The Blood Royal djs-9

by Barbara Cleverly

  ‘Five, six, seven, this way to heaven. Eight, nine, ten, turn round again.’ She reached the top and hopped back. ‘Three, two, one, you’ve had your fun!’ She deposited the giggling child on his feet at the start.

  ‘Again! Again!’ he shouted, holding up his arms.

  Lily obliged.

  Fighting for breath she addressed the oldest boy, distinguished by his sailor collar. ‘I wonder if you can help me?’

  They stared at her with surprise and suspicion. No one replied. Instead they gathered together in a huddle and the big boy appeared to be laying down the law. His sister defied him. ‘Naw! Gerraway, Jim! She’s never! Look at ’er! Seccetary or somefin’ — that’s what she is. An’ anyway — rozzers i’n’t women. An’ if they woz they’d never play hopscotch.’

  Emboldened, Jim looked her up and down and asked: ‘You the law, miss? You with the rozzers? We don’t talk to them … Dad’d tan our arses.’

  Lily was affronted. ‘Crikey, no! I’m looking for digs. Secretary as you guessed, miss!’ Lily beamed at the little girl. ‘I’ve just got a position in a solicitor’s office … Crabtree and Bingham at the end of the road. A friend of mine lives hereabouts … she’s going to help me find a respectable place to stay. I’ve just got in to Paddington this morning. Only I’ve lost the number she gave me. I’m sure this is the right street and she said it had a green front door.’

  The children relaxed. ‘Oh, that’ll be Mrs Royston’s at number sixty-seven.’ They all pointed. ‘She takes gels in.’

  ‘And she’ll have a room spare. She’ll be looking for someone to fill the upstairs front now,’ the girl added knowingly. Head on one side contemplating the stranger, she came to a decision, grinned and confided: ‘Don’t offer her a penny more than five bob a week, all in. She’s a mean old bat. She’ll screw more out of you if you don’t stand up for yourself.’

  ‘Well, thanks for the advice!’ Lily said cheerfully. She lowered her bottom to perch casually on the window ledge of number 42 and took off her hat as a gesture of ease. The children gathered round, intrigued. ‘I wonder if you know my friend? She’s called Anna and she’s got dark hair and she’s very pretty. She works up west in a big hotel.’

  Their faces fell and they looked at each other again. Finally, the girl offered: ‘Well, you’re out of luck. Annie’s gone. Legged it. Right after the rozzers was ’ere.’

  ‘No! You must have got that wrong. Annie’s never in any trouble … she’s a good girl, Annie. Hard worker. Honest as the day is long. I’d go bail for her any day.’

  ‘Oh, she’s in trouble all right,’ the boy said portentously. ‘Five of them there were. Four uniform and one in plain clothes. Knocked us up before six. Ma and Pa were having their breakfast. Ethel and me — we listened on the stairs. Wanted to know where a certain Anna Peterson was, they said. Come over real nasty when Pa told ’em where to get off.’

  ‘Pa don’t like the law,’ the girl explained. ‘No one round here does. Always on the take. Bent as a hairpin, my ma says. They banged Pa up in the nick once. Fitted him up for receiving. He never deserved it. It were only a dish o’ tripe as no one else wanted. He don’t forget! Sent ’em off with a flea in their ears.’

  ‘Good old Pa,’ said Lily. ‘That’s the stuff to give ’em. And they had no idea where Annie was?’

  ‘Naw! They banged on a few doors …’ Jim indicated the houses on either side and immediately opposite, exactly the houses Lily would have tried herself if she’d been on police duty, ‘but nobody in this street’d split. “Don’t know nuffin’! No idea what you’re on about!” that’s what they all said. Even crabby old ’erbert at number sixty-five told ’em to sling their ’ook. They never tried Mrs Royston’s. Annie got clean away. She must have heard the ruckus. Waited an hour and ten minutes, she did, before she done a runner.’

  ‘But how do you know she was leaving, Jim?’

  It was Ethel who answered. ‘We were here in the street. She came to her window. Up there, miss. And she waved to us. And blew us a kiss. She had her hat and coat on.’

  ‘And did she say anything as she passed you?’

  Looks of scorn greeted this question. ‘Naw! She never passed down here,’ said Jim. ‘More sense. She’ll have gone out the back way. Over the yard and across the allotments, turn left and you’re in the Church Street.’

  Lily began to see a further advantage of a roost in Hogsmire Lane.

  ‘We waved back. We wished her good luck,’ Ethel said with a touch of defiance. ‘She was a nice girl, miss, your friend. Gave us all a lollipop every Saturday. I’ve still got mine that she gave me yesterday.’ The little girl rubbed her eyes with the hem of her pinny and began to sniff.

  ‘She may come back when the bother — whatever it is — has blown over,’ Lily said. ‘She’ll be glad you stuck up for her. And look — I think my friend would like you to have this.’ She took a sixpenny bit from her pocket and handed it to the girl. ‘You can be quartermaster, Ethel. Next Saturday’s lollipops. In case she’s not back in time.’

  As the small silver coin disappeared with coos and muttered thanks into the depths of Ethel’s pocket, Lily put her hat back on and stood up. ‘Well — I can see I shall have to go back to Paddington and pick up my suitcase before I knock on Mrs Royston’s door. Landladies don’t take kindly to females who appear with no luggage on their doorsteps and I see this is a very respectable part of town. A good five bob’s worth! Keep your eyes peeled for the rozzers, kids! Especially the ones with the moustaches. They’re the nastiest.’

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Joe was uneasy. He prowled about his office closing drawers and straightening pictures. He tapped the wall clock and checked it against his wristwatch. They agreed that it was now two o’clock. Where’d she got to? He’d quite forgotten to tell her they were expected at Cassandra Dedham’s house for tea. Would she make an appearance back at the Yard in time to accompany him?

  A phone call had come from Princess Ratziatinsky at noon to say that Wentworth had left. He wanted to finish up at the Yard, close his files and get something to eat. He’d had time for a shower and a cup of tea and a change of clothes back at his flat just before dawn but since then had been chained to his desk, listening to reports and moving his men around. He’d told her to take a taxi back. A ten-minute drive.

  Common sense reasserted itself. She’d probably nipped off to visit her parents and tell them all her adventures. Sunday. It was her day off. She’d completed her self-imposed task and was clearly at liberty to spend the rest of the day as she wished. Yes, that’s what London girls did on the Sabbath, after all — they went back home for luncheon with Ma and Pa. The traditional slice of roast beef, no doubt. Apple pie to follow? A pang of hunger hit him and he dealt with it.

  Hunger and lack of sleep he’d learned to accommodate in his war years. He hadn’t expected he’d need those skills working at a desk job. He allowed himself a momentary tight grin. He would never accept an easy existence. Too many mischief-makers to be brought to account; too many scores to settle. This blasted Morrigan, for one. The woman should have been under lock and key by now. She was running rings round him. A slight but unmistakable feeling of dry-mouthed giddiness disturbed him. He recognized it for the moment of controlled terror before the whistle blew. A warning he should heed?

  Joe reviewed his plans. The prime minister and Mr Churchill? Aware, alert and doubly guarded. The prince? Hidden away. The rest of the royal family? Not on Bacchus’s list but, after much thought, Joe had taken the precaution of advising a week at Sandringham. On their remote estate in Norfolk they were easier to isolate but close enough to the capital to protect. Distance, the local plod and a selection of Branch men were covering the situation.

  He grimaced. This was turning out to be an expensive operation in policing terms. And it would get worse.

  Still no Constable Wentworth. There had been no problems with the interview. The princess had been impressed with the constable’s discretio
n and had been able to supply her with what she wanted, which seemed to be the names of five people who had ducked her event. No harm there … and she might even come up with one of her ‘insights’. And the girl was merely running errands, not running into danger. The pavements of London were her territory, its low life her confidants, by all appearances. She was probably safer in their company than his.

  Joe grimaced as he reminded himself of the close shave Lily had had the previous evening, sitting, fork in hand, messing about with a plateful of poisoned food. The lab tests had, indeed, traced the cyanide to the lower stratum. She’d taken it well — no squeaks or recrimination. No, not one. But he’d rather not get a reputation for sending girls in to do a man’s job. And his chaps had certainly not been impressed — disharmony and disruption had been mentioned. Threatened, he’d say, if he were honest. Better take her out of the equation, all things considered, he decided. She’d done her bit and he wasn’t prepared to put unnecessary strains on morale.

  He slid the photographs of the ball from their envelope and studied them, pausing for rather longer than he ought over the one where she’d been waltzing with the prince. He wondered if the arsehole Tate would sell it to one of his society rags. Joe doubted that he had the power to prevent him and he could see it would be hard to resist the temptation of publishing a shot as glamorous as this one. Please God the girl’s identity wouldn’t become the subject of national speculation! Embarrassment bound to follow for all concerned. Perhaps the undeclared hold Lily clearly had on Cyril Tate and the respect — even affection — he seemed to have for her would be strong enough to stay his hand? Puzzle, that. With her modest origins and his rackety, disgraced aristo background, any common ground between the constable and the newsman was a mystery to Sandilands.

  He stared, disturbed by the print. He ran a speculative thumb around the face he rather thought Botticelli would have admired. With women about the place, he’d have to watch his language more carefully. Was it right to impose this extra discipline on his men? It had been fascinating to observe the reactions around the table. And informative. Joe liked to collect these impressions; he liked to be aware of weaknesses as well as strengths. He’d noted interest varying from lascivious appreciation (Chappel) to exaggerated distaste (Fanshawe). Hopkirk, he would have judged, was unmoved. Bacchus, like Sandilands himself, he would have sworn was intrigued in a professional way by the possibilities. Until she got up his nose and seriously challenged him. The girl was a chameleon. And, as such, she might have proved of some use to them. Shame no one else was prepared to acknowledge this.

  But perhaps there was someone who would appreciate her qualities?

  Sandilands came to a regretful decision. She’d fizzed like shaken-up ginger beer at the idea of redeployment but had been quite seduced, he was sure, by the group photograph of Philip Lane surrounded by his harem of bright young girls. He’d ring his friend in Lancashire and start paving the way for a transfer. Now she’d had a taste of the detect-ive’s life which Sandilands had, from their first meeting, deduced was an unusual but overriding ambition with this girl, she might welcome the chance to train on for the real thing with Philip.

  He snatched at the telephone at the first warning burble.

  ‘Send her straight up, will you.’

  ‘Ah. Do come in, Miss Wentworth. Sit yourself down. Glad you could spare me the time. Sunday. Your day off, of course. Lots to fit in, I expect. Father and mother both well, I trust?’ The tone was understanding, the smile devastating.

  Lily showed no sign that she was deceived by this show of affability. She looked at the clock in consternation. ‘Oh, I see. Gosh, I am late! Oh, sir, I hope you weren’t worried …’

  ‘Worried? I shot myself in a mood of black despair an hour ago,’ he said drily.

  ‘Terrible aim, sir! Glad you missed.’

  He felt himself responding to her shy grin with a surge of good humour. He controlled it and cleared his throat. Straight to business.

  ‘Now — I’ll bring you up to date. Here, back at base, we’ve been very busy. The Branch have been gathering everything they had on these Russian women who seem to be blighting our lives at the moment.’ He pointed to a thick file on his desk. ‘This has just come up. It’s all the Branch could scrape together on Miss Peterson. Bacchus and his chaps went round with cat-like tread and cutlass between teeth to the address we’d had under surveillance since the early hours. They mounted a raid on the premises. With no result, I’m afraid. No one at home.’

  ‘No one, sir?’ She was looking at him in astonishment. ‘Not even a little family having breakfast?’

  ‘What? As a matter of fact, if I must dot the i’s and cross the t’s, yes, there was a family in residence. A perfectly innocent family — man, wife and five children apparently in various stages of readiness for the day, taking an early breakfast. No lodgers kept. The father’s a porter at Smithfield meat market. Husky sort of bloke. He made objection to Bacchus’s invasion and ranted on about Englishmen, homes and castles. Sent Bacchus off, tail between his legs.’ Joe couldn’t hide his satisfaction. ‘The men made further inquiries in the street and hung about observing for an hour then gave it up as a bad job and came back to HQ. Another false trail, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Did you see Honeysett? Was he of any help?’

  ‘Yes. He tried his best. But his female employee gave away little about herself. Did her job well. Went home at the end of the day. She never socialized with the rest of the staff. We checked on her three referees. Princess Ratziatinsky — conveniently or sinisterly, depending on your point of view — was one of them. Conspiracy are we suspecting? She was the only one who gave a telephone number so, naturally, it was to her that Honeysett approached initially. Satisfied by all he heard from that establishment and being unable to make swift contact with the others — one was a lady at present travelling in Europe and the other a military gentleman posted to the North West Frontier province a year ago …’

  ‘False, sir?’

  ‘I don’t doubt it. Honeysett was devastated. Angry to have been taken for a ride. There was no intention on the steward’s part to deceive, of course. He told us what he knew. But what he knew was a load of codswallop. No such girl ever at that address. And where have we heard this sorry tale before? Bells ringing, are they? So there we are. Again. Now — I’ve spoken to the princess. You made a good impression. And tell me, did she come up with anything that interested you?’

  The girl seemed amused. Worse than that, she was grinning at him. She took off her hat and began to fan herself with it. Her straw-coloured hair stuck out round her face and he realized that she was, in fact, a bit breathless but shining with excitement. His mother’s cat, the ghastly old tiger-striped killer — what was his name? Tippoo — came to mind. Electrified by triumph. Hair on end, Lily had come to tell him she’d killed a rat and he might expect to put his foot on the squishy corpse the moment he stepped outside.

  ‘Oh yes, she did, sir! She gave me the name of the woman who tried to poison the prince and told me where she was living. I went straight round there — oh, I know, disobeying orders, and I expect you’ll be angry with me, but it was on my way back …’

  ‘Get on, constable!’

  ‘Well, she made fools of Bacchus and his Keystone Kops, but I’ve got her, sir!’

  Joe looked anxiously at the door. ‘Got her? Lord! You’ve not left a body down at reception, Wentworth? What on earth have you done?’

  ‘Oh, nothing like that! No fisticuffs. But I did some detecting. I know what she looks like, I know who she is and I can guess where she is but I can’t for the life of me work out why this woman would want the prince dead. Or Admiral Lord Dedham or Churchill or Lloyd George. Perhaps you’ll be able to tell me?’

  ‘Wentworth, start at the beginning. You got there …’

  Joe listened patiently to Lily’s account, making occasional notes of names and other details that caught his attention.

  ‘And you’d desc
ribe the princess’s manner as — helpful — on the whole?’

  ‘On the whole, sir. And on the surface. No more than that. I wouldn’t trust her as far as the garden gate.’

  ‘Aha! Let’s think of her as “Princess Rat”! Go on, Wentworth.’

  ‘She doesn’t like us much. She has strong views on the political situation and, though grateful to this country for the shelter she’s receiving, doesn’t scruple to voice her criticisms. But she would never, I think, condone the assassination of the prince or cover for any would-be assassin. Her community of refugees has too much to lose. It would be a suicidal idiot who stove a hole in the lifeboat he was travelling in. And she has much loyalty to the notion of kingship, which seems in that company to trump nationality. Or even friendship.’ Lily paused for a moment and then added: ‘She’s a politician. She weighed her options and in the end she decided to give her up. Your Morrigan. But on her terms. Not ours. Oh, no, not ours.’

  ‘In what way did she “give her up”?’

  ‘She handed me the name of a woman who might well have been at the ball as a guest but was, in fact, working in the kitchens. No surprises! It’s the girl I saw smearing the prince’s plate. She’s Anna Petrovna, and she’s related to the princess. She was living just a short distance away, but in a much less grand district. In fact just across the road from the address Bacchus raided. She was watching his antics from behind the net curtain of her upstairs front. I thought I’d just check on it on my way back here … I hadn’t at that time realized I too was being deliberately sent off on a wild goose chase. These Russian women are making monkeys of us, sir.’

  ‘It’s how they pass their time, Wentworth. I wish they’d take up needlepoint but they find espionage more stimulating. So, you’re reporting that Miss Petrovna is gadding about London, free as the wind. You haven’t got her at all, any more than Bacchus had. Or Hopkirk. A stroll across the allotments and the whole of the West End is at her feet.’