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

by Rhys Bowen

  “Don’t tell me now,” he said. “Can we meet somewhere later today?”

  “I’m taking the princess shopping this morning and we are attending a party this evening,” I said.

  “Then let’s meet for tea. There’s a little tea shop on Knightsbridge called the Copper Kettle. I know the owner—we can talk safely there. Shall we say three thirty?”

  I put down the receiver and came out into the fog. Indistinct shapes of people bundled up in scarves passed me as I headed for Belinda’s mews cottage. I knocked on the door and waited. It was distinctly chilly and unpleasant standing in the mews. I knocked again, more loudly this time. She was known to be a sound sleeper and a late riser, but my hammering on her front door should have awakened the dead. I squatted down.

  “Belinda,” I called through the letter box, “come and open the door. It’s me, Georgie.”

  There was no answer. Surely she couldn’t have gone out so early on a day like this. I stood there in the mews, the cold gnawing me, feeling indignant and uneasy at the same time. Belinda sometimes spent the night in a bed other than her own, that I knew. But we had talked about going shopping together only yesterday. All right, so Belinda was not the most considerate of people either. She definitely took care of her own needs first and if those needs included going off somewhere with a dashing man she met at Crockford’s, then it probably would slip her mind that she was supposed to be going shopping with her friend and a visiting princess.

  I gave one last rap on the front door, then stomped off down the mews. Really, she could be most infuriating. Of course, we were only planning on a trip to Harrods and I didn’t really need her today, but all the same . . . As I walked away I couldn’t shake off the lurking feeling of uneasiness. Belinda lived the same kind of life as Bobo Carrington. She went to gambling clubs and was not too choosy about her bedmates. And Bobo Carrington was now dead.

  Chapter 18

  NOVEMBER 6

  BOBO CARRINGTON’S FLAT

  I was going to return to Kensington Palace when it struck me that I wasn’t too far from Bobo’s Mayfair flat. I was sure the police would have been through it, but I wanted to get a look for myself. You can learn a lot about a person from seeing the kind of place they live in. Even though I knew I would be putting myself through more torture if I saw Darcy’s dressing gown, or any other item I recognized as his, it had to be done. Until now all I knew about Bobo was what I had been told. She was a society beauty, she moved with the smart set, one of the bright young things. She had had an affair with Prince George, among others, and she had given birth to a child recently. Also she was a drug fiend. And apparently she had no family and no maid. But I knew nothing at all about what kind of person she was. Did she have many friends? How did she manage to live in Mayfair? And why did she have no maid? And the most important question of all—who had wanted her dead?

  I turned onto Knightsbridge and made my way to Hyde Park Corner, then up Park Lane until I came to Mount Street. The world was eerily silent with the odd bus and taxi passing at a snail’s pace and almost nobody on the pavement. My own footsteps seemed to echo unnaturally loud and I found myself glancing over my shoulder, even though I knew I should have nothing to worry about.

  The building on Mount Street was brand new—an impressive art deco affair of white marble and glass. A uniformed doorman stood in the foyer and sprang out to open the glass door to admit me.

  “Miserable old day, isn’t it, madam,” he said. “How can I help you?”

  I realized as I went to open my mouth that I hadn’t thought through a credible plan of campaign as I walked and also that DCI Pelham would probably not approve, so I blurted out, “Actually I’ve come to visit Miss Carrington. I take it she is home.”

  His expression became troubled and I wondered how much he knew. Presumably he must suspect something was wrong if he’d had to admit the police.

  “I’m sorry, madam, but I’m afraid she is not at home at the moment.”

  I wasn’t going to let him know that I knew. I put on my bright and innocent face. “Oh, how annoying. Who would want to step out on a day like this, and when she knew I was coming too.” I gave him what I hoped was a winning smile. “Do you have a key? Could you let me into her apartment to wait for her?”

  “Let you in? Wait for her?”

  “Yes. She knows I’m coming. We’re old friends. I wrote to tell her I was coming up for Gussie Gormsley’s party tonight and she said she was going too and why didn’t I come over to her place and we’d go together?”

  He was looking most uncomfortable now. “I’m afraid there has been some mistake. Miss Carrington is not at home. I really can’t tell you when she’ll be returning, but certainly not today.”

  “Not today? Oh, that’s too bad of her,” I said. “Now where am I going to get ready for the party? And where am I going to stay tonight? That’s not at all like Bobo. She’s usually such a sweet girl, isn’t she?”

  “I wouldn’t know, miss,” he said. “I’m just the doorman.” His expression, however, betrayed that he hadn’t found Miss Carrington to have displayed much sweetness.

  “I say,” I said. “Is something wrong? She hasn’t had an accident or something, has she? She’s not in hospital?”

  “I really don’t know, miss,” he said. “I’m sorry.”

  I was desperately trying to think of some way to get into that flat. “Look,” I said, “would it be possible for you to take me up to her flat, if you don’t want to give me the key? You see, I lent Bobo some earrings last time I saw her and I was going to collect them today. I wanted to wear them tonight. I told her and I thought she’d have them out and ready for me. So perhaps they are lying on her dressing table waiting for me.”

  “And your name is, miss?” he asked.

  Goodness, that was a tough one. If I gave him my real name he’d know that I was reputable beyond doubt. However, he might then report my visit to DCI Pelham and that would probably not go down well. “It’s Miss Warburton-Stoke,” I said. “Belinda Warburton-Stoke. Bobo and I were at school together.”

  If Belinda hadn’t bothered to be available for our jaunt to Harrods today, at least I’d use her name.

  “Well, Miss Warburton-Stoke,” the doorman said, still frowning, “I suppose it couldn’t do any harm to take you up to the flat for a minute—just to recover a pair of earrings.”

  “You’re most kind.” I beamed at him. “What’s your name?”

  “It’s Frederick, miss.”

  “Frederick. How nice.” I gave him my most charming smile.

  I think he went a little pink. He went into a cubby and took a key from the wall. I made a mental note of which hook it came from. I followed him across the foyer and into the lift. Up we went to the third floor. We crossed a landing with a big mirror and modern bentwood bench, then he turned the key in the lock and stood back for me to step into Bobo’s flat. It smelled of stale smoke and stale drink and rotting fruit—rather unpleasant, in fact. It was modern in the extreme—large plate-glass windows looked out onto Park Lane with glimpses of Hyde Park beyond. On the floor was a white rug and the furniture was sleek and low and chrome. There were modern paintings on the walls with great splashes of color. It was also rather untidy. A plate with an orange peel lay on a low table, along with a newspaper and an empty cocktail glass. An ashtray was piled high with cigarette ends. A silver fox wrap was draped over the back of a bentwood chair. Through in the kitchen I could see dishes piled in the sink.

  “Dear me,” I said. “Does Miss Carrington’s cleaning lady no longer come?”

  “Not for the last few days, miss,” he said. “She was told not to.”

  “It’s still Mrs. Parsons, is it?” I asked.

  “Not Mrs. Parsons. You mean Mrs. Preston.”

  “Oh yes, of course. Mrs. Preston. Silly of me. Doesn’t she have a key to come when Miss Carrington is
away? I’m sure Miss Carrington won’t want to return to this mess.”

  “Yes, miss. She does have the key to the flat, but she has been told not to come until further notice, so I understand.”

  “Who told her? Not Bobo, surely?” I looked at him. “I say, she’s not in any trouble, is she? I know that at times . . . well, you know.”

  “There is some kind of complication, miss,” he said, looking relieved to be telling me. “I won’t deny that the police were here, looking for something. But they wouldn’t tell me what, so I’m no wiser than you.”

  “I see,” I said. “Well, I promise not to tell anyone you let me in.” I gave him a conspiratorial stare.

  Luckily the bedroom door was half open so I didn’t have to reveal that I had never been here before. I walked purposefully across the room and pushed the bedroom door fully open. I didn’t want to have to see what might be hanging behind that door. The bed was unmade. A pair of silk stockings lay across it. A pair of frilly knickers lay on the floor. A dress was draped over the dressing table stool. Two things were clear: Bobo was sorely in need of a maid and she had certainly been living in this flat very recently.

  I went over to the dressing table. Odd pieces of jewelry were lying scattered across it, but no earrings. And nothing else that might be of interest, like a note saying, “Meet me tonight in the park.” In fact one thing that struck me about the whole flat was the absence of anything personal. No photographs of family members or of Bobo with friends. No half-written letters, or letters from others. Just cigarette stubs in an ashtray and a bright red lipstick. I remembered the red gash of her mouth against a white face as she had lain on the cobbles. And I felt a wave of pity. This had been someone who lived for the moment but had no real ties. A bright but lonely life.

  This thought, of course, led to Darcy. I forced my face to stay serene as I asked, “So tell me, do you know Mr. O’Mara? Isn’t he still one of Bobo’s friends?”

  He smiled. “Oh yes, Mr. O’Mara. He’s a good sort.”

  “Have you seen him recently?”

  “I can’t say I have, miss, but then I go off duty at two and William comes on until ten. So if he came to visit Miss Carrington in the evening I wouldn’t know about it.”

  And if he’d stayed the night, wouldn’t Frederick have had to let him out in the morning, I wanted to ask, but couldn’t. Instead I sighed and headed back into the sitting room. “The earrings don’t appear to be here,” I said, “and I don’t want to go rummaging through her drawers for them. So thank you again. And if Miss Carrington does come back, please tell her I was here and had to go to the party without her.”

  “Right you are, miss,” he said and shut the door firmly behind us. We rode down in the lift in silence. As we stepped out into the bright foyer an idea struck me. “I’ve just thought of something,” I said. “If Mrs. Preston isn’t working here at the moment, she’d have free time, wouldn’t she? And I’m moving into a little mews cottage just off Knightsbridge. I’m desperate for someone to come and clean the place for me and she’d be perfect, wouldn’t she?”

  “I expect she would, miss,” he said.

  “So do you happen to have her address?” I asked. “I’ll go and see her right away.”

  “It’s here somewhere.” He went into his cubby and rummaged around, producing a stack of calling cards and papers. “Hold on. Just a minute. Here we are.” He produced a grubby index card. “It’s 28 Cambridge Mansions, Cambridge Street.”

  “Oh dear, where would that be, do you know?”

  “Just behind Victoria Station, I believe. Not too far from here because she had to walk the last time we had a pea-souper fog and the buses weren’t running.”

  I took out the small notebook from my purse and copied down the address. “Thank you, Frederick. You have been most helpful. But I’m so worried about dear Bobo. I wonder if any of her other friends would know more about what happened to her? Whom do you think I could ask? I’ve been living at home in the country so I’m completely out of touch with her friends these days.”

  “I couldn’t say, miss.” His face was expressionless. “Not many friends come to visit here. At least not when I’m on duty.”

  Was he hinting that most of Bobo’s friends came after dark?

  “Perhaps someone at Gussie Gormsley’s tonight will know more,” I said. “Thank you again.”

  And out I went into the fog. In a way it had been a frustrating visit. I hadn’t learned any more about Bobo—or had I? One thing was obvious: she lived in a very expensive flat in the most expensive part of London. But her jewelry was flashy and paste, not real. She had no job and apparently no family. So how could she afford to live there? I’d have to find out from Sir Jeremy this afternoon who was paying the rent on that flat, and whether the person (presumably male) who paid the rent was also paying the doorman to keep silent.

  I WOULD HAVE loved to pay a call on Mrs. Preston, to wheedle information out of her, and maybe even find a way to persuade her to lend me the key to Bobo’s flat, but I knew that I should return to Kensington Palace in case Marina was ready to attack Harrods. I hopped on a bus that crept at a snail’s pace along Knightsbridge, then into Kensington and finally stopped at the entrance to Kensington Gardens. I almost sprinted up the Broad Walk and into the palace, where I found Irmtraut staring out of the window with a petulant expression on her face.

  “No, Her Highness has not returned,” she said. “Prince George is not wise to keep her out in this fog. It will be bad for her lungs and is most disagreeable.”

  “Yes, I’m afraid it’s a classic pea-souper,” I said.

  She frowned. “But no. Pea soup is green. This fog is dirty brown.”

  “I think it just implies that it’s very thick,” I said.

  “Ah. Another English joke maybe?”

  “Not much of a joke. It’s horrible out there.”

  “You went for a walk in such weather?” she asked. “You English have great fortitude.”

  “No, actually I went to visit a friend I thought was coming to the party with us tonight. But she was not at home.”

  Irmtraut sniffed. “This party. There will be drinking and loud noise?”

  “Oh yes. A lot of both, I’m afraid.”

  “Then I shall stay here. I do not like such things. But I trust you will watch over Princess Marina.”

  “Oh yes, don’t worry. I’ll keep an eye on her all evening,” I said.

  “No, you must keep more than one eye. You must keep both eyes,” she said.

  Luckily at that moment I heard voices and Princess Marina returned, accompanied by the major. They were both laughing, in animated conversation, and I thought how attractive they both looked, in contrast to the glum, surly Irmtraut.

  “At last you return,” Irmtraut said. “This fog, it is not good for the chest.”

  “Oh, nonsense, Traudi,” Marina said. “I was in a car or in the house most of the time and the major arrived to give me a lift back here. You should see my house. It will be absolutely splendid. George has quite good taste and we even agree on wallpaper!”

  “You’ve also been out in this foul weather, Lady Georgiana?” the major asked.

  “Yes, I went to visit a friend and annoyingly she wasn’t there. So a trip for nothing.”

  “I see.” His eyes held mine for a second and I wondered if he thought I’d been out investigating. Then he turned and gave a polite nod to Marina. “I must get back to my duties, Your Royal Highness. If you will excuse me.”

  “Of course. Thank you for the ride.”

  “Major, I’d like to take Princess Marina to Harrods this morning, if a car will be available for us.”

  “Good idea. Of course. I’ll have the motor waiting whenever you’re ready.”

  As the major left she exclaimed, “He is really quite charming, is he not? But he is clearly unhap
py with his present role of housekeeper. He’d rather be back with his regiment, he says. They are due to sail to the Far East soon and he wants to be with them.”

  “Yes, it must be hard to adapt to this kind of civilian life after a military career,” I replied.

  We had some coffee and then we went to Harrods. Marina enjoyed herself thoroughly, especially, I think, because Irmtraut was so shocked at her choice of underwear.

  “You will live in a cold English house,” she said. “Those knickers will not keep you warm.”

  We returned late for luncheon and the princess decided to take a rest before the party. I took my cue to go to meet Sir Jeremy at the Copper Kettle. It was a nondescript tearoom of the type favored by ladies up to town for a day’s shopping. With neat little tables between large potted palms. Sir Jeremy had chosen a table in a far corner and rose to meet me as I entered.

  “Good of you to come in this beastly weather, Lady Georgiana,” he said. “I’ve ordered tea and scones. I trust that will fit the bill.”

  “Super, thank you.”

  The tea arrived and I poured.

  “You have something to tell me, I gather,” he said as the waitress moved off.

  “Two things that might be important.” And I related the curious incident of Prince George’s motorcar, that he had claimed to be in an accident when there was no sign of damage to his motor, and then later said he was held up with his decorator. Then I added the fact that Countess Irmtraut had been out when she claimed she hadn’t. And with a knife in her pocket.

  He looked grave. “Now that could be interesting,” he said. “If Bobo Carrington had come to confront Princess Marina, you say this woman would do anything to protect the princess.”

  “Absolutely.”

  “I’m afraid we’ll have to question her, although God knows how we’ll do that without spilling the beans about the murder.”

  “I questioned the palace staff by telling them that a friend had come to the door after I had gone out and couldn’t make anyone hear her knocking. I asked if anyone had seen her or heard a motorcar.”