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

 

I was going to return to Kensington Palace when it struck me that I wasn’t too far from Bobo’s Mayfair flat. I was sure the police would have been through it, but I wanted to get a look for myself. You can learn a lot about a person from seeing the kind of place they live in. Even though I knew I would be putting myself through more torture if I saw Darcy’s dressing gown, or any other item I recognized as his, it had to be done. Until now all I knew about Bobo was what I had been told. She was a society beauty, she moved with the smart set, one of the bright young things. She had had an affair with Prince George, among others, and she had given birth to a child recently. Also she was a drug fiend. And apparently she had no family and no maid. But I knew nothing at all about what kind of person she was. Did she have many friends? How did she manage to live in Mayfair? And why did she have no maid? And the most important question of all—who had wanted her dead?

 

I turned onto Knightsbridge and made my way to Hyde Park Corner, then up Park Lane until I came to Mount Street. The world was eerily silent with the odd bus and taxi passing at a snail’s pace and almost nobody on the pavement. My own footsteps seemed to echo unnaturally loud and I found myself glancing over my shoulder, even though I knew I should have nothing to worry about.

 

The building on Mount Street was brand new—an impressive art deco affair of white marble and glass. A uniformed doorman stood in the foyer and sprang out to open the glass door to admit me.

 

“Miserable old day, isn’t it, madam,” he said. “How can I help you?”

 

I realized as I went to open my mouth that I hadn’t thought through a credible plan of campaign as I walked and also that DCI Pelham would probably not approve, so I blurted out, “Actually I’ve come to visit Miss Carrington. I take it she is home.”

 

His expression became troubled and I wondered how much he knew. Presumably he must suspect something was wrong if he’d had to admit the police.

 

“I’m sorry, madam, but I’m afraid she is not at home at the moment.”

 

I wasn’t going to let him know that I knew. I put on my bright and innocent face. “Oh, how annoying. Who would want to step out on a day like this, and when she knew I was coming too.” I gave him what I hoped was a winning smile. “Do you have a key? Could you let me into her apartment to wait for her?”

 

“Let you in? Wait for her?”

 

“Yes. She knows I’m coming. We’re old friends. I wrote to tell her I was coming up for Gussie Gormsley’s party tonight and she said she was going too and why didn’t I come over to her place and we’d go together?”

 

He was looking most uncomfortable now. “I’m afraid there has been some mistake. Miss Carrington is not at home. I really can’t tell you when she’ll be returning, but certainly not today.”

 

“Not today? Oh, that’s too bad of her,” I said. “Now where am I going to get ready for the party? And where am I going to stay tonight? That’s not at all like Bobo. She’s usually such a sweet girl, isn’t she?”

 

“I wouldn’t know, miss,” he said. “I’m just the doorman.” His expression, however, betrayed that he hadn’t found Miss Carrington to have displayed much sweetness.

 

“I say,” I said. “Is something wrong? She hasn’t had an accident or something, has she? She’s not in hospital?”

 

“I really don’t know, miss,” he said. “I’m sorry.”

 

I was desperately trying to think of some way to get into that flat. “Look,” I said, “would it be possible for you to take me up to her flat, if you don’t want to give me the key? You see, I lent Bobo some earrings last time I saw her and I was going to collect them today. I wanted to wear them tonight. I told her and I thought she’d have them out and ready for me. So perhaps they are lying on her dressing table waiting for me.”

 

“And your name is, miss?” he asked.

 

Goodness, that was a tough one. If I gave him my real name he’d know that I was reputable beyond doubt. However, he might then report my visit to DCI Pelham and that would probably not go down well. “It’s Miss Warburton-Stoke,” I said. “Belinda Warburton-Stoke. Bobo and I were at school together.”

 

If Belinda hadn’t bothered to be available for our jaunt to Harrods today, at least I’d use her name.

 

“Well, Miss Warburton-Stoke,” the doorman said, still frowning, “I suppose it couldn’t do any harm to take you up to the flat for a minute—just to recover a pair of earrings.”

 

“You’re most kind.” I beamed at him. “What’s your name?”

 

“It’s Frederick, miss.”