by K. E. Mills
“Now, Melissande. Why aren’t you married yet?” Erminium demanded, skewering the servant with a glare that sent him hurriedly backwards. “You’re three years older than Ratafia. Have you no sense of your obligations?”
Melissande blinked. “Ah …”
“You’re not getting any younger,” Erminium added, relentless. “Neither’s Rupert, what’s more. Is he going to start breeding soon? He’ll want to. A king’s first duty is to sire the next king. Well, Melissande? Say something!”
Mind your own business, you ghastly old hag? No, no, she couldn’t say that. Such a pity. Bloody diplomacy, always getting in the way.
“Ah—well, my brother’s been rather busy,” she said. “But I do know the question of marriage is very much on his mind.” Because that old goat Billingsley wouldn’t shut up about it, but still. “I’m sure he’s eager to find a bride, Your Majesty.”
Erminium sniffed. “Well, if he can’t hunt down a suitable gel tell him to apply to me. I’ve a spare niece that wants taking off my hands.”
Oh, Saint Snodgrass protect me. “That’s very kind of you, Your Majesty,” Melissande said faintly. “I’m sure Rupert will be touched.”
But Erminium had turned away, her stick-thin, silk-draped arm lifted a little, crooked forefinger beckoning.
“Here, Ratafia,” she said, as her radiant daughter joined them. “This is Melissande of New Ottosland. She’s that scoundrel Lional’s sister. By all means be convivial while I have a word with Leopold Gertz, but don’t go getting any ideas. This chit thinks she’s fooling the world by calling herself Miss Cadwallader and prancing about Ott in trousers, currying favour with social misfits who refuse to accept they need a king.”
As her mother went in search of Hartwig’s Secretary of State, Princess Ratafia sighed. “Please forgive Her Majesty,” she said, her soft voice lightly accented. “She does not mean to be abrupt. It’s just that my wedding has her melancholy. She misses my father, King Barlion. It has been eleven years and she still has not forgiven him for dying.”
“Oh,” said Melissande. “I’m sorry.”
“And I am sorry, too,” said Ratafia, whose beauty up close was as overpowering as Bibbie’s, in its distinctly Borovnik fashion. “About the loss of your brother, King Lional. It must have been a great shock.”
Melissande, who until that moment had thought she looked quite fabulous in her crystal-beaded dinner gown and jewels, resisted the urge to give up once and for all and go find a spare pair of Gerald’s trousers.
“Yes, it was a shock,” she said, managing to keep her voice even. “Thank you.”
Ratafia looked across the crowded room at Hartwig’s very plain brother, Ludwig, who’d been waylaid by the Count of Blonkken. Her flawless face softened into a smile of haunting beauty.
“I fancied myself in love with Lional, you know.”
“Oh,” she said again. “I didn’t know you knew him.”
“Only from afar,” said Ratafia. “We met once, in Graff, when he was still a prince. He danced with me five times in one night. I wept for days after we heard the sad news of his accident. I couldn’t imagine there was another man who could make my heart beat so fast.” Her perfectly sculpted lips parted in another smile. “And then I met Ludwig.”
And what did that mean? Was it possible that mixed up somewhere in all the politics, there was also true love? Given the pressures of international relations, it seemed unlikely. On the other hand, stranger things had happened. But before Melissande could ask, the trumpets blared again.
Dinner time.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
“I’m sorry?” Gerald said, staring at Mitzie. Thank Saint Snodgrass they were ensconced more-or-less behind the potted tree fern, and that the Servants’ Ball was in full, uproarious swing. “You went looking for—ah—Ferdie in the Grande Splotze morgue?”
Mitzie nodded vigorously. “Yes, sir. After I couldn’t find him in the hospitals. But he wadn’t with the dead people, neither. I looked at all of them.” She shuddered. “Even when they were old and horrible, or all runny, I looked. But Ferdie wadn’t there. Oh, Mister Rowbotham! Something dreadful must’ve happened to him!”
“You looked at runny dead bodies,” said Gerald, not risking a glance at Bibbie. “Gracious. That was very brave of you, Mitzie.”
Fresh tears welled in her eyes. “Thank you, Mister Rowbotham.”
“Although I’m a bit surprised Cook didn’t offer to do it for you.”
“Cook? Pah!” Mitzie blinked away the tears. “All he does is call my Ferdie nasty names and throw bowls at the wall because he don’t have his senior pantry-man and he says his back’s too bad for lifting.”
“And what about Mister Ibblie? You can’t ask for his help?”
Mitzie shrank. “Oh, no, Mister Rowbotham, sir. Mister Ibblie, he don’t speak to kitchen maids. And even if he did, sir, Ferdie idn’t meant to be any of my business. Besides, there’d be no help dere. Mister Ibblie told Cook he caught Ferdie out of bounds and Ferdie must’ve bolted on account of fearing he’d be punished and if he shows his face again he’ll only be turned off so dere’s no point in trying to find him.” She hiccupped. “And Cook said Mister Ibblie had no right to chase away his pantry-man, kitchen staff are his say-so, and then Mister Ibblie told Cook it was his own fault for not keeping a stricter eye on us and after that neither of them had a care for Ferdie no more. It was just about them.”
Well, damn. If only that didn’t sound entirely bloody plausible. “There, there,” said Gerald, and fished a handkerchief out of his pocket.
Mitzie took it with a watery smile and mopped her wet cheeks. “Dere weren’t no-one I could speak to. Only I feel like I’m letting Ferdie down, sir, holding my tongue when I know something’s wrong.”
“Oh, Mitzie, you’ve not let him down,” Bibbie said quickly, and slid her arm around the despondent kitchen maid’s shoulders. “You braved the Grande Splotze morgue! If that’s not friendship, I don’t know what is.”
Mitzie’s cheeks pinked, and her eyelashes fluttered low to shield her eyes. “Oh, miss. You’d do the same, for Ferdie. He’s got such a way with him, he has.”
Gerald stifled a groan. It seemed more than likely that Bestwick’s little ways were set to end his career.
Provided, of course, he’s not lying dead in a ditch.
Trying to ignore the dread that thought woke, and the guilt of his own failure, he gave the kitchen maid an encouraging smile. “Yes, I’m sure you’re right, Mitzie. Now, I wonder, d’you think we could go back over a few things? Just to make sure I have the story straight? You said the last time you saw Ferdie was in the stables. You’re quite certain of that?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And it was two days ago?”
“Two days afore yesterday, sir. Late lunchish time.”
So, definitely the same day Bestwick sent Sir Alec his desperate message. The same day, it seemed, that Ibblie had seen him. “And what exactly were you doing with Ferdie in the stables? I don’t think you said.”
“Doing, sir?” said Mitzie, her voice strangled. Her blush this time was rosy red.
Belatedly, he realised. Oh. Right. Opposite him, Bibbie was working hard to keep her expression serious. Wretched girl. She was s’posed to be gently-bred. She was s’posed to be mortified. Instead she looked like she wanted to break into whoops.
“Yes, well, never mind, Mitzie,” he muttered. “I’m sure what you do with your friends is none of my affair. I mean business. Just, if you could think back and tell me who else was in the stables with you?”
Mitzie looked puzzled. “Oh, sir, there wadn’t nobody else. All alone, we were. We had to be.” Another blush. “You know.”
“Yes, yes, quite,” he said hurriedly. “I see. Ah—does that mean you didn’t see Mister Ibblie?”
She shook her head. “No, I never saw him, sir. I left first, y’see. So’s we’d not set tongues wagging.”
“And you’re quite sure nobody’s la
id eyes on Ferdie since then?”
“Yes, sir,” said Mitzie. “Everybody’s been asked, sir. And there’d be no call to fib on it.”
Not if there was nothing to hide, no. But clearly somebody was concealing the truth, because in the short space of time between Mitzie leaving the stables and Ibblie discovering Bestwick there, something had happened to alarm the agent about the wedding.
Unless Ibblie’s the culprit, Gerald realised. In which case he and I need to have another pointed conversation. In private, this time.
Damp handkerchief strangled in her fingers, Mitzie turned to Bibbie. “Oh, miss, please, you have to believe me. Ferdie didn’t run away. He told me how much he loves working in the kitchen and how one day he’d like to be a ’prentice cook, and I believed him. He was pantry-man here four years, y’know, and there’s not a man alive stays slaving in the pantry with the likes of Cook if it’s not work he’s born to do! And—and he asked me to dance with him tonight, afore everyone to see us, he did. That idn’t a thing a man asks if he don’t have a true care for a girl.”
Gerald met Bibbie’s concerned gaze over the maid’s bowed head. “I’m sure you’re right, Mitzie,” he said, carefully gentle. “So here’s what I’m going to do. I’m going to tell Her Royal Highness, Princess Melissande, all about Ferdie. And then she’ll ask Crown Prince Hartwig to look into his disappearance.”
Mitzie looked up. “Really, sir?” she said, doubtful.
“Really. Princess Melissande has strong views about the way people should be treated. She doesn’t give a fig if you’re a servant or a prince. Isn’t that right, Miss Slack?”
“Quite right, Mister Rowbotham,” Bibbie said promptly.
“But, sir … the Crown Prince?”
“Oh, yes,” said Gerald, firmly squashing his scruples. “Princess Melissande and the Crown Prince are excellent friends.”
“Oh, sir!” Mitzie blinked, awestruck. “Thank you!”
Skewered with fresh guilt, Gerald patted her hand. “You’re welcome.”
“So now you can enjoy the evening, can’t you?” said Bibbie. “Instead of sitting all by yourself in a corner, feeling weepy.”
“Yes, miss, thank you, miss,” said Mitzie. “Only I can’t really, miss, because I’m only allowed an hour upstairs before I have to get back in the kitchens so’s Effie can take her turn kicking up her heels. So I’d best go.” She held out the damp handkerchief. “But thank you.”
Reluctant, Gerald accepted the tearstained square of cotton then watched the kitchen maid out of sight.
“Poor little blot,” said Bibbie.
He frowned at her. “Well? What d’you think?”
“I think,” she said, sighing, “that it’s going to be nearly impossible to find out what Ibblie knows, especially if he’s mixed up in this. Which is starting to look likely. If he was in the stables plotting, and you-know-who overhead him then got discovered, well, of course you-know-who would run away, wouldn’t he? And of course Ibblie wouldn’t lift a finger to find him. The question is would he lift a finger to stab him? Because somebody pushed a knife into you-know-who. But I don’t suppose we’ll be able to find out who did it.”
It was on the tip of his tongue to confess. Confide. Tell Bibbie everything about the entrapment hex, the grimoire magic, why she’d felt what she’d felt when he’d questioned Ibblie earlier. He’d not feel so terribly alone if she knew.
But I can’t tell her. Not yet. Not until I know what it means.
Not until he could be sure she wouldn’t turn away from him in horror.
She was looking at him, one eyebrow quizzically raised. “Mister Rowbotham?”
He forced a smile. “That was good work, Miss Slack, noticing Mitzie was upset about something.”
“Yes, well.” Bibbie rolled her eyes. “The waterfall of tears down her face was what you might call a hint.”
“Don’t dismiss it so lightly,” he said. “My point is, thanks to you we’ve found our first suspect.”
“And much good he does us,” Bibbie muttered. “When he’s untouchable, at least by a lady’s maid and secretary.”
“We can still try,” he said. “And if it doesn’t work, we can get Melissande to question him. But let’s not forget, he’s only a suspect. Ibblie could be completely innocent.”
She snorted. “Nobody’s completely innocent.”
“So young and yet so cynical,” he marvelled.
“You would be too if you’d grown up in my family. And besides, I’m not that young.” Bibbie smiled, her eyes wicked. “I’ll be my own woman soon.”
“At which time the world will tremble,” he said. And then, because her smile was doing dangerous things to his blood, he looked around in search of Mister Ibblie.
Most of the food had been consumed, and the Splotze servants who weren’t condemned to tidying up, and the guest minions from Graff and Blonkken and Aframbigi and Fandawandi and Borovnik and Harenstein and elsewhere, were nibbling the leftovers or dancing or gossiping. But where the devil was Ibblie? Had he left the Servants’ Hall? Because if he’d slipped away, then—
But no. There he was, deep in conversation with the lackeys from Harenstein. Gerald stared.
Is it him? Is he the one?
Ibblie was certainly senior enough, and trusted enough, to be involved in a plot without suspicion. Was he to be included on the wedding tour? That was something to find out. If he wasn’t, then any move he made would need to be either before the wedding party departed Grande Splotze, or after it returned.
And we’re leaving Grande Splotze the day after tomorrow. So that doesn’t leave him much time, does it, if he wants to get his sabotage over and done with?
His nerves, which had been sleeping, leapt to fizzing life. Tonight? If the culprit was Ibblie, would he try something tonight? Surely the timing was perfect. Why would anyone suspect him when he was stuck downstairs presiding over the Servants’ Ball?
Bibbie plucked at his coat sleeve. “What’s the matter?”
“We should circulate,” he said. “We’re not going to learn anything more keeping this tree fern company.”
“That’s true,” she agreed. “I know. Why don’t I tackle Mister Ibblie?”
What? Let Bibbie confront a potential murderer? I don’t think so. “No. If Sir Alec finds out you’re—”
“Oh, pishwash to Sir Alec,” she said, with an airy wave of her hand. “How’s he going to find out? We’re not going to tell him, are we? Besides, Gerald, what’s your plan for tackling Ibblie? Are you going to march up to him and say Excuse me, Mister Ibblie, I was wondering if you had any plans to scupper the royal wedding? Oh, yes, and how are you with a knife? If he’s guilty he’ll lie, and if he isn’t he’ll think you’re a madman and have you thrown out.”
She was right, curse her. Especially since he couldn’t use his newfound compulsion power on the bloody man, not with her watching.
“And I suppose you think you can flirt the answer out of him?”
Bibbie batted her eyelashes. “Why, Mister Rowbotham. If I didn’t know better, I might think you were jealous.”
She was saved from a shaking by the motley musicians, who launched into a sprightly jig.
“I know!” said Bibbie, with the brightness he’d long ago learned to distrust. “I’ll ask Mister Ibblie to dance! He won’t say no, it’d be rude to refuse Princess Melissande’s lady’s maid, and while we’re prancing about I’ll tell him I found Mitzie crying, and that she told me about you-know-who, and then we’ll see what he says about the last time he saw Ferdie Goosen.”
Gerald swallowed. He wished he could forbid it, but since he couldn’t risk lowering his shield she was their best chance of getting some answers. One melting look and Ibblie would surely be butter in her hands.
“All right,” he said, resigned. “You do that, and I’ll have a chat with some of the chaps from Borovnik. Only please, Miss Slack, be careful. This isn’t a game. If Ibblie’s our man that means he’s dangerous.”
“Double pishwash,” said Bibbie, loftily. “How many times do I have to tell you? Stop treating me like a gel!”
If he said what he wanted to say they’d get into a shouting match, so he restrained himself. The effort nearly gave him a hernia.
“Fine,” he said, teeth gritted. “Off you go, then. And make sure you dance him past me a few times. I got a good whiff of those dark thaumaturgics in you-know-who’s lodging, and if I go looking I might smell them on him.”
Bibbie flashed him a Gladys Slack smile that was almost as dazzling as her own. “Yes, Mister Rowbotham. Whatever you say, Mister Rowbotham.”
Hell’s bells, he groaned silently, as she headed for Ibblie. That girl will be the death of me yet.
* * *
Leopold Gertz was a damp little squib of a man. Which was odd, really, considering he was Splotze’s Secretary of State. Surely Hartwig could’ve found someone with more personality for the job?
Honestly, Melissande thought, trying not to listen as he slurped his cream of artichoke heart soup. I can’t believe Hartwig couldn’t have found me someone less dreadful to sit with!
She’d been placed at the far end of the Great Table, with Leopold Gertz ensconced damply at her right hand, and because they were all seated side by side in one long row, there wasn’t anyone to talk to across the table … even if she’d been prepared to commit such a breach of good manners.
Seated with them on the overly decorated dais, displayed like shop window dummies to the whole sumptuous State Dining Room, were Hartwig, Dowager Queen Erminium, Ratafia and Ludwig, of course, the Marquis of Harenstein and his child-bride Marquise, who looked any minute as though she were about to start sucking her thumb—or possibly fall asleep face-first in her soup—and all three Lanruvians. In typical Lanruvian fashion they managed somehow to sit apart, even when neatly sandwiched between Erminium and the marquis.
Curse it. If only Hartwig had sat me next to them. At the rate I’m going I won’t get to say so much as boo to the buggers.
Interestingly, the various dignitaries from Graff, Blonkken, Aframbigi, Ottosland, Fandawandi and Jandria had been relegated to the dining room’s second-best tables. From the look on the Ottish Foreign Minister’s face—what was his name, again? Boggis? Beaver? Something starting with B. Battleaxe, it should be, the glares he was giving Hartwig—it was clearly counted an insult to Ottosland that he wasn’t up there with them on display. And why wasn’t he? she wondered. Was Hartwig punishing the great nation for messing him about?
