Malice at the Palace (The Royal Spyness Series Book 9)
By: Rhys Bowen
“I’m Lady Georgiana, the prince’s cousin,” I said, just to establish that I wasn’t a deranged stranger. “And I was at dinner at the palace with him the other night when he told us his motorcar had been in an accident. I was on my way out and was curious as to what sort of damage the motorcar might have sustained.”
“An accident, my lady?” He looked perplexed. “The prince was driving himself that night and he certainly didn’t mention any accident to me. And I’ve polished the motor since. There’s no damage that I can see. But then these Bentleys are good solid motors, aren’t they? It was probably the other vehicle that came away with a dent or a scrape.”
“Yes, I expect so.” I smiled at him then. “I’m glad his lovely motorcar wasn’t scratched. Now I must be off to visit a friend.”
And away I went. So there wasn’t a mark of any kind on the prince’s motorcar. Surely if it had been involved in an accident there would have been some trace—a chip of paint gone, a small scratch at the very least. But the chauffeur would have noticed when he polished the motorcar. So either he was not revealing any damage out of loyalty to his master or Prince George had not been in an accident that night. Which of course made one wonder what else might have made him arrive late at dinner.
I REALIZED IT didn’t look good for my cousin the prince. Means and motive, wasn’t that what they said in the police force? He clearly had both. I realized I should inform DCI Pelham of my suspicions—both about Prince George and about Countess Irmtraut. But I worried that the DCI’s approach might be heavy-handed, and I could see the press would have a field day if Prince George was dragged into a police motorcar. That would make newspaper reporters start digging deeper and who knew how much they might find out. At the very least it could upset the wedding plans.
And if he did it? I asked myself. If he really did kill Bobo? Wasn’t it my job to help bring a murderer to justice? I sighed. Then I remembered Sir Jeremy. He had given me his card with a personal telephone number on it. He would be the one to tell. And it would be up to him if and when he informed Scotland Yard. I came out of the southern gates of the park and saw a red telephone box glowing through the fog. I went inside and dialed the number. A strange voice answered but when I asked for Sir Jeremy I was put straight through.
“Lady Georgiana—you have something for me?”
“I’m not sure,” I said. “There are two things you should know about.”
“Don’t tell me now,” he said. “Can we meet somewhere later today?”
“I’m taking the princess shopping this morning and we are attending a party this evening,” I said.
“Then let’s meet for tea. There’s a little tea shop on Knightsbridge called the Copper Kettle. I know the owner—we can talk safely there. Shall we say three thirty?”
I put down the receiver and came out into the fog. Indistinct shapes of people bundled up in scarves passed me as I headed for Belinda’s mews cottage. I knocked on the door and waited. It was distinctly chilly and unpleasant standing in the mews. I knocked again, more loudly this time. She was known to be a sound sleeper and a late riser, but my hammering on her front door should have awakened the dead. I squatted down.
“Belinda,” I called through the letter box, “come and open the door. It’s me, Georgie.”
There was no answer. Surely she couldn’t have gone out so early on a day like this. I stood there in the mews, the cold gnawing me, feeling indignant and uneasy at the same time. Belinda sometimes spent the night in a bed other than her own, that I knew. But we had talked about going shopping together only yesterday. All right, so Belinda was not the most considerate of people either. She definitely took care of her own needs first and if those needs included going off somewhere with a dashing man she met at Crockford’s, then it probably would slip her mind that she was supposed to be going shopping with her friend and a visiting princess.
I gave one last rap on the front door, then stomped off down the mews. Really, she could be most infuriating. Of course, we were only planning on a trip to Harrods and I didn’t really need her today, but all the same . . . As I walked away I couldn’t shake off the lurking feeling of uneasiness. Belinda lived the same kind of life as Bobo Carrington. She went to gambling clubs and was not too choosy about her bedmates. And Bobo Carrington was now dead.
Chapter 18
NOVEMBER 6