Royal Spy 01 - Her Royal Spyness

by Rhys Bowen

  Belinda had leaped up. “Wait, that’s not right,” she said. Then she shrieked. “It’s supposed to be trousers, Georgie. You’ve got two legs crammed into one.”

  The American woman gave a shrill laugh. “What a dope,” she said. “What you need is a new model, preferably French.”

  She had risen to her feet. Belinda leaped to her side. “You see, I didn’t warn her. She’d never seen—”

  The woman cut her off. “If you can’t even get good help, honey, I don’t hold out much hope for the end product.” And she swept out, slamming the door behind her.

  “What a rude woman,” I said. “Do you have to put up with that sort of thing all the time?”

  Belinda nodded. “It’s the price one pays,” she said. “But honestly, Georgie—who else but you would have tried to cram yourself into one trouser leg?”

  “I had no time,” I said. “And I warned you I was accident-prone.”

  She started to laugh. “You did, and you are. Oh, my poor sweet, take a look at yourself. I must say you look absolutely ridiculous.”

  I laughed for the first time in days.

  Chapter 17

  Belinda Warburton-Stoke’s shop

  Mayfair

  London

  Saturday, April 30, 1932

  It took quite a while to extract me from the trouser leg without ripping the seams.

  “She’d have looked stupid in it anyway,” Belinda said, glancing in the direction of the door. “Too old and too short.”

  “Who was she anyway?” I asked.

  “The name’s Simpson, I believe.”

  “Mrs. Simpson?”

  “You know her?”

  “My dear, she’s the Prince of Wales’s latest flame, the one I have to spy on at the house party next weekend.”

  “Spy? For whom?”

  “The queen. She thinks David is becoming too interested in this Simpson person.”

  “Is she divorced, then? I gathered there was still a husband in tow.”

  “There is. Poor chap is dragged around for respectability’s sake.”

  “I must say your family does exhibit awful taste in women,” she commented. “Look at the old king and then your mother probably wasn’t a suitable choice either.”

  “My mother was a darned sight more suitable than that woman,” I said. “I nearly burst out from behind the curtains and bopped her when she started insulting the family.” I glanced up at the clock across the street. “Oh, Lord, is that the time? I have to go to the station to meet Binky. I want to make sure I speak to him before the police quiz him.”

  “All right then, off you go,” Belinda said. “I’ll tidy up in here, then I’ve another party tonight. I presume you’d like to stay with me again?”

  “It’s very kind of you. But if Binky wants to stay at the house and we are allowed to, I should keep him company there. I don’t want him to feel all alone.”

  We parted ways. I paused for a cup of tea and a toasted tea cake, then had to fight the rush hour traffic when I made my way to King’s Cross in time to meet Binky’s train. I came out of the tube to hear the newsboys shouting, “Read all about it. Body in duke’s bath.”

  Heavens, Binky would have a fit. I’d have to try and whisk him through the station without his noticing any of this. The express pulled in on time at five forty-five. I stood behind the barrier, watching anxiously. For a moment I thought he hadn’t caught the train, but then I saw him, striding out in front of a porter who carried his ridiculously small overnight bag with some distaste.

  “Quick, let’s get a taxi.” I grabbed his arm as he stepped through the barrier.

  “Georgie, stop grabbing me. What’s the rush?”

  Suddenly a voice shouted, “There he is. That’s the duke. He’s the one,” and people began to congregate around us. A flashbulb went off. Binky looked at me with utter panic in his eyes. I grabbed the overnight case from the porter, took Binky’s hand and dragged him through the crowd, then shoved him into an arriving taxi, much to the annoyance of those waiting patiently in line.

  “What on earth was that?” Binky asked, wiping the sweat from his brow with a monogrammed handkerchief.

  “That, dear brother, is the London press. They’ve found out about the body. They’ve been camped outside the house all day.”

  “Oh, Lord. Well, that settles it. I’m going to my club. I’ll not put up with that kind of rubbish.” He tapped the glass. “Take us to Brooks, driver.”

  “What about me?” I demanded. “Did it occur to you that I can’t go to your club?”

  “What? Well, of course you can’t. No women allowed.”

  “I’m currently sleeping on a friend’s sofa, but it’s dashed uncomfortable,” I said.

  “Look, Georgie, maybe you should go on home.”

  “I’ve told you, there are reporters camped out in the square.”

  “No, I meant home to Scotland, out of the way of all this unpleasantness,” he said. “It would be the safest thing to do. Book a sleeper on tonight’s Flying Scotsman.”

  “I’m not leaving you in the lurch,” I said, thinking that any amount of policemen was preferable to being marooned alone with Fig. “And I think the police would be highly suspicious if I suddenly vanished, the way they are currently suspicious about your vanishing act.”

  “Oh, dear, are they? When I realized who was floating there, I thought they’d immediately assume that I did it, and then I thought if I’m up in Scotland, they can’t suspect me, so I made a beeline for King’s Cross and off I went.”

  “And left me to be their number one suspect!” I said indignantly.

  “Don’t be silly. They can’t possibly suspect you. You’re a mere slip of a girl. You wouldn’t have the strength to drown a big chap like de Mauxville.”

  “Not alone. I could have had an accomplice.”

  “Oh, I suppose so. Didn’t think of that. I must admit it did cross my mind that you might have arranged to do him in. After all, you were the one who talked about pushing him off the crag.” He paused, then asked, “You didn’t tell the police anything, did you?”

  “I have nothing to tell them, Binky. I don’t know what happened. All I know is that you were there in the morning and when I came back in the afternoon there was a body in our bathtub and you had vanished. In fact, since I seem to be involved in this, whether I like it or not, I wouldn’t mind knowing the truth.”

  “I’m completely in the dark myself, old bean,” he said.

  “So you didn’t arrange to meet with de Mauxville at the house?”

  “Certainly not. Actually, it was the rummest thing—my club telephoned to say that some chap wanted to meet me there, right away. I went to the club but nobody there seemed to have any interest in me at all. I came home, went upstairs, wondered where I had left my comb, wandered into the bathroom, and saw someone lying in the bathtub. I tried to get him out; got rather wet and realized he was dead. I also realized who he was and I might not be the brightest chap in the world, but I realized the ramifications.”

  “So somebody lured you out of the house, brought de Mauxville there, and killed him,” I said.

  “Must have done.”

  “What did the person sound like?”

  “I don’t know. A bit muffled actually. He said it was the club calling and I assumed it was one of the hall porters. They’ve only got half their teeth and they are not always easy to understand.”

  “So it was an English voice?”

  “What? Oh, definitely English, yes. Oh, I see. You’re saying that it wasn’t actually a club employee who called me. It was an imposter. What a perfectly despicable thing to do. So someone else must have wanted de Mauxville dead—but why arrange it at our house?”

  “To implicate you, or us.”

  “Who on earth would want to do that?” He stared out of the cab window as we waited on the corner of Baker Street. I looked across at the place where 221B should have been, and wished it had been real. A good detec
tive was exactly what I needed at this moment.

  “Do you think they’ve discovered the letter yet?” Binky asked in a small voice.

  “I happen to have destroyed the original. It was the first thing I thought of. I went through his pockets, found it, and flushed it down the lav.”

  “Georgie, you’re brilliant!”

  “Not quite brilliant enough. I’d forgotten that our solicitors still have a copy and there may be other copies lying around.”

  “Oh, cripes. Hadn’t thought of that. It won’t look too good for us if the police find a copy, will it?”

  “It won’t look too good for you, Binky. You’re the one who fled the scene of the crime. You’re the one who possesses the strength to have drowned him.”

  “Oh, come on, old bean. You know I don’t go around drowning people, not even rotters like de Mauxville. You don’t think you could tell the police that I left town before all this happened?”

  “No, I couldn’t. I’m not lying for you, Binky. And besides, all sorts of people will know exactly when you left—porters and taxi drivers and ticket collectors. People do notice when a duke travels, you know.”

  “Do they? Oh, blast. What do you think I should do?”

  “Unfortunately you were seen coming back to Rannoch House and then departing again in a taxi, so you can’t claim that you’d been at your club or already left. I suppose you could say that you never went upstairs—you were catching the midday train for Scotland—you came home only to pick up your suitcase in the front hall. That might work.”

  “They won’t believe it, will they?” He sighed. “And they’d find out about the letter and I’ll be doomed.”

  I patted his hand. “We’ll sort this thing out one way or another. Everyone who knows you can testify that you’re not the violent type.”

  “Too bad it’s Saturday. We’ll have to wait until Monday to go to our solicitors’.”

  “Do you think we can persuade them not to mention the letter?”

  “I’ve no idea.” Binky ran his hands through his unruly mop of hair. “This is a nightmare, Georgie. I don’t see any way out of it.”

  “We’ll have to find out who really did it,” I said. “Now think, Binky. When you left the house, did you lock the door after you?”

  “Not sure. I’m not very good at locking doors, because there are always servants around.”

  “So the murderer could have walked up the front steps and entered the house with no problem. Did you notice anybody in the square when you left?”

  “Can’t say I did. The usual—chauffeurs hanging around, nannies pushing prams. I believe I said good morning to that old colonel from the corner house.”

  “What about window cleaners?” I asked. “Were the windows being cleaned when you were there?”

  “I don’t notice window cleaners. I mean, one doesn’t, does one.”

  “Do you happen to know what firm we employ?”

  “No idea. Mrs. McGregor is the one who pays the bills. She’d have it in her housekeeping journal, but that’s probably with her in Scotland.”

  “We must find out,” I said. “It may be important.”

  “Window cleaners? Do you think they saw something?”

  “I mean that the murderer could have disguised himself as a window cleaner to gain access to the house.”

  “Oh, I see. You know, you’re dashed clever, Georgie. What a pity you’re the one with the brains. I’m sure you’d have made a splendid go of Castle Rannoch.”

  “I’m afraid I’ll need every ounce of brainpower that I possess to get us out of this mess.”

  He nodded gloomy agreement.

  The taxi pulled up outside the imposing entrance of Brooks’s. The doddering porter hobbled down the steps to take Binky’s bag.

  “Welcome back, your lordship,” he said. “May I offer my commiserations in such a distressing time. We have been gravely concerned for your safety. The police have been here asking for you more than once.”

  “Thank you, Tomlinson. Don’t worry. It will all soon be sorted out.” He gave me a valiant smile and followed the old man into the building. I was left standing on the pavement alone.

  Chapter 18

  Yet again Belinda Warburton-Stoke’s sofa

  Yet again Saturday, April 30, 1932

  I waited for Binky to reappear but he didn’t. Really, men are too hopeless. Wrapped up in themselves from the day they are born. I put it down to a public school education. It would serve him right if he was arrested, I thought, then immediately regretted it. Anyone who had gone straight from the rigors of Gairlachan school to Brooks club couldn’t be expected to know any better.

  I stood on the pavement outside Brooks, watching a parade of taxies and Rolls-Royces go past as the fashionable set headed out to evening functions, and I wondered what to do next. Belinda was going out for the evening. Rannoch House was teeming with police and reporters. I was beginning to feel rather lost and abandoned, when there was the sound of a siren and a police car pulled up beside me. Out of it stepped Inspector Sugg. He tipped his hat to me.

  “Evening, miss. I understand that your brother has just arrived back in town.”

  “That’s correct, Inspector. He’s just gone into his club.”

  “I’d like a word with him, if I may, before he settles down for the evening,” he said and strode up to the front door.

  Good luck, I thought, and expected him to be repelled from that bastion as I had been. But in no time at all Binky appeared, with Inspector Sugg following on his heels.

  “We’re just on our way to Scotland Yard for a little chat,” the inspector said. “This way, if you please, sir.”

  “It’s ‘Your Grace,’ ” Binky said.

  “What?”

  “One addresses a duke as ‘Your Grace.’ ”

  “Does one?” Inspector Sugg was clearly not impressed. “I haven’t had the pleasure of arresting too many dukes in my career. Into the backseat, if you don’t mind.”

  Binky shot me a frightened glance. “Aren’t you coming along too?”

  “I didn’t think you needed me,” I said, still rankled by his lack of sensibility.

  “Good Lord, yes. Of course I need you.”

  “It might be useful to have you there too, miss,” Sugg said. “Certain facts have come to light . . .”

  He knows about the letter, I thought.

  Binky stood aside to help me into the car. “Oh, and for the record, Sergeant, my sister is ‘her ladyship.’ ”

  “Is she, now? And I’m ‘Inspector,’ not ‘Sergeant.’ ”

  “Are you really?” Binky gave the smallest of smiles. “Fancy that.”

  Sometimes I think he’s not as dense as he makes himself out to be.

  We set off, mercifully without the bell ringing. But it was an odd feeling when we passed through the gate of New Scotland Yard. Visions of my ancestors going to the Tower flashed through my mind, even though I knew that Scotland Yard had no dungeons and no chopping block. We were escorted up a flight of stairs and into a drab little room that looked out onto a courtyard and smelled of stale smoke. The inspector pulled out a chair for me on the far side of a desk. I sat. Binky sat. The inspector surveyed us, looking rather pleased with himself, I thought.

  “We’ve been searching for you, Your Grace,” he said, stressing the last two words. “Looking all over.”

  “Nothing hard about finding me,” Binky said. “I was at home in Scotland. I went back yesterday and it’s damned inconvenient to have to turn around because some fellow drowned himself in my bathtub.”

  “Not drowned himself, sir. I imagine that someone helped him. So was he a friend of yours?”

  “I really can’t tell you that, Inspector, since I haven’t had a chance to look at the blighter.”

  I glanced at Binky. That good old Rannoch and royal blood certainly comes through in moments of crisis. He sounded quite “we are not amused.”

  “You mean to tell me you didn’t see the
body in your bathtub?”

  “Absolutely. Rather. That’s precisely what I mean.”

  I glanced at him. He was sounding a little too emphatic.

  The policeman obviously thought so too. “If you hadn’t seen him in the bathtub, sir, how did you know he was a blighter?”