Malice at the Palace (The Royal Spyness Series Book 9)
By: Rhys Bowen
I REALIZED THAT the next thing I should do would be to question the servants, but there wasn’t time before the car arrived to take us to the theater. We set off and had not gone far before there was an enormous flash of light, followed by an explosion to our right.
We all jumped but Irmtraut screamed. “Assassins! We will all be killed by Bolsheviks!”
It had taken me a minute but when the second flash and bang went off I realized. “Don’t worry. It’s only Guy Fawkes Night.”
“Guy Fawkes?” Irmtraut asked. “What is this?”
“Who is this,” I corrected. “He was a person who tried to blow up the Houses of Parliament many years ago. We still celebrate his beheading by burning his effigy on bonfires and setting off fireworks every November fifth.”
“You burn people? This is most barbaric,” she exclaimed.
“No, not real people. Just an effigy—Guys made of old clothes, stuffed with straw. And we set off pretty fireworks. Children love it.”
A rocket shot into the sky, sending down a trail of colored stars. Marina and Irmtraut gazed out of the window, entranced. It had occurred to me that tonight would have been a good time to kill somebody, with all the flashes and bangs going off. Which seemed to indicate that the earlier killing of Bobo Carrington was not premeditated. Or the killer knew he or she could carry out the planned killing without risk of being disturbed.
The play was a big success—a witty period piece with some good musical numbers, Noel as the duke, and a lovely French actress as the female lead. Even Irmtraut laughed, although I suspected she didn’t understand the jokes. I went to the stage door during the interval and sent a note to Mr. Coward, telling him that we were in the audience, and was rewarded by being invited backstage at the end of the show. Noel, sitting in his brocade dressing gown, an ebony cigarette holder held nonchalantly between his fingers, was his utterly charming self and promised to set up a little soiree for Princess Marina to meet the stars of the London arts world. She was, like most people, quite dazzled by him. She didn’t even blink when he said, “Your future spouse is a good pal of mine. Charming boy. Utterly charming. You’ll have fun with him.”
I was terrified he was going to add, “I know I did.”
“Georgiana, your friends are wonderful,” Marina said in the car ride home. “What a kind man. And so clever too. Is he married? Will we meet his wife?”
“No. He’s not married, at the moment,” I answered vaguely.
I was suddenly overcome with fatigue. I had been awoken before dawn and had had to undergo too many shocks to the system for one day. It was all I could do not to fall asleep in the car. We arrived back at the palace to find a late supper awaiting us. A thick brown Windsor soup, cold meats, veal and ham pie, baked potatoes and pickles. Simple but satisfying. Only I could hardly eat a thing. Now that I wasn’t absorbed in watching a play my stomach had clenched itself in knots again. My thoughts jumped from the body under the arch to Countess Irmtraut’s damp jacket with the knife in the pocket to the unpleasant session with DCI Pelham and Darcy’s dressing gown behind that bedroom door. And they wanted me to help get to the bottom of this before the news leaked out and became a national scandal. And if the press did get wind of it, then it was quite possible that Darcy’s name would be in the papers, or even that he’d be seen as a suspect. I found myself praying fervently that he was currently in some far-flung part of the world, even if I knew I should hope he got all that he deserved.
Chapter 17
TUESDAY, NOVEMBER 6
KENSINGTON PALACE
I don’t want to think anymore. Everything is just too horrible. I just wish I could get away from here, go to Granddad, curl up in a nice warm bed and never get up again.