Anna nodded, and disappeared once more.
“Glue?” Mary asked.
But Ada hadn’t heard, or, having addressed the matter, had already put it out of her head.
“Ada,” Mary tried again. “How ever did you manage to put things all back together?”
Ada cocked her head in a “follow me” by way of reply, hoisted her dress up a bit to clear the carriage’s stairs, and, ignoring the offer of a hand by a footman, disappeared inside. Mary accepted the footman’s hand gratefully and climbed aboard.
This is no carriage, Mary thought. This is a castle.
The glass seemed more like cut crystal, so the light inside was magnified and magical, sparkling off deep velvet seats, silk cushions, and brocade drapes held back by gold cord. Mary was in awe, though Ada, still lost in thought, seemed unimpressed.
“It is a marvel, is it not?” Mary asked.
“Mmm,” answered Ada, who followed up with the not-a-question “What do we have.”
“I haven’t the foggiest idea, Ada. Anna’s note told me to come, and here I am. Let’s start with where we’re going, shall we?”
“Kensington” was Ada’s reply.
“All right,” said Mary, patiently awaiting more.
“Palace,” Ada added.
“Gosh” was all that Mary was able to muster. She thought she ought to be wearing her best dress, when she remembered she was wearing her only dress.
“Oh!” said Mary, finally understanding what had been odd about the Byron house. “Your balloon!”
“Murdered,” said Ada, the heat in her cheeks rising again.
“We are investigating a…murder?” asked Mary, with no small trepidation.
“Balloon. Gran. She murdered it.”
“I…Good heavens. Where did it go?” Mary was alarmed for her friend.
“Gone. North. Ish. East-ish too, I suspect. But gone. Murdered.”
“Oh, dear Ada. I am so, so terribly sorry.”
“Why are you sorry? You didn’t do it.”
“It’s just what one says, Ada,” said Mary.
“Is it?” Ada asked.
“It is,” Mary answered.
“Ah.” And that was all Mary was likely to get from her companion.
So the pair in their bounceless, squeakless, rattleless castle glided their way westward toward Kensington. At first.
And then they took an odd left southward, and another winding left, and a winding right, to where the carriage, smooth as it was, began to acknowledge the unevenness of wobbly cobblestones, and the houses faded from white to brick to brown, looming out in their upper stories to peer upon dimmer and poorer streets. It was as though the houses, after standing tall and straight for centuries, had begun to feel the burden of the lives within them, and were sagging with the sadness.
The fine horses with their feathered headdresses stopped on the cobbles. Yet the view beyond the crystalline windows was not that of Kensington Palace but of a shabby and abandoned shop front, shuttered against the lace of snow. There must be some mistake, thought Mary.
“No mistake,” said Ada.
“Pardon?” asked a confused Mary.
“You were thinking it must be some mistake. It isn’t.”
“And how ever did you know what I was thinking?” inquired Mary.
“I said ‘Kensington Palace,’ and this isn’t it. So you’re thinking either I’ve got it wrong, or they have. A reasonable assumption.”
“However?” Mary asked, leading Ada on.
“However, it’s not a mistake, and we are going to the palace. After whatever this place is.”
“And what is this place?” Mary thought she ought to feel unsure about the whole thing, but it was hard to feel ill at ease about an adventure that began in a carriage this grand.
“No idea,” admitted Ada. “Come on, then.” And Ada opened the carriage door a heartbeat before the footman could, hopped out, and marched up the steps to the shuttered shop as though she’d done this a thousand times before. Mary followed as elegantly as she was able, accepting the footman’s hand.
The door creaked on sleepy hinges, and the little bell attached to it tinkled. It was mercifully warm inside—apparently a fire had been going for several hours.
There were two parts to the store, which was narrow and deep. On the left were thin stairs, and to keep the girls from going up was yet another silent and impeccably groomed footman. On the right, the girls found dusty shelves with cobwebbed curiosities, bits and bobs all with the look of having been thrown away at some point, only to be rescued, placed here carefully upon the rough boards, and then neglected again. At some more recent juncture, the decision must have been made to pass the curio house off as some sort of tea shop, for half a dozen rickety round tables and some questionable chairs had more or less been plopped atop the floorboards, and the tables draped in shabby gingham, long since faded into a mushy pink.
And it was at precisely such a table that the Baroness Lehzen sat, awaiting the arrival of her two guests. But to Ada, this seemed an altogether different Baroness Lehzen than the woman who had made vague inquiries in Ada’s own parlor, disclosing little and keeping her manners pristine. No, just a glance told her that this was a woman of confidence. A woman of efficiency.
A woman of secrets.
Mary curtsied, her bonnet, cape, and gloves disappearing in the ballet of footmen, and she nodded in thanks as a chair was pulled out for her and dusted off. Ada slid her own chair backward, its feet skittering and screeching on the boards.
“Miss Godwin, I assume,” said Baroness Lehzen to Mary.
Mary, still overwhelmed by the peculiarity of the situation, was too excited to do more than nod. She observed the baroness, a woman of perhaps forty with a long, serious nose and a small mouth atop an endearingly blobby chin.
“And thank you, Lady Ada, for your response. As you can see, I have had to take additional measures to ensure our mutual discretion.”
“Junk-shop tea shop,” said Ada. “Empty for ages. It’s got a…whatsit…mezzanine, upstairs, but your footman’s run up and checked there’s no one listening.” She nodded, adding a “Clandestine.”
“Indeed,” said the baroness. “In this environment, we are safe from prying eyes and untrustworthy ears.”
“And the palace isn’t,” surmised Ada.
“Ada—” Mary gasped. Familiar as she was with her friend’s practical approach, asserting that the palace was untrustworthy, as though it were riddled with spies, seemed just a step too far.
“No, no, Miss Godwin,” interrupted the baroness, “Lady Ada is entirely right. You see, the primary role of myself and…others is to ensure a safe and appropriate environment for the princess. Her Highness has been an heir presumptive since the sad passing of her father, the Duke of Kent, and she is now just second in line to the throne.”
The girls nodded silently as tiny snowflakes filled the air outside and dust motes swirled inside the cozy shop.
Baroness Lehzen continued. “Those of us entrusted with Her Highness’s care must observe certain protocols—steps, measures, procedures, that sort of thing—to the letter. This means that the princess has no real privacy at any time.”
“At any time?” Mary asked, wondering about specific situations in which her own privacy seemed necessary.
“At any time,” repeated Baroness Lehzen. “She is accompanied day and night by either myself or her mother, the Princess Victoria, or by Sir John Conroy, her mother’s secretary. At night she sleeps with her mother, or I myself am to watch over her. As Princess Victoria is away visiting family at present, this task falls to me.”
“Two Princess Victorias,” Ada mumbled. “Confusing. Do you label them?”
The baroness chuckled. “Well, I’m not likely to get them confused. We call the
young princess Drina, a nickname for Alexandrina. As she is nine, she is unlikely to be mistaken for her mother.”
“Drina,” repeated Ada.
“You are to address her as ‘Your Highness,’ unless invited to do otherwise,” cautioned the baroness.
“Drina,” said Ada again.
Mary could see this was going to be a challenge.
“Very well,” acquiesced the baroness, “between the three of us, and ideally between the four of us, Drina she shall be. Now, this system of surveillance—”
“Always watching,” inserted Ada for the benefit of Mary, who was grateful.
“Very good, yes. This system of always watching is very much the invention of Sir John. He has great influence over Her Highness’s mother, and wishes to exert the same influence over…Drina, when the time comes.”
“What time?” asked Ada.
“The time she assumes the throne and becomes Queen of England,” the baroness answered delicately.
“She’s only nine,” Ada said. “Drina.”
“Indeed, Lady Ada.”
“So he’s going to just stare at her until she grows up?”
“I’m afraid that is very much the case, yes. And I am to be part of this staring-at, as you put it.”
“Good grief,” sighed Ada.
“Every visit, every meal, every outfit of every day must be carefully recorded and logged and filed away. At the end of the day, Sir John reviews each detail, interrogating us with a barrage of questions. Further, Drina’s diary is read nightly by her mother, to ensure that even her innermost thoughts are known.”
For the umpteenth time today, Ada’s cheeks grew hot. She was outraged that anyone should snoop so, and into one’s private diary! She half expected soothing words from Mary, but a quick glance across the table showed Mary’s angered expression in sympathy. Invading diaries, both girls felt, was a step beyond the beyond.
“That’s why we’re here,” said Ada. “In this awful tea shop. Because anyone who would pry into a little girl’s diary would spy on anything. Including you. Including us.”
“I’m afraid you have the matter precisely, Lady Ada,” agreed the baroness. “You will find Drina an exceptionally clever girl, though she is self-conscious in certain matters.”
This made perfect sense to Mary, who assumed that all people are self-conscious in certain matters.
“Which matters?” asked Ada, which Mary tried not to think rude.
“Drina’s mother considers the princess to be…chubby. She guards her diet carefully.”
“Is she?” Ada asked. Ada couldn’t see how being considered chubby was a matter in any regard. “Chubby, I mean.”
“Well, I certainly could not say,” answered the baroness. “She is most definitely a very healthy girl, regardless of the opinion of Princess Victoria and Sir John. And before you ask”—which Ada was about to—“the other matter is that of Drina’s accent.”
“She’s English,” stated Ada. “Why does she have an accent?”
“Because her heritage is German,” Baroness Lehzen explained. “And her mother, and all her courtiers, are German by birth. This has informed the young princess’s speech to a degree, and she has been told she does not sound like other English girls. Despite her many talents and virtues, this can make Drina shy under certain conditions.”
The girls took it all in. The princess trapped in a tower imprisoned by dragons of people who had convinced her there was something wrong with the way she looked and sounded. Dragons who read her private diaries nightly. They resumed fuming.
Baroness Lehzen raised a hand slightly in an effort to calm the silently seething Wollstonecraft detectives. “I know, and I agree. But it is a thing beyond my power to change. Therefore, Drina and I have devised an alternate method of recording her innermost thoughts, which I shall not state, but trust you will discern of your own intelligence. Yes, Lady Ada, something has gone wrong.
“Something,” she said firmly, “that requires your unique, and discreet, attention.”
Once again, the girls found themselves in the magnificent silk chamber that was the royal carriage, on their way to Kensington Palace. They sat in silence for some moments as dilapidated cobbles and worn wooden blocks gave way to fresher, smoother streets.
Mary had the perfume of a new adventure about her, and her hands tingled with excitement.
“Well?” said Mary, unable to contain herself.
“Well what?” Ada asked.
“We’re in a carriage.”
“Obviously.”
“No, I mean, whenever we’re in a carriage after we get the case, you say something,” Mary reminded Ada.
“What do I say?”
“You say, ‘What do we have,’ which I suppose ought really to be a question, but it isn’t, not the way you say it. And then we go over all the bits and people in the case.”
“Do I?” Ada seemed genuinely intrigued.
“Yes, it helps you relax. Or remember. Or concentrate.” Mary nodded. “At least, I think so.”
“Ah,” said Ada.
“You’re not going to say it?”
“You just did, so it didn’t seem like I had to.” Ada searched Mary’s face for the right thing to say, and thought she found it. “It can be your turn.”
“Oh!” This seemed to delight Mary. Then she furrowed her brow and plumped up her bottom lip in what, Ada supposed, was meant to be a serious expression. “What do we have.”
“Is that me? Are you doing me?” Ada pretended to be insulted by this.
“A bit,” giggled Mary.
“Well, then, what do we have, actually?”
“Um,” said Mary. “The matter, I suppose, is whatever happened to Princess Drina’s secret diary, the ‘alternate-method’ one that Drina and the baroness devised and that this Sir John fellow doesn’t know about.”
Ada nodded. “And?”
“Baroness Lehzen, we can assume, is on Princess Drina’s side.”
“And?” Ada prodded.
“Well, there’s Drina’s mother, the Princess Victoria, and her secretary, Sir John, who sounds a real cockalorum.”
“A what?” asked Ada. “Sounds Latin. But it isn’t.”
“Ada! A word I know and you don’t!” exclaimed Mary. “It really is my turn. A cockalorum is an expression for an unimportant man who thinks he’s important.”
“Oh,” said Ada. “Those.”
“Certainly, he’s made life difficult for poor Drina, what with snooping on her diary.”
And then the streets opened to a majestically tended, snow-frosted park, which gave way to what seemed to both girls a well-ordered village, in brick. Kensington Palace was no single building but a collection of grand houses, all facing inward to form several square courtyards—and a rather forbidding wall outward.
They had arrived.
“Poppycock,” said the thin man with the gold braid on his jacket.
He seemed well put together, with rosy cheeks, a high forehead, and curly hair atop. Handsome, in the way of portraits, Mary thought. But she noticed a desperation in his manner, and a coldness in his eyes she thought she had seen before. Not, she noted, the shiftiness of an imposter. No, more the unsettled and unsettling nature of the treasure hunter. She hoped Ada had noticed as well.
But of course this was ridiculous—what treasure was there for such a man to hunt? Kensington Palace was an unimaginable perfection of taste and beauty. Food of any sort and of the finest quality in infinite amount was simply the pull of a silk bell rope away. All the riches of England could be before him with a pen stroke.
The girls had bobbed and curtsied their way through the palace. Even Ada had remembered to do this, so overwhelmed by the lush majesty of their surroundings, and Mary knew that took some doing. They were mindful, too,
to scrape their boots, and with the subtlest of gestures, a footman indicated that an additional boot scrape was required before stepping inside.
Once the girls were inside, the clockwork gears of formality went spinning: there was a process of “informal” announcements, which were the most formal things Mary had ever witnessed and which sent Ada visibly cringing; and then numerous introductions and inquiries as to the health of Ada’s mother and grandmother, to which Ada managed to reply without grinding her teeth down to nubs. And just before she completely lost her temper, there they were, deposited in a small drawing room with a small girl (who certainly didn’t strike Mary as particularly chubby, or even if she was slightly, that there was any cause for alarm) and the Baroness Lehzen, who acted as though she’d never laid eyes on either Mary or Ada before. A woman of secrets, Mary remembered.
Before sitting, Ada had turned to quietly address the servant in the hall, only to return a second later, much to Mary’s relief. She’d been afraid that Ada was going to make a run for it.
Then, before they’d heard a word from the princess, the word “poppycock” came from Sir John Conroy, who seemed to be having some sort of mild, almost boring argument with himself as he entered the room, just behind them. Mary thought this must be some kind of breach of manners, and wished, not for the first time, her sister Jane were there to navigate such chilly and unfamiliar waters.
“Poppycock!” squawked a brilliantly plumaged parrot in the corner. As colorful as it was, Mary hadn’t noticed the bird until just that moment, its exotic nature itself overwhelmed by the sheer luxury of its surroundings.
Mary watched Ada stare at the nine-year-old girl, who appeared to have been set at one end of the room like a doll. Clad in blue velvet, the little girl was blond, with popping blue eyes that matched her dress. She stared back at Ada as if the two of them were having some kind of silent conversation, or playing a very intense game of chess.
The Case of the Perilous Palace Page 3
