Malice at the Palace (The Royal Spyness Series Book 9)
By: Rhys Bowen
I alighted from the train at Deptford Station, asked for Edward Street and was given directions. I followed a long high street on which shops were now opening, greengrocers were arranging vegetables and early housewives were shopping for the evening meal with toddlers clinging onto a pram. At last I came to Edward Street, a narrow backwater with two grimy rows of identical houses facing each other, and it was only then that I realized I had thought out no good reason for visiting Mary Boyle. I could barge in, asking questions about Bobo, but I’d appear rude and inquisitive and she’d probably tell me nothing. I could perhaps say I was looking for a maid myself and Bobo had recommended her. But that wouldn’t be fair if she was unemployed. I shouldn’t raise her hopes falsely. I could be from a newspaper writing an article on Bobo Carrington. . . . I toyed with that idea. Since Bobo had been featured regularly in newspapers and magazines this would not seem too strange. But then again she might decide to tell me nothing out of loyalty to her former employer.
As I stood on that doorstep and knocked on the door I decided to play it as safe as possible.
“Are you Mary Boyle, by any chance?” I asked when the door was opened. She was older than I had expected, with a fresh, distinctly Irish-looking face, and her eyes darted nervously.
“Yes, I am Mary Boyle. What might this be about?”
“It’s about Bobo Carrington,” I said. “I’ve been trying to locate her and I wondered if you might have news of her.”
“Oh, and why should I do that?” she asked. Her Irish accent was still strong.
“Because I was in her flat and I saw your address on her blotting paper, so I knew she must have written to you recently.”
“And why would you be wanting to find Miss Carrington?” she asked.
I smiled hopefully. “Do you think I could come in? It’s awfully cold on the doorstep and I’m sure you’re letting cold air into the house.”
“All right. Come in if you must,” she said, “but there’s not much I can tell you. She moves around as she pleases. If she’s out of town then she’s off to stay with friends.” She led me through to a cold front parlor. The fire had not been lit but it was neat and tidy enough, making me feel that it probably was only used for visitors such as myself. “Now why did you say you were looking for her?” she repeated. “You’re not one of those reporters, are you?”
“Oh good heavens no.” I gave my carefree little laugh. “Bobo and I used to be friends once. I’ve been out of the country in America so when I returned I tried to look her up. But apparently nobody’s seen her.”
“Nobody’s seen her?”
“No. She seems to have vanished into thin air. So I’m trying anybody I can think of who might know where she is.”
Even as I said this I felt terrible. If she had indeed been fond of Bobo, she’d be heartbroken to know that Bobo was lying in the morgue right this moment.
“Have you asked at her flat? The doorman would know,” she said.
“I did ask him. He said he hadn’t seen Miss Carrington for the past few days. And other people told me they hadn’t seen her all summer.”
“Ah, well, I do happen to know she was away for a while at the end of the summer,” she said.
“Oh, did she go to the Continent again? I bumped into her there a couple of years ago but friends said they hadn’t seen her there recently.”
“No, I think she went to the seaside. Nice healthy air.”
“You know her well, do you?” I asked.
“I do.”
“And you’re fond of her.”
“I am.”
“Then I wondered, could something be wrong? I wrote to Bobo and she never answered my letter. That’s not like her, is it? And we were such good friends at one time.”
“She wasn’t too well for a while. I can tell you that much,” she said. “But now everything’s fine again. And she should be out and about, and I’m sure you’ll catch up with her soon enough.”
I was dying to tell her that I knew about the baby. I was trying to think of a way I could ask if she knew who the father was.
“So tell me.” I leaned forward. “What does she think about Prince George getting married? I mean, we all knew that she and the prince were . . . quite close . . . at some stage.”
Her expression became guarded. “Are you sure you’re not one of those reporters? What do you really mean, coming here and asking me all these questions? You’ll get nothing more out of me.”
“I meant no harm, honestly,” I said. “And I’m not any kind of reporter. I was just concerned, that’s all. It’s not like Bobo to vanish completely from London society.”
I had been looking around the room as we spoke. My gaze had focused on the mantelpiece. I decided to act. I stood up. “I won’t trouble you any longer, Mrs. Boyle,” I said. “But I wonder—you don’t happen to have the kettle on for tea, do you? It’s icy cold out there today.”
“I do.” She said it grudgingly. “I’ll get you a cup.”
The moment she left the room I made for the mantelpiece and picked up the postcard. It was a picture of the south coast. Greetings from Worthing-on-Sea. I turned it over and read, Everything fine. Don’t worry. Home soon. Kathleen. And the postmark was not Worthing but Goring-by-Sea. I only just managed to return it to its place before she brought me the cup of tea. It was extremely strong and sweet, but I drank it with an expression of enjoyment, then put it down on the nearest table. “I’ll be off, then. I’m so sorry to have bothered you. If you do hear from Bobo, please tell her I’ve been trying to get hold of her. My name’s Belinda Warburton-Stoke.”
“As I said, she’s back in London, as far as I know. Back at her old place. You’ll see her soon enough.”
“And she is still trying to survive without a maid?” I said. “Why is she doing that?”