A Royal Pain

by Rhys Bowen

  I was glad when we reached the more sedate area of Bloomsbury and I led Hanni up the steps of the British Museum. She clearly wasn’t interested in the Egyptian mummies or the Roman statues and wandered around mechanically with a bored expression on her face. I was tempted to give in and take her somewhere more fun like the zoo or a boat on the Serpentine.

  We reached the Roman jewelry. “Look, Hanni,” I said. “This should be more in your line. These fabulous emeralds.”

  I looked up from the glass case and she had gone.

  The little minx, I thought. She’s given me the slip. I had to catch her before it was too late. I hurried through one gallery after another, but the museum was a huge, rambling place. There were groups of schoolchildren to negotiate on the stairs, so many places she could hide, and I realized that my chances of finding her were slim.

  “So she’s run off,” I told myself. She’s eighteen years old and it’s broad daylight. Why should I be so worried? The worst she’ll do is to go shopping on Oxford Street. Yes, and try to shoplift again, and get arrested, I thought. And then what would the queen say?

  Drat Hanni, I muttered, and was stomping down the main staircase when I saw her coming up toward me.

  “I’ve been looking for you,” she said. “I thought you went without me.”

  “No, we just mislaid each other,” I replied, feeling guilty about my uncharitable thoughts. “But all is well. We’ve found each other.”

  “You’re right. All is well,” she said. “All is very well.” She was glowing with excitement. “Something really good just happened. I met the guy from the party last night. Isn’t that great?”

  “Which guy?” I asked.

  “You know, the serious one we met in the park. Sidney. He was here looking for an old book. He told me he works in a bookshop, you know. That is interesting, no?”

  I should not have thought of Hanni as the bookshop type—nor the Sidney type. My first thought was that anyone working in a bookshop could not afford to feed and entertain Hanni. But I rapidly came to the conclusion that a bookshop was definitely healthier than parties and cocktails, not to mention cocaine. And he wasn’t Darcy.

  “Yes, that is interesting,” I said. “Where is this bookshop?”

  “He said it is in the old part of the city. It’s an old, old bookshop. Sidney said the famous writer Charles Dickens used to visit it often. He has invited me to visit it too. He said it has much history. We can go, ja?”

  “I don’t see why not. It’s definitely educational.”

  “Good, then we go tomorrow.” Hanni nodded firmly. “Today is no use because Sidney will be here, studying boring old books all day.”

  “And you are expected at lunch with the baroness,” I added.

  She rolled her eyes. “Pain in neck,” she said. Then her expression softened. “Sidney is nice boy, don’t you think?”

  “A little too serious for you, I’m afraid,” I admitted.

  “He is a communist,” she said. “I never met a communist before. I thought they were all wild and fierce like in Russia, but he seems gentle.”

  “I’m sure he’s a good person, and he is definitely idealistic. He likes the ideal of a communist society, but it would never work in reality.”

  “Why not?” She turned those innocent blue eyes on me.

  “Because people are people. They are not willing to share equally. They always try to grab what they can. And they need to be led by those born to rule.”

  “I do not agree with this,” she said. “Why should my father be a king, just because he was born to be king?”

  “I suppose it does help if one is brought up to rule.”

  “Sidney is from lower classes, but he would make a good leader,” she said.

  I thought how easily she was swayed by a pair of earnest gray eyes. If she met a handsome fascist tomorrow, she’d be in favor of whatever it was he believed.

  Hanni chatted excitedly all the way back to Park Lane. I found myself half hoping, half dreading that Prince Siegfried would be present at lunch and that Hanni would fall for him. At least he was suitable. Then I rationalized that she was acting like any typical eighteen-year-old straight from a girls’ establishment. She wanted affirmation that she was attractive to young men—and at this moment it didn’t matter if they were suitable young men or not.

  Siegfried was not at lunch. The meal seemed to go on forever, with course after heavy course—the dowager countess’s German cook producing dumplings and cream with everything. The baroness smacked her lips and wolfed down everything she was offered. I kept my head down, tried to say as little as possible and prayed with every moment that the dowager countess wouldn’t suddenly realize she had seen me sweeping her floors.

  I was glad when it was over.

  “Now can we visit sexy guys?” Hanni asked. “We go and say hi to Darcy or to Gussie and Lunghi?”

  “I hardly think the latter is appropriate,” I said without thinking.

  “Why?” Hanni turned innocent blue eyes on me.

  “Because, er”—I remembered I hadn’t told her the truth about what happened the night before—“one of the guests was taken ill and died.” I hoped this half truth would suffice. “They are very upset about it,” I added. “They won’t want to entertain visitors.”

  “Darcy then? He could take me out to dinner tonight.”

  I was tempted to tell her the truth about Darcy’s financial situation but instead I said, “Hanni, you must learn that a young lady should never be forward. It is not up to you to make the first move. You have to wait for a young man to ask you out.”

  “Why? This is silly,” she said. “If I want to go on date with a young man, why can’t I ask him?”

  She did have a point. Maybe if I hadn’t been so reticent with Darcy he might not have drifted into the arms of whoever the girl with the long dark hair was, and he would not have been flirting with Hanni last night. I remained firm, however, and decided to distract Hanni with a visit to the theater. I picked a light musical comedy by Sigmund Romberg, called The Student Prince. This was probably a mistake as it was all about a prince falling in love with a simple girl. In the end he renounces her for his duty. Hanni wept all the way home. “So sad,” she kept on murmuring. “I would never give up the man I loved for my duty. Never.”

  Chapter 17

  Rannoch House

  Friday, June 17, 1932

  Diary,

  Blustery day. White clouds, blue sky. It would have been a good day to go riding at home. Instead I have to take Hanni to meet a man at a bookshop. This chaperone business is tiring.

  When she came down on Friday morning, I had visions of a repetition of last night’s play. Hanni was clearly excited about seeing Sidney again. “I don’t care if he is only a commoner,” she kept saying. She ate sparingly at breakfast and paced until it was time to leave the house. I was still not too familiar with the geography of London and went downstairs to ask Granddad how I’d get to Wapping.

  “Wapping, ducks?” he asked. “Now what would you be doing there?”

  “Going to a bookshop.”

  “A bookshop in Wapping?” he said.

  “That’s right. It deals in old and rare books. Where is it?”

  “Not the best area. Down by the river. Docklands. I wouldn’t have thought they went in for much reading there. Where is this place?”

  “It’s off Wapping High Street, near a pub called the Prospect of Whitby.”

  Granddad was still frowning. “I seem to remember that them communists hold meetings in a hall around there. You want to be careful, my love. I hope you’re not thinking of taking the princess to a place like that.”

  “She’s the one who wants to go. She’s met a young man... he’s a communist and he works in this bookshop.”

  Granddad made a tut-tutting noise and shook his head. “She wants watching, that one.”

  “He’s perfectly civilized for a communist, Granddad. He went to Cambridge and he seems terr
ibly nice and earnest. And it is broad daylight.”

  Granddad sighed. “I suppose it is a weekday. People are working. They’re not likely to have one of their punch-ups on a Friday morning. When they have their meetings, there’s often a right brawl afterwards. The blackshirts and them go at it.”

  “I’m sure we’ll be quite safe, and knowing Hanni, she’ll be bored quite quickly in a bookshop.”

  “Just make sure you don’t dress too posh,” my grandfather warned, “and watch out for pickpockets and anyone who makes improper suggestions.”

  I passed on his advice to Hanni and we left the house in simple cotton skirts and white blouses—two young women on an outing to the city. We rode the tube to Tower Hill Station. I pointed out the Tower of London to Hanni, but she expressed little interest in London history, and dragged me forward like an impatient dog on a leash. It was a long, complicated walk to reach Wapping High Street. Roads twisted, turned and dead-ended between tall brick warehouses and docks. Exotic smells of spices, coffee and tea competed with the less savory odor of drains and the dank smell from the river. Barrows clattered past piled high with goods. Finally we came upon the high street. The bookshop was in a small alleyway off the busy street. It was still paved with cobblestones like a scene from an old painting. To complete the picture a beggar sat on the corner, rattling a couple of pennies in a tin cup in front of him. His sign read, Lost leg in Great War. Spare a penny. I felt awful and rummaged in my purse for sixpence, then changed my mind and gave him a shilling.

  “God bless you, miss,” he said.

  There were only three shops in the alley. One was a cobbler (boots, shoes and umbrellas repaired like new!), another, halfway down on the left-hand side, was a Russian tearoom with a couple of sad-looking, down-at-heel men sitting in the window, conversing with dramatic gestures. The bookshop was at the dead end of the alley. Haslett’s Bookshop. Established 1855. Specializing in Rare Books and Socialist Literature. An interesting combination since I suspected not too many communist workers collected first editions. Now that we had reached the door, Hanni hung back shyly and let me go inside first.

  A doorbell jangled as the door closed behind us. The peculiar musty, dusty, moldy smell of old books permeated the air. Dust motes hung in a single shaft of sunlight. The rear of the shop dissolved into darkness, with mahogany shelves, crammed with books, towering up to a high ceiling. It was like stepping back in time. I almost expected an old Victorian gentleman with muttonchop whiskers and tails to come out to greet us. Instead the shop appeared to be deserted.

  “Where can everyone be?” Hanni asked as we stood, taking in the silence. “Sidney said he would be here.”

  “Maybe he’s somewhere in the back helping a customer,” I suggested, peering past her into the dark interior.

  “Let’s go find him.”

  Hanni went ahead of me. The shop was like a rabbit warren, with passages between shelves twisting and turning. We passed dark little side aisles and negotiated boxes of pamphlets on labor unions and workers’ rights. There was a Russian poster on the wall with happy, brave-looking workers building a bright future. Next to it was a shelf of first edition children’s books. A delightful mixture. At last we came to a narrow stair twisting up to our right.

  “Maybe they are upstairs,” Hanni suggested. She started up the dark little stairway. I was about to follow her when I heard the bell jangling on the front door.

  “My dear young lady, can I help you?” a voice called. Its owner was not unlike my vision of the Victorian gent— white whiskers, faded blue eyes, paisley waistcoat. Alas no tails, however. “I am so sorry.” He continued, shuffling toward me. “I just stepped away for a moment. I had to hand-deliver a book. But my assistant should have been here to take care of you. I am Mr. Solomon, the shopkeeper. Now, how may I assist you?”

  Hanni had already disappeared up the stairs. I returned to the old man.

  “We were actually looking for your assistant, if you mean Mr. Roberts. He had promised to show us around your shop today.”

  “Mr. Roberts. A fine young man. A truly noble soul,” he said. “Yes, he should be here somewhere. He’s probably found a book that interests him and he’s sitting somewhere, oblivious to the rest of the world. We’ll go and seek him out, shall we?”

  “My companion already went upstairs,” I said.

  “Yes, that’s a likely place for him. He’s writing a book on the history of the labor movement and we have a Russian section up there he’s probably perusing. After you, my dear.”

  He motioned for me to go up the stairs ahead of him. They were steep and narrow and they turned two corners before we emerged at the upper level. This floor was even darker and mustier, with a lower ceiling and shelves stacked so closely together that one almost had to squeeze between them. Anemic electric lights hung here and there but did little to dispel the gloom.

  “Hanni?” I called. “Where are you?”

  There was no answer.

  “Hanni? Mr. Roberts?”

  At last a little voice said, “Over here. I’m over here.”

  I followed the voice to a side aisle. Hanni didn’t look up or turn as we came toward her. Instead she stood like a statue, staring down at her hand with a look of utter surprise on her face. The hand held a long, slim knife, its blade coated in something dark and sticky. My gaze went beyond her to the white object on the floor. Sidney Roberts lay there on his back, his eyes open, his mouth frozen in a silent yell of surprise and pain. A dark stain was slowly spreading across the white front of his shirt.

  Chapter 18

  “My God, what have you done?” The old gentleman pushed past us to Sidney Roberts’s body. “Sidney, my boy.”

  Hanni looked up at me with frightened eyes. “I found it on the floor,” she said, holding out the knife to me. “I came around the corner and my foot kicked something. I bent to pick it up and... and I saw what it was. Then I saw Sidney lying there. I didn’t do it.”

  “Of course you didn’t,” I said.

  “Then who did?” Mr. Solomon demanded. He knelt beside Sidney and felt for a pulse.

  “Is he... dead?” Hanni asked.

  Solomon nodded. “I feel no pulse. But he’s still warm. And the blood is still spreading. It can only just have happened.”

  “Then the murderer might still be in the shop.” I glanced around uneasily. “Is there another way out?”

  “No, there’s only the front door.”

  “Then we should go downstairs immediately and call the police,” I said. “He could be hiding anywhere. Come, Hanni.”

  She was still staring at the knife in her hand. “Here,” she said and handed it to me.

  “I don’t want it!” My voice rose in repulsion as I felt the cold stickiness of the knife touch me. “Put it back on the ground where you found it. The police will want to know.”

  “I’m not sure where it was.” She sounded as if she was about to cry. “It was about here, I think.”

  I replaced it on the floor and Mr. Solomon ushered us gallantly in front of him down the stairs.

  “Alas, I have no telephone,” he said. “I keep meaning to have one installed but my customers prefer to write to me.”

  “So where is the nearest telephone?” I demanded.

  “I’m sure they have one at the accountant’s opposite the tearoom. I’ll go. You two young ladies should probably wait outside.”

  “But what if the murderer tries to make a break for it?” Hanni asked with a trembling voice. “We can’t stop him.”

  “Of course you can’t. Why don’t you come with me to the accountant’s if you feel safer. Or better still, wait in the tearoom.” Mr. Solomon sounded as confused and upset as I felt.

  “Yes, that’s a good idea,” I said. “We’ll wait in the tearoom. Hanni looks as if she could do with a cup of tea.” I rather felt as if I could do with a cup myself. I couldn’t stop shivering.

  We let the front door close behind us and followed Mr. Solomon over
the cobbles. “Here’s sixpence,” I said to Hanni. “Get yourself a cup of tea. I’m going to see if I can find a constable before the murderer can escape.”

  “Don’t leave me.” Hanni grabbed my arm. “I’m scared. There are spots of blood on my dress, and look at my hands.” And she started to cry.

  I put my arms cautiously around her because I too had blood on me. “It’s all right. I know it is utterly horrible, but don’t cry. The police will be here soon and we’ll be safe.”

  “Why would anybody want to kill Sidney?” she asked, brushing away tears. “He was nice, wasn’t he?”

  “Yes, very nice. You’ll feel better after a cup of tea, and you’ll be quite safe in the café,” I said. “And I won’t go far, I promise. See. You can keep an eye on Mr. Solomon from the window.”

  I watched her safely inside and then I ran back to Wapping High Street. I was just coming around the corner when I bumped into someone.

  “Hold on, there, where’s the fire?” he said, grabbing me by the shoulders. I went to fight him off until I realized it was Darcy.

  “What are you doing here?” I stammered, almost wondering whether I was hallucinating.

  “Keeping an eye on you. I called at your house and your butler told me where you had gone. He wasn’t too happy about it, so I said I’d go after you to make sure you were all right.”

  “We’re not all right.” I heard my voice crack. “We’ve just found a man murdered. The bookshop owner is calling the police. I have to find a constable.”

  His hands tightened on my shoulders. “Murdered, you say? Where’s the princess? You haven’t left her alone, have you?”

  “I left her in the tearoom. She was in shock.”

  “What on earth were you doing in a place like this anyway?”

  “Hanni wanted to visit a chap she met at Gussie’s party.”

  “I shouldn’t have thought this was a likely location for any of Gussie’s friends,” Darcy said.