Malice at the Palace (The Royal Spyness Series Book 9)
By: Rhys Bowen
Needless to say, I did not sleep well. There were still odd shouts and explosions from Guy Fawkes Night revelers. I awoke several times from vague nightmares with my heart pounding. When I got up and pulled back the curtains to look down onto the courtyard and the archway I was peering into blackness. Only in the major’s bathroom window at the far end did a light still glow. Maybe he too was worried about what had happened and could not sleep. He probably realized more than any of us what was at stake if the press got hold of the story and dragged Prince George’s name through the mud. Did he secretly suspect the prince? I wondered. Did he actually know whether the prince had fathered Bobo’s child and where it was now? Was I really being kept in the dark while I was expected to help the police to solve the case?
In the morning I was up early again. The early November rain had turned to the more classic November fog and I looked out onto a sea of swirling whiteness. This would have been better weather in which to dump a body, I thought. It could have lain there for ages before it was discovered. Which made me wonder about the time of death. I hadn’t asked that question, had I? The only doors leading from that courtyard were the back doors to Princess Louise’s suite and to that of the major. I was sure that both exits were hardly ever used and it was possible that a body could have lain unnoticed for a good while under that archway. I’d have to ask the servants if any of them had had to pass the entrance to the courtyard at any time during that day.
Naturally there was no sign of Queenie. I had bathed the evening before so I dressed and went downstairs. The house was in the normal bustle one finds before its upper-class occupants have arisen. Fires were being laid, floors were being swept, maids were staggering under scuttles full of coal. They looked up in horror when they saw me, murmuring, “I’m sorry, my lady,” as if it were their fault that I had interrupted them at work.
“Please don’t mind me,” I said when a skinny young girl looked as if she might pass out on encountering me while she carried in the coal. “I couldn’t sleep and my maid isn’t awake yet.”
“Should I ask one of the parlor maids to bring you tea?” the girl asked. “In your bedroom or the morning room, perhaps? The fire is already going in there.”
“There’s really no hurry,” I said, “and I don’t want to disturb your work. But you can tell me one thing: whose job is it to answer the front door?”
She frowned. “We don’t have a proper butler, so it would be Jimmy, the first footman. But Elsie, the parlor maid, she’d also do it if she heard a knock.”
“And if you heard a knock, while you were cleaning, maybe?”
“I’d go and find one of them, my lady. It’s not my place to answer doors, especially not if I’m wearing a coarse apron like now.”
“What’s your name?” I asked.
“Ivy, your ladyship.” She studied her toes as she muttered the words, probably scared she’d now be in trouble.
“Well, Ivy, I wonder if you can think back to Princess Marina’s first evening here. We went to dine at Buckingham Palace, and the countess had dinner alone here.”
She looked up, a relieved smile on her lips. “Oh yes, my lady. Of course I remember.”
“Do you know if anyone came to the door that evening? Or was anyone seen outside at all?”
“I wouldn’t know, my lady. I was put to polishing silver and didn’t leave the kitchen. And I go to bed early on account of having to be up at five.”
“Thank you, Ivy. You can get on with your work. But tell me, what time do the servants have their breakfast?”
“At seven thirty, my lady.”
“Would you please pass along the message that I’d like a word with them at that time?”
She looked terrified and I decided I should go back to my room for a while, rather than alarming more of the maids. I sat there, waiting impatiently, staring down at the fog swirling through the courtyard. This morning I would try to pay a visit to Prince George’s garage at St. James’s and see if his chauffeur would let me take a look at the motorcar. I wondered if he had driven himself that night or if the chauffeur could verify the crash. And if I could get away from my duties to the princess, I’d really like to take a look at Bobo Carrington’s flat for myself. I was sure DCI Pelham would have gone over it, and probably removed anything incriminating or interesting, but you never know what might still be lying around. Wouldn’t there be correspondence with the father of the child? A photograph of the baby? A rattle or a bootie lying somewhere? The problem was, I wasn’t sure what I was looking for. All I knew was that somebody must have planned to kill Bobo Carrington. One does not carry Veronal in a pocket unless one means to use it. I made a mental note to ask Countess Irmtraut whether she had trouble sleeping and if she had a sleeping aid she could perhaps let me use.
At seven thirty, with still no sign of Queenie, I went downstairs again and found my way through the back door of the dining room then down a dark passage until I heard the sound of voices and the clatter of pots and pans. I pushed open a door and found myself in the sort of old-fashioned kitchen we have at Castle Rannoch (although not quite as cavernous). Seven people were seated at a long scrubbed pine table while a scullery maid went around serving them porridge and a cook hovered watching critically in the background. They all rose to their feet as I came in.
“Please sit down and get on with your meal,” I said. “I must apologize for interrupting but I just wanted to ask you a question.”