“Oh, I wouldn’t want to taint your first impression,” said Clements. “Here, give me your hat.” Odette reluctantly yielded her chapeau and snapped on the gloves and mask. She opened the door hesitantly and moved in through the narrow gap.
Oh. Well, that’s a first, she thought. The sight before her left her feeling a little light-headed.
The lavatory was spacious, and very clean. A wheelchair stood next to the toilet, and it was evident that the dead man had moved himself over from one to the other. He was dressed in a morning suit, hat still on his head, and his trousers were down (as was usual, given the locale). He was dead, and Odette could see why Ralph the guard hadn’t felt the need to check his vital signs.
Huge glittering crystals sprouted from the walls, ceiling, and floor of the room. They thrust out at the man on the toilet, piercing him all over. One that came from the wall behind the man had gone directly through his right eye. It held his head up, so he appeared to be looking at them with a one-eyed, somewhat reproachful gaze.
Rook Thomas was standing in a crystal-free space near a corner. Her arms were crossed, and she had an expression on her face that suggested she was taking this whole situation extremely personally. “Fucking hell,” she said to herself, sighing.
28
“All right, Major Llewelyn,” said the Rook to the security chief of Ascot Racecourse. “It’s definitely ours, and we definitely don’t want word getting out about this.”
“Is it murder?” asked the major. The Rook looked a little hunted. The gray-haired, dignified man was at least fifteen years older than her, a foot taller, and had a tendency to bark out questions. Odette could see her trying to come up with an answer that wouldn’t make things worse.
“Yes,” she said finally. “But it’s political. National security is at stake.”
“Good God. What do you want us to do?”
“Nothing, for the moment,” said Thomas. “You know the press, especially here. If word gets out about a death, let alone a murder, let alone a political murder at Royal Ascot, then we’ll have no chance of tracking this down discreetly.”
“Quite,” said the major.
“Keep your men on the door, and don’t let anyone in unless I authorize it. I have to go consult with my superiors. Call me if there are any further developments.” He nodded, and she led her little entourage away to the escalators before pulling out her mobile and dialing her office. “Ingrid, it’s me. The incident at the races is one of ours. Can you please call Chev Whibley, Lady Farrier, and Sir Henry and ask them to meet me at the pink bench on the Royal Enclosure lawn as soon as possible.” She was silent as they made their way through the crowd and out onto the lawn by the racetrack. Many benches were dotted about, but only one of them was pink.
“Why’s it pink?” asked Alessio.
“Hmm? Oh, some boy once proposed to some girl on one of the benches,” said the Rook. “Now they always have a pink bench to commemorate it. They move it around the lawn.” At the moment, the pink bench was occupied by a plump older couple, the man looking like John Bull and the woman looking like Mrs. Sprat. There was no room for anyone else to sit there, and they did not seem to be in any hurry to move, so the Rook’s party hung around, awkwardly making nonsupernatural-murder-related small talk, until the others appeared.
Sir Henry arrived first with Ernst and Marcel in tow. They had been chatting in the marquee belonging to White’s, of which Sir Henry was a member. Lady Farrier materialized shortly after, and then Chevalier Whibley, a gentleman in his fifties with a florid face and a hearty voice. Odette did not know much about him beyond the fact that he spent a great deal of time overseas and had the ability to make wood as hard as titanium. Myfanwy led them away from the plump couple on the bench to a patch of the lawn where no one was standing too close. She hurriedly explained the situation.
“Incredible,” marveled Marcel once she was done. “What are the odds of something like this happening here?”
“Around three hundred thousand people come to Royal Ascot over the five days,” said Lady Farrier. “That’s a lot of people.”
“And the Checquy are just keeping these situations quiet all the time?”
“Frankly, unless this had been done on live television, I can’t imagine a more difficult situation to keep quiet,” said the Rook. “There are hundreds of people wandering around, all of them with phones, all of them keen to share any unusual developments with the world.”
“Thank you very much, social media,” Chevalier Whibley remarked bitterly.
“And regular media,” added the Rook. “If anything odd shows up, like a helicopter with troops, or even a police car with flashing lights, there will be a lot of questions.”
“This is another one of those damn murders you’re supposed to be stopping, then?” asked Sir Henry.
“Well, given the circumstances, Sir Henry, the odds of it being a copycat crime are extremely small.”
“So, what’s the situation?” asked Whibley. “Do we evacuate the racecourse?”
“Evacuate seventy thousand–odd people? It would be the biggest story in the world,” said Lady Farrier, shuddering. “And what excuse could we possibly give, beyond terr —”
“Don’t say it!” exclaimed Rook Thomas and Chevalier Whibley in unison. The Lady shut her mouth and rolled her eyes.
“I’d prefer not to call off Ladies’ Day at Royal Ascot unless absolutely necessary,” Farrier said finally. “The repercussions would be horrendous.”
“If it’s necessary to evacuate, we can come up with some excuse,” said Rook Thomas. “But I don’t know that it is necessary. In all the previous occurrences, there has been one eruption of crystals, and then nothing else.”
“You think our murderer just killed this man and then went back to drinking G and Ts and betting on the horses?” asked Sir Henry.
“Either that or he’s left.”
“So what shall we do?” asked Chev Whibley. “Just wait until the end of the day and then bring in the investigation team to examine the corpse?”
“That’s certainly an option,” said Thomas. “But it occurs to me that if the murderer is still here, then this is our best opportunity to catch him.” Odette could see that the idea took them aback. These were the mandarins of the Checquy — they were not accustomed to getting their hands dirty. Ernst, by contrast, was nodding approvingly.
“Very wise. One must pursue the quarry while the spoor is fresh,” said the graaf.
“Well... quite,” said Whibley. “But if we do track down the murderer, isn’t there a danger that he might lash out, either at us or the public?”
“That’s what we’re here to prevent,” said Thomas flatly. “But even if we just identify him, we can follow him and snatch him up later.”
“And what about the Royal Family?” asked Sir Henry. As one, they all looked up to the royal box.
“We can’t evacuate them,” said Lady Farrier firmly. “It would raise all sorts of questions and eyebrows. And besides, one of the princes has a horse running today for the Gold Cup.”
“Don’t they have military protection and bodyguards?” asked Odette timidly. As if on cue, all the Checquy Court members pursed their lips.
“Standard troops don’t have any training in fighting the supernatural,” said Lady Farrier dismissively. It was clear that she thought non-Checquy security forces would be instantly shredded by any five-year-old with a heightened sense of hearing or a set of prehensile eyelashes.
“One of us will have to secure the royal box, then,” said Whibley. “I suppose it should be either Rook Thomas or Sir Henry. They have the most combat-ready abilities.”
“I have some daggers sheathed in my torso if you need weapons,” offered Ernst.
“Actually, Pawn Mondegreen is there,” said Rook Thomas. “She’s a lady-in-waiting.”
“Lady Pawn Mondegreen,” corrected Lady Farrier. “I’ll go up and alert her immediately.” She walked away briskly with the confidence of a woman who knew she would automatically be admitted to the presence of the Royal Family.