Royal Flush

by Rhys Bowen

  I broke off and shook my head. If there really was one person causing these accidents then he certainly didn’t mind taking frightful risks. How could an outsider have been able to tamper with the girth on the prince’s pony or with the wheel of his car? The answer, of course, was what Sir Jeremy suspected—not an outsider. One of us. As improbable as it seemed, someone staying at Castle Rannoch must have tampered with that loo. I went upstairs and examined it. Unfortunately there was now nothing to see. The maids had done a good job of cleaning up, and apart from the lack of a tank, the room looked perfectly ordinary. In any case it wouldn’t have been hard to have made the tank unstable enough so that a good yank on the chain would have brought it down.

  I went along the hall to Binky’s bedroom. Fig was sitting with him, watching him while he ate a boiled egg. He looked up as I came in.

  “Dashed funny business, Georgie,” he said. “Have you ever heard of a lavatory tank falling off the wall onto anybody?”

  “Never,” I said, “but then I don’t think it was an accident that it fell. I think that maybe someone tampered with it.”

  “Why would anyone do that?”

  “I have no idea. But why would you step on a trap? Why would the rope snap when I was climbing?”

  “Are you trying to say that these were all deliberate?” Fig demanded. “How utterly beastly. Who would do such a thing?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “I’m as much in the dark as you are. None of it makes sense.”

  “You don’t think those cousins of yours think that this kind of thing is funny, do you?” Fig demanded. “Remember the time they took that pig dressed up as a baby, into church, and tried to have it christened?”

  “There’s a difference between high spirits and mean spiritedness,” Binky said. “Any of these accidents could have killed someone. They may have killed someone. Have we heard any news on the American woman this morning?”

  “Improving, thank God. She woke up before the ambulance reached the hospital, but they are keeping her there for observation.”

  “Well, that’s good news, isn’t it? Will they be coming back here?”

  “I believe they have decided it is safer to stay in a hotel,” Fig said with what could only be taken as a triumphant look. It did cross my mind to wonder whether she might have tampered with the lavatory tank in her desperation to get rid of unwanted guests.

  “So our little house party is dwindling,” Binky said. “Is the Simpson woman going to stay on?”

  “As long as the Prince of Wales is within driving distance,” I said.

  Binky grinned. “And how about you, old bean? I hear you had quite an ordeal yesterday. Fully recovered?”

  “Oh yes, thank you. It was rather frightening at the time. I thought I’d had it.”

  “I should speak to Harris about not checking those ropes.” Harris was the head gillie. “After all, it’s his job to make sure they are sound.”

  “But Prince George brought the rope with him from Balmoral,” I said. “I’m going over there today, if I can have a car.”

  “Don’t see why not, do you, Fig?”

  She tried to come up with a good reason why I couldn’t use her petrol, but in the end she had to nod. “No, by all means. Go and join the shoot. It will do you good. I’d go too if I weren’t stuck here as hostess.”

  “And Binky, there’s one other thing.” I paused near the doorway. “This Hugo Beasley-Bottome. Tell me about him.”

  “Not much to tell,” Binky said. “He was a new boy in my house at school when I was prefect. A skinny little runt at the time. Got bullied a lot so I stepped in. He was dashed grateful. But I haven’t seen anything of him since I left school. I was surprised when he wrote and asked to come and stay, but one can’t say no to a fellow old boy.”

  I went back to my room to change into something suitable for Balmoral. A skirt in the Rannoch tartan (rather disgusting mixture of red, yellow and brown) and white blouse. On my way to the garages I sought out Harris, our head gillie. He was an old man with a shock of white hair and skin like brown leather, and he was busy sorting out fishing tackle.

  “Would you take a look at this,” he said, holding up a reel of twisted line to me. “The mess they make of things. You’d think they’d never fished in their lives before.”

  “They probably haven’t,” I said. “I wanted to ask you about the rope that broke on the climb yesterday.”

  “Aye, I heard about that,” he said, nodding seriously. “Verra nasty business, my lady.”

  “It was. Did you have the rope stored here overnight?”

  “No rope ever went out from this place,” he said. “I don’t know who put together the equipment for yon climb, but it was not I.”

  I thanked him and went to find a car. Our chauffeur had gone with the shooting brake so I helped myself to the estate car rather than the Bentley. I hadn’t driven in months and I relished the freedom of sitting behind the wheel, driving along the familiar lanes with the windows down and the fresh breeze blowing in my face. There was no sign of activity at the dock today. It was still misty in places and I assumed that some of the group had been invited to take part in the shoot. Max, for one. When I came to a straighter piece of road at the far end of the loch, I put my foot down and felt the rush of excitement as the car picked up speed.

  Obviously I was going a little too fast, but as I came around a sharp bend, I encountered a car going even faster. I was only conscious of a long, sleek shape hurtling directly at me. I swung the wheel. My car went up the bank, teetered, almost tipped over then righted itself again. I came to a stop with my heart pounding only to see the sports car speeding away in my rearview mirror.

  “Bloody fool,” I shouted after him as he disappeared into a patch of mist. Yes, I know a lady never uses the word “bloody” but this was a moment of extreme stress. Besides, only the Highland cattle were around to hear me and they’d never tell. Then the mist swirled and I got a good look at the driver as he sped away along the lochside. It was Paolo, driving alone.

  Of course my thoughts now ran riot: had he come at me deliberately, or was he just driving too fast in his usual reckless manner? I couldn’t come up with any good reason for Paolo wanting to kill me, but I found my thoughts straying to Ronny’s maid, who had been run down by a motorcycle at Croydon Aerodrome. Was that also Paolo and had he not even bothered to stop then? And of course it did occur to me that Paolo was just the kind of risk-taker who could have carried out the various things that had happened to us. But why would a rich Italian count wish harm on the British royal family?

  I wondered whether I should say anything to Belinda. She was my best friend and Paolo seemed in every way unsuitable—not only was he a reckless driver with an obsession for speed, but he was also engaged to someone else. I didn’t want her to be hurt, but then, women in love don’t want to hear anything bad about the object of their affection, do they? If I said anything I’d have to be careful.

  I drove on, considerably more cautiously than before, until I came to the main gate of Balmoral. The gatekeeper came out of his funny little octagonal lodge, then recognized me and saluted as he opened the gate. I nodded graciously as I passed. The driveway took me through lush woodland, so much in contrast to the starkness of the bleak moorland around Castle Rannoch. Then the road emerged again and there was Balmoral Castle across its broad expanse of lawn. It looks like any other old and distinguished Scottish castle, with its dramatic towers and ivy covering, but of course, it’s a complete fake, having been built in the 1850s for Queen Victoria. If I’d built something, I would have gone more for comfort and elegance and less for authentic castle feeling.

  I drove around to the back of the castle and under the arch that led to the stables and various outbuildings. I parked in-conspicuously and went to look for one of their gillies. Of course, I realized instantly that all the available men would be out acting as beaters for the shoot, so I took the opportunity to do some snooping around. I discov
ered various tack rooms and saw other ropes hanging in neat coils. From the ease with which I had gained entry, it became clear that almost anyone could have wandered in without being seen—if they had gained admittance to the estate, of course. But then if someone had come on foot over the hills, as opposed to the road, he could probably have found a way onto the estate, again without being spotted.

  I checked some of the other ropes and they all seemed to be in perfect condition, and I remembered that Siegfried had said that he and Prince George had also laid out the rope to see how long it was, and hadn’t seen any defects. Wouldn’t they have noticed if someone had almost cut it through at one point? Did this then indicate that the damage had been done after the rope reached Castle Rannoch, the night before the climb, in fact?

  I had no way of finding out. I gave up and went to pay my respects to Their Majesties, King George and Queen Mary. As I came out into the stable yard I heard the sound of children’s voices, and there were the two little princesses, holding hands with a woman I supposed to be their governess. They looked up in surprise and then the older princess’s face broke into an enchanting smile. “I remember you,” she said. “You’re our cousin Georgiana, aren’t you?”

  “I am. And you are Lilibet and this is Margaret.” I smiled back at them.

  “You have to say Princess Margaret,” the three-year-old said, wrinkling her little nose, “because I’m a princess.”

  “In which case you have to call me Lady Georgiana,” I replied, trying not to smile.

  She looked perplexed at this. “Is a lady better than a princess?” she asked her governess.

  “One hopes a princess will grow up to be a lady someday,” the governess replied solemnly.

  “Oh,” Margaret said and fell silent.

  “We’ve been to visit our ponies,” Elizabeth said. “We take them treats.” Suddenly her face lit up. “I know. We can go riding together. When I’m with the groom he won’t let go of my bridle and we have to walk slowly, but now that you’re here I can go out with you and we can gallop.”

  “I don’t mind,” I said. “If your parents agree.”

  “I’m sure they’ll agree. You’re our cousin. So when can we go?”

  “Not today,” I said. “I have to pay a visit to your royal grandmamma.”

  “Everyone’s gone out shooting,” Elizabeth said, “but I don’t think Grandmamma went with them. She doesn’t like all that noise. I feel sorry for the dogs, don’t you? I bet they don’t like the sound of the shooting. Dogs have very sensitive hearing, you know.”

  “I’m sure they get used to it,” I said.

  “You have to come and see our new corgi puppy. He’s beautiful.” The princess’s eyes were shining.

  “I will, I promise.”

  “And now we must go and wash our hands before lunch,” the governess said, nodding to me. “And we mustn’t hold up Lady Georgiana any longer.”

  The girls looked back wistfully as I parted from them. I watched their progress, wondering if they could be in any kind of danger and whether anyone was watching over them. Whom could I tell? Where would I find Sir Jeremy’s man?

  I found the castle bathed in sleepy silence. The chiming of a clock in a distant room was the only sound as I stood on the tartan-carpeted floor and wondered where to go next. Then I thought I heard the murmur of voices coming from a hallway to my left and I headed in that direction, past the watchful gaze of black marble sculptures—Balmoral being more ornate in its decoration than Castle Rannoch. The voices were coming from an open doorway to my left and I knocked before going in. Her Majesty was seated at a table in a big bay window, apparently writing letters. Several older women sat in a group around the empty fireplace, chatting. Their conversation broke off as I came in.

  “Georgiana!” The queen sounded surprised. “I had no idea you had arrived. We weren’t expecting you until next week.” She sounded a trifle vexed. She was a person who did not like to be taken off guard.

  “I came up to Castle Rannoch because of my brother’s accident, ma’am,” I said. “I couldn’t leave my sister-in-law to entertain a house party alone.” I went over to her and attempted the usual combination of kiss on the cheek and curtsy, as usual getting this wrong and bumping my nose against the royal cheek. “So I felt I should come over and pay my respects as soon as I settled in.”

  “I’m glad you did, my dear.” She patted my hand. “You will stay for luncheon, I hope. It’s not the most stimulating of gatherings, I’m afraid. Everybody’s gone off to shoot except for us elderly females.”

  “Thank you, ma’am. I’d be delighted to stay.”

  The queen looked over at her ladies. “You know young Georgiana, don’t you? Henry Rannoch’s girl? Lady Peebles, Lady Marchmont, Lady Ainslie and Lady Verian.”

  Four serene and elderly faces smiled at me.

  The queen patted the seat next to her. “And how is your poor brother faring? What an extraordinary thing to have happened. My son George told us all about it.”

  “He seems to be improving, thank you, ma’am.”

  “That is good news. Such a strange summer. The king hasn’t been at all well. He’s looking so much better since he’s been up here in the fresh air. I just hope the shoot won’t be too much for him.”

  A gong summoned us to luncheon. I followed the queen and her ladies into the dining room. As we walked down the hallway, I wondered how I could find out exactly who was staying at Balmoral. The servants would know, if I could slip off unobserved for a chat.

  Luncheon was, as usual in royal circles, a rather heavy meal. The king was fond of good solid English food, so we had mulligatawny soup, followed by steak and kidney pudding, followed by a rather grand version of bread pudding with custard. Feeling somewhat replete, I went with the ladies back to the sitting room.

  “I think we might drive up to see how the shoot is progressing, don’t you?” the queen suggested. “I want to make sure that the king is not overtaxing himself.”

  A shooting brake was ordered. We bumped along a track through some leafy woodland and then up a steep hillside until the vehicle could go no farther through the rocks and heather. Then we got out and walked, following a narrow track through the bracken. It was still misty and the grouse moor ahead loomed like a ghostly shape as the breeze parted the mist then drove it in again.

  “They can’t have been too successful today,” the queen said, turning back to us. “How do they expect to see birds through this mist? I don’t hear any shooting going on, do you? I hope everything’s all right.” She strode ahead with Lady Ainslie while the rest of us followed.

  “It’s touching to see how concerned she is about the king, isn’t it?” Lady Marchmont muttered, drawing closer to Lady Peebles. “Did you ever see a couple so attached to each other?”

  “Especially since she was supposed to marry his brother,” Lady Peebles replied. “I must say she changed her allegiance rather rapidly.”

  “Well, wouldn’t you, given the choice?” Lady Marchmont retorted.

  I was close enough to overhear this little exchange, and turned back to them. “I remember hearing about that,” I said. “The Duke of Clarence, wasn’t it? What exactly happened? He died, didn’t he?”

  “Right before the wedding.”

  “How tragic.”

  “Oh no, my dear,” Lady Peebles said. “It was a great blessing for everyone. A great blessing for England. He would have made an awful king—so lacking in moral fiber. He was a completely dissolute person, an embarrassment to the family.”

  Lady Marchmont nodded. “There was that scandal with the homosexual club, wasn’t there?”

  Lady Peebles shot her a glance, warning that such matters probably shouldn’t be discussed in front of my delicate ears.

  “She probably doesn’t know anything about that kind of thing,” Lady Marchmont said, dismissing me with a wave of her hand. “I know I didn’t at her age. No idea such creatures existed. I remember someone saying that one of my
suitors was a ‘pansy boy’ and I thought that meant he was keen on gardening.”

  I laughed with them.

  “So was the Duke of Clarence really a homosexual?” I asked.

  “I suspect he was AC/DC,” Lady Marchmont said. “They say he couldn’t keep his hands off the maids, and there were rumors of visits to prostitutes. . . .”

  “I’ve even heard it suggested that he was Jack the Ripper,” Lady Peebles said with a disparaging sniff, “although that’s simply out of the question.”

  “But I suspect the rumors about prostitutes are true enough. And there were enough tales of drugs and drink. No, I think Her Majesty had a lucky escape. He would have led her a frightful dance. King George may be a boring old stick, but at least he’s dependable. And he clearly adores her. And England is in good hands.”

  “How did the Duke of Clarence die?” I asked.

  “Flu epidemic,” Lady Peebles said shortly. “Almost as bad as the big one of 1918. I remember clearly because I was a young girl” (she pronounced it “gell”) “at the time, and due to be presented at court that year, but my parents put it off until the next season because they didn’t want to risk bringing the family up from the country. I was most disappointed. I couldn’t understand what all the fuss was about with a simple influenza. Of course we now know that influenza isn’t always that simple.”

  “I heard a rumor that he didn’t die at all,” Lady Marchmont said in a low voice. “The story went around that he was being kept a prisoner in an insane asylum.”

  “What utter rot,” Lady Peebles said hotly. “My father attended the funeral himself. And don’t ever let Her Majesty hear you repeating that kind of street gossip.”

  She stopped talking as we heard the sound of dogs barking up ahead.

  “Ah, there they are.” The queen turned back to us with a nod of satisfaction. She quickened her pace. For an older woman she could certainly stride out wonderfully. “I expect they’ve seen us,” she added because someone was coming toward us. He was running very fast and the way he almost barreled into us made it clear that he hadn’t seen us until then nor was he expecting to meet anyone on the path.