Above the Bay of Angels: A Novel

by Rhys Bowen

  Princess Sophie looked composed and calm when she entered the small sitting room.

  “You wanted me, Doctor?” she asked. “You say there have been further developments in the death of my beloved Wilhelm?”

  “Please do take a seat, Princess,” the doctor said. “All will be made clear, I promise you.”

  As she sat on an upright chair, upholstered in royal-blue silk, she looked across and noticed me, standing off to one side, behind the sofa.

  “What is she doing here? Ah, I understand. You have brought her to make a confession. Excellent. So she did know that the mushroom was poisonous.”

  She gave a nod of satisfaction.

  “Yes, I think we can prove that the death was intentional,” the doctor said. “Shall I ring for some tea? A little refreshment?”

  “No, thank you. Let us proceed. I wish to hear this girl’s confession and see her handed over to the French police.”

  She was sitting very upright, her pale skin above the black gown making her look like a ghost. Her blue eyes seemed unnaturally wide.

  “Or perhaps you would like a chocolate,” the doctor said. He took the box from a side table and placed it in front of her. “I must say they look quite enticing.”

  She had gone, if anything, paler. I heard a little gasp. “Where did you find these?”

  “They were in the count’s room,” the doctor said. “And since he will not be enjoying them any longer, I thought it was a shame to let them go to waste. My Scottish upbringing, you know, has taught me frugality. Do have one.” He took the lid off the box and offered it to her.

  “No, thank you. I am too distressed to eat, and especially could not touch something that had belonged to my dear Wilhelm.”

  “Then I hope you won’t mind if I do,” the doctor said in his most jolly manner. “I must confess to a horribly sweet tooth.” He reached into the box, took out a large chocolate near the centre and brought it up to his mouth. I watched, fascinated.

  As he was about to bite, Princess Sophie cried out, “No, don’t.”

  The doctor looked up, holding the chocolate a few inches from his mouth. “Why not?”

  “Because . . . ,” she began.

  “Because the chocolate has been injected with heroin?” I asked.

  Her look now was pure venom. “How did you know this? You are a servant. What right do you have to poke your nose into the affairs of your betters?”

  “So, Your Highness,” the doctor said, “you do admit that there might be heroin in this chocolate? You stole your cousin Helena’s syringe and her bottle of heroin, and you injected the chocolates?”

  “Only some of them. The big ones in the centre. He was greedy. He always wanted the biggest, the best. I knew he would take them first.”

  “You wanted to make sure that the oleander did its job,” I said. “Just in case he did not eat enough of it.”

  “I had no idea how much oleander it would take to kill somebody,” she said.

  “You were clearly desperate when the gunshot missed its target,” Dr Reid said in his calm, even voice.

  “I—” Her eyes registered surprise and alarm that this, too, had been found out. There was defiance as she stared at us. “What does it matter? There is nothing that you can do. My cousin Victoria will not take a servant girl’s word over mine. She will believe me that the girl killed Wilhelm and tried to plant the blame on me. You’ll see. You will suffer for this.” She said the last words to me with great venom.

  “But she will take my word, Princess,” Dr Reid said. “She trusts me absolutely. And I believe what Miss Barton has said is correct and true. Besides, we both saw you preventing me from eating the chocolate.”

  “Stupid trickery.” Sophie spat out the words. Then she shrugged and actually smiled. “In any case, what do I care? My cousin will not let any scandal get out. She will not risk the reputation of the royal family. She will find me another husband. I will marry and live happily ever after.”

  Who will want to marry you when you have already poisoned one man who displeased you? I thought. It was not my place to say anything. She swept out of the room, her head held high.

  “Well done,” Dr Reid said. “You have a good head on your shoulders, Miss Barton.”

  “I wonder what will become of her,” I said. “Will you tell the queen?”

  “I rather fear that the queen must be told,” he said. “Fortunately, that task will fall to Sir Arthur, not to me. But I also think that Princess Sophie is right. Nothing will be done. The reputation and honour of the royal family must remain intact. I actually pity the girl. To be so desperate not to marry that she resorts to the most violent means. You and I cannot understand what it must be like to be a pawn in an international game of chess.”

  “No, you’re right,” I said.

  He gave me a long, hard look. “At least this means you are off the hook now. Completely exonerated of any misdoing.”

  “I rather fear that inspector from London does not think so,” I said. “I have the feeling he wants to poke and pry into my past until he finds something.”

  “Is he likely to find something?” Dr Reid asked.

  I hesitated. He was a kind man, I was sure. I could tell him. But I couldn’t. “I’ve not done anything criminal or illegal in my life,” I said.

  “That’s what I thought. We’ll make sure he is sent back to London, don’t worry.” He chuckled, as if this was amusing. It wasn’t to me.

  I went back to my room and waited. Still no word from Lady Mary. Perhaps the Waverlys did not like tea, or were not interested in a tea party with her. Or were otherwise occupied. Or were travelling. At the very least, she had promised I could stay with her and she would introduce me as a young cousin. I did have an escape—if I wanted to escape, that was. In truth I was happy in my current position, and I didn’t want to leave it. I was just learning new skills. But I had to ask myself whether I wanted to be a cook all my life. Like Jean-Paul, I could never marry and carry on my profession. No man would ever allow his wife to work outside the home, especially not to all hours in someone else’s kitchen. Would I want to be like Mrs Simms one day—called “Mrs” as a token of respect but having never had a husband or a home of her own? The truth was that I didn’t know. I was young. I had so much to experience, so much to learn yet.

  All I could do was pray that Chief Inspector Raleigh let the whole investigation drop now that the culprit had been found and had confessed. Perhaps he had more important fish to fry in London. One could only hope.

  Another day passed with no news, except that my stricken colleagues came back to the kitchen, looking pale and weak—mere shadows of their former selves. Even Mr Phelps, usually brusque and picky, was extremely polite and grateful to me for every little thing. I was complimented on holding the fort so bravely. I decided to keep the matter of the mushrooms from them. There was no point in their knowing what I had been through.

  I was making a batch of the queen’s favourite German biscuits when suddenly a preposterous idea struck me. I would tell the queen the truth. If she decided to dismiss me, so be it. But if not, she would be a protector with whom no Scotland Yard inspector could argue. I arranged some of the biscuits on a fancy doily, put them on the tray with a sprig of freesias and went boldly up the stairs to the queen’s sitting room.

  I was expecting to encounter the munshi outside the door, but the hallway was deserted. That probably meant that he was in there with her. Did I have the nerve to knock and enter? I stood with my hand poised for a long moment before I whispered to myself, “What have you got to lose, Bella?” and I tapped. The door was opened not by the Indian but by one of the queen’s ladies. “Yes?” she said.

  “I’ve just baked some of Her Majesty’s favourite biscuits, and I thought she might need cheering up at this sad time,” I said.

  The lady frowned at me. “You are a cook?”

  “Yes, my lady. Her Majesty knows me. We have spoken together on several occasions. May I b
ring the biscuits in to her?”

  “You must be the one who—”

  “Was falsely accused of putting a poisoned mushroom into a pie. Yes, that was me,” I said, meeting her gaze with my head held high.

  She looked a little unsure. “I’ll take the tray then, although I don’t think Her Majesty feels like eating at the moment. She has been distressed by the news.”

  “Who is it, Lady Lytton?” the queen’s voice asked.

  “A young woman cook with biscuits,” the lady called back. “Your favourites, apparently.”

  “Ah, my sweet young cook. Have her bring them to me,” the queen said.

  Lady Lytton stepped aside and permitted me to enter the room. The queen was sitting in a rocking chair by the open window, even though the breeze was still quite chilly today. I suspected she might have been dozing, as her spectacles and a sheet of paper were in her lap.

  I crossed the room and went up to her, giving a curtsy before I said, “I made a batch of your lebkuchen, ma’am. I know how fond you are of them, and I thought you might like some while they are still warm.”

  The queen looked up and smiled. “How thoughtful. Yes, I believe I might try one.” Then she looked across at her lady-in-waiting. “Perhaps some tea would go well with these. Would you ask for some to be sent up, Lady Lytton?”

  Lady Lytton curtsied and departed. The queen smiled at me, reached forward and took a biscuit. She ate slowly, savouring as she chewed. “Just how I remember them from my girlhood,” she said. “But you have been through an ordeal yourself, have you not? Sir Arthur apprised me of the whole sorry business. Falsely accused of trying to poison me with a mushroom?”

  I nodded. “Yes, Your Majesty. I told them I would never do anything to harm you, but they didn’t want to listen.”

  She sighed. “Such a sad business. Poor Sophie. To be so desperate that she had to resort to such means. I blame myself, you know. She begged me not to have to marry him. I didn’t listen. I was more intent on political gain, on making sure the empire was on firm footing when I hand it over to my wayward son. I can see Wilhelm would not have made an ideal husband. A rather bombastic young man, vain, probably would have been a bully.”

  “Worse than that, ma’am,” I said. “He made advances to a male member of the household. He told Princess Sophie that he would never bother her again once she produced an heir.”

  “Gracious.” The queen looked quite startled. “That is news to me. I can see why the poor girl was so desperate to escape. That side of marriage I always found so pleasurable. To be denied it . . .” She sighed and took another biscuit from the plate.

  “Your Majesty, there is something else,” I said hurriedly, as I sensed I was about to be dismissed. “I came into your service under false pretences and have lived in fear of being discovered ever since.”

  “What do you mean?” She was frowning at me now. “You are going to tell me you are really a Russian spy?”

  I had to laugh at this. “No, ma’am.” And I told her the whole story. She listened patiently.

  “It seems to me,” she said at last, “that all you did was to make the most of an opportunity. I needed a cook. You supplied one—a rather good one, as it turned out. And nobody is the worse off for it. So what is your real name?”

  “Isabella Waverly, ma’am.”

  “Any relation to the Earl of Altringham?”

  “His cousin, ma’am. I told you before that my parents died. My father made it clear that he had appealed to the family for help and been rejected, so I had no option but to go into service to support my little sister.”

  “Admirable. You have a sense of duty like my own. But I’m surprised at the Waverlys rejecting you.”

  “I didn’t appeal to them personally, ma’am. I was too young at the time to know anything about my father’s family.”

  “I understand they are also on the Riviera. Shall you visit them now, do you think?”

  “Lady Mary Crozier wanted to arrange a tea party for me to meet them, but so far they have shown no interest in such an invitation.”

  “You should be back amongst your own kind,” the queen said. “It is not right to have you working below stairs when you come from a good family. I gather you were instrumental in working out how the count was killed. Sir Arthur was quite complimentary of your powers of observation and deduction. It occurs to me that I could always use you as my spy.” She gave me an impish little smile. “What would you say to that?”

  “Your spy, ma’am?”

  “Yes. You’d be a member of my household and keep your eyes and ears open for anything that I should need to know.”

  “I’m flattered, but I enjoy cooking, ma’am.”

  She looked offended. “I’m offering you a chance to move into the right circles, you silly girl. You’d be one of my ladies, with a chance to meet men of the right social standing. And you’d be doing me a service, too.” She paused. “I could order you to, you know.”

  “I’m aware of that, ma’am,” I said. “And I have no wish to upset you. I realize you are being extremely kind to me, and it’s a wonderful offer.”

  “But?” She wagged a finger at me. “You’d prefer slaving away over a hot stove to becoming one of my ladies?”

  “As strange as it may sound to you, yes, I think so. If word got out that I was your spy, I’d be mistrusted and avoided everywhere I went. Also, your ladies spend a lot of their time with nothing constructive to do. I have been working hard for so long now that I’d find it strange to be unemployed.”

  She actually patted my hand. “You and I are kindred spirits. I have worked every day of my life since the age of eighteen, when I became queen. I have read the dispatch boxes dutifully every day, made sure I knew what was going on in my government and in the world so that I could properly advise my ministers. They haven’t always thanked me for it, of course.” And she smiled again. “Very well, I accept your refusal, reluctantly. I, too, need someone to be on my side, strange though it may seem. And now that dear Abdul has gone . . .”

  “Your Indian servant, is he indisposed?”

  “He is gone,” she said in a flat voice. “One of the reasons I have been feeling so depressed. I miss him. I was forced to send him away, you know. My gentlemen have been pressuring me for some time, trying to convince me he was unsuitable. I thought it was mere jealousy and prejudice against a lesser race . . . but it turns out they may have been right. It seems he has been meeting with a man who is engaged in trying to drive the British from India. Actively working against us! Abdul claimed this man was just a friend, but he has had access to my papers—to the most confidential secrets of the realm. I saw that I could no longer take the risk, for the sake of the empire. So I had to send him away.” She paused, staring out of the window. The breeze had become stronger, swirling out the net curtains. I went over and shut it hastily.

  “It pains me,” she said. “He had become a special friend. A queen has few friends.”

  “But you have your family, ma’am. Your ladies and gentlemen, all of whom are very fond of you.”

  “That may be so, but he was different. He didn’t stand on protocol. He scolded me when I needed scolding. He teased me. Made me laugh. Made me feel like a woman, the way my dear John Brown did. And my beloved Albert before him.” She looked up at me. “I enjoy the company of handsome young men. Is that so foolish at my age?”

  I smiled. “Not at all, ma’am. You have lived a life bound by duty. You deserve any happiness you are offered.”

  She examined me for a long moment. “You are a sweet child,” she said. “You shall come and chat with me when you bring up my special biscuits.”

  “I shall be honoured, ma’am,” I said. “I should leave you and return to my kitchen. Is there anything special you might want for your dinner tonight?”

  “I don’t have much of an appetite,” she said, “which is unusual for me. Some fish, I think. And maybe a fowl. But probably no mushrooms.” She saw my worried fac
e, then she chuckled.

  CHAPTER 36

  “It never rains, but it pours” was one of my father’s favourite sayings. In his case it usually referred to misfortune or misery. In my case it was quite the opposite. All of a sudden, a burden had been lifted from my shoulders. The queen wanted me to be her spy—not a job I would ever have taken. Imagine the suspicion and distrust amongst the other ladies of the household if they thought I was listening to conversations and reporting back to the queen. And Lady Mary Crozier wanted to take me under her wing. Also my position as cook was safe at last. I wondered if I should tell my story to the other cooks and change my name. All in good time. I’d have to think of the right way to do it. But it was all rather heady for someone who had felt herself an outcast and unloved for so long.

  And as my father also said, “Good things come in threes.” That very day I received an invitation to tea with the Marquise de Crozier. I told Mr Angelo that I would be gone for the afternoon.

  “Tea with a marquise,” he said, raising an eyebrow. “My, we have moved up in the world while I’ve been away.”

  I realized as I went to change that I hadn’t asked his permission. I had announced my plans to him, and he had not queried them. Somehow our relationship had changed now that I had handled the entire kitchen. There was a new layer of respect and gratitude. I just hoped it lasted. I thought about this as I made my way down to Lady Mary’s villa that afternoon. I had choices now. Did I want to stay in the palace kitchen, where it would be years before I was promoted to anything above an assistant cook? Had I learned enough to make my own way in the world? Or should I really consider one of the offers that had been made to me . . . was it finally time to return to my proper status? It was a hard decision, and I realized that Giles Waverly might have something to do with it.

  Lady Mary greeted me warmly as I was shown into the sitting room. The two men who had been sitting there rose to their feet. Giles Waverly gave me a delighted and surprised smile, and I realized that Lady Mary had not told them I’d be joining them. The older man, who I presumed was the earl, bore a striking resemblance to my father. The same fine bone structure and strong jaw, the same deep-set eyes, although the earl was now quite portly, and my father had remained painfully thin.