Royal Spy 01 - Her Royal Spyness

by Rhys Bowen

  “Were you just going out?” he asked.

  “No, just got home. Haven’t had time to take off my coat yet,” I said.

  “Are you under the weather?”

  “No, why?”

  “It’s not that cold out today,” he said. “In fact it’s quite mild. I’m not even wearing an overcoat and here you are, all bundled up.”

  “The house is always so chilly with these high ceilings.” I could hear myself babbling and tried to regain my composure.

  “What a piece of luck that my timing was so good then, wasn’t it?” he said. “I hope you don’t mind my showing up on your doorstep like this. So this is Rannoch House. I must say it’s pretty impressive. I’d love you to show me around. I understand that your father was something of a collector and you’ve some fine paintings.”

  “I’d be happy to show you around, Tristram, but now isn’t the best of times,” I said, cutting off the end of his sentence.

  His face fell. He had the most schoolboyish of faces, his joy or despair clearly showing for all to see.

  “I thought you might be pleased to see me,” he said in a small voice.

  “I am pleased to see you,” I said, “and any other time I’d be delighted to invite you in, but I’m in the house alone, and you know what my royal relatives would say if I entertained a man, unchaperoned, even in the middle of the day, so I’m afraid . . .”

  “I do understand,” he said, nodding earnestly. “But don’t the servants count as chaperons?”

  “No servants either,” I said. “I’m living here alone at the moment until I can hire a maid.”

  “Gosh, that’s awfully daring of you,” he said. “So modern.”

  “I’m not trying to be modern and daring,” I said. “Simply lack of funds. I have to find a way to support myself.”

  “Then we’re in the same boat.” He beamed again. Truly he had a most endearing smile. “Abandoned and fighting the cruel world.”

  “Not exactly,” I said. “Not like those poor wretches on the bread lines.”

  “Well, no,” he admitted.

  “And at least you have gainful employment. When you’ve finished your articles you’ll have a profession. I, on the other hand, am qualified only for marriage and I’m only qualified for that by my pedigree. My family is determined to marry me off to some awful foreign prince who is bound to be assassinated within the year.”

  “You could always marry me,” he said, pronouncing it, of course “mawwy.”

  I laughed. “What, and trade a freezing and empty house for a bedsitter in Bromley? It’s a sweet offer, Tristram, but I hardly think you’re in a position to support a wife, nor will be for some time.”

  “I may be,” he said. “If I come into my guardian’s fortune . . .”

  “What a horrid thing to say,” I snapped, my nerves close to breaking point by this time. “You almost sound as if you’re hoping Sir Hubert dies.”

  “Not hoping. Good Lord, no,” he stammered. “Nothing’s further from the truth. I worship the old boy. He couldn’t have been kinder to me. But I’m only going by what the quacks have said and they have impressed upon me that the outcome is not likely to be good. Bad head injuries, you know. In a coma.”

  “So sad,” I said. “If it’s head injuries, then I’d rather he died. Such an energetic man could never be a lifelong invalid.”

  “My sentiments exactly,” Tristram agreed. “So I’m trying to hope for the best, but prepared to accept the worst.”

  Suddenly I couldn’t stand there chatting a second longer without exploding. “Look, Tristram, I am most pleased to see you, but I have to go now. I’m . . . meeting someone for tea and I have to change.”

  “Another time, maybe? At the weekend? I had promised to show you London, had I not?”

  “Yes, you had. And I’m looking forward to it, but I’m not sure what I’ll be doing on Saturday and Sunday.” (I can’t use the word “weekend,” even in moments of stress.) “My brother is in town, you know. I may have family matters to attend to.”

  “Your brother? I don’t believe I’ve met him.”

  “You probably wouldn’t have. He’s my half brother, actually, and he would have been away at school when I came to stay with my mother at Sir Hubert’s.”

  “Where did he go to school?”

  “Gairlachan. That formidable place in the Highlands.”

  “With the cross-country runs and cold showers at dawn? Just like the Spartan boys. The weak die and the strong become empire builders.”

  “That’s the one.”

  “Sir Hubert threatened to send me there if I didn’t pull my socks up, but he settled for Downside instead, since Mama was a Catholic and he wanted to honor her wishes. I must say I was relieved. Those monks like their creature comforts.”

  “That’s where you were at school with Darcy?”

  “O’Mara, you mean?” His face clouded. “Yes, he was a couple of years above me but we were in the same house.” He leaned closer to me, even though we were the only two people on a deserted pavement. “Look, Georgie, I meant what I said the other day. He’s a bad egg, you know. Untrustworthy, just like a typical Irishman. Shake hands and then stab you in the back as soon as you turn away.” He paused and looked at me. “You’re not—er, involved with him, are you?”

  “He’s just a casual acquaintance,” I said, half wanting to lie and watch Tristram’s face when I said that we were lovers. “We met at a hunt ball, apparently, and then at that wedding. That is the sum total of our acquaintanceship.” I didn’t mention the unsettling little scene in the Featherstonehaughs’ bedroom.

  Relief flooded his boyish features. “That’s good, only I wouldn’t like to see a nice girl like you ending up with her heart broken, or worse.”

  “Thank you, but I have no intention of anybody breaking my heart,” I said, my hand already itching to close that front door. “I must go now, Tristram. Please excuse me.”

  “So may I see you again soon? Maybe I could take you to lunch somewhere? Nothing too fancy, I’m afraid, but I know some good cheap Italian places. You know, spaghetti Bolognese and a glass of red plonk for one and sixpence.”

  “Thank you,” I said. “I’m sorry about today, but I really must go. Now.” With that I turned and fled into the house. Once I’d closed the door, I stood for some time, leaning against the solid coldness of the oak while my heart regained its normal pace.

  Chapter 13

  Rannoch House

  Friday, April 29, 1932

  At least that little interlude had helped me get my thoughts into order. First I must find Binky, I decided. Before I summoned the police, I had to know for certain that he had no part in the killing of de Mauxville, and the most likely place to find him would be his club. He had been taking his meals there since coming to London and it was where he felt comfortable. I tried to think positively: maybe his disappearance had nothing whatever to do with the body. Perhaps he had finally decided that it would be easier to take a room at his club and avoid walking home after dinner and several brandies.

  He might have mentioned it to me, I thought angrily. Typical Binky.

  I dialed the telephone exchange and asked to be connected to Brooks, which had been my grandfather’s club, my father’s, and was now Binky’s.

  “May I help you?” said a quavering old voice.

  “Could you please tell me if Lord Rannoch is currently in residence?” I asked.

  “I’m afraid not, madam.”

  “You mean he’s not in residence or you can’t tell me whether he is or isn’t?”

  “Precisely, madam.”

  “I am Lady Georgiana Rannoch, the duke’s sister, and I wish to speak to him on a matter of great urgency. Now, could you tell me whether he is in residence?”

  “I’m afraid not, my lady.” The voice was unperturbed and it was quite clear that the old man was prepared to die rather than disclose the whereabouts of a club member to one of the opposite sex. There was nothing
for it but to go there myself.

  I went upstairs and changed out of the maid’s uniform, trying not to look at the bathroom door as I went past. The fact that Binky’s clothes had gone presumably meant that he wasn’t intending to come back. And I could only conclude the worst—that he had seen the body and panicked. Now I just hoped he wasn’t somewhere spilling the beans.

  I took pen and paper and wrote him a note, in case he returned before I did. Binky. There is a corpse in the upstairs bathtub. Don’t do anything until I return. Above all, don’t telephone the police. We need to talk about what we should do. Love, Georgie.

  I set off at a brisk pace up Picadilly to St. James’s Street, home of the oldest London clubs, went up the austere steps of Brooks, and rapped on the front door. It was opened by an extremely ancient hall porter with watery blue eyes, fine white baby hair, and a perpetual tremor.

  “I’m sorry, madam. This is a gentlemen’s club,” he said, giving me a look of such horror that one might think I was standing on the doorstep dressed as Lady Godiva.

  “I know it’s a gentlemen’s club,” I said calmly. “I am Lady Georgiana Rannoch and I telephoned a few minutes ago. I need to know immediately whether my brother, the duke, is on the club premises. If he is, I wish to speak to him on a matter of great urgency.”

  I was doing quite a good imitation of my esteemed great-grandmother—the Empress of India, not the one who had sold fish in the East End, although I gather she had a commanding presence and was also good at getting her own way.

  The hall porter quivered but did not budge. “It is against club policy to reveal which members are in residence, m’lady. If you care to write His Grace a message I will see that it is delivered to him, should he appear in the club at any time.”

  I stared at the porter, wondering what would happen if I pushed past him and took a quick look at the guest book. He was definitely smaller and frailer than I. Then I decided that such unforgivably boorish behavior would get back to HM within the hour and by the end of the week I’d be a lady-in-waiting in deepest Gloucestershire. I wrote my note to Binky and sensed the smug look on the hall porter’s face as he took it from me.

  Now I had no idea what to do next. Really it was too bad of Binky to have vanished into thin air at a moment like this. I stood at the edge of Green Park, feeling warm spring sunshine on me, watching nannies pushing their little charges for an outing in the fresh air, and found it hard to believe that all around me life was going on as normal. It came to me that I had never been truly alone in my life before. A feeling of utter desolation swept over me. I was alone, unprotected, abandoned in the big city. To my horror I felt tears welling up in my eyes. What on earth had made me bolt to London without any sensible preparations? If only I’d stayed in Scotland, I’d never have found myself in this mess. I had the strongest urge to pack my bags and catch the next train home—which, of course, I realized was exactly what Binky must have done. It’s that built-in homing instinct common to generations of Rannochs who crawled back to Castle Rannoch, wounded and exhausted after the latest skirmish against the English/Vikings/Danes/ Romans/Picts or whomever they were fighting at the time. I was now absolutely sure that Binky had gone home, but there wasn’t much I could do about it. Even if he had fled on discovering the body, he would be on a Scotland-bound train for hours yet, and then he’d have to make his way to Glenrannoch, which meant he probably wouldn’t arrive home until sometime tonight.

  I pulled out my handkerchief and surreptitiously dabbed my eyes, utterly ashamed of this weak behavior. A lady never showed her feelings in public, according to my governess. And a Rannoch certainly didn’t crumble at the first small hurdle in her life. I reminded myself of my ancestor Robert Bruce Rannoch, whose right arm had been hacked off in the battle of Bannockburn and had promptly transferred his sword to his left hand and gone on fighting. We Rannochs did not give in. If Binky had let down the family by running away, I wasn’t about to do the same. I would take action, and immediately.

  I started to walk back to Rannoch House, trying to decide what to do next. I couldn’t leave the body in the bath indefinitely. I had no idea when bodies started decomposing but I had no wish to find out. And I certainly wasn’t going to sleep in a house with a body floating yards away. I heard a clock strike four and my stomach reminded me that it was teatime and I hadn’t even had lunch. I realized that all my life I had been guided, protected, cocooned by nannies, governesses, servants, chaperons. Other people of my age had learned to think for themselves. I had never had to make a major decision for myself. In fact the first important decision I had made was to run away from Castle Rannoch. That one hadn’t turned out too wonderfully so far.

  I needed help, and swiftly, but I had no idea to whom I could turn in this hour of need. Certainly not to my kin at the palace. Then the vision of food made me think of my grandfather—the live one, not the ghost who played bagpipes. He was such an obvious choice that a great sense of relief swept over me. He’d know what to do. I was just about to find the nearest underground station when I stopped short: he had, after all, been a policeman. He would be horrified that I hadn’t called the police immediately and would make me do so. And then, of course, I’d have to explain why I had fled to Essex rather than reporting a murder right away.

  So not my grandfather then. What I needed at this moment was someone to talk to. I realized that making the right decision at this moment was vital. A problem shared is a problem halved, as my nanny used to say. I almost wished I had let Tristram come in when he had appeared on my doorstep and shown him the body in the bath. He was, after all, practically a relative. Not that he’d have had the slightest idea what to do about my current predicament (he’d probably have fainted on the spot), but at least I’d have shared my problem with someone.

  Apart from Tristram, whom did I know in London? There was Darcy, who might well know how to make a corpse disappear. But I wasn’t sure that I completely trusted Darcy, and anyway, I had no idea where he lived. Then I remembered Belinda. She had been wonderful in a crisis at school, like that time we had caught the potting shed on fire.

  Belinda was just the sort of person I needed at this moment. I set off for her little mews cottage at top speed, uttering a silent prayer that she would be home. I was quite out of breath and feeling horribly hot in my tweed suit by the time I got there, the day having turned out warmer than I had expected. (Of course I could never admit that I was hot. Another thing that my governess used to say was that the words “hot,” “lot,” and “got” were not part of a lady’s vocabulary.) I rapped on the door, which was opened by her maid.

  “Miss Belinda is resting and not to be disturbed,” she said.

  “It’s an emergency,” I said. “I simply have to talk to your mistress right away. Please go and wake her.”

  “I can’t do that, miss,” the maid said, looking as imperturbable as that wretched hall porter at Brooks’s. “She gave strict instructions that she was not to be disturbed come hell or high water.”

  I had had enough of being rebuffed by loyal retainers for one afternoon.

  “This is both hell and high water,” I said. “A matter of life and death, in fact. If you don’t go and wake her, I shall do so myself. Kindly tell her that Lady Georgiana is here on a matter of great urgency.”

  The girl looked frightened, although whether it was of me or of waking her mistress, I wasn’t sure. “Very good, miss, I mean your ladyship,” she stammered. “Although she’s going to be awful cross, because she didn’t get ’ome until three this morning and she’s due out again tonight.”

  She turned reluctantly from the front door and dragged her feet toward the staircase. But at that moment a dramatic figure appeared at the top of the stairs. She was wearing a scarlet Japanese kimono and a mask, pushed up just above her eyes, and she stood in dramatic film star pose, one wrist raised to her temple.

  “What is all this racket, Florrie?” she asked. “Didn’t I tell you I wasn’t to be disturbed?
”

  “It’s me, Belinda,” I said. “I have to speak to you.”

  She raised the mask a little higher. Bleary eyes focused on me.

  “Georgie,” she said.

  “I’m sorry to wake you but it’s a real crisis and I couldn’t think of anyone else I could turn to.” To my horror my voice trembled at the end of this sentence.

  Belinda started to grope her way down the stairs in a good imitation of Lady Macbeth in her sleepwalking scene. “Make us some tea, please, Florrie,” she said. “I suppose you’d better sit down, Georgie.” She collapsed onto the sofa. “God, I feel like hell,” she muttered. “Those cocktails must have been lethal and I did have an awful lot of them.”

  “I’m sorry to be disturbing you like this,” I repeated. “I really am. I wouldn’t have come if I could have thought of anywhere else to go.”