I did my best to focus on the figure sitting on the sofa opposite me. ‘This . . . story. Do you think it’s true? I mean, he was the King of England . . .’
‘It absolutely could be true. Edward was renowned for having a number of mistresses at any particular time in his reign. I’ve checked out the historical facts, and I’ve found one recorded pregnancy apparently attributed to Edward VII. And given the level of contraception, or lack of it at the time, I’d reckon it would be a miracle if there weren’t more that went unrecorded.’
‘How awful for the Queen. It amazes me that Mrs Keppel was such a pillar of society.’
‘Certainly in the upper classes here in England, monogamy only became a prerequisite of marriage comparatively recently. In Flora’s day, arranged marriages between the great families of England were just that: a business deal. Once an heir was on the scene, both men and women were allowed the freedom to take lovers as long as they were discreet.’
‘Are you a historian?’
‘I studied architecture at university. But interestingly, humanity’s needs and wants have a lot to do with the buildings they live in. Secret passages that led from one boudoir to another, for example . . .’ Mouse studied my expression. ‘You’re looking prim, Star. Are you prim?’
‘I have morals,’ I answered as calmly as I could. This was not the question to ask me after my earlier conversation with Shanthi.
‘Fair enough. So, does it excite you that you may be related to our British royal family? After all, your father left you a Fabergé cat as a clue, which Flora states in her journal was given to her by Edward VII.’
‘Not really,’ I admitted.
‘Perhaps if you were English, it would. I know any number of people who would be falling over themselves to prove a royal connection. We Brits tend to be the most appalling bunch of snobs and social climbers. I’m sure it’s far more egalitarian in Switzerland.’
‘It is. I’m more interested to know what happened to Flora after she ran home to the Lake District.’
‘Well, all I can tell you is—’
I heard the key in the lock then, and immediately stood up.
‘Your sister?’
‘Yes.’
‘I must be off anyway.’
Mouse was standing as CeCe entered the room.
‘God, Sia, I had a shit day—’
She stopped short as she saw Mouse by the sofa.
‘Hello, I’m Mouse,’ he said.
‘CeCe, Star’s sister.’
‘Pleased to meet you,’ he offered as CeCe brushed past him on her way to the kitchen. ‘Right, I guess I’ll be off.’
I followed Mouse to the door.
‘Here. Keep them.’ He pressed Flora’s journals into my hands. ‘You might want to reread them. And also’ – he leant his head down to whisper in my ear – ‘take a look inside the silk lining of the back cover.’
‘Thank you,’ I said, honoured that he trusted me enough to take care of what, in essence, was an important English historical archive.
‘Sia? Have you made any supper? I’m starving!’ came a shout from the kitchen.
‘You’d better go,’ he said. ‘Bye, Star.’ Then he bent down and gave me a light peck on the cheek.
‘Bye,’ I said, and slammed the door on him as soon as he was through it, my cheek burning where he’d kissed me.
I was up before CeCe the next morning, and when she came down, I made her a plate of honey on toast as a peace offering, knowing it was one of her favourites.
‘Got to run,’ she said when she’d finished it. ‘See you later.’
I went upstairs to retrieve the journals. Ever since Mouse had left last night, I’d been desperate to read them. I decided that I wouldn’t dwell on how rude CeCe had been to him, or the fact that she hadn’t even asked me who he was.
Opening the back cover of each journal in turn, I soon found what I was looking for. I gently pulled out the frail sheet of paper hidden in the silk pocket at the back of the journal. Unfolding it carefully, I read the letter that the King of England had written to Flora, his illegitimate daughter. And marvelled at how it had remained a secret for almost one hundred years. Replacing it, I then read through the final pages of the journal, doing my best to decipher the writing. And I pondered on the possibility that I was somehow related to the highest in this land. But I also knew Pa Salt well enough to be aware there would be twists and turns on my road to discovery. And something told me that the journey wasn’t over yet.
The problem was, I couldn’t make it alone. And there were only two people on the planet who could help me, one of whom was now out of bounds. And the other . . . well, I really didn’t know about Mouse at all.
Then I realised I could have handed him the keys to the bookshop when I saw him last night. I had to return them, and break the last link I had to Orlando and the magical world of Arthur Morston Books. I also needed – and felt I deserved – a reference. I penned a letter to Orlando, and decided that if the shop was shut, I would drop it with the keys through the letter box. Besides, I needed to get out of this apartment, otherwise I’d brood on what Shanthi had said to me last night.
As I got on the bus, I pondered that it hadn’t been her query over my sexuality that had destabilised me. After all, on my travels with CeCe, people we’d met had presumed we were a couple; we hardly looked like sisters – her dark butterscotch skin and diminutive stature in contrast to my height and pale complexion. And we showed obvious natural physical affection with each other. It wasn’t even that Shanthi had made it clear she found me attractive . . . it was what else she’d said that had destabilised me. Her laser-beam perception had struck to the heart of my deepest problem.
Stepping off the bus, I walked to the door of the bookshop, praying that Orlando would still be barricaded in upstairs so I could drop the letter and keys through the letter box and run. I pushed the front door and found it was open. My stomach turned at the thought of facing him.
Thankfully, there was no sign of him in the shop, so I dropped the keys and letter onto the table, and retraced my footsteps to the door. About to leave, I stopped short, thinking how irresponsible it was to place a set of keys to a shop chock-full of rare books out in open sight. I picked them up again, and took them to the hidden alcove at the back of the shop. I put them in a drawer, and decided I’d text Orlando to let him know where I’d left them.
Turning to make a hasty retreat, I saw the door that led upstairs was ajar. And a highly polished black brogue enclosing a foot lay at a strange angle on the floor beyond it. I stifled a scream, then, taking a deep breath, pushed the door open as far as it would go.
And there was Orlando, lying in the tiny lobby that led to the stairs, his head resting on the bottom step, the three o’clock cake still grasped in his hand.
‘Oh my God!’
I bent down and heard his shallow breathing and saw a bloody gash in the middle of his forehead.