Malice at the Palace (The Royal Spyness Series Book 9)
By: Rhys Bowen
“Paid cash,” I said. “I wonder where she got that much money. She’s not an heiress, is she? She was never a famous actress, never married to a millionaire. What did she do?”
He sighed. “As I said, her life is an enigma. True, her name was linked to various prominent men, but such relationships wouldn’t have provided the money for a flat in Mayfair, unless she was the mistress of a particular millionaire . . . and then we’d all have known about it.”
“So what do you want me to do now?” I asked. “Would you be prepared to turn a blind eye if I went back to her flat?”
“Pelham’s men have been over it once and removed any letters or bills they thought might be of interest, so I’m not quite sure what you think you’d find. And of course you know he wouldn’t thank you for interfering, but if you think there is something to be learned, then by all means . . . Only you and I never had this conversation.” He shared the hint of a smile with me. “My department and Scotland Yard are not always on the friendliest terms, you know. Treading on their toes, going behind their backs . . . that’s what they think of us.”
“I’m going to a party tonight,” I said. “Gussie Gormsley is giving it. I thought there could perhaps be some of Bobo’s crowd there. I might ask a few questions.”
He nodded. “And this countess. You think she is the type who might kill out of misplaced loyalty?”
“I do,” I said. “I think she’s absolutely the type.”
As I left the café and made my way back to Kensington Palace I couldn’t help reflecting that Sir Jeremy had already had a chat with Prince George. Who knew what information had passed between them and what they were determined to keep from the rest of us? Sir Jeremy had been involved in protecting the royal family before. He was one of us, and I knew whose side he would take. He might not care about justice if it meant scandal and disgrace for a royal. And he might even have asked me to help in the knowledge that I’d just get in the way, tangle things up for DCI Pelham and not come anywhere near the truth.
Chapter 19
EVENING OF NOVEMBER 6
GUSSIE GORMSLEY’S, ST. JAMES’S MANSIONS,
QUEEN’S WALK, LONDON
Jazz music spilled out of St. James’s Mansions as our motorcar pulled up outside the modern block of flats overlooking Green Park. We joined the line of taxicabs outside, disgorging passengers in evening gowns, fur coats, tails or tuxedos. As we waited for our turn in the lift I was suddenly struck by a sense of déjà vu. It had been at one of Gussie’s parties that I had witnessed a terrible tragedy, and I had put it from my mind until now. It had been the same kind of party, the same kind of music, the same crowd that night, and I had been there accompanying another princess. I found myself shivering in the icy blast that swept in across the foyer from the open front door. Around me voices chattered excitedly, the sound echoing back from the high ceiling, and I glanced back at the door, wondering if I could perhaps come up with a good excuse for abandoning the party and returning to Kensington Palace. But before I could make my mind work we were propelled forward into a packed lift and whisked up to the sixth floor.
As we emerged from the lift the music had become so loud that I could feel the thump of the beat resonating through the floorboards. I wondered what the neighbors might be thinking. I hoped there weren’t any stuffy old colonels in the building or we’d be having a visit from the police. The door to Gussie’s flat was open. As I ushered Marina into the foyer I caught a glimpse of a Negro jazz band playing in the drawing room. The carpet had been rolled back and it was dark in there, but full of gyrating shadows. Marina turned to me with an excited little smile. I tried to return the smile but my insides were clenched. Golly, I was charged with looking after her, keeping her safe, and I was taking her to a place where a murder had once occurred. But the culprits had been caught and Gussie was a harmless enough chap, wasn’t he? Besides, he was getting married too, and he knew that he’d invited a princess to his party. Coats and wraps were taken and we were just heading toward the barman dispensing cocktails when Gussie himself came out of the drawing room, mopping his face with a white silk handkerchief. He was a rather large lad—Clydesdale rather than Thoroughbred—but he looked distinguished in tails, and his face broke into a broad smile when he saw us.
“You came, old thing,” he said, holding out his hands to me, “and you brought Her Highness with you too. Jolly good show. I’ve made sure I vetted the guest list when I knew you were coming, Your Highness. None of my disreputable bachelor friends, don’t you know.”
“Oh dear,” Marina said. “I hope it won’t be too boring now.”
Gussie looked worried for a moment, then he burst out laughing. “Good sense of humor. I like that. Let me get you a cocktail, Your Highness. What are you drinking?”