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

 

 

“Yes, I can see that.” I nodded. “Well, thanks awfully, Mrs. Boyle.”

 

I felt her watching my back as I walked down the street. Actually my head was buzzing, and I almost turned the wrong way onto the high street. She had said that Bobo had been to the seaside for the good fresh air. The postcard had come from Worthing on the south coast. And it had been important enough to Mary Boyle to keep it on her mantelpiece for two months. But it had been signed Kathleen. And I realized something else. As I came down the dark and narrow hallway in her house I had glimpsed something standing behind the stairs. It was a pram.

 

A postcard from the south coast. And I remembered the two women at the party talking about that place on the south coast where one went to take care of unfortunate occurrences. Was it just possible that Bobo Carrington’s real name was Kathleen? In which case was Mary Boyle a relative and not her maid after all? Didn’t she say that the last girl had proved unsatisfactory? That seemed to indicate she had never acted in that capacity herself. And she was older than I had expected. I stood on the street corner, finding it hard to breathe with excitement. Those women had speculated that Bobo wouldn’t have had an abortion because she was Catholic. Was it possible that Mary Boyle was her mother? In which case that pram in the front hall might actually mean that she was looking after the baby. I was tempted to stake out the house and see if she came out later with the pram, but I knew that my time was precious and limited and I wanted to accomplish as much as possible.

 

Should I go to see if Granddad had located his safecracker yet, or—I took a deep breath at this daring thought—should I go down to Worthing myself and see if I could locate the place where Bobo had gone? I wasn’t quite sure what this might accomplish, but perhaps I’d find out when she’d had the child and possibly secure details of the birth certificate. If I didn’t succeed in this, then at least Sir Jeremy could see if one Kathleen Boyle had filled out a birth certificate recently and whether she had named the father.

 

I was brimming with excitement as I went back to the station, took the train to London Bridge and from there the Underground to Waterloo. I knew that a train to Worthing would take me an hour or more, but I did have the whole day ahead of me. I was in luck as a train to the south coast was due to leave in ten minutes. I bought my ticket, then sprinted over to the platform just as doors were slamming and the guard was shouting “all aboard.” I settled myself in a ladies-only carriage and soon I was steaming southward in the company of two middle-aged matrons who gossiped nonstop about the failings of the new vicar who was too High Church for them and had even introduced incense. They got out at Horsham and I was alone for the rest of the journey.

 

When we reached Worthing I asked for directions to Goring-by-Sea at the ticket office.

 

“It’s about two miles out of town, miss,” the man said. “There’s a bus goes once an hour.”

 

I decided that I couldn’t wait for a bus and for once would make use of my newfound wealth and take a taxicab. I told the cabdriver that I was looking for a clinic or convalescent home in Goring-by-Sea. Did he know of it? He thought he did. “Big white place, isn’t it? Posh looking.” That sounded like it. So off we went. In summertime and in good weather it would have been a charming drive along the seafront with its rows of white, bow-windowed guesthouses and its long pier and bandstand. But today a fierce wind whipped up a slate gray sea and the promenade was deserted. At last the town gave way to big houses set amid spacious grounds, sports fields, and on the front the occasional seaside bungalow. Then the taxicab slowed. “This is it, I believe,” he said. “Yes, there you are.” And a sign said, The Larches. Convalescent Home. We turned in through white gates, followed a drive lined with larch trees and pulled up at a portico outside a big white Georgian house. I paid the taxi driver and rang the doorbell.

 

I was greeted warmly by a young woman in nurse’s uniform when I said that I’d come down from London and wanted to see the matron or the person in charge. I couldn’t believe how smoothly this had gone so far.

 

“Here to see a relative, are you, dear?” she asked as she escorted me down the front hallway. “Your grandma maybe?”

 

We were passing a common room. The door was open and inside I saw nothing but old people, sitting in armchairs. This was clearly not the right place.

 

“I think I’ve made a mistake,” I said. “I was told the clinic was in Goring-by-Sea but I was expecting a place for much younger people. Younger women.”