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

 

 

She was looking at me strangely now. “No, miss. The birth certificates go straight to the county. We don’t keep many records here . . . and you can understand why, can’t you? The ladies come here because it’s private.”

 

“Yes, I suppose so.” I sighed. I didn’t think I had time for a trip to county hall. Nor did I think they’d be willing to release birth records to someone turning up from out of the blue with no authority. A long trip for nothing. Or at least, not for nothing, because I had found Belinda, and now had a chance to help her. Also I had found that Bobo planned to keep the baby at a little house in the country. And I’d have information to share with Sir Jeremy. Birth certificates would be up to him now.

 

“Thank you, Maureen. That will be all,” I said.

 

Her face gradually lit up. “I know who you are too,” she said. “I’ve seen your picture in the papers as well. You’re the lady who’s related to the royal family, aren’t you? My, what an honor, Your Highness. And here was me, calling you ‘miss.’”

 

I smiled. “My fault for not introducing myself.”

 

She curtsied before she left. I turned to Belinda. “I have to go. But I’ll come and see you as soon as you get back to London. And I’ll write to Mummy immediately.”

 

She nodded. “Thanks, Georgie.”

 

I took her hand. “It will be all right. I promise.”

 

She squeezed my hand fiercely. “God, I hope so. You must have enough optimism for the both of us.”

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter 27

 

 

 

STILL NOVEMBER 8

 

BACK IN LONDON

 

It was still raining hard when I arrived back in London. On the train journey home I had carefully composed my letter to Mummy. Then I had jotted down the things I wanted to tell Sir Jeremy. That Bobo was really Kathleen Boyle from Ireland and had a mother living in Deptford. That the baby had been born near Worthing but she had said she wanted to keep it in a little house in the country. That Sir Toby had signed in an American called J. Walter Oppenheimer who had seemed out of place at Crockford’s and who had upset Bobo when he spoke with her. That Sir Toby was known to have been pally with Bobo. I toyed with that. So who was the American and why was she upset by him? Had he threatened her in some way?

 

I went to the nearest telephone box at Waterloo Station and rang Sir Jeremy’s number. Again he answered in his noncommittal manner and said he was tied up at the moment but would send a car for me in an hour. This made me realize what a dangerous implement the telephone can be. Anyone manning a switchboard could theoretically listen in on a conversation. Might it be worth talking to the girls who operated the Mayfair switchboard and would have connected Bobo’s calls?

 

I made my way back to Kensington Palace. A maid greeted me in the front hall. “There have been some messages for you, my lady,” she said. “On the tray over there.”

 

My heart gave a little leap of joy. Darcy would have left me his telephone number. The first one was a telegram and I opened it with trepidation. It was from my grandfather. It said, Lightfingers don’t want to do it. Sorry. I looked at it and had to laugh, even though I was disappointed at not being able to crack Bobo’s safe. Still, the police would surely have their own contacts among safecrackers and could take it from here.

 

The second message was from Noel Coward. Have set up a little soiree on Sunday, if you and the charming princess are free. Chez moi. And he added his address. Shall we say cocktails at six? I read.

 

What a glamorous life I was leading these days. I thought back to the time of baked beans on toast and how easily one adapts to messages from luminaries like Noel Coward saying “Cocktails at six.”

 

But that was it. No message from Darcy. I had just gone upstairs to change my clothes, which were now rather rain-sodden, when I heard my name being called. Irmtraut came stomping out of her bedroom at the end of the hall.

 

“Where have you been? I do not see you all day.” It sounded more like an accusation than a friendly inquiry.

 

“I had to visit a sick friend,” I said. “She’s in a convalescent home on the south coast.” It is so much easier when one doesn’t have to lie.

 

“Ah so.” She nodded as if she couldn’t find anything to criticize in this behavior. “So you did not go to meet a man?” She glared.

 

“A man?”

 

“I saw you with a man last night,” she said. “You were in an embrace with him outside the front door.”

 

“That was my intended.”

 

“I do not wish to hear what you intended to do,” she said.

 

“No, I meant that I plan to marry him.”

 

“He is suitable? Of the right social class?”

 

“Quite unsuitable in most ways,” I said. “But yes, he’s of the right social class. Son of a peer.”

 

“A pair of what?”

 

“No, a peer. An aristocrat.”