The Blood Royal

by Barbara Cleverly

  ‘Good. Good. Thought I heard something.’

  Disconcerted by the fresh-faced, soap-scented presence, Joe went to open another window. That done, he began to pace about in a distracted manner.

  ‘Sorry to have kept you waiting, Miss Wentworth. We’re running a bit late today. Look here … I’ll get straight to it.’ He began to speak in her general direction. ‘You may have heard … no, how could you? Anyway – there was something of a bloodbath last night in the West End. Admiral shot to death on his doorstep, butler wounded, beat bobby left for dead like a dog in the road, London cabby fighting for his life in hospital,’ he confided in a rush. ‘Carnage on the streets, I’m afraid. You’ll read all about it in the papers, no doubt. It’s just what those hyenas have been waiting for. I’ve been … um …’ he glanced at the telephone sitting in the middle of his desk, ‘involving myself. Rather emphatically. Hard to stand back when one of the victims was a man I counted as my friend. And a friend avowedly under my protection at the time.’

  He stopped his pacing and added bitterly: ‘There will be many to ascribe responsibility for the whole shambles to me. Not least myself.’

  His flood of alarming information seemed to have rendered the girl speechless. Well, how else might he expect a young policewoman to respond to a throbbing monologue from her superior but with a wise silence? Finally she managed to say softly: ‘I’m so sorry you’ve lost your friend, sir. You must be very distressed. And you must want to be left alone to get on. Would you like me to go away for now? I can come back some other time.’ She took a step back towards the door.

  He held up a staying hand. ‘No, don’t go. I shall mourn the admiral later and in my own way. Which is to say with targeted vigour.’ He shot a glance of such deadly intent in her direction that Lily looked aside. ‘Now you’re here, come on over and let’s renew our acquaintance.’

  She approached the desk, ignored the chair set in front of it and stood to attention as she’d been trained. Feet a precise eighteen inches apart, straight back, shoulders down, palms to the rear. All very correct. To salute or not to salute? Joe realized she was questioning the protocol. She hesitated for a moment, then, apparently deciding he merited the gesture, gave him a perfect salute.

  He managed a grin. ‘Returning mine of the fourteenth, I take it? Thank you. Do sit down and we’ll start again.’

  Puzzlingly, the girl stayed on her feet.

  Wrong footed by her silence and rigid stance, Joe re-launched the conversation in a welcoming and very English prattle.

  ‘Looks as though it’s going to be hot again today.’

  ‘We’ve had the hottest summer for twenty-seven years, I understand, sir.’

  ‘Yes … When will it end? Pigs keeling over with heat stroke at the county show …’ he offered with a bland smile.

  ‘Reckless swimmers getting into difficulties in the Serpentine.’

  ‘But there’s some good news. We have our Prince of Wales back home safe and sound at last.’

  Her voice was tight with strain as she returned yet another answer in this tedious sequence. ‘After eight months touring India, he will be acclimatized to this heat.’

  ‘Well, that’ll do for our review of the papers,’ Joe said, and fell silent.

  In pursuit of his brief he began to pace about the room again, noting for the record, in what he hoped was an unobtrusive fashion, her height, weight and general deportment. He was relieved to see he’d remembered correctly the trim figure, the modest height. He couldn’t be sure about the face. With the downcast eyes and the large-brimmed hat, she could have been anybody.

  A closer inspection was now essential. He went to perch on the front edge of his desk, eyes on a level with hers, improperly close. This overbearing male behaviour was calculated to disturb, to test the subject’s mettle. It was a crude ploy he’d had much success with in the interrogation of male prisoners, military and civilian. The scar skewed his face and Joe had learned to use the sardonic twist with its suggestion of pain survived to intimidate his subjects. He’d noticed that even the tough nuts were unable to hold his eye. Their gaze faltered and slid to one side. They began to fidget and tell him their lies with less confidence.

  If the girl ran whimpering from the room or kicked him in the shins at this point, he wouldn’t blame her but that would have to be the end of it.

  She responded by staring calmly at a spot on his tie, a slight twist of disdain on her lips.

  Perfect.

  ‘Now then, Miss Wentworth … er, Lilian? That your given name?’

  ‘I’m usually called just Lily, sir. By those who know me. “Constable” by those who don’t.’

  His scrutiny had been over close and over long. And perhaps it was unfair to expose her to blood-spatter and bristle at this hour of the morning. When she caught him inspecting her feet he muttered: ‘Those boots are a disgrace. Not your fault. Poor quality leather. Won’t take a polish. The men wouldn’t put up with them for two minutes. I’ll have a word in the right ear.’

  ‘It will go straight out through the left, I’m sure, but thank you for the thought, sir.’

  Was the tone rebellious? Joe frowned. Not yet. Just this side of acceptable. He’d push her further. He peered playfully under her brim, questioning. She went on looking straight ahead, impassive.

  ‘Why don’t you sit down? I don’t want to conduct this interview standing. We may be here some time.’

  She sank uneasily on to a chair.

  ‘You’re smaller than I remembered,’ he remarked.

  ‘Tall enough to satisfy the height requirement.’

  Joe picked up a pencil and scratched a note for himself: 5′6″?

  ‘And younger.’

  ‘I lied about my age. Sir.’

  A swift glance into the unblinking, innocent eyes told him she was certainly lying now. Personal details of recruits were meticulously checked. Joe knew when he was being needled. He wrote again, taking his time: 26, could pass for 18. Insubordinate?

  ‘And your weight, miss? You would appear to be … er … not exactly well covered in the flesh department.’

  He’d clearly touched a nerve at last. The nostrils flared and her voice when she replied was glacial: ‘After eight years of privation, sir, are we surprised? There’s been a war on.’

  He scribbled: Skinny. Insubordinate! ‘Look – remove your hat, will you?’

  She took off her hat and placed it on her lap.

  Joe stared at her hair in surprise. ‘Always interesting to see what you’re hiding under those domes. Glad to see it’s just a dolly-mop of hair and not a bomb.’ He glanced again at her thick bob and scribbled a note on a pad. ‘Tell me – again for the record – how would you describe the colour of your hair? Blonde?’

  ‘Say straw, sir. If it could possibly be of any interest to anyone.’

  Joe thought Miss Wentworth’s shining flaxen hair would interest any man. He busied himself for an annoying moment or two, unconvincingly jotting a further note: Hair – fair, fashionably cut. Brows and lashes darker. Green? eyes. V. pretty … and cut himself short.

  He was making a pig’s ear of this.

  Should he have delegated the unwelcome task to his super? To his Branch man? Joe reassured himself by remembering both men’s lack of experience with the fair sex and their declared antagonism to the Working Woman. No, neither officer could have gone one round with this sample. He was becoming increasingly certain his choice was a good one. He just had to make the right approaches.

  He settled back in his chair, trying for friendly and approachable. ‘Now, before I tell you why you’re here …’ he indicated the file with her number on the cover, ‘I’d like to congratulate you on your prompt and decisive action at the station. I’ve entered a commendation on your file. Would you like me to read it out for you?’

  ‘Thank you. Very good of you, sir. I’ll take it as read.’ And, sweetly: ‘I’m sure my commanding officer could have passed that on and saved you the troubl
e.’

  And, of course, she was right. A man of his rank didn’t concern himself with the actions, however creditable, of a lowly policewoman.

  ‘Quite. But I did have, you will recall, a personal interest in the episode. And I’m the chap, for the moment, in charge of hiring, firing and redeployment, not your CO. Redeployment, Wentworth. Which brings me to the second reason for calling you in.’

  She startled him by leaping to her feet, triggered, Joe thought, by the word ‘redeployment’. With automatic good manners he rose also, registering surprise.

  ‘I know what you’re up to. Before you proceed with this, sir, I have to tell you that I will not accept redeployment. I will not be sent to some northern city with the likes of Constable Halliday.’ Her eyes narrowed to a glare. ‘Nor will I stand here and be sacked.’

  Joe listened in astonishment as she forged on: ‘This would seem to be a bad moment for both of us. I’m leaving now to go away and write out my resignation from the force. It will be on your desk within the hour. It will make mention of the impossibility of suffering any longer the prejudice and arrogance the women are confronted with at every turn. To say nothing of the low pay and the long hours. And the questionable company of tarts, drug fiends and corrupt coppers.’

  She must have been aware that her words sounded undignified. Pre-prepared words, he guessed, that she’d been mulling over and getting together while she’d been sitting in the corridor expecting dismissal. Well, the girl showed some spirit and he wasn’t looking for a doormat. He decided to take her insubordination on the chin.

  She hurried to finish, eager to be away. ‘I’m sorry, sir … not the Ciceronian speech I’d planned. A bit light on concessive clauses and qualifying phrases.’

  ‘And possibly charm, Constable?’ he teased.

  ‘It’ll have to do. You must excuse me. Good day to you, Commander. I’ll leave you to your sorrows and … more demanding concerns.’

  Petulant, foot-stamping stuff. Good girl. But it was decidedly inconvenient for him. Joe began to think he’d mishandled the whole thing. He’d allowed her to provoke him. He’d certainly raised her hackles and now they risked losing her. In what looked very like a rush of light-headed recklessness, she turned without waiting for his dismissal and made for the door.

  His voice, lazily enquiring, snaked after her, catching her by the ankle, staying her step. ‘Don’t you want to hear what became of the children in the case?’

  It seemed he’d come up with the one formula that would have stopped her from leaving the room. She hesitated.

  ‘And the villain whose head you sat on? Were you aware you broke his nose? Resume your seat and hear me out. That’s better,’ he said as she settled on the edge of the seat. ‘Ah! Here’s our tea. Put it on the desk, will you, Jones? Thank you, that’ll be all.’ He heaved a layer of files and boxes on to the floor to accommodate the tea tray, then he took up the pot and filled two cups. ‘Drop of milk, one sugar, I understand? You always pay for it. And these are your favourite biscuits. Do have one.’

  He relished her astonishment for a moment. ‘I’m a detective by inclination. I still poke about, making enquiries. Military Intelligence during the war. It leaves its mark, don’t you know. Once a busybody, always a busybody. I took time to speak to old Stan on my way back through Paddington. He was very happy to talk about you. And I was more than happy to hear his eulogies. I’m going to confess to you, Miss Wentworth, that, though I rather relish the influence my rank brings me, I’ve been promoted out of step with my interest … if you follow me. I find there’s a sight too much form-filling, committee-sitting and politicking in it to please me.’

  He accompanied his speech with a rueful smile. It seemed to alarm rather than reassure the girl he was directing it at but he pressed on anyway. ‘However – we’re not here to talk about my career. I want to propose a change of direction for you, Miss Wentworth. I don’t know where this nonsense about redeployment to the north comes from. You are in no way bracketed with that reprobate Halliday.’ He leafed through the file and found the sheet he wanted. ‘Halliday … Yes, here we are. He has indeed been sent north – to Yorkshire for re-training – and no one’s expecting to see him back in the metropolis again.’

  Joe read on for a while, absorbed. ‘Your ex-partner had some pretty unkind things to say about you, I’m afraid.’ Silently, he scanned the vindictive phrases meticulously recorded by his superintendent, flinched, and decided not to reveal them. Common as cat shit and twice as nasty … Gift of the gab … Looks like the bleeding fairy on the Christmas tree – but don’t turn your back on her or you’ll find out what her wand’s for …

  ‘You must be awfully glad he’s gone, Miss Wentworth. Not quite sure what they’ll make of him in Yorkshire – more of a man, one would hope. No – I propose to deploy you in a different area, though still within the city of London. I have in mind a different role for you. And a different partner.’

  He waited until, intrigued, she turned her eyes back to him before announcing with a mock bow and a broad smile: ‘Myself. Now – two exhibits.’ He shuffled his files again and produced a photograph. ‘What do you make of that?’

  She seemed stunned but she took the photograph with a shaking hand and studied it. It provoked a spontaneous reply. ‘It’s a posed group photograph. Centre front I see an elderly and distinguished gentleman in the uniform of a high-ranking police official …’

  ‘He’s Chief Constable of the Lancashire Constabulary,’ Sandilands supplied. ‘Philip Lane. Fine fellow. Go on.’

  ‘And the lucky man has surrounded himself with a retinue of twenty or so pretty women. All young. Under thirty? I’d have said women policemen if they weren’t in mufti. Silk stockings, smart shoes, lovely frocks …’ She paused for a moment, appreciating what she was seeing. ‘And they all look very pleased with themselves.’ She must have caught the flash of humour in his eye and dared to add: ‘Especially the Chief!’

  ‘Oh, Lane’s having a happy time. He dislikes the women’s uniform as much as I do. And there’s something else we agree on – those women are indeed in the police though they are not being used, as they are here in the Met, in a social service role. Escorting schoolchildren across the road, prising illicit couples apart with a crowbar in the park, sitting on sparrowhawks … that would seem to be the limit of our expectations of the women’s patrols, Miss Wentworth. Tedious, degrading stuff. No, my friend Lane employs his girls as part of the detective force. Look at their faces. Sharp as a pin, every last one of them! You could send any of those women in like a terrier down a foxhole and she’d flush out her prey.’

  ‘They’re detectives, these women?’ Incredulity and envy were blended in her tone.

  ‘Yes, indeed.’ He looked at her sharply, pleased with her reaction. He thought he was beginning to understand what made this girl tick. And her interest chimed with his own. He would have no problem in fostering it. ‘You’re impressed by these young ladies?’

  ‘I’ll say! Detectives! I hadn’t realized it was possible. Lucky women!’

  Joe smiled in quiet triumph to hear the longing in her voice. He was seeing his way through to his goal at last.

  ‘I believe, along with Philip, that the talents of you and others like you are being under-used in the force,’ he confided. ‘But the Geddes Axe has swung over the police service as much as other public services – we have a four-year war effort to pay for, after all, and we musn’t grumble, Wentworth, must we? But your numbers have been halved – you’re reduced to fifty now, I believe, and the ultimate target is a mere twenty. And that doesn’t please some of us. I, for one, am determined to hang on to the core of exceptional women remaining to us and pray that Nancy Astor can work her magic in Parliament to get the women’s contingent reinstated.’

  Daring and undisciplined. A view contrary to that of the Commissioner himself. That would make her think and wonder.

  He gave her a glance across the desk, the calculation in the eyes meant to be o
ffset by the smiling lips. Joe thought grimly that he was probably recreating the effect, in his present state of dark dishevelment, of an ancient Greek reveller he’d seen decorating a vase in the British Museum. Bearded, knowing, conniving and with the same winsome smile, the Attic figure had been leading a garlanded heifer. With one reassuring hand he caressed the silken flank, with the other he tugged on the rope, urging the animal forward up the Sacred Way. If you walked round and inspected the far side of the vase, you could see that they were only steps away from an altar where they were confidently awaited by the priest who stood at the ready, sacrificial knife raised.

  ‘Your name, Miss Wentworth …’ the smiler with the butcher’s knife administered a further calming pat, leaning confidingly towards her though there was no one else in the room, ‘has come to the top of the dismissals list, as I would imagine you’ve calculated, perceptive girl that you are. And that’s exactly what I ought to be doing this morning – handing you your cards and showing you the door. You were aware of this, of course?’

  He waited for her nod before going on. ‘But it’s my opinion that you would be a loss to the force and I’m suggesting a way of circumventing the necessity to terminate your contract. I propose a scheme which, rather than striking your name from the roll, will put it in brackets and move it sideways, so to speak … something on those lines,’ he finished vaguely. A slashing hand mimed the expunging of her name and was followed by a demonstration of the bracketing: two cupped hands moving with the care of a cricketer’s to draw aside and bring to safety.

  Lily’s eyes followed them, mesmerized. Large, brown and capable hands. The message they were conveying was easily understood. In the small space between them lay her career. It could be dropped or held firm and she was powerless to decide the outcome.

  She made no comment and he pushed on. ‘But further, I think there should be a change in the character of your employment. I’ve chosen you, Miss Wentworth, to help me out. In a rather unusual duty. It’s all a bit hush-hush. Got a dainty summer frock, have you? Well, I want you to mothball that ugly blue outfit you’re wearing, get into mufti and do a bit of undercover work for me.’