A Royal Pain

by Rhys Bowen

  “Idealistic? Ruddy stupid, if you’ll pardon the language, miss,” Mr. Roberts said. “All this talk about power for the people and down with the ruling classes and everyone should govern themselves. It can never happen, I told him. The ruling classes are born to rule. They know how to do it. You take a person like you or me and you put us up there to run a country and we’d make a ruddy mess of it.”

  Mrs. Roberts hadn’t taken her eyes off her husband’s face. Now she looked at me as if willing me to understand. “His father tried to make him see sense, but it was no use. He started writing for that Daily Worker newspaper and hanging around with those communists.”

  “Bunch of layabouts the lot of them. Don’t even shave properly,” Mr. Roberts intervened.

  “No good can come of this, we told him. When you want to get a proper job, this will come back to haunt you.”

  “His mother wanted to humor him to start with,” Mr. Roberts said. “You know how mothers are, and he was her only boy, of course.” He paused and cleared his throat. “She thought he’d grow out of it. Young people often do go to extremes, don’t they? But then they find a nice girl, settle down and see sense. Only—only he never got a chance to grow out of it, did he?”

  “Do you have any idea at all who might have done this awful thing?” I asked.

  They stared at me blankly. “We think it had to be a mistake. The person who stabbed him mistook him for someone else. It was dark in that place, so we hear. Maybe the killer stabbed our poor Sidney by mistake. I can’t think of any other explanation for it.”

  “Had anyone threatened him?” I asked.

  Again they stared blankly. “We never heard he was in any kind of trouble,” Mr. Roberts said. “Of course he would go to them communist rallies and sometimes there was a bit of a scuffle there. His mother didn’t want him to go. But apart from that, we’ve no idea. It couldn’t have been anybody trying to rob the till, because he was upstairs when they stabbed him.”

  “Have the police given you any idea at all of what they might suspect?” I asked.

  “If they have any ideas, they certainly haven’t shared them with us,” Mr. Roberts said bitterly. “Asked a lot of stupid questions about whether Sidney was connected to any criminal activity. They thought it was done by a professional because of the way he was stabbed, I gather.”

  Mrs. Roberts shifted forward to the edge of her chair. “But we told them he’d always been a good boy. Never done a thing to make us ashamed of him. And if he was up to anything shady, we’d have known, wouldn’t we, Father?”

  “Was Sidney worried about anything recently?” I asked.

  They glanced at each other.

  “Funny you should say that, miss. I think something was upsetting him. He had a nightmare and we heard him moaning in his sleep and he said, ‘No, it’s wrong. You can’t do it.’ In the morning we asked him about it but he’d completely forgotten. So maybe he was in some kind of trouble and hadn’t told us. They do have gangs working in that part of London, wouldn’t you say? Perhaps they wanted to pressure our Sidney to take part in a robbery or something and he’d refused. He would refuse, you know. Very upright, was our Sidney.”

  “Or we wondered whether he’d overheard something not meant for his ears, and he was killed because he wanted to go to the police.”

  “That sounds possible,” I agreed, wondering why it had never occurred to me before. “What about Sidney’s current friends? I know who his friends were at university. Did he keep up with the old crowd?”

  “Not very much,” his mother said. “There was that young man with the silly name. Sounded like a mushroom.”

  “Edward Fotheringay, pronounced ‘Fungy’?” I asked her.

  She smiled. “That’s the one. He came to the house a couple of times and picked up Sidney in his little sports car. ‘I thought you said you was against the upper classes,’ we said to him. His dad liked to tease him from time to time. But he said that this Edward was all right and cared about the masses too. Apart from that, he didn’t bring anybody home. No girlfriend, as far as I could see. He didn’t go out much, apart from those communist meetings. He always was rather serious, wasn’t he, Father?”

  “No girlfriend he ever told us about anyway,” Mr. Roberts said. He was looking at me strangely, with his head cocked to one side, like a bird, and it suddenly came to me that he thought I might be Sidney’s girlfriend. “If you’ll pardon my saying so, miss, but you seem very concerned about him. More than the average acquaintance from university would be.”

  I gave what I hoped was a nervous laugh. “It’s true. We were close friends once. That’s why I was so angry to hear about this. I want to get to the bottom of it. I want his killer to be brought to justice.”

  “We’re very grateful for any help, miss.” The Robertses exchanged a look.

  I decided to plunge ahead. “I was wondering... Sidney wasn’t drinking or smoking too much recently, was he?”

  “He’d take the odd pint and the odd cigarette, but no more than the average person, not as much actually, because our Sidney was always careful with his money, as you probably remember. He left quite a bit in his savings account, didn’t he, Father?”

  My ears pricked up—so quiet, well-behaved Sidney had been squirreling away quite a bit of money, had he?

  “He did. Over fifty pounds,” Mr. Roberts said proudly.

  So much for the theory that Sidney was selling drugs. Fifty pounds wouldn’t have begun to cover one of Gussie’s parties.

  I finished my tea and took my leave of the Robertses.

  I was feeling tired and depressed by the time I arrived at Rannoch House and was relieved to find my grandfather already in residence and yet another cup of tea on the stove. This one, however, was most welcome.

  “So did you learn anything?” my grandfather asked.

  “Only things that I can now rule out. Sidney Roberts was a good boy, according to his parents. He lived simply at home. He had fifty pounds in a savings account. They had high hopes for him and were disappointed when he became a communist sympathizer. So we can assume that he was not profiting from selling drugs, nor was he a drug user. There was a suggestion that maybe he had fallen foul of some kind of criminal element—that some gang wanted him to carry out some kind of robbery for them and he had refused, or that he’d overheard something not meant for his ears.”

  Granddad nodded. “A possibility in that part of town. He worked in a bookshop that sold old books, you say. Were there rare books among them—books that could be sold for a bob or two? Maybe someone had asked him to nick a few.”

  I hadn’t thought of this. The simplest of solutions. “You could find out about that kind of thing, couldn’t you? Your friends on the force could come up with gangs who might deal in stolen art, antiques, that kind of thing.”

  He nodded. “Yes, that would be easy enough. But it seems rather extreme to me. You don’t stab a bloke through the heart because he won’t nick a book for you. However, if he was going to rat on them to the coppers . . . you say he was an upstanding young man... now that’s another business. I’ll see what my old pals have got to say on that.”

  “And tomorrow I’m going to Inspector Burnall,” I said. “Their investigation might have turned up a thing or two by now.”

  “I wouldn’t count on it, love,” Granddad said. “Now, about our supper tonight. There ain’t much food in the larder, seeing as how we thought you was going to be away. What do you say I go and get us a nice bit of fish and chips?”

  I started to laugh. “Granddad, I don’t think you’d find fish and chips in Belgravia,” I said.

  Chapter 33

  Rannoch House

  Tuesday, June 21, 1932

  Diary,

  Going to be a hot day. Muggy and still, even at eight thirty. Not looking forward to what lies ahead. Not cut out to be sleuth.

  The morning’s post brought a letter from Buckingham Palace. I thought this was strange, given that the royal couple w
as in Norfolk, but when I opened it I found that it was merely an official invitation to the royal garden party the next day. It concluded, Please present this invitation to gain admission to the palace grounds. So I was to be facing Her Majesty the next day. She’d expect me to have something to tell her. I had better put in a good day’s work today.

  After breakfast Granddad set off for his old police station in the East End and I headed for Scotland Yard. I was in luck. Chief Inspector Burnall was in his office and I was ushered in. The chief inspector, dapperly dressed as always, looked surprised to see me.

  “What brings you here, my lady? Come to give yourself up?”

  I gave him my best imitation of my great-grandmother’s steely stare. He wilted under it. “Just joking, my lady. Now, what can I do for you?”

  “I came to find out if a date for the inquest has been set. It appears that Princess Hannelore may have to go home to Germany quite soon, so if you think her testimony may be helpful, you should probably schedule the inquest before she leaves.”

  “She’s intending to do a bunk, is she?”

  “Her companion, the Baroness Rottenmeister, has just died. Naturally protocol would demand that she not stay on in this country unchaperoned.”

  “Another death? They seem to be falling like flies around your princess. Are you sure her last name isn’t Borgia?” Again he gave a tentative chuckle.

  “The baroness died of a heart attack while the princess and I were being shown around Cambridge,” I said coldly. “And you can’t seriously believe that the princess or I had anything to do with the murder of Sidney Roberts, other than coming upon his body.”

  “She was found with the knife in her hand.”

  “But you said yourself that the blow was delivered by a trained assassin. Do you really think that the nuns trained her to kill at the Holy Names convent?”

  “I suppose not,” he agreed.

  “And you can’t possibly suspect me.”

  He hesitated for a second, making me continue, “Really, Chief Inspector—what possible motive would either of us have had to want Mr. Roberts dead? I had only met the man twice before—once in a park and then a brief conversation at a party.”

  “Three times,” he said. “You met him three times, not twice. At the British Museum, remember?”

  “Ah. Well, actually I didn’t meet him at the British Museum. Princess Hannelore did.”

  “Oh?”

  “We became separated and when I found her again she told me excitedly that she’d met Sidney doing research there, and he had invited us to his bookshop.”

  He paused then said, “So you only have Her Highness’s word that she had met this man there?”

  “Yes, I suppose so.”

  “So if Her Highness had wanted an excuse to go to the bookshop, she could have concocted this story.”

  “I suppose she could. But why?” Even as I said the words I saw one possibility. Hanni was smitten with Sidney. She wanted a chance to meet him again. She had proven herself not above subterfuge when it suited her.

  “You’ve thought of a reason?” he asked.

  “Yes. I’m afraid the princess was rather boy mad, Chief Inspector. And I believe she was setting her cap at Sidney Roberts. I can’t see why, because she certainly wouldn’t have been allowed to continue a friendship with a penniless, lower-class man. Perhaps he appealed to her because he was forbidden fruit in her eyes.”

  The chief inspector nodded. “And an unknown assassin chose that exact moment to stab Mr. Roberts and then vanish into thin air. Very convenient, don’t you think?”

  “Not vanish into thin air. Didn’t the shop owner say that there was a window in the attic and a way across the rooftops?”

  Chief Inspector Burnall shook his head. “We examined that window. The dust on the sill had not been disturbed.”

  “He could just as easily have hidden among the bookshelves and then slipped out after we left the shop to call the police. He could have taken refuge in a nearby building and we probably wouldn’t have seen him. But the point is, Chief Inspector, that we didn’t kill Sidney Roberts, we had no motive for killing Sidney Roberts and we certainly did not have the expertise to kill him.”

  “I suppose I have to accept that,” he said. “But maybe you can help me out by suggesting someone who might have had a motive.”

  “Why would I know that?”

  “You were all at the same party a few nights previously, when another young man died. A party at which I gather cocaine was in use?”

  “I told you, I personally witnessed that death. It was a horrible accident. Tubby was reeling drunk. He fell against the railings and they gave way. Nobody was near him.”

  “Not entirely thanks to being drunk, as it turns out,” Burnall said slowly, not taking his eyes off my face. “An autopsy revealed that he had a considerable level of alcohol in his system, that’s true. He also had a lethal amount of phenobarbital. Someone had slipped him what the Americans call a Mickey Finn.”

  “Poisoned him, you mean?”

  “Knocked him out. Someone wanted to make sure he fell off that balcony, and to doubly guarantee this, they had also removed some of the screws that held the bars in place.”

  “Good heavens.” I couldn’t think of anything else to say.

  “So I want you to think carefully, my lady. Do you have any reason to suspect that someone at that party wanted your pal Tubby out of the way? Or did you possibly see someone tampering with a drink?”

  I shook my head. “It was dark and people were mixing cocktails all the time. An awful lot of drinking was going on and Tubby had a glass in his hand every time I saw him. As to who wanted him out of the way, I should have thought you’d have examined the line of inheritance by now.”

  “We have, my lady. No brothers, so the estate would pass to a cousin. Several cousins, including the young man who gave the party.”

  “Gussie Gormsley?” I asked in a shocked voice.

  “As you say. Augustus Gormsley. Granted he’s only a second cousin, but maybe he has similar intentions on those ahead of him in the line.”

  I laughed. “Oh, surely this is madness, Inspector. Gussie is—” I was about to say harmless and then I remembered how he would have forced himself upon me if Darcy hadn’t shown up. Not entirely harmless then. But I pictured that scene on the balcony and saw Gussie handing Tubby the drink. “That drink wasn’t even intended for Tubby,” I said. “Gussie was offering it around. Tubby took it.”

  “Who was it intended for then?”

  I froze as I remembered. Gussie was trying to press the drink upon Sidney Roberts. After Sidney had refused, Tubby had taken the drink and downed it. But could I really bring myself to mention this fact? After all, these were members of my set. We didn’t go around killing people. And I had only seen what happened after Gussie came out onto the balcony. He could have offered the drink to any number of people inside first.

  “I’ve no idea,” I said. “Gussie was just being a good host and making sure that everyone was drinking.”

  “I see.” Again he looked at me long and hard.

  “So may one ask whether you have made any progress in the murder of Sidney Roberts?” I asked, changing the subject. “He wasn’t mixed up with any kind of criminals, was he?”

  “Why do you ask that?”

  “Because I went to see his parents to express my condolences and his mother said he had been worried lately and in his sleep he muttered something about it being wrong and that they shouldn’t do it. So I thought that maybe he’d been coerced into something illegal.”

  “Interesting.” He nodded his head. “As of yet we haven’t heard that kind of rumor, but we’ll look into it. We’ll be looking into every angle, I can assure you—unless there is any other tidbit of information you’d like to share with me right now.”

  “Had I any information, I would share it willingly,” I said. “I take it you have been notified that the princess is staying near Sandringham at
the moment, and I shall be at Rannoch House for the next day or so, so you’ll know where to contact us about the inquest.”

  I rose to my feet. He did the same. “You people, you stick together, no matter what, don’t you?” he said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I believe you know more than you’re telling me, but one of your lot is to blame and it will come out. And when it does and I find you’ve been withholding evidence, I’ll come after you. I don’t care who you are.”

  “I’m sure you don’t,” I said coldly. “You arrested my brother earlier this year when he was completely innocent. But I repeat what I just said: I know nothing about either of these strange events. I wish I could tell you more.”

  Then I made a grand exit.

  Chapter 34

  As I walked back to Rannoch House through St. James’s Park, watching children playing, couples strolling hand in hand, office workers sitting on the grass enjoying the sunshine, it seemed to me that nobody had a care in the world but me. Of course this was fallacious thinking. At this very moment all over the city there were men lining up in the hopes of finding work, or getting a handout of soup or bread. But the depression couldn’t spoil a summer day’s fun in the park for these people. I, on the other hand, could not shake off my burden.

  After my visit to Chief Inspector Burnall, I was more confused than ever. One of my lot. The words kept echoing through my head. One of my lot had definitely killed poor Tubby Tewkesbury and the person who had handed him the drink had been Gussie. But he had first tried to press the drink upon Sidney Roberts. Had Gussie known he was carrying a drink laced with phenobarbital? Had he intended to let Sidney fall through that railing? In which case why? Various possibilities went through my mind—upright Sidney had threatened to report the cocaine use to the police, or he had been some kind of go-between, ferrying drugs between the docklands and Mayfair, until his conscience got the better of him. But did one kill for what seemed so trivial a reason? And if Gussie hadn’t known the drink was laced then who else at the party wanted Sidney dead and why? The partly unscrewed railings seemed to indicate Gussie—after all, it was his flat.