Royal Blood

by Rhys Bowen

The cake looked absolutely delicious—layers of chocolate and cream and nuts. I took a slice but I found it hard to swallow. If I couldn’t come up with a good answer for the first question—who wanted to kill Prince Nicholas?—then perhaps I should examine the next logical one: why? I understood that murder is committed for several reasons: fear, gain, revenge, with fear being the most compelling motive of the three. Who in this castle had something to fear from the prince, something so terrible that he had to be silenced forever? I couldn’t answer that one. I knew so little about everyone here. So who had something to gain from his death? The obvious answer to that was Anton. He’d be next in line to the throne if his brother died. And he had the means—a knowledge of chemistry—and he had stood to clink glasses with his brother. No—that theory didn’t work since the poison was put into the red wine when Nicholas had already switched to champagne and Anton would have observed that.

  Of the other people within reach at the table, Matty wouldn’t want to finish off her bridegroom right before the wedding. I was sitting opposite, so was Siegfried, and neither of us did it. So we were back to Dragomir or an unnamed server, bribed by a large sum of money to do the unthinkable. And if not these, a political assassination. That, I supposed, made the most sense, because an anarchist or communist wouldn’t care about the murder taking place in such a public place—would actually prefer it to be visible and spectacular, like the assassination of the archduke in Sarajevo that had started the Great War.

  This was out of my league. I had tangled once before with a team of highly trained communist infiltrators and had no wish to do so again. In fact I wanted to do as Dragomir suggested—have a good time with the other young women and enjoy the wedding celebrations. I just wished that Darcy wasn’t counting on me.

  Chapter 26

  The long gallery, Bran Castle

  Still November 18

  I was still toying with my cake when Matty came wandering in, looking distracted. “Isn’t Nicholas back yet?” she asked. I noted that she pronounced his name in the French way, “Nicolah,” and didn’t call him Nicky or Nick as his brother did.

  “I haven’t seen him,” I replied.

  “Really, what a ridiculous thing to do, to go out shooting in weather like this. Aren’t men silly—at least some men.”

  She perched on the sofa beside me, her eyes on my cake.

  “My mother says that men are only interested in two things, killing things and sex,” I said, trying to brighten her mood.

  “Not all men,” she said, looking away again. “In Paris I met artists, writers, men who had a romantic side and could express themselves.”

  “My mother claims they are all fairies.”

  “Not all,” she said. She got up and went over to a tall, arched window. Daylight was fading fast. “It’s starting to snow again, you know. I hope they don’t get lost. I suppose I’d better tell Dragomir and send servants out to find them.”

  And she left me. She had only been gone a few minutes when I heard raised voices and the clatter of boots on stairs, and Nicholas and Anton came into the room, snowflakes still dusting their hair and eyelashes. Their faces were alight and they were laughing.

  “Your bride was worried about you,” I said as Nicholas passed me.

  “It was rather an absurd thing to do, I suppose,” Nicholas said. “We got lost. Max fell into a snowdrift and had to be dug out.”

  “And after all that, we come home empty-handed,” Anton added. “But it was great fun. And one hates being cooped up inside all day.”

  They made a beeline for the coffeepots and cakes, then came to sit beside me.

  “What was it you wanted to tell me earlier,” Nicholas asked, “when that brute Patrascue dragged you off? He wasn’t arresting you for the murder or anything, was he?”

  “Actually he was,” I said. “He found a small glass bottle, containing what he believed was the poison, in a chest in my room.”

  “Good God,” Nicholas said. “But surely even someone as thick as Patrascue didn’t think that you’d hidden it there, did he?”

  “I did point out that I could easily have thrown it out of the window into the snowy wilderness where it wouldn’t have been found for months,” I said.

  “So the question is who planted it on you?” Anton asked.

  “The assassin, I presume, as he had to make a quick getaway,” Nicholas suggested.

  “Or Patrascue himself, which I consider more likely,” I said. “He wanted to scare me into implicating Dragomir.”

  “Oh, so he thinks Dragomir did it, does he? Interesting. I had the same suspicions myself,” Nicholas said.

  “In his case I don’t think he cares whether Dragomir was guilty or not. He has a long-standing feud with the man—I couldn’t exactly get to the bottom of it, but he’d love to frame Dragomir. I didn’t play along and refused to be intimidated.”

  “Quite right,” Anton said. “I love British girls, don’t you, Nick? Such pillars of strength. Think of Boudicca.” He reached across and gave my knee a squeeze.

  “Behave yourself, Toni. You can’t have more than one at a time, you know,” Nick said, laughing.

  “I don’t see why not. The more the merrier, that’s my motto. In fact I’m rather miffed that I wasn’t born a Turk. I’d have enjoyed a harem. It would have been a challenge to see how many I could get through in one night.”

  “You are offending this young lady’s sensibilities,” Nicholas said.

  “No, really,” I said, laughing, but Anton stood up. “I shall go and find Belinda,” he said. “She loves to hear of my exploits and she is quite willing to add to them.”

  “That young man will have to learn to take life seriously one day,” Nicholas said as soon as Anton was out of hearing. “Father rather despairs of him. Too bad he was born a prince. He’d have done well as a film star in Hollywood, I feel—or better yet a stuntman.”

  I looked around. The ladies had begun their bridge game. An old man was holding forth to several of the young counts. I moved closer to Nicholas. “About what I wanted to tell you,” I said.

  “Oh, yes. You’ve discovered something important?”

  “Very important, especially to you,” I said and related exactly how I remembered the incident. “So it was your glass that he took,” I concluded.

  For a while Nicholas said nothing. Then he sighed. “It’s rather sobering, isn’t it? One lives with the threat of assassination, I suppose, but it’s still a shock when it comes close to home. Then it’s obviously some infernal anarchist. Probably did as Patrascue suggested and paid one of the servants to do his dirty work.”

  “You can’t think of anyone else who might want you dead?” I asked. “Nobody here who bears you animosity?”

  Nicholas gave a wry smile. “I’ve always thought of myself as a likeable sort of chap,” he said. “Not the kind that makes enemies.”

  “But if it was a political assassination, why not aim for your father rather than you?”

  “I can think of a couple of answers to that one: My father wasn’t there on the night in question. His entourage had been held up by the avalanche on the pass, remember. If the whole thing had been planned for that night, maybe they decided I was the next best thing and went for it. And the second answer is that maybe it didn’t matter which of us they got. Remember the archduke in Sarajevo? He was a minor player in the Hapsburg dynasty and yet the incident still started a world war.”

  I shuddered. “It’s horrible. How can you live when you never feel safe?”

  “I suppose one has no choice,” he said. “One likes to think that we bring stability and culture to a region, but it’s always been a hotbed of intrigue and violence. They’ve been killing each other around here since day one. And none more violent than the family that used to own this place. Vlad the Impaler and his descendants. I’m sure you’ve heard of him. What a bunch they were. Talk about cruel and ruthless. I’ve read some of the books in this library. Some of their vile deeds would tur
n your stomach. And of course the books and the local inhabitants claim that Vlad became Dracula and still lives on.”

  And he laughed.

  “There you are at last, you wicked one.” Matty came into the room and bent to kiss his forehead. “I was worried about you. And you still have snow on your head.”

  I decided to be tactful and leave them alone. I went back up to my room and looked out of the window. Snow was now falling fast—great fat flakes whirling and swirling around the turrets. And my thoughts went instantly to Darcy, somewhere up on that pass. I hoped he’d be sensible enough to take refuge at the inn up there. In fact I just wished this whole thing were over.

  It did cross my mind to wonder where Queenie was. I presumed she was still in the kitchen, stuffing her face on cake. If she came back to London with me, she’d desert me as soon as she found out that I lived on baked beans and toast. I wondered whether to go and seek her out, but I couldn’t get the disturbing image out of my mind of Matty with blood running down her chin. I didn’t want to believe in vampires, but I know what I saw quite clearly. If she really was a vampire, then I had no intention of being next on her menu.

  I paced the room. Soon I’d need to start dressing for dinner and it was almost impossible to get into an evening dress alone. I thought of going down to Mummy and seeing if her maid could do my hair for me, as promised. It would be interesting to see what I looked like, properly coiffured. Still no Queenie. I opened my wardrobe, cautiously, as I wasn’t sure what might be lurking inside something of that girth, and took out my one presentable dinner dress. I couldn’t wear it for a third night in a row, yet neither could I wear the one with the scorch marks. Too bad that my mother was such a tiny little person, I thought. I know she’d travel with oodles of delicious clothes. Suddenly I had a brain wave. Knowing Belinda, she would have come with a trunkful of fashionable dresses. Maybe she’d let me wear one of her dresses tonight.

  I hurried down the first flight of stairs and along the hallway to where I thought Belinda’s room was. As I passed a door I heard voices—a man’s voice, low and calm, and a woman’s voice raised in anger and shrill. “What were you thinking?” she demanded in French. “How could you? It will be the end of everything.”

  I didn’t hear the man’s reply. Interesting, I thought, and continued down the hall. At what I hoped was Belinda’s door I knocked, never knowing what might be going on in Belinda’s room. I waited, and I was about to go away when the door was opened by a bleary-eyed Belinda.

  “Oh,” she said, eyeing me with disappointment. “I thought you might be Anton. Sorry. I was taking a much-needed nap before dinner. Is it time to dress?”

  “Almost,” I said.

  “Come on in, then,” she said and led me into a small square room. She flung herself back on the bed and closed her eyes again. I looked around. It was plain and simple by castle standards. No terrifying wardrobe or chest for her.

  “So who dresses you?” I asked. “I take it you didn’t bring a spare maid along in your trunk, did you?”

  “No, I left the faithful Florrie at home. She goes to pieces if I take her abroad. Luckily Matty is being sweet and sending her maid to take care of me when she’s finished dressing her mistress. Her room is right next door. As you can see, I’m in what was probably a dressing room originally. Dashed inconvenient actually, as I suspect that the walls aren’t exactly soundproof, and one does have the occasional nocturnal visitor.”

  I perched on her bed. “Belinda, the way you carry on, don’t you ever worry about, you know, getting in the family way?”

  Belinda chuckled. “You are so delightfully old-fashioned in your wording, my sweet. There are useful things called French letters and Dutch caps, you know. And if I were to get preggers, there is a wonderful little clinic on the coast near Bournemouth, and I’m sure the man in question would cough up the necessary funds to do the trick.” The smile faded. “Don’t look so horrified, darling. It’s done all the time. Of course it’s easier for married women—no need for clinics as long as the baby looks something like the official father. Accept the fact, Georgie—bed hopping is a major sport for our class. It whiles away the long hours between hunting, shooting and fishing.” And she laughed again.

  “Do you ever think you’ll get married?” I asked.

  “If I find someone rich and boring enough, and preferably old, and shortsighted.” She reached up and put her hands on my cheeks. “I enjoy it, darling. I love the thrill of the chase. I can’t picture myself ever tied down to one man.”

  “You and my mother must come from another planet,” I said. “Settling down with one man sounds awfully nice to me.”

  “The problem is with whom, darling,” Belinda said, dropping back to her pillows with a sigh. “Your beloved Darcy doesn’t have the means nor the temperament for domestic bliss. In fact I see him turning into one of these enigmatic men who flit around the globe, living by their wits into old age.”

  I sighed. “You may be right. I wish I hadn’t fallen for him, but I have. Everyone is pushing me to marry sensibly—I could probably even have someone like Anton if I wanted. But I don’t want. And I certainly don’t want to live in a part of the world where I could be assassinated any day.”

  “Don’t be silly, darling. I’m sure Anton and his family are quite safe. Who’d want to kill them?”

  I realized then that she didn’t know anything. I got to my feet, before I spilled any beans. “Belinda, what I actually came for was to beg a favor. My maid Queenie has managed to put a huge scorch mark in my good evening dress. I can’t keep wearing the same thing at dinner every night so I wondered if I could possibly wear one of yours.”

  “That maid of yours is a total disaster,” Belinda said. “What will she do next? Give you third-degree burns when she spills your morning tea all over you? It’s too bad we’re snowed in or you could send her home on the next train.”

  “She’d never make it across Europe alone,” I said, laughing in spite of everything. “She’d wind up in Constantinople and find herself in a harem. I gather big, chubby women are the thing over there.”

  Belinda got up and went across to a gilt-trimmed white wardrobe. “I suppose I can spare you a dress,” she said and opened it. There must have been at least ten dresses hanging there.

  “Belinda—how long did you expect to be here?” I asked in amazement.

  “One never knows how long one will be abroad,” she said. “One meets somebody and suddenly there’s an invitation to the south of France or a château on the Loire, so it’s always best to be prepared.”

  I examined the dresses one by one and chose what I thought was the least flamboyant—pale turquoise, straight and simple.

  “Good choice,” she said, smiling at me. “Not really my style at all, but I keep it in case I need to look virginal for somebody’s parents.”

  “You must be a better actress than my mother,” I quipped back.

  “It’s about time you tried it yourself and then you’d know what you were missing,” she called after me as I carried the dress from her room. “And don’t let your maid anywhere near it with an iron.”

  As I came out into the hallway there was no sound coming from behind the next door. I realized with a shock that this must be Matty’s room. So who was in there with her? A man with whom she spoke French? And yet I knew she spoke German when she was with Nicholas. Her father maybe? Her mother was French, after all, so perhaps that was the language used at home, and yet Siegfried also preferred to speak German. I was tempted to go and peek through the keyhole. I crept toward the door, bent down and put my eye to it. But I could see nothing. Obviously the key was still in it.

  Suddenly I heard the tap of brisk footsteps behind me. Two of the older countess chaperons were coming toward me. They looked at me with interest, on my knees in a strange hallway.

  “I—uh—dropped my ring,” I said. “It falls off sometimes when my hands get too cold.”

  “Then let us help you look f
or it,” one of them said.

  “Oh, no, thank you. I have already found it again,” I said, scrambling hastily to my feet. “Most kind.”

  I heard a muttered exchange in German as I hurried on my way, my cheeks flaming.

  I made it safely back to my room and shut the door with a sigh of relief. Still no sign of Queenie. Really this was now too much. Not that she was any use in dressing me, but one expected a maid to appear occasionally. I left the dress on my bed and made my way resolutely toward the kitchen. On my way down I passed one of the servants coming up. She curtsied.

  “Is my maid down there?” I asked. Then I repeated in French, “I am looking for my maid.”

  “No, Highness,” she answered in French. “Nobody is there.”

  Which probably meant that she was taking a long nap in her room. That girl could sleep more than anybody I had ever met. I chose what I hoped was the right tower and made my way up the spiral stair until I emerged to her cold and drafty corridor. If she’d snuggled under her blankets to keep warm, I couldn’t blame her. As I stood there, trying to remember which door was hers, a door opened and a young woman, dressed elegantly in black, came out.

  “What do you require, Your Highness?” she asked in French.

  I told her I was looking for Queenie.

  “She has the room next to mine. This one”—she pointed at a door—“but I do not think she is there. Excuse me. I must go to dress the princess for dinner.”

  I opened Queenie’s door and fumbled for a light switch but couldn’t find one. In the dim light from the hallway I could see that the room was unoccupied. The bed was made. Queenie was definitely not there.

  Chapter 27

  Still November 18

  Have lost Queenie.

  I retreated, puzzled and a little worried now. Where could she have gone? A secret tryst with a male servant? But I had little time to think about it. I’d have to hurry if I was to dress myself for dinner. I struggled into Belinda’s dress, which fortunately had a zipper at the side and not hooks up the back, then I brushed my hair, powdered my nose and finished my toilette. Still Queenie didn’t show up. I was alarmed and annoyed now. Where could she be?