by Rhys Bowen
“Of course you are invited as well, Countess. A good luncheon to make up for the toad in the hole?”
“Thank you,” she said. “There is no point in my changing clothes, I do not own items of fashion.”
I left her sitting at the writing desk scribbling away furiously. I suspect she was telling her mother or sister how badly she was being treated in England. Before I went up to change I went to look for the major. I found him coming around the side of the building, striding out in true military fashion.
“Oh, Major,” I said, “I was coming to see you.”
“How are you bearing up?” he asked. “You’ve had a nasty shock, Lady Georgiana. Are you sure you shouldn’t stay in bed today to recover? Most girls would have swooned at the sight of a dead body.”
“I’m made of sterner stuff, Major,” I said. “I come from a long line of Rannoch chieftains who went on fighting as their limbs were hacked off.”
He laughed. “Good sense of humor too. I think the queen chose well. So what can I do for you now?”
I chewed on my lip. “It’s the delicate question of money. I’m supposed to take Princess Marina out and around and nobody mentioned how the financial side would be handled. I mean, am I supposed to—”
“Oh good Lord no. Simple enough,” he cut in. “You tell me where you’d like to go. I’ll telephone ahead and let them know who is coming and ask that the bill be sent to Kensington Palace. Just in case there is any difficulty I’ll give you a letter to show them. But I don’t anticipate any problems.”
“Oh, that sounds splendid.” I sighed. “So it would be all right to take the princess to lunch at the Savoy Grill, would it? A friend suggested that would be a suitable place to see and be seen.”
“Admirable choice. Of course.” He nodded approval. “Now off you go and show the princess the best of what London has to offer.”
I returned to the apartment with a grin on my face. Carte blanche to go out and have a good time when someone else was footing the bill. What could be nicer? For a moment the dead girl in the courtyard and my commission to question people at the palace had faded into the background. I went up and changed into the cashmere cardigan and soft jersey skirt that had become my acceptable winter outfit. I had been given both by my mother last Christmas. It was too bad that she was a petite five foot three while I was a healthy five six, as she had oodles of lovely clothes I could have inherited when she discarded them. But I looked presentable enough as I examined myself in the mirror.
“I’m going to take the princess out for lunch,” I said to Queenie. “Don’t forget to stay put. Remember the ghosts.”
“Yes, miss,” she said. “Don’t worry. I ain’t leaving this room. Not for love nor money. Ruddy ghosts!”
A taxicab was summoned to take Marina, Irmtraut and me to the Savoy. The outing was a huge success. We happened to pass the horse guards out training in the Mall, the plumes on their helmets and their horses’ manes floating out behind them in the breeze. This produced an “ah” even from Irmtraut.
They thought Trafalgar Square was charming and expressed an interest in going to the National Gallery and then we pulled out under the brightly lit canopy of the Savoy. Major Beauchamp-Chough had clearly done what he promised and telephoned ahead because we were welcomed with great reverence and whisked to the best table. I hadn’t had enough luncheons at smart establishments to know what to recommend but Marina confidently ordered a lobster bisque, a pâté de foie gras and veal dijonnaise. Irmtraut and I followed suit. Marina also chose a light French wine to accompany the food.
“I don’t think I want a cocktail to start with,” she said. “Too much alcohol at midday and I’m useless for the afternoon. And I think we should visit Molyneux just to set up times for my fittings and see how he’s getting along with the dress.”
The wine was brought and approved. I noticed many heads turned in our direction. It’s funny the rush of pleasure that this brought. Marina didn’t seem to notice, but I think she was just more poised than I. The first course arrived. Deliciously light and creamy. The foie gras was superb. We were in the middle of the veal when a voice said, “What-ho, Georgie, old bean. Long time no see.”
And there in front of me was the chubby form of Gussie Gormsley, son of a newspaper magnet. He was the closest thing to a playboy with whom I had ever been involved and I remembered that I had encountered Prince George at one of his naughty parties with a Negro jazz band playing and cocaine being snorted in the kitchen. As he approached I also remembered he had tried to seduce me once. Obviously he had forgotten the circumstances in which we parted because he was beaming. “Hello, Gussie,” I said. “Let me introduce my table companions. Your Royal Highness, may I present Augustus Gormsley.”
Gussie obviously recognized her and went rather pale. “Frightfully sorry to barge in on you, Your Royal Highness,” he said. “Damned bad form.”
“Not at all. I’m pleased to meet Georgiana’s friends and the London smart set.”
Before Gussie could inform Marina that I was certainly not part of any London smart set, I said, “Augustus’s father owns newspapers and magazines and Gussie is very much a young man about town.”
“Not for much longer, old thing.” Gussie made a face. “Haven’t you heard? I’m getting married. Finally getting hitched. What a blow to the womanhood of the nation, eh?”
“Congratulations, Gussie,” I said. “Who are you marrying?”
“You know her. Primrose Asquey d’Asquey. She was at school with you.”
“But I went to her wedding a couple of years ago,” I said. “Didn’t she marry Roland Aston-Poley?”
“Only lasted a few months,” he said. “Marriage was doomed from the start, wasn’t it? I mean, Asquey d’Asquey becoming Roley Poley? Hopeless. And of course he had a severe gambling problem, didn’t he? And drank like a fish and got very maudlin when in his cups.”
“Please give my very best to Primrose,” I said. “I hope you’ll both be very happy.”
“And may I extend my best wishes for your happiness, Your Highness,” Gussie said. “I’m a pal of your future husband. Jolly nice chap, old George. Ripping fun.”
Marina smiled politely.
“What does the prince like to rip?” Irmtraut asked. “He has fun ripping paper or fabric?”
Gussie stared as if he had just noticed her.
“No, it’s just a word. Just like ‘smashing’ doesn’t mean actually smashing anything.”
“This English language is very peculiar,” Irmtraut said.
“Oh, you’ll get the hang of it,” Gussie said.
“Hang?”
Oh golly. This could go on for hours. I realized I hadn’t introduced them either. Irmtraut would not like that. “Gussie, this is Countess Irmtraut von Dinkelfingen-Hackensack,” I said. “A cousin of the princess.”
“How do you do?” Irmtraut nodded in regal fashion.
“Absolutely tickety-boo, thanks,” Gussie said.
“Gussie, our meal is getting cold,” I said, before I had to explain to Irmtraut what “tickety-boo” might mean.
“Right-o, old bean. Where are you staying? I’m having a little party and I’d love you to bring Her Highness. Show her what London has to offer, what?”
“How kind,” Marina said, before I could answer. I wasn’t at all sure that one of Gussie’s parties would be the sort of place one should take a princess, especially since her future husband would have had flings with most of the other participants.
“Tomorrow night. My place. You know where it is, don’t you, Georgie?”
“The flat on Green Park. Yes, of course.” I gave him what I hoped was a warning look, meaning no drugs, no hints about Prince George’s past life.
“Jolly good show. About nine-ish, then?”
And off he went.
“You have charming friend
s, Georgiana,” Marina said. “I am so happy to attend a London party. My life has been quite boring recently. This can be my final fling, yes?”
“Fling? What do you wish to throw?” Irmtraut asked.
Chapter 14
STILL NOVEMBER 5
SCOTLAND YARD . . . NOT WHERE I’D WANT TO SPEND THE DAY
After luncheon we visited the House of Molyneux, met Edward Molyneux, himself, who was utterly charming, and saw the princess’s absolutely lovely gown. I found myself daydreaming wistfully about having such a gown made for me one day. About getting married someday to a certain tall, dark and handsome man. Fittings were arranged for the princess and we came home with her looking forward to her English tea. As I came through the door one of the maids took me aside. “Don’t take off your coat and hat yet, Lady Georgiana. There is a motorcar waiting for you outside.”
“A car? Whose car?”
“I’m not sure, my lady, but the man just said that your presence was wanted urgently.”
“I see.” I looked around but Marina had already gone upstairs. “Please inform the princess that I have been called away unexpectedly and will join her as soon as I can.”
Then I went out again. Sure enough a dark sedan was parked under the trees. As I approached, a man jumped out of the front seat and opened the back door for me.
“Lady Georgiana?”
“Yes, what is this?”
“I believe that my superior would like a word with you, but somewhere private, away from this place. If you’d be good enough to get in, please.”
The thought crossed my mind that I’d look silly if I were actually being kidnapped by some kind of criminal organization or foreign power. Then I decided I wasn’t important enough for anyone to want to kidnap me.
“Where are we going?” I asked.
This time he pulled out a warrant card. “I’m DC Coombs. You’re wanted at Scotland Yard.”
We set off, then turned from Victoria Street into Whitehall and the familiar red and white brick of Scotland Yard appeared in front of us. I think I gave a little sigh of relief that it really was our destination. We passed under the archway and into the courtyard. My driver got out, opened the door for me. “Follow me, please,” he said.
I was taken up in a lift, whisked along corridors and finally halted outside a door. My guide tapped and was answered with a deep “Come in.”
I stepped into a bright office with a view toward the Thames. I had rather hoped I was going to meet Sir Jeremy, but it was DCI Pelham who sat at a large dark oak desk.
“Good of you to come, Lady Georgiana,” he said.
“Did I have a choice?” I smiled. He didn’t. Instead he said, “Please take a seat.”
I did so. He was seated in a leather armchair; I was offered a wooden upright. He leaned forward toward me, resting his elbows on the desk so he was staring straight at me. “We’ve been waiting to give you the results of the autopsy, but before I do, I must impress upon you again that what I tell you must go no farther than these four walls. I have your word on that?”
“Oh absolutely,” I said.
“Right. The doctor has finished the preliminary tests on Miss Carrington, and I’m afraid you were right. It was murder.”
“So not a drug overdose?”
“No trace of cocaine or heroin in her body.”
“I see. So how was she killed?”
“Suffocated,” he said. “The doctor found both alcohol and Veronal, which you probably know is a strong sedative, a barbiturate, in her system. A significant amount of both, but he reckons not enough to kill her.”
“But enough to put her to sleep? To knock her out? And then someone finished her off?”
“It looks that way, yes.”
“Could she not have vomited and aspirated into her lungs, thus suffocating herself?” I asked.
He looked surprised. “Now how does a young lady like you know about such things?”
“I’ve had a couple of brushes with murder before,” I said. “I can assure you I’m not squeamish.”
“Obviously not. And in answer to your question, no. She was suffocated manually. There were signs of bruising around her nose and mouth where someone clearly clamped a hand to stop her from breathing.”
“How horrid,” I said. “And your men turned up no clues in the courtyard to indicate who that person might have been?”
He shook his head.
“I wonder what she was doing at Kensington Palace,” I said. “She must have known she wouldn’t find Prince George there.”
“But expected to find Princess Marina?” He raised an eyebrow. “I suspect it’s more likely that she was killed elsewhere, maybe in a motorcar, and her body was left at Kensington Palace to try to place the blame on the Duke of Kent.”
“Who would do such a disgusting thing?”
He smiled. “You’ve led a sheltered life, my lady. If a man can kill, then besmirching a good name means nothing to him. Especially if he is desperate. It might even be the work of communists or fascists using this as a means to bring down the British monarchy.”
“You said ‘he.’ We are assuming the killer was a man, are we?” I said and noticed his eyebrows rise. He had big bushy brows and the effect was startling. “If Miss Carrington had been knocked out then it wouldn’t have taken much strength to suffocate her.”
“Yes, I suppose we have to consider that a woman could have been capable of killing her, but it would take a strong woman to haul her out of a motorcar and deposit her under the arch.”
There was a silence punctuated only by the ticking of the clock on the wall and the cooing of a pigeon outside the window. Then he cleared his throat. “There is something else that you should know. The doctor states that the young woman had recently been pregnant.”
I stared at him, trying to digest this. “She’d had a baby? When?”
“Within the last three months, the doctor thinks.”
I remembered Belinda saying that she hadn’t seen Bobo at the nightclubs. That would explain it. I swallowed back the desire to say “Golly.”
“Do you know what happened to the child?” I asked. “Was it a live birth, or did she perhaps have an abortion?” It was hard to bring myself to say the word to a strange man.
“The doctor says it was a full-term baby. And no, we have no idea where the child is now.”
“Not at Miss Carrington’s flat in any case?” I said. “I take it you have searched her flat?”
“We’ve made a preliminary search, but no sign of a child there.” He paused, then took a deep breath. “You can see our dilemma, can’t you, Lady Georgiana?” CDI Pelham said.
I nodded. “It would depend on whether the Duke of Kent was the father of the child.”
“Precisely. We need to know whether he was involved with the young woman within the last year, and whether she had told him about the child.”
He leaned even closer to me. “Normally in a case like this I’d have a team of men already questioning everyone in Kensington Palace, in Miss Carrington’s block of flats, everyone in her address book. But I’ve been given orders from the top brass to lay off. Frankly I think their feeling is that they don’t care why this girl was murdered or who did it as long as nothing appears in the press. I didn’t become a policeman to sweep dirty crimes under the rug, Lady Georgiana. Whoever this woman was, whatever her lifestyle, she deserves justice. But any move I make has to be sanctioned by Sir Jeremy. I am not allowed to question the prince, nor anyone at Kensington Palace. Sir Jeremy is adamant that Princess Marina hears nothing about this.”
“I can understand that,” I said. “She might call off the wedding and cause great embarrassment to the royal family.”
“Precisely. That’s where I hope you might come in.” He sat up straight again and toyed with the fountain pen in his right hand. “You�
�re one of them, Lady Georgiana, and Sir Jeremy thinks highly of your abilities. You could ask questions. Not directly interrogate, of course, but in a subtle way. You could find out if anyone at the palace saw or heard anything.”
“I already started to do that this morning,” I said. “And I could certainly question the servants.”
“And the elderly princesses?” he said. “They are your aunts, aren’t they?”
“Great-aunts. Yes, I could ask them too, but it wouldn’t be easy if I’m not to mention that somebody died outside their door. They’d certainly be curious why I wanted to know whether anyone had heard or seen anything strange outside their windows.”
“Maybe we could invent some sort of crime or incident that did not involve them in any way.” He frowned. “Something that didn’t make anybody put two and two together and come up with four.”
“What sort of crime would not involve any of us and not raise suspicions?” I asked.
“A robbery, maybe? We found a thief trying to hide out in the courtyard?”
“Possible,” I said. “What if one of the servants actually spotted the body but has said nothing so far?”
“Or vagrants,” he said. “There are quite a few homeless men sleeping rough in the London parks these days, aren’t there? A falling-out among vagrants? A vagrant taking shelter at the palace on a stormy night, who died of natural causes?”
“I don’t think anyone would mistake the body of a silk-clad young woman for a vagrant,” I said.
“That’s presupposing anyone saw her body. Ghosts,” he said, suddenly animated and wagging a finger at me. “You said the whole place is haunted. How about asking everyone if they saw the ghost of a white lady going through the courtyard?”
“That’s a better sort of idea,” I said. “Servants are very susceptible to the palace ghosts, particularly those who don’t normally work there. If one of them saw her, at least we’ll know what sort of time she came there and whether she actually went into the courtyard, and for what reason.”
