Malice at the Palace (The Royal Spyness Series Book 9)

 

 

“Fling? What do you wish to throw?” Irmtraut asked.

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter 14

 

 

 

STILL NOVEMBER 5

 

SCOTLAND YARD . . . NOT WHERE I’D WANT TO SPEND THE DAY

 

After luncheon we visited the House of Molyneux, met Edward Molyneux, himself, who was utterly charming, and saw the princess’s absolutely lovely gown. I found myself daydreaming wistfully about having such a gown made for me one day. About getting married someday to a certain tall, dark and handsome man. Fittings were arranged for the princess and we came home with her looking forward to her English tea. As I came through the door one of the maids took me aside. “Don’t take off your coat and hat yet, Lady Georgiana. There is a motorcar waiting for you outside.”

 

“A car? Whose car?”

 

“I’m not sure, my lady, but the man just said that your presence was wanted urgently.”

 

“I see.” I looked around but Marina had already gone upstairs. “Please inform the princess that I have been called away unexpectedly and will join her as soon as I can.”

 

Then I went out again. Sure enough a dark sedan was parked under the trees. As I approached, a man jumped out of the front seat and opened the back door for me.

 

“Lady Georgiana?”

 

“Yes, what is this?”

 

“I believe that my superior would like a word with you, but somewhere private, away from this place. If you’d be good enough to get in, please.”

 

The thought crossed my mind that I’d look silly if I were actually being kidnapped by some kind of criminal organization or foreign power. Then I decided I wasn’t important enough for anyone to want to kidnap me.

 

“Where are we going?” I asked.

 

This time he pulled out a warrant card. “I’m DC Coombs. You’re wanted at Scotland Yard.”

 

We set off, then turned from Victoria Street into Whitehall and the familiar red and white brick of Scotland Yard appeared in front of us. I think I gave a little sigh of relief that it really was our destination. We passed under the archway and into the courtyard. My driver got out, opened the door for me. “Follow me, please,” he said.

 

I was taken up in a lift, whisked along corridors and finally halted outside a door. My guide tapped and was answered with a deep “Come in.”

 

I stepped into a bright office with a view toward the Thames. I had rather hoped I was going to meet Sir Jeremy, but it was DCI Pelham who sat at a large dark oak desk.

 

“Good of you to come, Lady Georgiana,” he said.

 

“Did I have a choice?” I smiled. He didn’t. Instead he said, “Please take a seat.”

 

I did so. He was seated in a leather armchair; I was offered a wooden upright. He leaned forward toward me, resting his elbows on the desk so he was staring straight at me. “We’ve been waiting to give you the results of the autopsy, but before I do, I must impress upon you again that what I tell you must go no farther than these four walls. I have your word on that?”

 

“Oh absolutely,” I said.

 

“Right. The doctor has finished the preliminary tests on Miss Carrington, and I’m afraid you were right. It was murder.”

 

“So not a drug overdose?”

 

“No trace of cocaine or heroin in her body.”

 

“I see. So how was she killed?”

 

“Suffocated,” he said. “The doctor found both alcohol and Veronal, which you probably know is a strong sedative, a barbiturate, in her system. A significant amount of both, but he reckons not enough to kill her.”

 

“But enough to put her to sleep? To knock her out? And then someone finished her off?”

 

“It looks that way, yes.”

 

“Could she not have vomited and aspirated into her lungs, thus suffocating herself?” I asked.

 

He looked surprised. “Now how does a young lady like you know about such things?”

 

“I’ve had a couple of brushes with murder before,” I said. “I can assure you I’m not squeamish.”

 

“Obviously not. And in answer to your question, no. She was suffocated manually. There were signs of bruising around her nose and mouth where someone clearly clamped a hand to stop her from breathing.”

 

“How horrid,” I said. “And your men turned up no clues in the courtyard to indicate who that person might have been?”

 

He shook his head.

 

“I wonder what she was doing at Kensington Palace,” I said. “She must have known she wouldn’t find Prince George there.”

 

“But expected to find Princess Marina?” He raised an eyebrow. “I suspect it’s more likely that she was killed elsewhere, maybe in a motorcar, and her body was left at Kensington Palace to try to place the blame on the Duke of Kent.”

 

“Who would do such a disgusting thing?”