Malice at the Palace (16 page)

“So what would you like to do today, Marina?” I asked.

“You promised to take me shopping,” she said. “Let's start with Harrods, shall we?”

“Absolutely. If the car can find its way there in this fog.”

She looked out of the window. “Goodness, it is quite dense, isn't it?” she said, then added, “There's a car pulling up outside now. Is it for us, do you think?”

I went over to look, worried it might be more policemen, which would certainly alarm the others or at least make them suspicious. But instead Marina said happily, “Oh, it's George. How lovely.”

And Prince George himself headed for the front door. The knock was answered promptly, I noticed, and a rather flustered maid came in to announce, “His Royal Highness, the Duke of Kent.”

George came striding into the room looking remarkably jaunty and debonair. “Well, that's what I call a sight for sore eyes,” he said. “The Three Graces.”

“You should have warned us you were coming, George,” Marina said. “We are not yet dressed to receive visitors.”

“Ah, but I'm not really a visitor. I'm a husband-to-be and will soon be gazing upon you in your night attire. Besides, you look absolutely charming.” He went over and kissed her cheek. “I've come to whisk you away, my dear. I'm meeting the decorator at the house and I thought you'd want to see his suggestions for wallpaper before he puts it on the walls.”

“Oh yes, of course.” Marina looked pleased. “But we can't take too long. Georgiana and I have a shopping spree planned for my trousseau.”

“Ah well, we can't get in the way of your buying dainty little things, can we. Just make sure they can be taken off easily.” He gave her a wicked grin.

There was an intake of breath from Irmtraut, and Marina said, “George, we're at the breakfast table, with young ladies present.”

“Sorry, old thing.” He didn't look particularly sorry. “Didn't mean to offend. I promise not to keep you from your shopping too long.”

“You must let me finish my breakfast first and then go and change. I'm not appearing in public unless I'm looking my best. Too many cameras around.”

“Yes, you have become the darling of the press, haven't you?” George said. “I'm pleased they've taken to you so well. The public is glad that at least one prince is doing the right thing. And my brother is glad because it's taking the spotlight off him. So come on. Eat up and off we go.”

“And I'll go and round up my friend,” I said, rising from my seat. “The one who knows all the best places to shop in London.”

“Splendid.” Marina smiled at me. “We'll meet back here at eleven, shall we?”

“And I? What am I to do?” Irmtraut asked.

“Oh, you can come shopping with us, of course,” Marina said as if she'd only just remembered that Irmtraut was in the room with us.

“Shopping is of no interest to me. I do not have money for clothes,” Irmtraut said.

“Then you could go and feed the swans in the Serpentine,” George said. “Or take out a rowing boat.”

Irmtraut looked at him as if he was an imbecile. “In case you have not noticed, there is thick fog. I do not wish to walk through the park in thick fog. I might lose my way or bump into undesirable persons.”

“I always find it quite fun bumping into undesirable persons,” George said, with the hint of a wink to me.

Marina looked out of the window. “The fog is lifting a little. Is that your motorcar outside or do we need to summon a car?”

“No, that's my old banger,” George said.

“A banger—is that not an exploding sausage?” Irmtraut asked and I'm afraid we all laughed.

I
HURRIED UPSTAIRS
to put on my coat and hat, because I realized what a great opportunity I had. Prince George's car was actually outside the front door, and it was foggy so I wasn't likely to be seen. I slipped out into the cold, damp air. The black shape of the Bentley loomed in front of me. I started to inspect it, walking around it carefully. I was bending to examine the front mud guard when a voice asked, “Can I help you, miss?”

I jumped up guiltily to see a chauffeur standing over me. Oh golly, I hadn't thought Prince George would have his chauffeur with him.

“I'm Lady Georgiana, the prince's cousin,” I said, just to establish that I wasn't a deranged stranger. “And I was at dinner at the palace with him the other night when he told us his motorcar had been in an accident. I was on my way out and was curious as to what sort of damage the motorcar might have sustained.”

“An accident, my lady?” He looked perplexed. “The prince was driving himself that night and he certainly didn't mention any accident to me. And I've polished the motor since. There's no damage that I can see. But then these Bentleys are good solid motors, aren't they? It was probably the other vehicle that came away with a dent or a scrape.”

“Yes, I expect so.” I smiled at him then. “I'm glad his lovely motorcar wasn't scratched. Now I must be off to visit a friend.”

And away I went. So there wasn't a mark of any kind on the prince's motorcar. Surely if it had been involved in an accident there would have been some trace—a chip of paint gone, a small scratch at the very least. But the chauffeur would have noticed when he polished the motorcar. So either he was not revealing any damage out of loyalty to his master or Prince George had not been in an accident that night. Which of course made one wonder what else might have made him arrive late at dinner.

I
REALIZED IT
didn't look good for my cousin the prince. Means and motive, wasn't that what they said in the police force? He clearly had both. I realized I should inform DCI Pelham of my suspicions—both about Prince George and about Countess Irmtraut. But I worried that the DCI's approach might be heavy-handed, and I could see the press would have a field day if Prince George was dragged into a police motorcar. That would make newspaper reporters start digging deeper and who knew how much they might find out. At the very least it could upset the wedding plans.

And if he did it? I asked myself. If he really did kill Bobo? Wasn't it my job to help bring a murderer to justice? I sighed. Then I remembered Sir Jeremy. He had given me his card with a personal telephone number on it. He would be the one to tell. And it would be up to him if and when he informed Scotland Yard. I came out of the southern gates of the park and saw a red telephone box glowing through the fog. I went inside and dialed the number. A strange voice answered but when I asked for Sir Jeremy I was put straight through.

“Lady Georgiana—you have something for me?”

“I'm not sure,” I said. “There are two things you should know about.”

“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.

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?”