Royal Spy 01 - Her Royal Spyness

by Rhys Bowen

  “I saw it in the papers. I couldn’t believe my eyes. What a rum do. Your brother’s not the sort who goes around bumping off people, is he?”

  “Absolutely not.”

  “So who could it have been? I was talking to Whiffy on the phone last night and we just couldn’t imagine why someone would leave a body at Rannoch House. Do you think it was a poor sort of joke?”

  “I’ve no idea, Tristram,” I said.

  “Rotten luck on you, anyway.”

  “Yes. It has been pretty rotten.”

  “And Whiffy tells me that you had a nasty accident yesterday. Fell off a boat and nearly drowned, so he says.”

  “Yes, things don’t seem to be going too swimmingly at the moment,” I said, trying to think how I could end this conversation politely.

  “And Whiffy said you went off with that O’Mara fellow.”

  “Yes, Darcy was kind enough to escort me home,” I said.

  “I ballywell hope he behaved like a gentleman,” Tristram said.

  A smile twitched across my lips. “Tristram, I believe you’re jealous of Darcy.”

  “Jealous. Good Lord, no. I’m just worried about you, old thing. And I make no bones about it: I don’t trust that O’Mara. Nothing good ever came out of Ireland.”

  “Whiskey,” I said, “and Guinness.”

  “What? Oh, rather. But you know what I mean.”

  “Tristram, Darcy is a peer of the realm and he behaved like one,” I said firmly, thinking of the extraordinary ways I had known peers to behave. Before he could answer this I said briskly, “But I really have to run. I’m going to be late.”

  “Oh, right. I just wanted to offer my services, you know. See if there’s anything I can do.”

  “It’s sweet of you, but there’s nothing, really.”

  “I suppose your brother is taking good care of you.”

  “My brother is at his club.”

  “Weally? If you wanted me to come and stand guard at night, I’d be happy to.”

  I had to chuckle at the thought of Tristram standing guard. “Thank you, but I’ll probably continue to stay with my friend for a while.”

  “Good idea. Quite a relief to have someone keep an eye on you. I don’t suppose you’d like to meet me later, so that I can take you for a bite to eat and cheer you up?”

  “Thank you. You’re very kind, but I don’t think I’m in the mood for eating and I’ve no idea how long this will take.”

  “Right-o, then. I’ll check in from time to time and see how you’re getting along. Whiffy and I both want to help if we can. Toodle-oo, then. Keep your pecker up, old thing.”

  I hung up and hurried out to meet Binky. I was rather intrigued to know whether we might see Old Mr. Prendergast today and how he might look, until I was informed that he had been dead for ten years. Young Mr. Prendergast tuttutted and sighed as he sat surveying us. “A bad business, Your Grace. A nasty business indeed.”

  “I give you my word my sister and I had nothing to do with it,” Binky said.

  “My firm has handled the legal affairs of your family for generations,” the old man said. “Your word is enough for me.”

  “But you can see how bad it looks for us.”

  “I can indeed. Most unfortunate.”

  “We were wondering,” Binky said, “whether you would have to tell the police about the letter—if they haven’t yet found out about it. Because, I mean to say, that would really put the cat among the pigeons, so to speak.”

  “That is indeed a difficult ethical decision, Your Grace. Our loyalty to our clients versus withholding information in a criminal case. I should, of course, be obliged to answer any question truthfully, should the police choose to question me. That would include revealing the document. However, as to whether I feel it incumbent upon myself to volunteer information to the police that might incriminate my client—a client who has given me his word that he is innocent—then I think that I feel no such obligation.”

  Binky got to his feet and shook the old man’s hand. I could hear the bones creaking.

  “I think that went rather well,” Binky exclaimed as we came out. “Care to go for a spot of lunch with me somewhere? Claridge’s, maybe?”

  “Claridge’s?” It came out as a squeak. “I’d love to, but unfortunately I’m meeting my grandfather today. Remember he was in the police once. I’m hoping he’ll have some advice for us and maybe still know some men at Scotland Yard.”

  “Spiffing. Super idea.”

  “And anyway I hear the food’s not up to much at Claridge’s these days,” I added for good measure, just in case he decided he was going to take his luncheon there without me.

  “You don’t say? I always thought Claridge’s was the tops,” Binky said. “Oh, well. Might as well eat at the club and save money, then. Where will I find you, Georgie? And how long do you think I’m supposed to hang around down here? It’s costing a fortune to stay at the club, you know. Those whiskey and sodas don’t come cheap.”

  “You’ll have to ask the police when it’s all right for you to go home,” I said. “And as to where you can find me, I’m thinking of moving back into the house. I was there this morning and the police have gone. So has the body.”

  “That’s dashed brave of you, old bean. I don’t think I could stomach it, somehow. And they do make one so blinking comfortable at the club.”

  With that we parted company, he into a taxicab and me down the steps of the underground at Holborn Station. I went one stop, then changed at Tottenham Court Road. I suppose I could have walked to the Strand and Claridge’s, but it had started to rain and I had no wish to appear like a drowned rat.

  I had ridden the underground so seldom in my life that I was always somewhat bewildered by the various passages and escalators leading from one line to the next. Tottenham Court Road was a hub of activity, with people running in all directions. Everybody seemed to be in a frightful hurry. I took the escalator down to the Northern Line, getting buffeted by people trying to push past me on the right. At last I found the right platform and stood at the front, waiting for the train. More and more people streamed onto the platform behind me. At last there came the rumbling of an approaching train. A wind came rushing ahead of it from the tunnel. Just as it appeared I was shoved hard from behind in the middle of my back. I lost my footing and went pitching forward toward the electric rails. It all happened so quickly. I hadn’t even time to scream. Hands reached out and grabbed me and I was yanked back onto the platform again, just as the train thundered past me.

  “Phew, that was a close one, miss,” a large laborer said, as he stood me on my feet again. “I thought you was a goner then.” He looked positively green.

  “So did I,” I said. “Someone pushed me.”

  I looked around. People were already streaming past us onto the train as if we didn’t exist.

  “They’re always in so much of a bloomin’ hurry, I’m surprised there aren’t more accidents,” my workman friend said. “There’s too many people in London these days. That’s the trouble. And those what’s got motorcars can’t afford to run them no more, what with the price of petrol.”

  “You saved my life. Thank you very much,” I said.

  “Don’t mention it, miss. Probably wise not to stand too near the edge next time,” he said. “You’ve only got to have one person stumble or shove behind you and you’re off the edge, under a train.”

  “You’re right,” I said. “I’ll be more careful.”

  I completed the journey, glad for once that Belinda wasn’t with me. She’d definitely have something to say about my clumsiness getting out of hand. Although this time it hadn’t been my clumsiness. I had been at the wrong place at the wrong time.

  My fingers still trembled as I changed into my maid’s uniform in the lady’s lavatory at Charing Cross Station, but by the time I reached Claridge’s, I had calmed down. It was lucky it was raining, as I could conceal my uniform under my mackintosh. As I approached Claridge’
s, I saw my grandfather’s familiar form waiting for me.

  “Hello, my ducks. How are you holding up, then?”

  “All right,” I said. “Apart from nearly being pushed under a train.”

  I saw the worried look cross his face. “When was this?” “On my way from my solicitors’. I was at the front of a crowded platform and the crowd must have surged forward at the approach of a train. I was almost pushed in front of it.”

  “You want to be more careful, my love. London’s a dangerous place,” he said.

  “I will be in future.”

  He looked at me for a moment, head cocked on one side, then he said, “Oh, well, I suppose we had better get on with what we came to do.”

  “Have you had a chance to speak to anybody yet?”

  He touched the side of his nose. “Hasn’t lost his touch, your old granddad. Still got what it takes. Knows how to butter ’em up. I went to your posh square first and I can tell you that there weren’t no window cleaners working that day.”

  “So if somebody saw a window cleaner . . .”

  “It was someone up to no good.”

  “Exactly what I thought. I wonder if they could describe him, or them?”

  “Nobody notices tradesmen, my love.”

  “The same as nobody notices maids,” I said. “I’m wearing my maid’s uniform, but I have to find out which room and I have no idea how I can possibly get into it.”

  “As for that, it was room 317. And what’s more, it ain’t been cleaned out yet. Seems that the gentleman paid a week in advance and so they didn’t like to shift his things without instructions.”

  “How did you manage to find out all that?”

  He grinned. “Alf the doorman still remembered me.” “Granddad, you’re a genius.”

  “See, your old granddad does still have his uses.” He beamed at me.

  “Anything else you can tell me?”

  “Your Monsieur de Mauxville went out every night gambling—to Crockford’s and to other places less savory. And he had a visitor. A dark-haired young man. Posh.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Not yet. I thought I’d have a chat with the bellboys and you could ask the other maids on that floor.”

  “All right,” I said. Now that it was about to happen, I was terrified. Breaking and entering were serious enough, but they would also make me look guilty in the eyes of Inspector Sugg. “How can I possibly get up the stairs without being noticed? People might recognize me.”

  “Fire escape. There always has to be a safe way out of a hotel.”

  “Here I go, then. You wouldn’t like to come with me, I suppose?”

  “I’d do a lot for you, my sweet, but not this. I’m an ex-policeman and a nobody. The law would treat me very differently from you, if we’re caught. I’ve no wish to spend the rest of my days in Wormwood Scrubs.”

  “I’m not too anxious to do so either,” I said and he laughed.

  “Wormwood Scrubs is a men’s prison. But they’d let you off, being who you are and knowing you were just trying to help your brother.”

  I nodded. “I sincerely hope so. Wish me luck, then,” I said. “I’ll meet you back here in an hour.”

  I made it up the fire escape staircase with no problem, left my mack rolled up in a corner, put on my maid’s cap, and came out onto the third floor. Then, of course, it occurred to me that I had no way to get into the room. I clearly hadn’t thought this thing through properly. I wandered down the hall, trying the door handles, until a voice behind me made me jump out of my skin.

  “Hey, you, what are you doing?”

  I turned around to see a fresh-faced Irish girl in a maid’s uniform quite unlike my own. I decided to change my story rather rapidly.

  “My mistress was staying here last night and her diamond earring must have fallen off while she was asleep. She doesn’t usually go to bed with earrings on, but she got in so late. So she’s asked me to retrieve it. But nobody answers the door so the master must have also left by now.”

  “What room was it?”

  “Three seventeen.”

  She looked at me queerly. “Three seventeen was that French gentleman who was murdered,” she said.

  “Murdered? Here?”

  “Don’t you ever read the papers? Not here. In some duke’s bathtub. Anyway, the police came and gave his room a good going-over.”

  “Did they find anything?”

  “How would I know? They’d not have told me, would they?”

  “So did you have to pack up all his things?”

  “Not yet. They’re still in there, as far as I know, and the police have given orders that no one is to go in.”

  “How terrible that he got killed. Was he a nice man?”

  “Quite the opposite. Rude and ungrateful, from what I saw. He snapped his fingers and shouted at me because I’d moved the papers on his desk.”

  “What kind of papers?”

  “Nothing special. Just some magazines he’d been reading. You’d have thought I’d been snooping.” She brushed down her uniform. “Anyway, I can’t stand here chatting. I have to get back to work.”

  “And I have to find that earring or risk getting my head bitten off. My memory’s hopeless. Could it have been 217? Any idea where Lord and Lady . . .” I let the rest of the sentence hang, hoping she’d take the bait. She did.

  “Lady Furness? That was 313.”

  “Oh, thank heavens. I’d never have heard the last of it if I returned home without her earring. Do you think you could let me in?”

  “I suppose so, but I really ought to—”

  “Look, Lady Furness is lunching with a friend in the restaurant downstairs. Do you want me to go and find her to tell you that it’s all right for me to go in there?”

  She looked at me long and hard, then she said, “No, I suppose it can’t do no harm, can it? But the bed’s already been stripped. If it hasn’t been found yet, chances are it’s not going to be.”

  “A little diamond could have fallen down the back of the bed and nobody would notice it,” I said. “Anyway, I’ve been commanded to search and search I’d better, or else. You should see her when she gets rattled.”

  She grinned at me then. “Go on, then, in you go and make sure you shut the door firmly behind you. I don’t want to get in trouble for leaving a door open.”

  “Oh, definitely. I’ll make sure I shut it,” I said. “I’ll even keep it shut while I’m searching.”

  She opened the door. I went inside and shut it behind me. I wasn’t quite sure what use it was being in room 313, but it was better than nothing. I opened the window and saw that there was a broad ledge running around the outside. If the window of 317 was not latched tightly, it was possible I might get in that way. I climbed out gingerly onto the ledge. It was certainly a long way down. I could see the parade of bright red buses passing below me along the Strand. And that broad ledge didn’t seem so broad any longer. I didn’t have the nerve to stand up. I started to crawl slowly along the ledge. I passed 315 successfully and reached 317. It was hard to get any purchase on the window frame from my precarious position, but at last I felt it give a little.

  I managed to raise it, then crawled inside and stood, breathing very hard, on the carpet of the deserted room. As the maid had said, the room had been stripped since de Mauxville left. No sheets, no towels. There were still papers on the desk in a neat pile. I went through them but found only a three-day-old copy of the Times, and some sporting magazines. His wastebasket had been emptied. No telltale marks on the blotting paper. I looked under his bed but the floor was spotless. I opened the chest of drawers but they only contained some rather gray undergarments and a pair of socks in need of darning. The handkerchiefs, however, were embroidered with a crest. Then I went through his wardrobe. A dinner suit was hanging there, and a couple of clean white shirts. I tried the pockets of the dinner jacket and found nothing. But when I put it back on the hanger, it just didn’t hang correctly. Gentlemen�
��s suits should be tailored to perfection and not droop. I tried pockets again and found that the lining was torn on one inside pocket. I traced down the tear in the lining and brought out a roll of paper. I let out a gasp when I saw what it was: a tight roll of banknotes—five pound notes, hundreds of them—well, maybe not hundreds but a big fat wad of them. I stood there staring at the money. To someone like me, who had been penniless most of her life, it represented a fortune. Who would know if I took it? The words echoed through my head. Ill-gotten gains of a dead man—surely nobody would ever find out. But then my ancestors, both sides of them, triumphed. Death Before Dishonor.