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

 

 

“Not that it’s any of your business,” I said. I had had enough of being polite to her. “And speaking of snooping, may I ask why you told the authorities that you had seen me in the courtyard when you know that wasn’t true?”

 

Her face went red then. “Because they try to accuse me of something and they won’t say what. They keep asking me why I go to the courtyard and I tell them no, I do not go to the courtyard. And they say Lady Georgiana thinks that you did. So this is why I tell them because I find it so disagreeable.”

 

I wanted to ask why she carried a knife in her pocket but I couldn’t find a good way to do so without admitting to being in her room. But then she went straight on. “I wish that you dismiss your maid immediately.”

 

“My maid? What has she done?” A horrid sinking feeling came into my stomach. I had thought it would be only a matter of time before Queenie created a major disaster.

 

“I will tell you. She has been snooping in my room.” She pronounced it “schnooping.”

 

“Oh no. Surely not.” Queenie was many things, but probably the least curious person on the planet.

 

“Ja.” She nodded so violently that a hairpin came loose and clattered to the stone floor. “I had her come to my room and take my washing downstairs,” she said. “I left the bundle ready to be carried. But later, when I looked in my garderobe, I saw that she had been there. I leave my shoes in neat rows on the floor of my garderobe but when I look they are in disarray. Somebody has disarranged them.”

 

“Good heavens,” I said. “When was this? Today?”

 

“No. A day or so ago.”

 

Oh dear. I couldn’t let Queenie take the blame for my snooping in her wardrobe, could I? But I also couldn’t think of a good explanation for the shoes in disarray.

 

“I’m sure Queenie would never do that,” I said. “Maybe something fell off a hanger and displaced your shoes.”

 

“Nothing fell.” Her face was stony.

 

“Was something missing?” I asked.

 

“No. Nothing was taken.”

 

“Then I think we have to overlook simple curiosity, don’t we?” I said. “Unless you have something to hide, that is?” I smiled at her sweetly. “You haven’t got the crown jewels or a body in there, have you?”

 

She tossed her head proudly and another hairpin bounced to the floor. “I have nothing to hide,” she said. “I do not touch your crown jewels.”

 

I was still dying to ask about that knife in her pocket.

 

“That is not the only fault of your maid,” she said. “Today I asked her to clean my shoes, since she has no work to do and I have no maid of my own here.”

 

“And she didn’t polish them well enough for you?” I asked as the sinking feeling returned.

 

“Yes. She polished them.” She went ahead of me into her room and appeared with a pair of highly polished shoes. “Look at them.”

 

“They look very nice,” I said. “Queenie did a good job. Why are you unhappy with her?”

 

“Because they were green suede,” she said. “And she has polished them with black boot polish.”

 

Oh dear. I didn’t dare laugh.

 

“I’m so sorry,” I said. “I’m afraid I have a very simple wardrobe and Queenie has not come across green suede shoes before. She meant well.”

 

Irmtraut snorted. “You English. You do not know how to train and discipline servants. This girl is a disgrace. Do you know what she called me?”

 

Oh golly. Nothing too rude, I prayed.

 

“She called me ‘miss,’ when she is told I am a countess. Miss. Like a common shopgirl. And then she insulted me even more by telling me I had an uncle called Bob.”

 

This time I did laugh. “She must have said ‘bob’s your uncle,’” I said. “It’s an expression Londoners use to mean that everything will be taken care of.”

 

“How can ‘Bob is your uncle’ mean that everything will be taken care of? It makes no sense. This English language is very stupid.” And she stomped back into her room and slammed the door.

 

 

 

I CHANGED MY clothes, wrote out the letter to Mummy, handed it to a servant to post and was just about to snatch a quick tea when the car arrived. Regretfully I put down my uneaten crumpet. I went to get my coat and hat and was soon being driven through rush-hour crowds as offices emptied out at five. I had no idea where we were going but it seemed to be in the general direction of Scotland Yard. However, we drove past the familiar black and white building and turned into a side street, stopping outside a row of Georgian houses like those on Downing Street not too far away.

 

The chauffeur helped me out, then led me to the front door. A bell sounded from within and the door was opened by Sir Jeremy himself.

 

“Welcome to my humble abode,” he said.

 

“This is your house?” I asked, stepping into a deliciously warm entrance hall.