Malice at the Palace (The Royal Spyness Series Book 9)

by Rhys Bowen

  “Good,” he said. “So I’ll leave that to you then.”

  “Very well.” I nodded, my brain still racing as I tried to process everything he’d told me. “But surely one of the first things to do is to find out where she gave birth and if she named the father on the birth certificate,” I said.

  “Yes, we’ll certainly try to do that. It wouldn’t have been a public hospital, obviously. She couldn’t risk being recognized even if she checked in under a phony name. One of those fancy private clinics where ladies go for vague and undetermined female illnesses, nervous cures, and no questions asked.”

  “It could have been abroad,” I said. “I hear some women go to France or Switzerland for such things.”

  “It’s not going to be easy, that’s for sure,” he said.

  “What about her maid?” I asked as the thought occurred to me. “What does she have to say? She must know where her mistress went. She may have been sworn to secrecy but she can be frightened into telling the police.”

  He gave a long and heavy sigh, stroking at his fawn-colored mustache. “The young lady was apparently one of the modern set who has no maid. There is a woman who comes in to clean but I’m sure she’ll know nothing.”

  “And her family? Do we know anything about them? Did she go home to give birth, maybe?”

  “There doesn’t seem to be a family. Of course, Carrington might not be her real name.” He looked glum. “But she had friends. She was always photographed in the middle of a group of people. She attended parties and nightclubs with her chums. She would have told at least one of them the truth. Women always find someone to confide in, in my experience. She might well have told the father.” He paused, sucking air in through his teeth. “Again, it’s going to be tricky questioning people who knew her and finding out what they knew without giving away that she’s dead.”

  I nodded agreement.

  “We certainly have a good motive for murder,” he went on. “Whoever the father was might have a lot to lose if the news was made public.”

  “Gosh, you’re not suggesting that Prince George might have been involved in her murder?” I stammered out the words, because it was impossible to think of my likeable cousin as a murderer.

  “He’s a royal, isn’t he? They get someone else to do their dirty work.”

  My thoughts went instantly to Major Beauchamp-Chough. The prince’s private secretary. A military man. A trained killer. Would he have been willing to do what it took to make sure the prince was not involved in scandal and the wedding took place? And yet he had been away all evening, at a regimental dinner, arriving home around the same time as us. And surely plenty of fellow officers could verify his attendance. And he had seemed genuinely shocked to discover the body, and recognize who it was.

  “Someone will have to tell Prince George,” I said. “But please don’t look at me. That’s something I absolutely shouldn’t undertake. And couldn’t.”

  “I agree. If Sir Jeremy wants to play puppet master and pull the strings, I’ll suggest he is the one to face the prince.”

  “Of course, he could have a word with Major Beauchamp-Chough first,” I said. “He’s the prince’s private secretary, after all. He’d probably know many of the prince’s dark secrets. He’d certainly have known if Bobo Carrington had told the prince she was expecting his child.”

  “The major was with us this morning. Why did he not mention any of this if he was privy to the prince’s secrets? He seems like an upright sort of bloke. Straight as a die. He wouldn’t have approved of such goings-on.”

  “Perhaps he was hoping it would never come out. Perhaps he thought Miss Carrington’s death was a suicide, an overdose of drugs.” I looked up. “That is our biggest weapon in guarding the palace, you know. That she was a drug addict. People who take drugs have to obtain them from somewhere. This murder could have nothing at all to do with her liaison with the prince, or with her illegitimate child. She might have fallen foul of a drug kingpin and they are known to mete out their brand of justice swiftly and ruthlessly, aren’t they?”

  “That’s definitely another angle we’ll follow up on,” he said. “I have my contacts in the underworld. But I’d still like to start off with her closest friends. They would know if she was scared, worried, and also what she did with the baby.”

  Another horrid thought crossed my mind. “I suppose you should also check whether any newborn babies have been found abandoned or dead in the last three months,” I said. “She may have gone away to have it and then not been able to face the future and killed it. Dumped it in a river. In which case one might even have thought that she took her own life in remorse. You’re sure about the bruises on her face? They couldn’t have been formed by falling onto the cobbles?”

  “Interesting thought, Lady Georgiana. But the medico was pretty sure. He said you could see where a thumb had pinched her nose shut. And her eyes showed indications of hemorrhage brought on by suffocation.”

  “I see.” I shuddered, wondering if she was already unconscious at the time or whether she had struggled, fought to live.

  “You’re one of the bright young things, aren’t you?” he said suddenly. “So maybe you’d know how we get in touch with her chums. There’s a young man in particular we know visits her flat from time to time. Don’t know if he’s a romantic interest or not, but he should certainly be able to tell us where she went to have the baby. He may even know who the dad might have been. Come to think of it, he may well have been the dad himself.”

  “Oh, I’m afraid I didn’t move in Bobo’s circles,” I said. “I’m not often in London.”

  “He was a fellow aristocrat,” the DCI said. “I’m sure your type bump into each other at hunt balls and things. The name is Darcy O’Mara. The Honorable Darcy O’Mara.”

  Chapter 15

  STILL NOVEMBER 5

  The world stood still. I felt as if I had been punched in the gut. I couldn’t breathe. Inside my head words were screaming, “No, you’ve got it wrong. Darcy would never have been involved with a woman like that. Darcy would never . . .” But I had been raised to be part of a family that takes everything in its stride. A lady never displays emotion. If a native suddenly hurls a spear at a royal person and it misses, a slight nod of the head and royal smile are all that are permitted. That training kicked in now.

  “I’m afraid I have no idea where you might find the Honorable Darcy O’Mara,” I said. “He is often out of the country. In fact you might ask Sir Jeremy. I believe Mr. O’Mara works for him, or in conjunction with him from time to time.”

  “But you do know the young man?” he asked.

  I wondered if it was a trap, that maybe he had known all along that I was close to Darcy. Maybe he already had him in custody.

  “Yes, I know him.” I tried to sound frightfully breezy and offhand.

  “Quite chummy with him, are you?”

  This use of the words “chum” and “chummy” would have been irritating to me even if my nerves hadn’t been torn to shreds. “I haven’t seen him for several months, Detective Chief Inspector,” I said. “I hope that answers your question.”

  “Not even a postcard from him?” He made a face that I wanted to slap. “Sir Jeremy seemed to think you were quite good pals.”

  “Which we are. I have lots of good pals, but our class of person tends to travel a lot. Especially Mr. O’Mara.”

  “So where did you see him last?”

  “When I last saw him he was heading for the train station in Los Angeles. That was in August. Now, is there anything else I might be able to help you with?”

  I was feeling really proud of myself. I went on, “So what makes you think that he has been staying at Miss Carrington’s flat recently?”

  A smirk crossed his broad face. “I think a dressing gown behind the bedroom door with his initials on the pocket and his name on the laundry tag migh
t do it. Oh, and it was behind her bedroom door. Not the spare room.”

  He was enjoying this, I could see. Perhaps Sir Jeremy had told him that I had been sweet on Darcy. Perhaps he had a chip on his shoulder against aristocrats. Perhaps he just liked the feel of ruining other people’s lives. But I was not going to let him see my distress. I fought with every ounce of my being to keep my face a mask with a half-interested smile on my lips. I took a very deep breath before I spoke again. “Do you consider this gentleman a possible suspect in the case?”

  “Only if he’s still in London and not in some far-flung part of the world. I would still need to rule him out as the father of the child. And as a potential suspect, for that matter.”

  I couldn’t wait to escape. “Are there any other friends of mine you might want to check on?” I said. “As I told you before, I don’t spend much time in London and don’t have a large acquaintanceship here. If there’s nothing more, I should get back to Princess Marina. I’m charged with taking care of her, you know.” I stood up.

  “We’ll be in touch, then,” he said. “And should Mr. O’Mara decide to contact you, please make sure he comes to have a little chat with me.”

  I nodded, graciously, as my relative the queen would have done. And I tried to walk to the door without falling or staggering or knocking something over. As I reached for the doorknob I remembered something. “There is one thing.” I turned back and saw his eyes register instant interest. “Another friend of mine was at Crockford’s recently and she saw Bobo talking to a strange American. She said that Bobo appeared nervous and uneasy. She didn’t know who the man was, but you can check the Crockford’s registry to see which men were there on the same evening as Bobo Carrington.”

  I felt I had scored a small point as I made my exit, but I was only halfway to the lift when the enormity of the truth hit me. Belinda had said that someone else had been at Crockford’s with Bobo and she had left with him. She had been going to tell me and then rapidly changed the subject. She had been going to say that she had seen Darcy leaving Crockford’s with Bobo that night.

  His dressing gown was hanging behind her bedroom door. It was almost a physical pain to think the words. What more proof did I want? I knew that Darcy had been no saint when I met him. I knew that young men of my social class were often wildly promiscuous, but he had said that he loved me. He wanted to marry me. My hand went to the silver Devonshire pixie I wore around my neck. Darcy had given it to me last Christmas, when he had proposed to me. Was I stupidly naïve to think that he’d be living a chaste life now? Men were different, weren’t they? They had needs, apparently. But Bobo Carrington? The girl with the silver syringe? And not just a one-night stand either, but leaving his dressing gown behind her bedroom door.

  I squeezed my eyes tightly shut so that tears would not come.

  As the car drove me back to the palace I tried to push Darcy from my mind and focus instead on who might have killed Bobo Carrington. This was not easy as I knew nothing of her friends or her wicked lifestyle. It did occur to me that going to Gussie Gormsley’s party tomorrow night might be a worthwhile thing to do as he did move among the bright young things. I’d seen people snorting cocaine at one of his parties, and Noel Coward had been there, and . . . Oh. I paused, reconsidering. And Prince George also. So maybe it was a dangerous place to take Princess Marina. But if George himself showed up, he’d have to behave with his future wife there, and someone in that set might well have been friendly with Bobo Carrington.

  I toyed with Prince George as a suspect. He had always come across as an easygoing sort of chap. Everyone liked him. He had an infectious smile. But if his former mistress had come to him right before the wedding and told him she would go to the newspapers and tell them about their affair and the baby, might he have been driven to silence her at all costs? That was clearly what Sir Jeremy and Major Beauchamp-Chough were fearing. But Prince George had a perfect alibi. He had been at dinner with his family last night. He had still been there when Marina and I left to go back to Kensington. In fact he had offered to drive us until we told him we had a car waiting.

  Cars. Something to do with cars. Then I remembered. George had arrived late, breathless and straightening his bow tie. And had apologized to his parents that he was late because his car had had a crash. Golly, I thought. Could he have arranged to meet Bobo at Kensington Palace, drugged her and then killed her earlier in the evening? And then thought he was perfectly safe because he was having dinner with the family at Buckingham Palace—surely a cast-iron alibi?

  I felt quite sick. I’d had enough shocks for one day. I didn’t want to believe that Prince George could kill anyone, but then I hadn’t wanted to believe that Darcy, my Darcy, had been intimate with Bobo Carrington. An image flashed through my mind of them together, in each other’s arms in that bedroom, while I was in Belinda’s flat, not far away, and he hadn’t even bothered to come looking for me.

  They are all so right, I thought. Belinda said I’m hopelessly naïve and I am. I’d convinced myself that Darcy was different from the rest. I gave a long sigh. At least I’d found out before I married him. But I didn’t find that thought comforting.

  I ARRIVED BACK at the palace to find the princess and countess enjoying afternoon tea.

  “Lovely crumpets, Georgiana,” the princess called as she spotted me. “Take off your coat and come and join us.”

  “This English crumpet I like,” Countess Irmtraut said. She was in the process of eating one with about an inch of strawberry jam piled on top while butter dripped onto the plate. “I tell the servant I want some crumpet. Lots of crumpet. Yes, I am looking for crumpet. And she start to laugh. Why is this? Anther strange English joke?”

  “Perhaps she was nervous, trying to understand your English, Irmtraut,” the princess said sweetly. I wondered if she understood the double meaning. We English used the term to refer to a person of sexual interest. Perhaps not. I studied Irmtraut as she ate. She wasn’t really that much older than Marina and I, I realized. And yet she might well have had the word “spinster” tattooed across her brow. And a sudden wave of fear shot through me. Was this destined to be my future? Would I be better off agreeing to marry some minor half-lunatic European princeling that the family found for me? I shut my eyes, not wanting to think about the future.

  Duty. My duty was now to look after Princess Marina.

  “Would you like to go out this evening, Your Royal Highness?” I asked. “I could have Major B-C see if he can get us tickets for a play.”

  “That would be lovely. But please, do call me Marina. We are, after all, to be related.” She turned on the full force of that radiant smile and I found myself thinking about her future as Duchess of Kent. Would she have to learn to turn a blind eye to her husband’s infidelities? Would he break her heart the way Darcy had broken mine?

  “I’ll go and ask the major right away,” I said and left them to their tea. I wasn’t in the mood to eat anyway.

  I went around to the front of the building, negotiated the crowd of tourists and found the major’s front door open and the major inside, brandishing a feather duster. “Doing a spot of housekeeping,” he said, looking embarrassed. “I’m afraid the servants they employ here are not up to my army standards. I really miss my regimental batman. I like to see everything sparkling—not a spot of dust.”

  Sparkling. The word flashed through my brain. Something significant. Something I had seen.

  “So how did the lunch at the Savoy go?” he went on and the thought vanished like a bubble on a sunny day.

  “Very well, thank you,” I said. “We met a friend of mine there and are invited to a party he’s hosting tomorrow night.”

  “A party suitable for a princess?” He gave me a questioning look.

  “I hope so. Gussie Gormsley. Do you know him? Oodles of money.”

  “I know the name. I don’t move in those circles personally. Not
my cup of tea. But the prince does, as you know.”

  “Gussie knows the prince,” I said. “And he has some questionable friends, but I’m sure they’ll behave if they know Princess Marina is to be a guest,” I said. “And Gussie himself is also getting married soon. Settling down, you know.”

  “It happens to most people in the end,” the major said.

  “Tell me,” I couldn’t resist saying, “you are Prince George’s private secretary. Do you think . . .” I couldn’t go on. I had wanted to know whether he thought the prince might be capable of killing a former mistress, whether the prince might have told him Bobo was pregnant. But I couldn’t. Perhaps Sir Jeremy would have asked him those things, but for me they constituted a betrayal of family. Instead I said, “Do you think he will settle down?”

  “I rather think he will,” Major B-C said. “He’s a good chap at heart, you know. And he’s certainly sown his share of wild oats before the marriage.” He flashed me a wicked grin.

  I came away somewhat reassured. Either Prince George kept secrets from his equerry or the major really didn’t think the prince was involved in Bobo’s killing. But the question was still there: what was she doing at Kensington Palace?

  I could think of several possible answers: The first was that she had been killed elsewhere by an unknown person. Probably not Prince George in that case. Surely he wouldn’t have been stupid enough to leave a body where all evidence pointed to him. But perhaps he was not the child’s father, and the man who was feared exposure. Or it could have been a drug lord to whom she owed too much money. Or even a thwarted suitor. I pushed that last thought quickly out of my mind. In any of these cases her killer had dumped her at the palace, hoping to pin the crime on the royal family. Knowing, maybe, that the family would do anything in their power to avoid a scandal at this moment and thus probably not have the crime investigated too fully.