‘May I expect to see the tickets for the Hirondelle follow?’ she asked, reaching out to take Anna’s arm. She was beginning to lose patience with this haughty girl but she would never allow her to jump. She persevered. ‘It would be a pity not to see the western ocean. We have a poet I think you must like — a man who died young … no older than we are, Anna. Keats had never set eyes on the Pacific … was never likely to have the chance … but he wrote four lines which would make anyone yearn to do that.’
She murmured them, careful not to allow emotion to take over.
‘… like stout Cortez when with eagle eyes
He star’d at the Pacific — and all his men
Look’d at each other with a wild surmise —
Silent, upon a peak in Darien.
‘It’s all about eagerness to seize the next experience, to watch the next horizon come into view … the elation of discovery.’
‘Ah, that was you, the line of verse? You have strange skills for a policewoman. The tickets? Entirely appropriate and welcome. Those I shall keep and use. But not for the reason you ascribe to me. Do you think I could be deceived by a clumsy lie? Fools! What an irony. There will be no wild surmise for me on the heights … no Russian welcoming committee on the quay.’
She turned at last to face Lily directly and spoke with emphasis. ‘In San Francisco there are no Romanovs. No Tatiana, no Tsar, no Tsarina, no Tsarevich.’
‘How can you be so certain?’ Lily’s voice was scarcely audible as she at last made sense of the familiar features and the appalling answer struck her. ‘Who are you, Anna?’
With a wide gesture, the woman swept off her hat and ruffled her hair with a hand. Hair cut short as a boy’s. And not the black hair Lily was expecting. It gleamed and glinted like a cap of bronze around a lovely face in the morning sunshine. Dark eyes looked down at her with the bitter mischief of a Peter Pan.
‘I wish I knew! I have been so many people in the last five years I can’t be certain. I do know there is one man who will tell me who I am. But I’ll remember the manners I used once to have and introduce myself properly, shall I?’ The Russian tilted her head in an old-fashioned gesture of greeting. ‘You have the honour of addressing the Grand Duchess Tatiana Nikolaevna of the House of Romanov. How do-’
In mid-sentence two rough hands caught Lily off guard. They encircled her wrists and jerked her forward on to a raised knee that knocked the breath from her body. She felt herself being pushed towards and rolled over the broad rim of the parapet as though she were no more substantial than a doll. Thrashing and scrabbling uselessly at the stonework, Lily was held dangling yards above the filthy water that swirled between the arches. One by one, her shoes fell and were sucked down into the whirlpool. Her feet tried for a toehold on the smooth stone facing and found none. Her only link with the world above was the capricious grip of a woman who hated her and all she stood for.
‘Nothing to say? Your eyes are begging to know why. Well, listen! It’s short. I won’t keep you in suspense.’ The jibe was accompanied by a burst of laughter which told Lily she could expect no mercy. ‘Your prince should have paid with his life for my brother: your king for my father: your queen for my mother. A modest demand; I would have been satisfied with three lives, though the debt is much greater. But you put yourself in my way. Poor, silly creature. They’ve abandoned you, your handlers. Had you guessed? A sacrificial sop! They’d be relieved if I worked through what they assume to be my murderous rage by killing you. They don’t care to leave witnesses of their bad behaviour lying about.’
She broke off, and with a disturbing change of mood directed a dazzling smile down into Lily’s terrified eyes. ‘But I’m not quite that unhinged. And besides, you’re lucky, Miss Wentworth. For the best of reasons — the very best of reasons — you catch me in a frame of mind which is neither suicidal nor murderous. I’m going to let you off with no more than a cold swim to teach you a lesson … you and your meddlesome handler Sandilands.’
She let go Lily’s left hand and enjoyed the squeal the abrupt imbalance jerked from her victim’s lips. She lunged over and grasped Lily’s right arm in a two-handed grip. Lily responded by reaching up and clamping her free left hand about her attacker’s wrist. When she dropped, she would at least take this mad girl with her.
‘If the master is impregnable, one can always thrash his horse. Believe me, this little punishment will annoy Sandilands almost as much as it annoys you. Take a deep breath! It’s quite possible, you say? To swim to the Savoy? Were you telling me the truth? Let’s see.’
Lily had heard the blast of a police whistle coming from the southern end of the bridge. A voice called out and the whistle blasted again. Nearer. A second later, a concerned voice called from the north end. This voice was close. Very close.
‘Hang on, miss! I’m coming. Hold tight!’
The girl above looked from one side to the other, assessing her situation. With interference approaching fast on each side and her victim like a limpet to her arm, the instinct for self-preservation that had served her so well came again to her aid. She made a swift decision. ‘Help! Suicide!’ she yelled. ‘She’s trying to jump! I can’t hold on to her any longer! Help me!’
A pounding of feet and two large male hands reached down and grabbed Lily firmly under the armpits. The Russian released her grip with a loud sigh. ‘Ouf! Thank you, sir. She would do it. Wouldn’t listen to me! Perhaps you could speak to her?’ And then: ‘Well, I never! You look like just the fellow to make her account for her sinful behaviour!’ Her whoop of amusement was completely spontaneous.
Lily was hauled upwards to the sound of a patter of applause and a few ragged hurrahs from a small crowd hurrying now from all sides to see the drama. She took in the sober black suit, homburg hat and ecclesiastical dog collar of her rescuer. She thought the face above the collar was the finest sight she had ever seen. He looked down at her in concern. Strong arms hoisted her over the parapet, carried her to a nearby bench and set her down. The clergyman sat down alongside, trapping her body against the side of the bench, and put round her shoulders a comforting yet restraining arm.
He launched with clerical confidence into a soothing address to the crowd. ‘Officer … everyone … no harm done, as you see. A touch of the hysterics but sound in wind and limb, I think we can say. But the mind? Ah, the mind! And the soul?’ He shook his handsome head in sorrow.
‘She’s lucky you were passing, Padré,’ someone commented.
‘Indeed! I thank God for the guidance He has given me. I had intended to take the Tube this morning. But now I shall need to have a quiet word with this poor young thing and explain to her the Almighty’s views on her impulse to self-destruction. Do feel free to stay and hear His words …’
An invitation guaranteed to start the crowd moving off. But the beat bobby knew his job. Suicide was more than a sin in the Metropolitan district — it was a crime. He advanced officiously on Lily, notebook in hand.
The vicar produced a small bible from his pocket. He took a card from it and passed it to the officer. At the sight of it, the custodian of law and order began energetically to move the remaining spectators on and then, after a certain amount of huffing and puffing and saluting, marched off himself, back down the bridge to the southern bank.
The crowd had gone, leaving Lily eyeing her saviour with suspicion. ‘Cor blimey, sir! In that suit and dog collar, you’re almost unrecognizable. If you were following me, why did it take you so long to step in?’
‘I was following you. You seemed to be on such good terms with our friend I thought I’d let you finish your conversation. And, at the moment critique, I was mobbed by a crowd of tourists wanting to know how to get to St Paul’s. Quite took me by surprise — you were there one second and gone the next! It’s some time since I did basic training in shadowing … I clearly need a refresher. Should have sent Fanshawe … No — perhaps not. I say — you didn’t really try to jump, did you?’
‘I was going to
be her next victim. Murdering, vindictive cow!’
‘Mind your language, constable, and stop fussing. All’s well, isn’t it? I don’t think I see you swimming for shore exactly.’
‘You were never likely to. Sir, I can’t swim!’
The confession was the trigger. Lily could not suppress her body’s reaction any longer. She began to shake. After an injudicious exclamation of dismay, Joe tightened his hold on her and began to mutter encouraging formulae into her ear. Lily thought she heard: ‘Brace up! Worse things happen at sea. You’re quite all right, you know.’
‘You saw who she was?’ Lily mumbled when she could stop her teeth from rattling together.
He nodded. ‘Hard to believe what I saw. Red hair … face of an imp … Not the girl either of us was expecting. When you’ve calmed down, perhaps you’ll confirm my awful suspicions.’ He looked about him swiftly and murmured, ‘A corpse dancing? Did we conjure it up? We weren’t both hallucinating, I suppose?’
‘No. That was the second daughter. But you let her get away.’
He rolled his eyes in disbelief. ‘Next time, then, I’ll chase after Her Imperious Haughtiness and let you drop,’ he said pleasantly. ‘Now, if that’s enough excitement for one day, I could do with a cup of tea. Joe Lyons Corner House suit you? Come on. I think we’d better get our story straight before we report back to the Commissioner.’
Lily stuck out her legs and wiggled her shoeless toes.
Joe groaned. ‘Piggy back, then. I’ll have to carry you. And just hope the man from the Mirror isn’t rushing here, camera in hand, attracted by a telephone call from the police box at the other end of the bridge. Botched suicide plunge. Young woman flees scene in arms of knight-errant vicar. It wouldn’t do either of us any good.’
‘No need for heroics, sir. Strong feet. I can get as far as the nearest taxi stand.’
Chapter Forty
Cherbourg, the Hirondelle, Friday
He had his introductory speech off pat but he nervously rehearsed it again as he unpacked his luggage. He could hardly present himself at the door of her state room — no, that wouldn’t do at all. It would never be his plan to impose himself on her. He thought it best to come across her by chance, standing at the rail staring out to sea perhaps. Yes, that’s how it would happen. He wouldn’t rush it. He’d time his appearance for dawn on the first morning out from Southampton. Always glad to come through the dark hours, she loved to watch the sun rise, he remembered. She’d be there at the stern. ‘I say, miss, for a moment I thought I knew you. Great heavens! I do know you!’ he’d say in surprise. If she didn’t instantly deny it he’d carry on: ‘We met quite some time ago, I believe … What would you say to taking a turn around the deck and remembering old times?’ Or some such rubbish. He acknowledged that he was not honey tongued with women.
He hunted frantically for a razor amongst his things. Must get rid of the beard. She didn’t like beards. He’d hastily crammed a selection of necessities into a bag when the telegram from the princess had reached him at his digs in Paris. Could one cross the Atlantic in three shirts? If things went his way, he could always restock in New York. The old girl had thoughtfully sent word that she’d wired a large sum of money to an account in his name at the Fifth Avenue Bank so he would at least be able to cover emergencies. But how the hell had the old girl known he was in Paris? Had she been tracking him about Europe for the last year? He’d hardly known where he was himself most of the time. And how could she have been aware of the dubious state of his bank balance? None of her business and he resented the interference. All the same … and despising himself for sentimentality … he’d kept the telegram. It was in the breast pocket of his jacket.
Only a Russian would pay no heed to the conventions of telegraphic communication. No short phrases here and hardly even a stop. It ran on like a conversation. A one-sided conversation. It had been two years since he’d exchanged a word with the princess and here she was ordering him to drop his wandering life and get himself to Cherbourg to board a liner with one day’s notice. He wasn’t offended — he was amazed and delighted to obey.
With funds running low, he’d only been able to afford a second-class cabin so there might be difficulties. But his cabin was spacious, the fittings elegantly French, and he had a porthole. And at least the clientèle in second seemed to be of a good sort and rather his style. The chap in the cabin next to him … quiet, hooded eyes, military bearing, had impressed him with his undemanding overtures. He’d be glad to meet him for a lunchtime drink in the bar later. Calm his nerves and pass the time agreeably until they picked up passengers at Southampton.
Bacchus watched as the passengers came aboard at Southampton, spotting her willowy frame moving lithely up the gangplank. Both targets safely aboard. So far, so good. He stayed at the rail, lazily watching the comings and goings in the port, and sighed with relief and anticipation when the liner finally upped anchor and began to ease its way out into the Solent, setting its bow to the westering sun. He’d managed to get off a last report for Sandilands, ship to shore, and he could come off watch.
They were in his pocket now. Both of them.
His new friend had confided over a gin or two, after some pretty skilful probing on his part, that he was contemplating reviving an old friendship and was planning a romantic dawn encounter with a young lady in first class. It hadn’t been difficult to get him talking. Men always confided more than was wise to a congenial fellow passenger. Particularly men head over ears in love. Bacchus had offered a sympathetic smile, worldly advice and encouragement.
A considerable man. Bacchus liked him. They’d agreed to have dinner together tonight. Poor bloke, though. Had he any idea what a hell-cat … Bacchus caught himself. If any man was equal to the task of handling the appalling young woman, this was surely the one. He wondered briefly what the attraction was for him. Apart, of course, from the stunning good looks, and the fortune tucked away in an American bank. Bacchus allowed himself a moment’s speculation and decided he wasn’t, himself, man enough to take her on even with such tempting assets. But he could sense a depth of common sense and a firmness of purpose under this man’s charming exterior. He probably had no illusions. And Bacchus had established that, as well as being used to command, the fellow was highly intelligent, fit and active, free of all ties of family and career and spoke several European languages.
Far too good for her.
Bacchus resolved to chuck the girl overboard and recruit the fellow.
At least that’s how he’d tell it for Wentworth … just for the pleasure of seeing her shocked reaction. Bacchus was disconcerted to find that it was the face of the constable his imagination had conjured up for the rehearsal of his tale. He shrugged. If she was still haunting the Yard when he returned, that is. But he wouldn’t get involved with this pair of firecrackers unless something quite untoward happened. Sandilands hadn’t needed to remind him — no feelings! He’d made his plans.
Bacchus was still lounging at the rail outside his cabin, toying with the idea of a sherry before dinner, when she arrived. He checked his watch. On the move already? She ought to be just getting round to unpacking and having a shower. He noted that she was still wearing the blue linen dress she’d had on when she came aboard. No hat, no gloves, no bag, sandals on her feet. Hardly decent, really. She’d left her stateroom in a hurry and came, not striding with confidence for once, but walking tentatively, looking about her like a wild creature. He realized she was checking the numbers on the cabin doors. Her eyes were wide with … could that be fear? Nervousness, at least. Bacchus thought he’d have been looking at her a long time before the word assassin came to mind. Nevertheless, his professional eyes skimmed her slender figure, seeing no evidence of a hidden gun or knife to precipitate his instant intervention. Better stay on watch, though. A killer out on business, as a last gesture, checked his weapon, the hand going towards the pocket or holster a dead giveaway. The very best, and Bacchus counted himself among these, knew the
y didn’t need to. Her hands performed no such manoeuvre — they were twisting together in anxiety.
She found the door she wanted, stared at it for an age, then knocked.
A bad moment. She’d caught her man dressing for dinner and he appeared at the door flustered, a tiny bloodstained patch on his cheek and in his shirtsleeves.
A series of unintelligible exclamations followed. Gasps and snorts and giggles. And then, at last, a few words that Bacchus, by straining his ears, could just make out. Nothing out of the ordinary. Boring stuff.
‘You’re looking well, Anna.’
‘You too. Oh, you’ve cut your face again!’
‘And you’ve cut your hair …’
‘Oh, it’ll grow … At least I’ve managed to get rid of the hair dye.’
‘Glad about that. We never did say goodbye, did we?’
‘… in the middle of a conversation as far as I remember …’
‘I say, are you sure this is all right?’ Bacchus heard him murmur gallantly.
At last Miss Peterson found her courage. She put her hands on his shoulders, pushed him back into the cabin and stepped inside after him. Bacchus heard the door click shut.
Grinning with relief, the Branch man went to dress and prepare himself for a lonely dinner.
Chapter Forty-One
Scotland Yard, Sunday morning
‘Well, that’s it. For better or worse, they’re afloat. The lovebirds are out of our reach on the high seas,’ Joe announced happily, waving a message sheet at Lily. ‘And Bacchus is safely aboard to ensure a good outcome. The admiral’s funeral went as well as you could expect and no one else dropped down dead, though a certain young airman made a hasty departure, looking, I’m pleased to say, rather green about the gills. I took your advice. The boot was firmly put in. Well, thank you for coming in on a Sunday morning. Charge it to overtime, won’t you? I thought the least I could do was to invite you to come along with me for a final confrontation with the princess. She owes us a macaroon or two.’ He looked at his watch. ‘Might even get a sherry.’
The Blood Royal djs-9 Page 37