Malice at the Palace (19 page)

“Ah. You go back to the pond to do fishing, Major.” Irmtraut nodded with satisfaction. “I hope you get a good catch.”

As I left the room I realized I had been laughing. It had been good to break the horrid tension, if only for a moment. And I had a busy day ahead of me with little time to think. That was good too.

“He can take care of himself,” I told myself firmly as I laced up my walking shoes. “He will only have to get in touch with Sir Jeremy and someone will set DCI Pelham straight.” But I still worried. You can't stop loving a person overnight.

WEDNESDAY, NOVEMBER 7

OUT AND ABOUT

Darcy has been arrested. Serves him right. No, doesn't serve him right. I don't want anything bad to happen to him. I know he didn't have anything to do with Bobo's death . . . don't I?

My first task for the morning was to visit Belinda. We needed her tonight if we were to visit Crockford's. And I also wanted to reassure myself that she was all right. I went straight to her mews and hammered on the door, loudly enough to wake the dead. A window opened opposite and an indignant woman looked out, but there was no sign of life from Belinda's place. The feeling of dread rose inside me again. I fished in my pocket and produced her key.

“Belinda?” I called as I shut the door behind me. The house had a cold, abandoned feeling to it. “Belinda, it's me, Georgie.”

I went cautiously up the stairs, not knowing what I might find. On other occasions I would have been scared of finding a strange man asleep in her bed. Today I would have welcomed it. Her bedroom door was closed. I pushed it open, inch by inch. Her bed was made. Nobody in the room. Belinda was not at home. But her wardrobe was open and several hangers had nothing on them. Her slippers were not beside the bed. Also the robe with the feather trim was not hanging behind the door. What's more, her A to Z railway timetable was on the bedside table.

I stared, frowning. It appeared that she had taken a trip. But if she had known she was going away, why hadn't she told me? Why did she agree to come with me to show Marina around London? An impromptu trip then. Maybe summoned home by a family illness? I knew she was fond of her father, but loathed her stepmother. Maybe it was simpler than that. Maybe she had met a man at Crockford's who suggested a rendezvous in the New Forest or a few days in Paris. That sort of thing happened to Belinda. I gave a sigh of relief. I was worrying for nothing. She had gone away. She was quite all right. And wherever she had gone it was none of my business.

I came downstairs, let myself out and locked the door again. Then I set out for Mrs. Preston's flat. I headed behind Victoria Station, down Sloane Street and across the Pimlico Road, and eventually found Cambridge Street coming off Hugh. It was a narrow little road, not nearly as grand as it sounded, and 28 Cambridge Mansions was really just a flat in a dingy building with a stone staircase that smelled of dog. I was rather out of practice for long brisk walks and had to stand on the landing catching my breath before I tapped on her door. It was opened a few inches by a woman with curlers in her hair. A small hairy dog yapped at her feet. Not a person I would immediately have chosen to clean my house if I ever owned one.

“Mrs. Preston?” I asked.

“Who wants to know?” she demanded.

“I'm a friend of Miss Carrington.” I gave her a warm smile. “Can I come in for a minute? It's awfully cold out here.”

“If you must.” She opened the door and led me into a threadbare sitting room, which was almost as cold as the landing had been. She nodded to a chair by an unlit fire. “I always sit in the kitchen myself,” she said. “And I'm out during the day usually so there ain't no point in wasting coke.”

She was a skinny, birdlike woman with sharp features and quick movements and she was still standing with hands on hips, watching me with suspicious dark eyes.

“I'm sorry to be barging in on you like this,” I said. “And I feel rather awkward about doing it, but I've been sent to collect the key to Miss Carrington's flat. They said you still had one.”

“They don't trust me no more?” she demanded. “Me, what's been doing for her for years now?”

“I'm sure Miss Carrington trusts you completely,” I said hastily. “But you know what building managers are like. Always think the worst, don't they?”

“I suppose they do, ruddy lot,” she muttered. “So she don't want me to clean no more, is that it?”

“I'm afraid Miss Carrington isn't going to be living there any longer,” I said. “I don't know the details. It's all rather rushed and confused, but I suspect she may be moving abroad.”

“I'm not surprised,” she said. “She sails too close to the wind, if you ask me.”

“Does she?” I sounded surprised. “In what way?”

“I thought you was a friend of hers.” The suspicious look had returned.

“I live in the country,” I said. “I usually only meet her at house parties and the like. She's a lot of fun, but I can't say I really know her terribly well. But then who does?”

“A lot of gentlemen, if you ask me.” She sniffed. “Too many gentlemen. She's not choosy enough. I told her she'd get in trouble one day, and it's my belief that she did. Of course, she never told me nothing, but I've had seven children and I know what the signs are when someone is in the family way. She said she was going to the Continent, but I says to myself, ‘Rubbish. She's going to have that baby somewhere private.'”

“That's what I suspected too,” I said. “I didn't like to mention it, but now that you have . . . did she ever tell you who the father was?”

Mrs. Preston's gaze became really guarded now. “What are you, one of them newspaper reporters, trying to be all matey-like and worming information out of me?”

“Of course not!” I gave her an indignant stare. “I'm a concerned friend, that's all. I promise you I would never divulge any of this to the newspapers.”

“Well, there's no point in asking, 'cos I don't know. She paid me well to keep me mouth shut,” she said. “When I let meself in in the morning and there was a strange man's head on the pillow I went about me work and didn't see nothing. And I never noticed him slipping out via the service lift either.”

“Oh, there's a service lift.” I nodded. “I thought it would be strange for you to carry up your mops and pails through that very posh foyer.”

She laughed. “Yeah, that would have got me some stares, wouldn't it? No, love, there's a service entrance round the back for the likes of us,
and
for gentlemen who want to slip out without being recognized. I can tell you one who was scared silly when I spotted him. ‘Don't worry, sir,' I said. ‘My lips is sealed.'”

“You're talking about a royal person?”

“Oh no. Nobody like that.” She gave me a knowing wink.

“So tell me, Mrs. Preston,” I said, “did you do everything for Miss Carrington? She didn't have a maid?”

“Well, she used to, didn't she? Quite fond of her, she was. They'd been together for some time and then out of the blue she goes and sacks her. Just like that. I was quite surprised and she never told me why. I can't say I was pleased either. More work for me because she's not the neatest of young ladies. She'd have that place like a pigsty if I wasn't there.” A sad look came over her face. “So I suppose I'm going to be looking for work now. That's not a nice thing to face with winter coming on.”

I immediately thought of Belinda. Mrs. Preston had had great experience at being discreet.

“I might know somebody who would need your services, Mrs. Preston,” I said. “Not too far away, in Knightsbridge.”

“Well, thank you kindly, miss,” she said. “That's good of you. And I'm forgetting my manners. Would you like a cup of tea? The kettle's always on.”

“Kind of you, but I have to be on my way,” I said. “If I could just have those keys?”

“Oh yes. I'll fetch them for you.” She bobbed out into the kitchen, reminding me of a Cockney sparrow. I had stood up when she returned.

“Thank you so much,” I said. “I'll return them to Frederick and they'll let you know if they want you to go back and clean up the place after she's moved out.”

“Right you are, miss,” she said.

“And I'll speak to my friend about you right away,” I said.

“Good of you, miss. You're a real toff,” she said.

I felt awkward and with a bad taste in my mouth as I came out into the street. I had, after all, tricked her out of her keys. But then she would no longer have a job looking after Bobo Carrington, would she? And someone else would have asked for the return of the keys, less politely than I had done. And I might have a new job for her too. Thus reassured, I went around the back of the station to Buckingham Palace Road and hopped on a bus going up to Park Lane. It wasn't that I was too tired to walk. Nobody who has grown up in the Scottish Highlands, walking miles through the heather, would find it daunting to walk in London, but time was now of the essence and I wanted to cram as much as possible into my free morning.

This time I did not present myself to Frederick at the front entrance to Bobo's building. Instead I went skulking around until I found an alley leading past the dustbins to a back way in. What's more, the outer door opened without a key and I found myself in a narrow, dark hallway, facing a small service lift. Up I went and let myself into Bobo's flat without anybody seeing me. I was feeling rather proud of myself. I was going to take my gloves off, but then decided I should leave no fingerprints. I went through the sitting room, finding nothing. In the bathroom I found a syringe and what must have been some kind of drug. But then, the police knew about her habit. I expected they'd found out by now who supplied it to her. I hoped so, as that was certainly something I didn't want to look into. Dealing with drug gangs was out of my league.

I'd managed to put Darcy from my mind until I went through into the bedroom. There was that dressing gown hanging behind the door, thick navy blue wool with his initials on it. And my insides clenched themselves into knots again. Had he been visiting her all the time he'd professed he loved me? And then the second thought—had he gone to her because I had refused to sleep with him? I didn't know whether to be glad the police were now grilling him and giving him an unpleasant time, or frightened that they might really try to pin this murder on him.

I turned my back on that door and forced him out of my mind. I had to work quickly and thoroughly. There was a small modern writing desk by the window. I went through it but it contained nothing revealing. No checkbook. No personal letters. Of course the police had probably taken them away. It was silly of me really to think I could find anything of value here. I was about to walk away from the desk when I noticed the blotter. It hadn't been changed and there was the faintest imprint of writing on it. I lifted it up and carried it over to the mirror. Holding it up, I read with some difficulty:

Mary Boyle, 14 Edward Street, Deptford, London

I wasn't familiar with all parts of London but I was fairly sure that Deptford was not one of the more fashionable parts. Somewhere south of the river Thames, I thought. And I wondered who Bobo would be writing to there. The last letter she had written, presumably, unless the police had removed more recent sheets of blotting paper. Mary Boyle sounded like an Irish name to me and it occurred to me that this might be her former maid, of whom she had seemed to be fond. I wondered if she had dismissed her when she discovered she was pregnant, not wanting anyone close to her at such a time. Or maybe the Irish maid had left her when she threatened to get an abortion . . . and Bobo had written to her to tell her she had changed her mind and was going to have the child. This was all complete supposition. It could equally have been her dressmaker to whom she was sending a check. But it was all worth thinking about.

I copied down the address with a sheet of Bobo's own writing paper. Then there didn't seem anything more to be done. I knew I should get out of Bobo's flat while the going was good. As I was crossing the floor, stepping over Bobo's various piles of discarded clothing, I somehow put my hand through the strap of a brassiere that she had left hanging from her bedpost. I should I have realized that I had been accident free for longer than usual and that disaster was looming. I was jerked off balance, tripped over a dress on the floor and found myself careening across the room. The wall came rushing up to meet me, with one of Bobo's large and rather tasteless paintings directly in my path. The last thing I wanted was to put my hand through the canvas, so I grabbed at the frame. The painting fell. I tried to hold on to it, but I was still off balance and it was heavy. It slipped through my fingers and landed on the floor with an almighty thud.

“Bugger,” I muttered, looking around guiltily just in case anyone had heard such an unladylike outburst. I picked it up and was relieved to see it was more or less intact. When I went to lift it, to put it back in place, I saw why Bobo had chosen to hang it here, on a wall of her bedroom where it could not properly be admired and got no real light. There was a safe behind it. With trembling fingers I tried to open it. Of course the wheels turned on the dial but it remained firmly shut. No wonder she had nothing of interest in her desk, I thought. It was all in here, and it looked very much as if the police had not yet discovered it. Now all I had to do was find a way to open it.