.⁷ These highly indiscreet (and, therefore, potentially embarrassing) missives had been penned in 1917 by HRH to an upwardly-mobile French cock-sucking courtesan, then called Marguerite Meller but who now went by the name of Princess Fahmy,⁸ following her mercenary civil marriage to my old chum, Ali Fahmy Bey, around Christmas 1922.

Marguerite was a grasping and highly skilled tart-with-no-heart who, whilst the Prince had been on wartime leave in Paris, had used her lips on his tiny bijoux de famille and had sucked out not only his liquid séminal but, with it, his common sense. Perhaps, because it is relevant to this and future events, I should at this point explain - for the benefit of my readers who have led a sheltered life - that the Prince’s wedding tackle was so small that he found it almost impossible to penetrate his paramours. As a direct consequence of this physical inadequacy, the randy princeling was obsessed with cunnilingus and fellatio, so much so that he should have been called King Edward LXIX when he came to the throne, which he then lost as a result of this obsession. Whilst on the subject of royal sceptres, Wales’s one-but-youngest brother, George Kent,⁹ was - by contrast - monstrously well-endowed; but, the reason I know that is a tale for later…

Anyway, the start of my involvement in the recovery of the Prince’s letters actually dated from 1917 for, whilst I had at that time been successful in engineering - as instructed by the Great Boanerges - the break-up of the royal affair,¹⁰ I had failed to recover the princely billets doux. This omission had come back to haunt me and accounted for my enforced sojourn in Luxor and my presence at the opening of King Tut’s tomb and Evelyn Herbert’s legs.¹¹ However, if my readers who are new to these jottings want to know more about that, and my other sundry other adventures, you will have to buy the books. At this point, all that you need to know is that Ali Fahmy and I had met in 1915 through the good offices of my patron, ex-trustee and my boss in the Brotherhood, Sir Philip Sassoon, and that it was Ali who actually hatched and - with my help in a highly energetic threesome - executed the plan which ensured the break-up of the Wales-Meller ménage but not the recovery of the incriminating royal scribbles.¹²

With that knowledge under your belt, dear readers new and old, I can return you to Luxor and a quick recap of the closing lines of the last instalment in which I recounted that, after an unofficial preview by Ali and Marguerite of King Tut’s stone box (during which Atash, Fahran and I searched their hotel suite in a vain attempt to find the royal letters) the Fahmys had left Luxor and hoofed back to Cairo for a religious marriage service. Several days later they returned to their gin palace moored outside the Luxor Palace Hotel. However, there had been a marked change in the relationship as a result of their second wedding for, now that she was a Muslim wife, Ali had confined Marguerite to her quarters! When she protested, he gave her a black eye or a dislocated jaw; accounts differed as to the extent of her injuries and precisely when they were incurred.

The inevitable explosion of outraged Frog feminism was not long in coming. First, I learned from Atash, who had ‘extracted’ the information from Ali’s valet, that Mrs F’s maid had been dispatched to Paris with the Wales letters, her jewellery, an instruction for a divorce lawyer to start proceedings, and an order to acquire a pistol for Marguerite’s personal protection. It also emerged that, in an effort at a reconciliation on neutral turf, or a divorce in a French Court if that failed, the Fahmys were to travel to Paris followed by London for the Season. I also discovered, thanks again to Atash, that Mrs F had arranged to meet with a Yankee hack in London, presumably in order to monetise her only tangible asset – Ali’s rocks and her quim didn’t count in that regard - by selling the letters to a newspaper so that she could finance her divorce, should that be necessary.

All of this I communicated to Stewart Menzies when Atash, Fahran and I arrived in London in March 1923. His reaction was to inform me that this was good news as, with the letters on British soil, he would be able to get a Court Order for their return to HRH, an Order which he proposed – despite the obvious danger - I should serve on Marguerite the day she arrived at the Savoy Hotel, which was scheduled for 1st July. Seeing no reason to sit around moping whilst waiting for the arrival of the Queen of Sheba, I threw myself into the Season. Although at that time I had few friends in London, by reason of the fact that I had spent so much time abroad since coming into my fortune, I was nonetheless a Major in the ultra-fashionable Tenth Hussars (albeit I had never served with the Regiment and was, at this time, on the Special List seconded for occasional assignments to the Secret Intelligence Service), I had a luxurious and fully-staffed bachelor establishment in Mount Street and a smart motor car in the mews behind. Were that not enough, my step-niece Tatiana, who was a Ruskie Princess and Duchess of Whitehall, and her husband (who was my best friend) Lord Tertius Beaujambe, gave me the entrée into the top end of Society; Rosa Lewis at the Cavendish Hotel provided not always welcome introductions to the bottom end; and Philip Sassoon filled in the gaps with invitations aplenty to his mostly bachelor house parties at Port Lympne and elsewhere. As a result, I was having such a jolly time racing, dining, dancing and getting my leg over that I almost – but not quite – forgot my upcoming assignment.

One morning, a couple of weeks after Ascot, I was breakfasting at Mount Street when Fahran silently entered the dining room.

A communication from the Foreign Office has been delivered, huzoor.

He held out a salver on which was a buff coloured envelope and a paper knife. I took the letter, opened it with a knife I’d just used on a piece of toast – Fahran winced as I did so – and read.

It’s my Marching Orders from Colonel Menzies, Fahran. It seems that Fahmy Bey and his wife will, as planned, be at the Savoy from the start of next month and the Colonel has obtained the necessary Order from the Court. I am to collect it from his office, serve it on the Princess precisely at four o’clock on 1st July and then deliver the letters back to him ‘without delay’ – by which, I assume, that I’m not to read them. As if I would…

What happens if Princess Fahmy ignores the Order and refuses to hand over the letters, huzoor?

Menzies says that, once the Order has been served, if she doesn’t hand them over then he can get an Injunction to prevent her selling the letters and, under the authority of the Order, have them taken into the custody of the Court pending a hearing of the Injunction. Anyway, I’ll have done as instructed and so it won’t be my problem, will it?

Let’s hope not, huzoor.

Meanwhile, Fahran, please ask Atash to speak to his friend on the door at the Savoy and get him to alert me to the Fahmys’ arrival. Now, turning to happier matters, what’s in the diary for today?

You have a fitting at Huntsman’s at eleven-thirty, huzoor, then luncheon with Sir Philip at Park Lane; I understand that Colonel Lawrence and Mr Churchill will be there.¹³ I groaned. You should be aware, huzoor, that after his highly publicised service in the Royal Air Force under the pseudonym of Aircraftsman Ross, Colonel Lawrence is changing his name to Shaw and proposes enlisting in the Royal Tank Corps. The purpose of the luncheon is to dissuade him.

It won’t work. What’s after that?

You have a polo match at Ranelagh.

Who am I playing for?

I believe it’s a scratch team of club members, huzoor, including Lord Tertius.

Who are we playing?

The Royal Horse Guards, huzoor.

Well, that will be a walkover. What then?

Tea with the Princesse de Polignac at the Ritz, huzoor. Then you are dining with Mr Channon at his club to meet Prince Paul of Yugoslavia, followed by Lady Rose MacClare’s coming-out ball at Grantham House.

My God, Fahran, I said, after contemplating the day’s dance card. That’s two queers, a lesbian and three bisexuals in my diary for today. If it wasn’t for the fact that I’m planning to fox-trot Rose MacClare off her feet, my reputation would be completely shot.

I think not, huzoor. I would rather say that your appointments today are with an entirely representative cross-section of London Society.

I hope you are right. Anyway, after the Granthams’ bash I’ll be ready for an early night.

Actually, huzoor, you did tell Lord Tertius that you would join him and Her Grace at the Embassy Club for supper.¹⁴

Oh, Lord, I’d forgotten that. Well, it will have to be a late start for me on Thursday.

Of course, huzoor. So, shall I cancel your luncheon with Mr and Mrs Nicolson?¹⁵

No, you’d better not. Harold would be dreadfully upset, although I’m sure Vita wouldn’t mind. Now, I said, brightening up, if you would draw me a bath then lay out something that will please Sir Philip…

Your new bathing costume, huzoor? Fahran said with a wink, before leaving the dining room.

And so my life in London continued on its giddy and exhausting round of pleasure. Until, that is, the sultry morning of Sunday 1st July broke over Piccadilly as Atash drove me back to Mount Street after a very late session at the Embassy.

It looks as though it’s going to be another scorcher, huzoor, said Fahran, easing me out of evening dress and into my pyjamas. So, I’ve left the window open. Shall I wake you at midday with tea?

If you have to, then make it fizz, please, Fahran.

You haven’t forgotten that the Fahmys arrive today, huzoor?

Shit. Then you’d better wake me when you hear from Atash’s friend at the Savoy. If it’s before twelve, forget the fizz and bring me some of Mr Harris’s restorative.

Fortunately, the Fahmys arrived only just in time for lunch, which they ate (in silence, so I later learned) in the Grill, whilst (according to the Head Porter) Maggie’s maid’s and Ali’s secretary supervised the unpacking of a dozen or so trunks in their suite. Tipped off by the same omniscient source that the couple were proposing to stay in the hotel for the rest of the day, I was confident that I would find them there at the hour appointed by Menzies for the service of the Order. I was about to set off down the stairs to my car, which was waiting below with Atash at the wheel, when, as Fahran handed me a straw hat and a pocket pistol (well, I wasn’t taking any chances), I was struck by a sudden thought.

Wouldn’t it be better if I were to see Marguerite alone, without Ali? I asked my valet-cum-secretary. He knows me well and, if he were to cut-up rough and take his wife’s side – unlikely as that may seem - it could be deuced awkward.

You have a point, huzoor. But Colonel Menzies’ instructions were clear on the subject of timing.

I know that, Fahran, but if we can lure Ali away from the hotel tomorrow morning I’ll get a free run at Her Ladyship and Menzies will be none the wiser.

Unless he hasn’t told you something, huzoor.

Such as what?

He may have arranged some back-up for you, huzoor.

Christ, I hadn’t thought about that.

Perhaps I can lure Fahmy Bey away from the hotel now, huzoor.

How will you do that?

Do you remember Mr Enani who we met in Luxor, huzoor?

Ali’s secretary?

The same, huzoor.

I certainly did remember a handsome fellow by the name of Said Enani, who I was reasonably sure provided Ali with more than just shorthand and dictation.

What of it?

Well, huzoor, he led me to understand that if ever I felt like meeting Fahmy Bey when I was off duty… I raised an eyebrow but said nothing. If I were to telephone him now and tell him that I wanted to see His Excellency this afternoon, that might do the trick.

It’s worth a try, Fahran, but you don’t have to lay down your body for the Brotherhood, you know.

Worry not about my virtue, huzoor.

I won’t – but you may need this more than I will, I said, handing him back the pistol.

Five minutes and one telephone call later, Enani and Fahran had agreed a rendezvous at four o’clock: it seemed that Ali was only too keen to be out of the hotel and away from his hellcat of a wife, particularly if it meant a dalliance with my man. It also appeared that, in addition to the suite at the Savoy, Ali had a room at the Ritz, the tolerant hostelry on Piccadilly, presumably as a pitch on which to play away fixtures. As Atash drove me off to the Strand, I hoped that Fahran would be able to fend off Ali’s advances without the need for my shooter. Meanwhile, it wasn’t long before my Daimler pulled up in front of the swing doors of D’Oyly Carte’s well-appointed dormitory for Americans and other nouveaux riches. A uniformed doorman stepped forward, had a quick word with Atash through the driver’s window and then opened my door.

Suite 41, sir. Take the lift to the fourth floor and its almost opposite.

I did as instructed, remarking to myself in passing that lift boys seemed to be getting smaller and younger. At the suite, I knocked on the door, which was answered by a maid.