Malice at the Palace

by Rhys Bowen

  “No, but that was when one of the maids told me that Countess Irmtraut had been outside.”

  He nodded. “And Prince George’s motorcar. That’s interesting, but as it happens I’ve already had a little talk with him. He was visibly upset when he heard of Bobo’s death. His first words were ‘So it finally got her, did it?’ And when I asked what he meant he said, ‘The cocaine, of course. I knew it would only be a matter of time.’”

  “Did he know about the baby?” I asked.

  “I gather he did, but he claimed he had only had a casual friendship with her and ended it ages ago because of her drug use.”

  “So not his child,” I said. I must have spoken a little too loudly, as two matrons looked across at us with raised eyebrows. I stifled an urge to giggle.

  “Apparently not.”

  “Then finding the true father of the child seems the most important step to take, doesn’t it?” I kept my voice low this time and noticed that one of the matrons was leaning toward us in an attempt to overhear. “If he’s a prominent man he would be the one with most to lose if the news went public.”

  Sir Jeremy nodded. “I don’t think it’s going to be easy, especially given the cloak of secrecy under which we must operate. We’ve been looking into her life and her friends and it’s devilishly hard to find out anything about her. It is as if she dropped from another planet. No past history. No birth certificate. Nothing.”

  “And what about the baby?” I asked. “Did you find out where she gave birth?”

  “Apparently not in or around London,” he said. “Of course she would have entered any nursing home under an assumed name, but none of the private clinics admits to her being a patient. So she went somewhere. And if we only knew where she came from, we might find that out.”

  “Perhaps Prince George knows something of her background,” I said. “One inadvertently lets quite a lot of details slip when one is in a close relationship.”

  “Ah yes,” he said. And from the way he looked at me I knew he was thinking about Darcy. “I can certainly talk with him again, but I found him testy about it before—obviously scared the news will leak to Marina and his parents. He wants nothing more than to distance himself from anything to do with Bobo.”

  “I went to her flat today,” I said, deciding it was better to come clean with him. “I just wanted to get a feel of her surroundings for myself.”

  “And someone let you in?” He looked at me in surprise. “That really is most irregular.”

  “Only for a second. I pretended I had left some valuable earrings with Bobo and wanted to retrieve them. The doorman hovered over me every second.”

  “And did you find anything?”

  “Not really. Only that she is in need of a maid. Her place was most untidy. But expensive. Have you found out who was paying her rent? That might be a start.”

  “Nobody paid her rent,” he said. “She bought the place herself, two years ago. Paid cash.”

  “Paid cash,” I said. “I wonder where she got that much money. She’s not an heiress, is she? She was never a famous actress, never married to a millionaire. What did she do?”

  He sighed. “As I said, her life is an enigma. True, her name was linked to various prominent men, but such relationships wouldn’t have provided the money for a flat in Mayfair, unless she was the mistress of a particular millionaire . . . and then we’d all have known about it.”

  “So what do you want me to do now?” I asked. “Would you be prepared to turn a blind eye if I went back to her flat?”

  “Pelham’s men have been over it once and removed any letters or bills they thought might be of interest, so I’m not quite sure what you think you’d find. And of course you know he wouldn’t thank you for interfering, but if you think there is something to be learned, then by all means . . . Only you and I never had this conversation.” He shared the hint of a smile with me. “My department and Scotland Yard are not always on the friendliest terms, you know. Treading on their toes, going behind their backs . . . that’s what they think of us.”

  “I’m going to a party tonight,” I said. “Gussie Gormsley is giving it. I thought there could perhaps be some of Bobo’s crowd there. I might ask a few questions.”

  He nodded. “And this countess. You think she is the type who might kill out of misplaced loyalty?”

  “I do,” I said. “I think she’s absolutely the type.”

  As I left the café and made my way back to Kensington Palace I couldn’t help reflecting that Sir Jeremy had already had a chat with Prince George. Who knew what information had passed between them and what they were determined to keep from the rest of us? Sir Jeremy had been involved in protecting the royal family before. He was one of us, and I knew whose side he would take. He might not care about justice if it meant scandal and disgrace for a royal. And he might even have asked me to help in the knowledge that I’d just get in the way, tangle things up for DCI Pelham and not come anywhere near the truth.

  Chapter 19

  EVENING OF NOVEMBER 6

  GUSSIE GORMSLEY’S, ST. JAMES’S MANSIONS,

  QUEEN’S WALK, LONDON

  Jazz music spilled out of St. James’s Mansions as our motorcar pulled up outside the modern block of flats overlooking Green Park. We joined the line of taxicabs outside, disgorging passengers in evening gowns, fur coats, tails or tuxedos. As we waited for our turn in the lift I was suddenly struck by a sense of déjà vu. It had been at one of Gussie’s parties that I had witnessed a terrible tragedy, and I had put it from my mind until now. It had been the same kind of party, the same kind of music, the same crowd that night, and I had been there accompanying another princess. I found myself shivering in the icy blast that swept in across the foyer from the open front door. Around me voices chattered excitedly, the sound echoing back from the high ceiling, and I glanced back at the door, wondering if I could perhaps come up with a good excuse for abandoning the party and returning to Kensington Palace. But before I could make my mind work we were propelled forward into a packed lift and whisked up to the sixth floor.

  As we emerged from the lift the music had become so loud that I could feel the thump of the beat resonating through the floorboards. I wondered what the neighbors might be thinking. I hoped there weren’t any stuffy old colonels in the building or we’d be having a visit from the police. The door to Gussie’s flat was open. As I ushered Marina into the foyer I caught a glimpse of a Negro jazz band playing in the drawing room. The carpet had been rolled back and it was dark in there, but full of gyrating shadows. Marina turned to me with an excited little smile. I tried to return the smile but my insides were clenched. Golly, I was charged with looking after her, keeping her safe, and I was taking her to a place where a murder had once occurred. But the culprits had been caught and Gussie was a harmless enough chap, wasn’t he? Besides, he was getting married too, and he knew that he’d invited a princess to his party. Coats and wraps were taken and we were just heading toward the barman dispensing cocktails when Gussie himself came out of the drawing room, mopping his face with a white silk handkerchief. He was a rather large lad—Clydesdale rather than Thoroughbred—but he looked distinguished in tails, and his face broke into a broad smile when he saw us.

  “You came, old thing,” he said, holding out his hands to me, “and you brought Her Highness with you too. Jolly good show. I’ve made sure I vetted the guest list when I knew you were coming, Your Highness. None of my disreputable bachelor friends, don’t you know.”

  “Oh dear,” Marina said. “I hope it won’t be too boring now.”

  Gussie looked worried for a moment, then he burst out laughing. “Good sense of humor. I like that. Let me get you a cocktail, Your Highness. What are you drinking?”

  “I’m afraid I’m not too well up on cocktails,” Marina said. “How about you, Georgiana? Do you have a favorite?”

  “I had a sidec
ar last time I was here and your bartender made it very well,” I said, not wanting it to be known that my experience with cocktails was limited in the extreme—although it had broadened a little on my first transatlantic crossing.

  “Splendid,” Gussie said. “Two sidecars please, Albert.” He turned back to us. “I’ve trained my man to be a splendid bartender, don’t you think? He keeps threatening to leave me and get a job in the bar at the Savoy. Only they wouldn’t pay him as well, isn’t that right, Albert?”

  Albert gave a wan smile so that we couldn’t tell whether he agreed with this or not, and went on shaking the cocktail.

  “So where is your intended, Gussie?” I asked.

  He made a face. “At home with her mother, I’m afraid. Mother’s just had an operation so my bride has deserted me to minister at her bedside.”

  “Oh, that’s too bad,” I said.

  He gave me a knowing grin. “She doesn’t actually like this kind of shindig anyway. I think it’s a good excuse, personally. But never mind. We’ll enjoy ourselves, won’t we?”

  Gussie put a hand on my shoulder, making me remember a not-so-pleasant experience with him once. But then he had been very drunk. “And I gather it’s to be a right royal evening tonight. I’ve told everyone to be on their best behavior and practice their ‘sir’s and ‘ma’am’s.”

  “Really?” I asked, giving him a worried look in case he was referring to Prince George, who had been known to come to Gussie’s parties.

  Gussie’s face lit up as the front door opened. “And here they are now. Jolly good.” He abandoned us and pushed his way across the crowded foyer as the Prince of Wales came into view. He was dressed impeccably in evening attire as usual and I was not in the least surprised to see he was accompanied by Mrs. Simpson, wearing the black beaded evening gown she had worn on the ship crossing the Atlantic. I was, however, surprised to see Mr. Simpson in tow, looking broody and uncomfortable. Well, who wouldn’t?

  “Good of you to come, sir.” Gussie pumped the prince’s hand with enthusiasm.

  “Wouldn’t miss one of your parties for anything, Gussie,” the prince said in his light drawl. “And I believe you’ve met my friends Mr. and Mrs. Simpson.”

  “Of course. So glad you could make it.” Gussie was the soul of discretion. “What can I get you to drink?”

  “A whiskey,” Mr. Simpson growled. “And better make it a double while you’re at it.”

  I wondered why he still bothered to accompany her when everyone in London society knew about his wife and the prince. Surely it must have felt most embarrassing. For that matter, why hadn’t he divorced her yet? Perhaps chivalry was not dead and he was waiting for her to divorce him. Or perhaps she still needed his money to fund her expensive clothing habit.

  Albert handed us our drinks and Gussie steered the prince in our direction. “I expect you’ve met your new sister-in-law, sir,” he said. “And of course you know Georgiana.”

  “Hello, sir,” I said.

  “What-ho, Georgie. Looking stylish tonight.” The prince nodded to me then took Marina’s hand. “Actually we haven’t met yet. How do you do, Marina? So glad to meet you at last. You’re far too good for my brother, of course. Make sure you make him toe the line, what?”

  “So pleased to meet you at last, David,” she said. “However, I’m not sure it’s always an easy task to make royal princes toe the line, as you put it.” She was wonderful, wasn’t she?

  The prince grinned appreciatively and introduced Mrs. Simpson. Her husband had already melted into the crowd, nursing his double whiskey.

  “Why, you’re not at all what we expected, is she, David?” Mrs. Simpson said, holding on to Marina’s hand. “So elegant. So composed. And that gown—it had to come from Paris!”

  “From Worth,” Marina said.

  “See, David. What did I tell you? You can’t find anything fashionable in London. One really has to have a flat in Paris to pop across and buy clothes.”

  “Oh, I disagree,” Marina said. “Molyneux is making my wedding dress and it’s absolutely lovely. And Georgiana and I had great fun at Harrods this morning buying things for my trousseau.”

  Mrs. Simpson turned that formidable gaze onto me.

  “You’re also looking quite elegant these days, Georgiana, honey,” she said. “I take it Mummy helped you choose that gown. Is she still around or did she stay on to become a star in Hollywood?”

  “She decided that America wasn’t for her,” I replied. “It was all too fake and insincere. I think she prefers a place where class can’t be bought with mere money.”

  I saw the glint of venom in those dark eyes. “My, my, we are sharpening our claws these days, are we not? But don’t get too catty, honey. Men don’t want a woman who is too sharp for a wife. Especially the sort of man you’ll wind up marrying.” She took a long sip of her drink and gave David a smoldering glance over her cocktail glass. “They like to be babied, cosseted, made a fuss of, don’t they, David?”

  I heard an intake of breath in the crowd around us as Mrs. Simpson addressed him by the first name the family used and didn’t call him “sir” as was required in public, even by close relatives like me.

  “So is Mummy here?” Mrs. Simpson looked around hopefully. I think she enjoyed the verbal battles that always ensued with my mother, who certainly gave as good as she got.

  “No, she went back to Germany.”

  “Sensible woman. That’s the place where things are looking up these days,” Mrs. Simpson said. “That Mr. Hitler. He seems to have the right ideas.”

  “Do you think so?” I asked, shocked. “He seems to be like a funny little chap who just shouts a lot.”

  “Oh no, honey. He’s got what it takes. You’ll see. He’ll have Europe eating out of his hand,” she said. “David’s impressed too, aren’t you?”

  “He’s doing a lot of good things for Germany, I must say,” the Prince of Wales said. “Getting people back to work. Building roads. Giving Germans pride again. It’s all good.”

  “Let’s hope so,” I said.

  “So do you care to dance, Marina?” the prince asked. “I should probably trip the light fantastic first with my new relative, if you ladies will excuse us?”

  He took Marina’s hand and steered her into the fray. Mrs. Simpson looked at me. “That poor girl is in for a rough time,” she said. “Does she have any idea what she’s letting herself in for?”

  “I think they may be all right,” I said. “George seems quite smitten with her. He may shape up and do the right thing after all. You’d be surprised at the number of English princes who actually do, when the time comes.”

  I gave her a little smile as we were swallowed up into the crowd. I felt terrific and it wasn’t the cocktails. Finally I was learning from my mother to hold my own in this cat-eat-cat society. I might even become the sort of clever, brittle woman who never lets herself be hurt. If only I could get that image of Darcy’s dressing gown out of my mind.

  I heard the band change tunes and the crooner started singing a song that had been popular a while ago. It went, “I’ve danced with a man who’s danced with a girl who’s danced with the Prince of Wales. It was simply grand, he said, ‘Topping band,’ and she said, ‘Delightful, sir.’”

  The dancers suddenly spotted the prince and there was laughter and applause. More people crammed in to watch David dancing with Marina. I’m slightly claustrophobic and hate the feeling of being trapped in a crowded, sweaty and noisy room, so I wandered instead into the dining room next door. This room was only populated with odd knots of people, it being too early for supper. A lovely spread had been laid out on the table against one wall—a whole cold salmon in the middle, oysters, prawns, cold chicken and pheasant, caviar and all the nice little things that go with it. When I had been one step away from starvation and living on baked beans I would have fallen upon it. Now I wa
s content to scoop a little caviar onto a cracker and was just biting into it, careful not to spill it down my décolleté front, when I heard something that made me prick my ears up.

  “No, I haven’t seen her for ages, darling.”

  I turned around and saw two rather glamorous women, older than me and of that brittle, witty kind I had just been considering, standing together by the window, each with a cocktail glass in one hand, a cigarette holder in the other.

  “She was away all summer, wasn’t she? Let it be known that she was going to the Med, but that wasn’t the case. I was there myself in August and she certainly wasn’t at any of the parties.” The voice was lowered. I could just make out the words. “Tell me, did you hear the rumor going around?”

  “That she was preggers, darling? Oh yes, I did hear that. One finds it hard to believe. I mean, who knows how to take care of herself better than Bobo?”

  The first voice grew even lower. I moved around the table, pretending to pick a grape from the bunch but actually positioning myself closer to the women. With the thump and wail of the music next door it was hard to overhear. “And if she was . . . you know . . . why didn’t she just pop to Harley Street and have it taken care of like any civilized person?”

  “Catholic, darling. Doesn’t believe in that sort of thing.” This latter phrase was whispered but I managed to lip-read. Our class of person does have such good diction.

  “So you think she actually went away to have the baby?”

  The first woman nodded. “Must have. She wouldn’t have risked being recognized in London.”

  “Switzerland, do you think?”

  “Possibly. But there are places closer by, aren’t there? That one on the south coast . . .”

  I took a deep breath and decided to take my chances. I went over to them. “Excuse me, but are you talking about Bobo Carrington, by any chance?” I asked. “Sorry to interrupt, but I was hoping she’d be here tonight. I’ve been wondering about her too. I caught a glimpse of her at Crockford’s the other night, but that’s the only time recently.”