A Royal Affair

by Allison Montclair

  Gwen fished it out of her handbag and tossed it to her. Iris caught it and looked at it closely, then pointed it at Gwen.

  “Stick ’em up!” she snarled.

  “I think playtime is over,” said Gwen wearily.

  “I want to talk to you about that,” said Iris. “The closest we came to getting killed tonight was when you pulled this on him. What were you thinking?”

  “I was thinking that he was going to take the money and keep the letters for himself,” said Gwen. “I saw an opportunity to stop him. I seized it.”

  “You gambled on him not noticing that this was a replica,” said Iris. “And you gambled even more that his reaction would be something other than shooting you.”

  “I didn’t think he wanted to kill us,” said Gwen. “It wasn’t in his eyes.”

  “Your intuition is excellent,” said Iris. “But is it one hundred percent foolproof?”

  “No,” said Gwen. “But I figured my little charade would provide enough time for you to come up with something brilliant and heroic. Which you did.”

  “And if I hadn’t, then he would have shot you dead right in front of me,” said Iris. “And I would be forever wondering what I could have done differently. You can’t put me through that, Gwen. I have enough—There’s blood enough already on my hands. I don’t want any more.”

  “I’m sorry,” said Gwen. “I wasn’t thinking it through properly. I wasn’t thinking at all. It just seemed right, somehow.”

  “Well, it worked,” said Iris, twirling the gun on her index finger. “This is rather a good replica, I must say. Hamleys?”

  “Yes.”

  “What did you get for the birthday boy?”

  “A cowboys and Indians set. With a stagecoach.”

  “Sounds delightful. I hope that he appreciated it.”

  “By all reports, which is to say reports from Ronnie, it was a huge success. He’s invited to play with Tommy again tomorrow.”

  “A great honour, I’m sure,” said Iris, grabbing a sponge to scrub her desk. “Did the invitation extend to his mother?”

  “Not yet,” said Gwen.

  “Then maybe you could devote your quiet time to reading through these letters,” said Iris.

  “I shall sham headache from my night out cavorting with you,” said Gwen. “Our staff knows all about Sunday-morning headaches, thanks to my mother-in-law. I shall rest abed, pampered and isolated. The perfect setting to read someone else’s love letters.”

  “Sounds divine,” said Iris.

  “And you? Will you be observing the Lord’s day, or continuing the investigation?”

  “Both,” said Iris. “I’m going to church.”

  “Really? I was under the impression that you were an atheist.”

  “I am. Atheist—a good Greek word.”

  “We’re back to the Greeks, I see.”

  “Which is why I will be attending services at the cathedral of Hagia Sophia.”

  “The what?”

  “The Cathedral of the Divine Wisdom. St. Sophia. The Greek Orthodox one in Bayswater.”

  “Oh, I’ve been by it, but I’ve never been inside. What’s it like?”

  “Lovely place. Good spot to pick up the local gossip, if one speaks Greek.”

  “Which you do.”

  “Not fluently, unfortunately. I’d be better off having a conversation with Erasmus than someone current, but I do have a smattering of Demotiki. The hometown Greeks, the diplomatic community, and the factions in exile will all show up. Even the Communists, hedging their bets with God. I’ll try and find out if anyone has heard anything about our late friend Magoulias.”

  “You should take Sally.”

  “Sally would be noticed,” said Iris. “I am a small, unobtrusive creature.”

  “Small, yes, but hardly unobtrusive.”

  “Oh, but I can be,” said Iris. “Look, I’m not comfortable leaving the money here now, and I don’t have anywhere secure enough in my flat. Take it with you and put it somewhere safe in that sprawling mansion you call home.”

  “It’s not a mansion, it’s a townhouse,” said Gwen. “The mansion’s in the country.”

  “Pardon me. Can you keep the money and the letters away from prying eyes?”

  “I know a few good spots. I have an idea. Bayswater is just around the corner from Kensington. Why don’t you come by after and visit me during my convalescence?”

  “Could I? Won’t I scandalise Lady Carolyne by bringing my sordid self onto the sacred Bainbridge premises?”

  “That would be a bonus, as far as I’m concerned.”

  “Very well, so long as I don’t end up chasing any leads after services. What excuse shall we make for me to be there?”

  “We’re business partners, Iris. We don’t need an excuse to see each other.”

  “You mean we’ll actually be using the truth,” said Iris. “What a strange idea!”

  Gwen wrung out her sponge and examined the floor.

  “Blood-free,” she pronounced. “I might be ready for that second career as a charlady.”

  “Let’s clear out, then,” said Iris, giving her desk one last swipe. “I’ve had more than enough of this day.”

  * * *

  It was after ten when Gwen came home.

  “Good evening, Percival,” she said, making sure her face was close enough for him to catch the traces of whisky still on her breath. “I’m not feeling altogether chipper. Could you send Millicent up with some bicarbonate of soda? And I don’t think that I shall be up to church in the morning, so please give everyone my regrets.”

  “Very good, Mrs. Bainbridge,” said Percival.

  She walked up the steps, wobbling slightly, which she realised was not just for effect. The eyes of Mr. Magoulias appeared before her, shining up at the ceiling, then lowering to stare accusingly in her direction, She clutched the banister for support.

  “Mrs. Bainbridge?” Percival called after her, concern in his voice. “Do you require assistance?”

  “No, thank you,” she said, steadying herself. “Send Millicent as soon as you can.”

  She made it to the top of the stairs unassisted, then stopped, panting, willing herself not to be sick.

  She failed. She dashed down the hall to the nearest lav, barely making it in time.

  Thank heaven for small favours, she thought when she was done. She rinsed her mouth out thoroughly, ran a cold washcloth over her face, and staggered into the hallway.

  Millie, the upstairs maid, was standing there, a robe over her nightgown, holding a tumbler on a silver salver. It fizzed comfortingly.

  “Rough night, ma’am?” she said sympathetically.

  “Rougher than I thought it would be,” Gwen replied, accepting the tumbler gratefully.

  “Still, good to see you out having some fun, if you don’t mind my saying so,” said Millie as they walked down the hall to Gwen’s room. “It’s been a long time. I suppose there’s some getting used to it again.”

  “There are some things I will never get used to,” said Gwen, drinking the bicarbonate. “Could you ask Prudence to send my breakfast up in the morning? I think I will be lying in tomorrow.”

  “Of course, ma’am,” said Millie, taking the empty tumbler from her. “Shall I ask Agnes to keep Master Ronnie quiet and away?”

  “Oh no,” said Gwen. “No matter how I am feeling, I will always make time for my darling boy.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Thank you, Millie. That will be all. Get yourself some rest.”

  “Yes, ma’am. Good night, ma’am. I hope you feel better in the morning.”

  Gwen stopped by Ronnie’s room and opened the door quietly. He slept, completely unaware of Mummy’s mad adventures. And she would never tell him, of course.

  She stepped inside and sat on the edge of his bed, resisting an impulse to throw herself on him and hold him tight. She restricted herself to stroking his hair, then kissing his cheek softly. He slept on, undisturbed.<
br />
  She slipped out, closing the door behind her, then went into her room.

  She knew of several places in the townhouse where she could secrete the letters and money, but it was late, and she didn’t want to be heard prowling around the premises. Her husband had once shown her where he had loosened a panel in the closet for his secret stashes of whatever things he collected as a child. I tried to hide a frog I had caught in there, he had told her. Didn’t work out so well for the frog. I cried for days, and no one knew why.

  She walked into the closet and felt for the loose panel, then removed it and lit it with her torch, the action summoning up the memory of the dead man once again. No glistening eyes stared at her this time, thankfully. No remains of deceased amphibians, either. The space was empty. She put the Hamleys bag containing the letters and the money inside, then replaced the panel and lined up her shoes in front of it.

  She undressed, put on her nightgown, then turned off the lamp and lay in bed.

  It was her turn to stare up at the ceiling, but eventually the exhaustion overcame her. Her eyes closed, and she slept like a dead woman.

  * * *

  Sparks woke up early and sober, surprisingly undisturbed by any nightmares. She went through her limited wardrobe, selecting a dark brown jacket and skirt that were better suited to cooler weather. She didn’t want to wear black. Someone might think she was a widow, and that would lead to conversations she’d rather not fake. Brown was a good colour for church. Men didn’t flirt with women wearing brown, in her experience. At least, not in church. Not as much, anyway.

  The cathedral was on Moscow Road in Bayswater, about two miles from her flat in Marylebone. It was a pleasant morning—she decided to walk.

  There was no point in getting there early. The orthros, the early morning service, would be going through ten. Her friends who first invited her to join them for services when she was younger told her that nobody worth knowing came for the orthros, only old women dressed in black. Ten o’clock marked the transition from the early morning service to the Divine Liturgy, when the truly observant were joined by the merely devout, while the main body of the congregation would wander in on time for Communion, then socialising and gossip.

  The walk took her half an hour. She paused when she reached her destination to admire the building. The cathedral was neither old nor immense by London standards—a nineteenth-century brick structure that occupied less than a third of the block on the eastern corner—but it was well designed and had largely missed being damaged during the war. The light brown brick walls were broken up by broad horizontal stripes of red, and the broad stone front steps brought one to a set of homey, human-sized doors on either side. The arches over the doors were made of alternating blocks of red and white, giving the whole facade a festive, almost candylike appearance. In all, it presented a welcoming face to those who wished to gain access to the Lord, unlike the judgmental and intimidating gray stones of the other Christian alternatives in town.

  There was a young couple with a pram and a small boy in tow at the base of the steps. The boy, who could not have been more than two and a half, was acting well within the expected parameters of behavior for one of his years, which is to say, he was digging in his heels and refusing to go inside. The father was attempting to placate his son, with limited success, while the mother was trying to pull the pram up the steps on her own. Sparks hurried forwards.

  “May I?” she offered, gesturing to the pram.

  “Oh, please, thanks,” said the woman, sounding harried.

  The two of them carried the pram up the steps, Sparks taking the opportunity to coo at the baby within, who looked back at her suspiciously. When they reached the top, Sparks held the door open. The father by this time had given up negotiations and slung the boy over his shoulder, which did nothing to quiet him.

  “Look, he’s having one of his little moods,” he called up to them. “Go in without me. I’ll catch up when he’s ready to meet God properly.”

  “Fine. I’ll save you a pair of seats,” replied his wife.

  “I can help you with that as well,” said Sparks as the woman wheeled the pram inside.

  “Oh, that would be lovely,” said the woman. “I’m Eleni. That’s Athanasios in the pram—he’s the quiet one.”

  “I’m Iris. Shall we grab some seats over on the side in case Athanasios needs any attention?”

  “There’s four on the right,” said Eleni.

  And now I’m one of the family to any casual observer, thought Sparks as they walked together down the side aisle.

  Sparks took the seat by the right aisle while Eleni picked up Athanasios and carried him to the fourth seat in. She dandled him in her lap, wrinkling her nose and making faces to make the baby giggle. Sparks watched, smiling, her eyes scanning the seats beyond them to see who had shown up.

  She didn’t recognise anyone, but congregants were trickling in, filling the empty seats like pieces in a jigsaw puzzle. Or rather, tiles in a mosaic, she thought, glancing at the decorations of saints and holy scenes on the wall. Mosaics were favoured here, she had once read, because London weather was too damp to sustain frescoes.

  The priest was reading some psalm or other.

  “In your steadfast love, cut off my enemies,” he intoned, “and destroy all my adversaries, for I am your servant.”

  Bloodthirsty enough, thought Sparks. You can always count on David for an appeal to God’s warlike side.

  “In peace, let us pray to the Lord.”

  Peace. They prayed for peace seven years ago, using the very words she was hearing now. And the other denominations prayed for peace in their own languages, in their own way. No doubt they prayed for peace on Sundays in Germany back then.

  When she had declared herself an atheist at Cambridge, she had been following some ostentatious intellectual fad. Look how adorably rebellious I was, she thought with disgust.

  Yet there was a basis for it. Every church she had been to, and she had explored many out of curiosity and—and what? Was she looking for something to soothe her soul? To match her spiritual longings?

  The Right Sort of God?

  Whatever the quest was, it was unfulfilled, and atheism made as much sense as anything. Then came the war. The horrors, the bombings, the betrayals, the deaths, the revelations of atrocities at the end. She may have gone into it mouthing her disbelief in a watchful, just, and merciful deity, but she came out of it absolutely convinced of His nonexistence. Or at least His nonparticipation.

  So, on the many occasions where she found herself at a place of worship—and God only knew how many memorial services there had been—she bit her tongue and focused on the aesthetics of the architecture or the decorations, or listened to the music and criticised the performances, or summoned up her Latin and Greek to translate as the service went along so those mental skills wouldn’t rust through dormancy.

  And she never prayed. Not once. Not really.

  She appreciated the Greek Orthodox service for its theatricality. The entrance of the priest, the opening of the doors, the vesting, the reenactment of the Crucifixion with a loaf of bread, all accompanied by a polyphonic choir “Under the direction of Ernest Moss,” as a placard on an easel proclaimed when she came in. She had heard them often on BBC Radio. They were quite good today, especially with the echoing acoustics of the cathedral supporting them, and she allowed herself to take pleasure in the ancient beauty of the Byzantine chant.

  The priest, now fully vested, took the censer and carried it up and down the aisles. Athanasios watched this portion of the ceremony with awe, his eyes swinging back and forth with the golden container as the smoke rose from it and the bells dangling from its chains tinkled sweetly.

  Maybe religion is just a big rattle, thought Sparks. Something to distract us and keep us quiet.

  She took advantage of the censing to scan the congregation again.

  There. On the other side, settling into a seat. Constantine Torgos. The Greek Intelligenc
e operative who had come to Talbot’s funeral.

  She recognised him immediately, though it had been three years since she had last encountered him. He was in his late fifties, balding, with a thick black mustache under a long, thin nose. He was draping his arm around the shoulders of a younger man, giving the impression of avuncularity, but his expression was anything but affectionate as he poured a stream of urgent whispers into his companion’s ear. The other man began nodding in response, then shook his head in the negative twice.

  That isn’t prayer, thought Sparks.

  A woman sat in the seat behind Sparks, then leaned forwards, tapped her on the shoulder, and whispered, “Slumming, Sparks? Or are you on the prowl for unmarried Greeks? We have our own matchmakers, you know.”

  “Kat! I was hoping I’d find you here,” Sparks said in delight, turning to face her.

  There were shushing noises from nearby. Sparks quieted immediately, but got up and sat in the seat next to the newcomer.

  Katina Kitsiou had worked with Sparks during one of her assignments with the Brigadier before going on to coordinate joint efforts with the Allies and the various factions of the Greek Resistance. Known to her English friends and colleagues as Katty Kit, she was a lively, sharply observant, and witty woman who knew everyone worth knowing and several worth avoiding. She was one of the contacts Sparks had hoped to make in coming, but the Great Litany was starting, so all they could do was clasp hands in greeting, then join in with the “Lord, have mercy” responses when they came up.

  Sparks kept watching Torgos and the other man out of the corner of her eye, but they had succumbed to the formality of the doxology. Katina noticed her attention and glanced across the center aisle.

  “Who have you got your sights set on this time?” she murmured. “Have you finally smartened up and got yourself a Greek boyfriend?”

  “Are there any good ones left?”

  “More than you’d expect. There hasn’t exactly been a rush to return to the homeland since the war ended. Many of them decided they prefer it here, despite the weather and the food.”

  “Oh—it’s the Trisagion hymn,” said Sparks. “Let’s listen. I’ve always liked that one.”