Authors: Barbara Cleverly
The Blood Royal (33 page)
‘Taking orders from Honeysett,’ Lily murmured. ‘That shows a certain single-mindedness.’
‘What it shows is stamina,’ Hopkirk interrupted. ‘I’ve seen hotel kitchens. Not places for the faint hearted and gently bred. She’ll be a strong lass, then!’
‘Indeed. And she’s able to pass as Russian. I think we may be looking for an actress. Someone who can use a variety of convincing accents to approach her prey. A stalker, a hunter. Skilled at blending in with her background.’
‘A sower of discord and a spreader of mayhem,’ said Hopkirk. ‘What’s her score to date? From where we started counting, that is,’ he added lugubriously. ‘And we may be swinging in a little after the beat. Three dead, as far as we know: an admiral, a London bobby and a Serbian prince; and two critically injured: the butler and the cabby. A bloody-handed goddess of death and destruction. She’s a Morrigan, all right.’
Lily’s voice interrupted the descending gloom. ‘Sir. One thing we might try … I think someone ought to have a word with Princess Ratziatinsky.’
‘Would you like to undertake that task yourself, Wentworth? I was going to tell you to take the day off tomorrow … that is to say – today … but if you feel like it … Good. I’ll give you the address and ring ahead to make an appointment. It’s not far – somewhere in Kensington. I’ll try for midday. She won’t be receiving before that hour, I should imagine. Not after the night she’s had.’
‘Will the princess appreciate a police presence on her doorstep, sir?’ Bacchus wanted to know. ‘In her aristocratic quarter of town? On a Sunday morning?’
‘Almost certainly not. Mufti, Wentworth. Put a little frock on. Assume you’re front-door calling company. Do you have a calling card? No? I think we can provide. Bacchus? That forger of yours? That idiosyncratic printer over whose dubious production skills we have at times exercised a little influence?’
‘Sam? Got out six months ago. And, yes, he’s still on the hook.’
‘Good. Get him out of bed and give him a rush order. Our own press won’t be up and running until nine.’ Sandilands scribbled a note and passed it to Bacchus.
‘Now, Wentworth. What were you planning to ask the princess?’
‘I shall ask her to give me a name, sir. She’ll have kept a list of all the people who attended last night.’
Someone sighed in irritation; someone bent to adjust his sock. Joe asked patiently: ‘But why, constable? We have such a list ourselves. You can confirm, Bacchus?’
‘Yes, sir. We can produce it right here and now. If you think it of interest. All vetted by the Branch. MI1b has gone over it with a magnifying glass … MI1c raked through it with a fine-tooth comb. The foreign secretary has a copy on his bedside table next to his bible. But if you’d like to pass it before Miss Wentworth, I’ll certainly hand it to her. For the purposes of checking it against her instinct, perhaps?’
Joe saw Lily flinch and decided to neutralise the Branch man’s sarcasm. ‘A quality that served us better than glass and comb and British intelligence this evening, I’m thinking,’ he said ruefully. ‘You were saying, Miss Wentworth?’
Lily shook her head to clear her thoughts and, having got a hold on them, addressed them to Bacchus. ‘No. Listen a minute! It’s not the people who were there that we’re interested in. We need to see the princess’s
original
pencilled-in list of guests. The names she first thought of. And check that against the final attendance list. If this girl
is
Russian and has the confidence to attempt a coup with such swagger, then it’s likely that she would be known to this society, isn’t it? An insider? One of them. She’d have been invited all right. What it would be intriguing to find is the name of someone who failed to turn up or who refused the invitation. Someone who was not there to be blamed. An unaccountable absence. We’re looking for someone who
didn’t
make an appearance at the ball.’ She realized she was repeating herself, sounding over anxious. She ground to a halt.
‘Ah!’ said Hopkirk with a rumbling laugh. ‘Now I’ve got it. I was thrashing about in the wrong fairy tale. It’s the Bad Fairy we’re looking for.’
‘Or a Bolshevik aristocrat?’ grumbled Chappel. ‘No such animal!’
‘Like “darkness visible”,’ agreed Bacchus. ‘An oxymoronic and quite ridiculous invention. Looks a teeny bit desperate, I’d say.’ He shrugged his shoulders.
‘Well, if the constable cares to waste her morning scanning party lists … hobnobbing with the princess … comparing hemlines and dancing partners …’ Fanshawe had found his voice again. He oozed on, decorating his theme: ‘… chirruping over a samovar of tea and a dish of Viennese pastries … well, that’s up to her. Who shall say her nay?’
‘You make the occasion sound quite delightful, Fanshawe. Hadn’t realized that was your idea of a Sunday morning’s entertainment. Are you volunteering?’ Joe asked cheerfully. ‘No? Then I say Wentworth shall go.’
‘Beats pounding the streets, I will allow,’ nodded Bacchus. The Branch man turned to Lily and favoured her with one of his rare smiles. Or at least she took the movement in the region of his mouth to be a smile, though the vigorous twitch of the upper lip could as easily have been an attempt to dislodge the sleeping rodent. There was no mistaking the accompanying flash of even white teeth: it held all the challenge of a metal gauntlet thrown at her feet.
Lily thought she had very likely made two implacable enemies before breakfast.
The smell of egg, bacon and black pudding frying and the clatter of a teapot lid brought Lily yawning and sniffing back into the world.
‘Seems a shame to wake you up, ducks, after five hours’ sleep but you did say ten o’clock sharp.’ Auntie Phyl was in her apron and enjoying having someone at home to treat to a lavish breakfast. ‘Here – scramble into this dressing gown and come straight through to the kitchen. Bacon’s just as you like it – nice and crozzled.’
They ate at the scrubbed deal table. Phyl had domestic help these days but the staff were dismissed at weekends. Never idle, she liked to polish and repair and cook for herself. Lily struggled with her fry-up in silence, hoping Phyl wouldn’t expect a full account of her evening until her head cleared.
Phyl was happy to chatter on regardless. ‘Well, you didn’t quite come clean about your boss, did you, sly-boots? Albert had quite a bit to say – for Albert – when he got back. “Every bit the gent … nice man … well set up and polite” was his verdict. And Albert’s a good judge. Has to be in his line of work. Nothing known to Sandilands’ disadvantage from the war years … quite the opposite, in fact. I’ve had him followed. He lives alone in a flat down in Chelsea. No distractions, apparently – works every hour God sends.’
‘Sounds too good to be true, are we thinking?’
‘Perhaps. Further and better particulars needed, I’d say. No one’s
that
innocent. And your bloke’s a busy bee too – was he up all night? These came for you – special messenger – an hour ago. I looked. Calling cards. Here you are. I’ve put them in a case for you because I don’t expect you have one.’
Lily had almost forgotten. She took out a card from the silver case she was being offered and examined it.
‘There’s a dozen, that’s all. Not the usual gross, so you’re not intended to go scattering them like birdseed … or have them for long,’ Phyl noted. ‘Look at them. Best quality card, embossed, straight edge not deckle and lovely copperplate. Best of taste. And the wording’s interesting too. Odd, but interesting. I didn’t realize I’d be entertaining an “Honourable” this morning. I’d have swapped the black pudding and tea for kedgeree and Buck’s Fizz if I’d known. So this is who you are now: the Honourable Lily Wentworth. No address, but you have a telephone number. And what a number! Whitehall 1212 and an extension number which I assume is …’
‘Sandilands’ office, of course. One of these is meant to get me access to a Russian princess this morning. A passport over the front doorstep. These are my business cards, I suppose you’d say. It’s a cheat. Not sure I can go through with all this. It makes me uncomfortable.’
‘Go on! It’s being a load of fun. Stick with it, if only to entertain your old auntie.’
‘Phyl, it’s not a barrel of laughs,’ Lily muttered. ‘I saw someone die last night … poisoned. And the corpse could easily have been mine.’ She went to put the kettle on again. ‘This is going to be a two-pot story.’
The butler was elderly, English and intimidating. His glassy eyes swept her discreetly from head to foot, seeing and assessing while appearing, with the knack only butlers and royalty have, of keeping their subject discreetly out of focus. He allowed himself a well-judged sniff of disdain in response to her yellow print cotton frock. The three-year-old straw hat elicited a twitch of the left corner of his mouth. Without her card, she guessed she would have been instantly sent round to the tradesmen’s entrance where an interview for would-be parlour maids might be on offer from the housekeeper. The butler studied the card she gave him and could find no reason to object to it. Nor to the accent in which she spoke the lines Sandilands had prepared her to deliver.
‘Good morning, Foxton. I’m here to see Her Highness. I believe Commander Sandilands has made an appointment.’
‘Yes, indeed he has, miss. You are expected. If you will follow me? The ladies are still in the morning room.’
She padded after him through a spacious marble-tiled hallway and down a corridor hung with paintings of a quality that risked distracting her. She took a deep breath as he opened a door and announced her. ‘Miss Wentworth of White Hall to see you, Your Highness.’ With a butler’s tongue-in-cheek tact, he had managed in two syllables to turn the formidable police headquarters into a genteel grand house.
‘Miss Wentworth! I’m delighted you could come – and so swiftly after the recent events. I’m told you bring news of the prince.’ The princess was smiling a welcome. Her voice was a throaty rumble but her English was perfect and, Lily guessed, her first language. She turned to the two young women who were sitting at a table covered in piles of envelopes, notes and cards. They got up eagerly and came forward in age order. They were both in their early twenties and both had dark hair and eyes, but Lily didn’t think they were sisters. The older one had a dreamy, rounded face and an easy smile; the other had a quizzical stare and a mouth that seemed ready to laugh.
‘Eirene, Sasha, may I present Lily Wentworth who was our guest last night? You may remember seeing her in the company of His Royal Highness. And she is, among many things, the cousin of Sandilands who visited the other day. Miss Wentworth, you will observe, comes to us
under cover …
Is that the right term?’ Her eye lingered meaningfully on Lily’s yellow print washing frock and slightly battered hat, and her two companions laughed nervously.
Lily lowered her voice to a conspiratorial tone and murmured: ‘It’s a Sunday. Maid’s Day Off. I blend in with the promenaders.’ In her imagination she heard her father splutter his outrage as her grandfather, with a dry rustle of bones, turned in his grave. With a rebellious flourish, she took off her hat and shook out her hair.
‘Ah! Now I remember! It’s the girl in the green dress,’ murmured Eirene. ‘The wonderful dancer! We all said … didn’t we, Sasha?’
The two younger Russians were wearing heavily embroidered silk kaftans, ankle length and unconstricting. They seemed to have been dealing with correspondence, so Lily gathered they were both resident in the house. Family or friends and clearly going nowhere for the moment. Their presence in the room was inconvenient.
Formal introductions were completed. The ladies seemed intrigued and pleasantly scandalized to be in the presence of a working woman and a woman policeman at that.
Sasha recovered more quickly than the placid Eirene. ‘Lily,’ she said, calling her firmly by her first name, ‘you’re very convincing. I’m only surprised you got past Foxton! And I would know about being convincing. When I escaped from Russia my disguises were every bit as effective. I became quite the expert. You’re to come to me if you need any advice on dissimulation. I’ve travelled a thousand miles being a peasant, a baker’s daughter, a babushka, a cavalryman … I’ve sliced off my hair and kicked off my heels. But the best part of it all was – no corsets! Oh, the joy of leaving them off! I haven’t put one on again since!’ She wriggled her slim shoulders under the silk wrapper and sighed with satisfaction.
‘And now Mademoiselle Chanel offers us all the same freedom,’ Lily agreed. She didn’t believe a word of this manicured and soignée little butterfly’s fairy story but she liked her insouciance.
‘But let me warn you.’ Sasha’s roguish glint faded and her expression became more stern. A finger was raised and she wagged it at Lily. ‘As one actress to another. The moment you find the role you are playing more comforting, more alluring, or just more stimulating than the one you were born to – you are lost. Cast adrift for ever on a sea of dissatisfaction.’
‘No need to worry about me,’ Lily replied as lightly as she could. ‘Dancing with a prince was good fun but I shouldn’t much care to have to do it every day. Be on my best behaviour every moment? Apologise every time I stepped on the royal toe? No. I’d rather put on corsets again.’
‘You choose to mistake my meaning.’ Sasha’s bright eyes were full of knowledge and Lily tried not to look away. ‘Good. I conclude that you are aware of the true danger.’