Malice at the Palace (The Royal Spyness Series Book 9)
By: Rhys Bowen
I examined the items of clothing. All good quality but not of the latest fashion and showing signs of wear. At the back was a good-looking fur coat that caught my eye. I stroked the softness of the fur. Not mink. Not sable. Something more rugged. Beaver, maybe? Could it possibly be Bobo’s missing overcoat? I felt for pockets and thrust my hand into one, finding nothing more than a handkerchief. The other contained a bus ticket in a foreign language and a couple of hairpins. I removed the coat from its hanger to see if there was a name inside. There was a manufacturer’s label. It said Silbermann, Berlin.
A lot of effort for nothing. I didn’t think Bobo would go to Berlin for her clothes. I was just hanging it up when to my horror I heard a noise. Footsteps coming down the hall. The door handle started to turn. For a second I froze, not knowing what to do. Then I plunged into the wardrobe and pulled the door to behind me, still clutching the heavy fur coat. I heard Irmtraut’s heavy tread come into the room. I eased the wardrobe door open a fraction more so that I could see out. I just prayed she hadn’t come upstairs to take a nap or to change for dinner. I watched her go over to the table and pick up the letter and envelope. She was heading back for the door again when she looked in my direction.
“Ach!” she said in an annoyed voice, strode over to the wardrobe and shut the door firmly. I heard a lock click into place as I was plunged into complete darkness.
“Now look what you’ve done, you idiot,” I said to myself. The fur tickled my nose. The unpleasant smells added to my discomfort and I was terrified I’d do what I had done before and give away my presence by sneezing. I pressed my nostrils firmly shut and kept them clamped until I had to breathe. There was no sound in the room and I suspected Irmtraut had gone downstairs with her letter. But that was of little comfort. I was trapped in a wardrobe until Irmtraut came up to change for the theater. And then she’d find me and I’d have to come up with some kind of plausible excuse for hiding in her wardrobe. Another English joke, maybe? In England we always hide in wardrobes on a special saint’s day and leap out to scare the occupants when they are changing for dinner. It might just work. She might just be gullible enough to believe it. But I didn’t think I could bear to be trapped with the smell of mothballs and lily of the valley scent for that long. I felt along the surface of the door. There was a plate but no handle inside. I was indeed in a pickle. Then I remembered the hairpins in the coat pocket. I retrieved them and poked hopefully into the hole on the plate. I’d read about opening locks with hairpins but unfortunately I hadn’t actually been given the specifics of how to do this. Had there been a key in the lock? Had she turned the key? Perhaps the door automatically locked itself, in which case I was definitely doomed. I started to go through other pockets, mostly empty. Really, what was this woman thinking? How could she exist with no makeup or coins or anything else useful? Then finally I found something—at first I thought it was a nail file, until I recoiled in pain and examined it more carefully. It was a little knife, rather sharp. What on earth was that doing in a jacket pocket?
I inserted the knife into the crack and kept jiggling until the latch gave and the door swung open. I took big gulps of air as I stepped out into the room, then I stood examining the knife in my hand. It was designed like a miniature sword, with an ornate handle. Very pretty, but also quite deadly. Did Irmtraut feel she needed such a hidden weapon for protection? Or something more sinister? But then Bobo had been drugged, then suffocated. The autopsy had not mentioned her having been stabbed with a stiletto-like blade. I went to return the knife to the pocket and realized I had no idea which pocket it had come from. An overcoat and two boiled wool jackets had pockets. I tried to remember the feel of the fabric as I searched pockets. Not rough. Probably boiled wool. But which of them? Irmtraut would know. If I put it back in the wrong one, she’d realize that someone had been through her things.
I strained my ears for the sound of approaching feet, afraid she’d come back and catch me with the knife in my hand. At least I’d have the weapon, I thought, and giggled nervously. I have been known to giggle in moments of extreme stress. I examined the two jackets and noticed something—the slight odor of wet sheep coming from one of them. The dark blue one. I picked it up and sniffed. This jacket had been out in the rain in the not too distant past. I put the knife back into what I hoped was the correct pocket and made my way hastily out of the room.
A stupid exercise for nothing, I told myself as made my way along the corridor. Or was it? I knew that the blue jacket had been out in the rain. And Irmtraut had a knife in her pocket. Perhaps she had taken it with her, just in case, but had not needed to use it. I still wasn’t ready to cross Countess Irmtraut from my suspect list.
I went back downstairs and found Irmtraut alone with the remains of the tea.
“Marina went up to change for the theater,” she said. “It will be a dramatic play tonight? Your Mr. Shakespeare, perhaps?”
“Oh dear no,” I said. “Quite the opposite. A musical comedy by Mr. Noel Coward.”