Malice at the Palace (23 page)

“I am going to follow up on one thing,” I said. “There was an address on her blotting paper. A Mary Boyle in Deptford. I wondered if it might be her maid. I was told she'd had a maid and dismissed her. But I was also told she was fond of her.”

Darcy shook his head. “I don't remember her maid being called Mary. And what might you discover from the maid?”

“Who was the father of her child, perhaps. Surely that's one of the key factors, isn't it? Someone who has a lot to lose . . .” My thoughts went to Sir Toby. “Sir Toby Blenchley,” I said. “I was told she was linked to him for a while. He'd have everything to lose if it came out that she'd had their child.”

“Don't you dare try to follow up on that,” he said. “Leave it to me. He's the sort of man who doesn't always play by the rules.”

“So he might have killed her to keep her quiet?”

“He'd have had someone else kill her. Sir Toby wouldn't do his own dirty work. Presumably the police have established her movements on the evening she was killed—whether she had any visitors at her flat, where she may have gone in a taxicab . . .”

“There is a night doorman at her block of flats. I haven't questioned him but I expect the police have. It's hard to ask the questions if we can't tell anyone it's part of a murder investigation,” I said. “They just think we're being nosy.”

“I realize that.” He looked up. “Oh damn. We've already reached Kensington Palace and I've wasted the whole time with you on talking.”

“Where can I find you?” I asked as the taxicab driver came around to open the door.

“I know where to find you now,” he said. “I'm staying here and there, but I'll bring you a telephone number.” He clambered out after me. “And if there is an emergency before I see you again, telephone Sir Jeremy. Do you have his number?”

I nodded.

“Good. He can track me down.”

“Good night, then.” I stood there looking at him, thinking how much I loved him and wanted him.

“Remember, I'll be keeping an eye on you, so no stupid heroics about tackling drug dealers, all right?”

“I promise. No drug dealers.”

“Good night,” he said. Then he took me into his arms and kissed me. I reacted as a band of light fell onto us. I looked up. Irmtraut was standing at her window, holding back the curtain and staring down at us.

THURSDAY, NOVEMBER 8

Rushing around, but with a smile on my face.

Miraculously Queenie had stayed up to undress me.

“Your brassiere is undone at the back,” she commented. “You've been having a bit of the old how's yer father.”

“Maids are not supposed to comment on their mistress's behavior,” I said primly. “Your job is to help me off with my clothes.”

She chuckled. “Looks like someone's already tried to do that for you.”

I slept much better that night, knowing that Darcy was nearby and all was right again—at least for us. Not for Bobo Carrington.

And in the morning I was up and ready for a busy day ahead. I was going to make the most of Princess Marina being occupied with fittings and greeting her parents. I didn't wait for breakfast to be put out, but contented myself with a cup of tea and two digestive biscuits, then off I went. I didn't often move about London at this early hour and soon realized that this was the time that people went to work. The Underground was packed. Crowds streamed out of London Bridge Station ranging from city gents with bowler hats and rolled umbrellas to typists wearing a little too much makeup. I was going the other way, out of the City, so the train I took to Deptford was quite empty. We rattled through one depressing row of backyards after another with gray washing hanging limply on clotheslines, narrow grimy streets with mothers scrubbing front steps or walking skinny children to school. It was horrid to think that some people lived in such drabness and grime. I had felt hard up sometimes myself, but I had never had to endure the ugliness of this sort of life. As Darcy had said, to some people my winnings would be wealth beyond their wildest dreams. I resolved that if and when I was a lady of means, I would do all that I could to help the poor.

I alighted from the train at Deptford Station, asked for Edward Street and was given directions. I followed a long high street on which shops were now opening, greengrocers were arranging vegetables and early housewives were shopping for the evening meal with toddlers clinging onto a pram. At last I came to Edward Street, a narrow backwater with two grimy rows of identical houses facing each other, and it was only then that I realized I had thought out no good reason for visiting Mary Boyle. I could barge in, asking questions about Bobo, but I'd appear rude and inquisitive and she'd probably tell me nothing. I could perhaps say I was looking for a maid myself and Bobo had recommended her. But that wouldn't be fair if she was unemployed. I shouldn't raise her hopes falsely. I could be from a newspaper writing an article on Bobo Carrington. . . . I toyed with that idea. Since Bobo had been featured regularly in newspapers and magazines this would not seem too strange. But then again she might decide to tell me nothing out of loyalty to her former employer.

As I stood on that doorstep and knocked on the door I decided to play it as safe as possible.

“Are you Mary Boyle, by any chance?” I asked when the door was opened. She was older than I had expected, with a fresh, distinctly Irish-looking face, and her eyes darted nervously.

“Yes, I am Mary Boyle. What might this be about?”

“It's about Bobo Carrington,” I said. “I've been trying to locate her and I wondered if you might have news of her.”

“Oh, and why should I do that?” she asked. Her Irish accent was still strong.

“Because I was in her flat and I saw your address on her blotting paper, so I knew she must have written to you recently.”

“And why would you be wanting to find Miss Carrington?” she asked.

I smiled hopefully. “Do you think I could come in? It's awfully cold on the doorstep and I'm sure you're letting cold air into the house.”

“All right. Come in if you must,” she said, “but there's not much I can tell you. She moves around as she pleases. If she's out of town then she's off to stay with friends.” She led me through to a cold front parlor. The fire had not been lit but it was neat and tidy enough, making me feel that it probably was only used for visitors such as myself. “Now why did you say you were looking for her?” she repeated. “You're not one of those reporters, are you?”

“Oh good heavens no.” I gave my carefree little laugh. “Bobo and I used to be friends once. I've been out of the country in America so when I returned I tried to look her up. But apparently nobody's seen her.”

“Nobody's seen her?”

“No. She seems to have vanished into thin air. So I'm trying anybody I can think of who might know where she is.”

Even as I said this I felt terrible. If she had indeed been fond of Bobo, she'd be heartbroken to know that Bobo was lying in the morgue right this moment.

“Have you asked at her flat? The doorman would know,” she said.

“I did ask him. He said he hadn't seen Miss Carrington for the past few days. And other people told me they hadn't seen her all summer.”

“Ah, well, I do happen to know she was away for a while at the end of the summer,” she said.

“Oh, did she go to the Continent again? I bumped into her there a couple of years ago but friends said they hadn't seen her there recently.”

“No, I think she went to the seaside. Nice healthy air.”

“You know her well, do you?” I asked.

“I do.”

“And you're fond of her.”

“I am.”

“Then I wondered, could something be wrong? I wrote to Bobo and she never answered my letter. That's not like her, is it? And we were such good friends at one time.”

“She wasn't too well for a while. I can tell you that much,” she said. “But now everything's fine again. And she should be out and about, and I'm sure you'll catch up with her soon enough.”

I was dying to tell her that I knew about the baby. I was trying to think of a way I could ask if she knew who the father was.

“So tell me.” I leaned forward. “What does she think about Prince George getting married? I mean, we all knew that she and the prince were . . . quite close . . . at some stage.”

Her expression became guarded. “Are you sure you're not one of those reporters? What do you really mean, coming here and asking me all these questions? You'll get nothing more out of me.”

“I meant no harm, honestly,” I said. “And I'm not any kind of reporter. I was just concerned, that's all. It's not like Bobo to vanish completely from London society.”

I had been looking around the room as we spoke. My gaze had focused on the mantelpiece. I decided to act. I stood up. “I won't trouble you any longer, Mrs. Boyle,” I said. “But I wonder—you don't happen to have the kettle on for tea, do you? It's icy cold out there today.”

“I do.” She said it grudgingly. “I'll get you a cup.”

The moment she left the room I made for the mantelpiece and picked up the postcard. It was a picture of the south coast.
Greetings from Worthing-on-Sea.
I turned it over and read,
Everything fine. Don't worry. Home soon. Kathleen.
And the postmark was not Worthing but Goring-by-Sea. I only just managed to return it to its place before she brought me the cup of tea. It was extremely strong and sweet, but I drank it with an expression of enjoyment, then put it down on the nearest table. “I'll be off, then. I'm so sorry to have bothered you. If you do hear from Bobo, please tell her I've been trying to get hold of her. My name's Belinda Warburton-Stoke.”

“As I said, she's back in London, as far as I know. Back at her old place. You'll see her soon enough.”

“And she is still trying to survive without a maid?” I said. “Why is she doing that?”

“I gather the last girl didn't prove satisfactory. And it's easier just to have someone come in and clean. Less complicated, if you know what I mean.”

“Yes, I can see that.” I nodded. “Well, thanks awfully, Mrs. Boyle.”

I felt her watching my back as I walked down the street. Actually my head was buzzing, and I almost turned the wrong way onto the high street. She had said that Bobo had been to the seaside for the good fresh air. The postcard had come from Worthing on the south coast. And it had been important enough to Mary Boyle to keep it on her mantelpiece for two months. But it had been signed
Kathleen
. And I realized something else. As I came down the dark and narrow hallway in her house I had glimpsed something standing behind the stairs. It was a pram.

A postcard from the south coast. And I remembered the two women at the party talking about that place on the south coast where one went to take care of unfortunate occurrences. Was it just possible that Bobo Carrington's real name was Kathleen? In which case was Mary Boyle a relative and not her maid after all? Didn't she say that the last girl had proved unsatisfactory? That seemed to indicate she had never acted in that capacity herself. And she was older than I had expected. I stood on the street corner, finding it hard to breathe with excitement. Those women had speculated that Bobo wouldn't have had an abortion because she was Catholic. Was it possible that Mary Boyle was her mother? In which case that pram in the front hall might actually mean that she was looking after the baby. I was tempted to stake out the house and see if she came out later with the pram, but I knew that my time was precious and limited and I wanted to accomplish as much as possible.

Should I go to see if Granddad had located his safecracker yet, or—I took a deep breath at this daring thought—should I go down to Worthing myself and see if I could locate the place where Bobo had gone? I wasn't quite sure what this might accomplish, but perhaps I'd find out when she'd had the child and possibly secure details of the birth certificate. If I didn't succeed in this, then at least Sir Jeremy could see if one Kathleen Boyle had filled out a birth certificate recently and whether she had named the father.

I was brimming with excitement as I went back to the station, took the train to London Bridge and from there the Underground to Waterloo. I knew that a train to Worthing would take me an hour or more, but I did have the whole day ahead of me. I was in luck as a train to the south coast was due to leave in ten minutes. I bought my ticket, then sprinted over to the platform just as doors were slamming and the guard was shouting “all aboard.” I settled myself in a ladies-only carriage and soon I was steaming southward in the company of two middle-aged matrons who gossiped nonstop about the failings of the new vicar who was too High Church for them and had even introduced incense. They got out at Horsham and I was alone for the rest of the journey.

When we reached Worthing I asked for directions to Goring-by-Sea at the ticket office.

“It's about two miles out of town, miss,” the man said. “There's a bus goes once an hour.”

I decided that I couldn't wait for a bus and for once would make use of my newfound wealth and take a taxicab. I told the cabdriver that I was looking for a clinic or convalescent home in Goring-by-Sea. Did he know of it? He thought he did. “Big white place, isn't it? Posh looking.” That sounded like it. So off we went. In summertime and in good weather it would have been a charming drive along the seafront with its rows of white, bow-windowed guesthouses and its long pier and bandstand. But today a fierce wind whipped up a slate gray sea and the promenade was deserted. At last the town gave way to big houses set amid spacious grounds, sports fields, and on the front the occasional seaside bungalow. Then the taxicab slowed. “This is it, I believe,” he said. “Yes, there you are.” And a sign said,
The Larches. Convalescent Home.
We turned in through white gates, followed a drive lined with larch trees and pulled up at a portico outside a big white Georgian house. I paid the taxi driver and rang the doorbell.

I was greeted warmly by a young woman in nurse's uniform when I said that I'd come down from London and wanted to see the matron or the person in charge. I couldn't believe how smoothly this had gone so far.

“Here to see a relative, are you, dear?” she asked as she escorted me down the front hallway. “Your grandma maybe?”

We were passing a common room. The door was open and inside I saw nothing but old people, sitting in armchairs. This was clearly not the right place.

“I think I've made a mistake,” I said. “I was told the clinic was in Goring-by-Sea but I was expecting a place for much younger people. Younger women.”

Her expression changed to part disgust and part pity. “The clinic?” she said. “This is a convalescent home, my dear. You'll be thinking of Haseldene. It's about a mile from here along the road to Findon.”

As I thanked her she followed me to the front door. “It's a good walk,” she said. “Are you up to it? Should I call a taxicab for you?” And I realized then that she thought I was a potential patient, not a visitor. Also that she knew full well what went on at Haseldene.