Who Guards a Prince?

by Reginald Hill

  “Carry on if you like,” said McHarg with a humorless grin. “Never start anything you can’t complete.”

  With a roar of anger, Partington pushed the woman off him and lunged towards the bedside table on which stood a whisky bottle and a couple of glasses. McHarg moved forward smartly and whipped the bottle away from the questing hand.

  “Fancy a drink, do you?” he said. And carefully poured the raw liquor over the man’s still-rampant member.

  There was a noise behind him.

  Turning, he fielded Wesson’s rush easily with one hand, looked with disgust at the spots of blood which had showered from the man’s crushed nose onto his overcoat sleeve, and hit him with the bottle.

  The woman began to scream.

  He seized her by her fleshy shoulder and bundled her off the bed into the open wardrobe. She stopped screaming and he nodded approval as he looked down at her.

  “Miss Sykes, isn’t it?” he said. “One more sound from you and I’ll set fire to this wardrobe. Believe it.”

  Then he closed the door and turned the key.

  Partington was making quite a lot of noise too as he poured water from a large jug over his now considerably shrunken penis.

  Wesson on the other hand was making no noise at all as he lay in the corner with blood streaming from a huge gash along the side of his head.

  McHarg seized the jug from Partington’s hands, saying, “You could get to enjoy that if you’re not careful,” and poured what remained of its contents over Wesson’s head.

  “I like an attentive audience,” he said.

  “Did that stupid bastard bring you here?” groaned Partington.

  “Indirectly,” said McHarg. “I saw your triumphant emergence from the Bailey, but then you shook me off like you shook off all those newshounds. So I went to look for friend Phil instead. And it struck me that I might be able to kill two birds with one stone by sending him after you. It worked. Though I’d have expected something a little more luxurious from a man who’s stolen as much as you have.”

  “You’re mad, McHarg!” gasped Partington. “You can’t get away with this, you know that. I’ve been acquitted, and this isn’t like that time on my boat, this time I’ve got witnesses.”

  “And you’re going to call the police?” said McHarg. “Well, I am the police, remember that. But perhaps that doesn’t bother you too much. What do you say, Phil?”

  Wesson was recovering. He had pushed himself upright and was sitting with his head in his hands, groaning gently. McHarg stooped over him, seized his expensively coiffured hair and forced his head back with such violence that he screamed.

  “Right,” said McHarg. “Quick answers. How’d you know where I was going to be that night?”

  “Phone call,” gasped Wesson. “Like today. At the Queen. Just after closing time.”

  “Like today?” echoed McHarg. “You mean just like today? Like what I’m speaking like now, pussycat?”

  Wesson’s eyes showed he recognized the parody of a Cockney accent, but McHarg wanted more. He wanted to hear what he had already guessed at.

  “Who was it who rang you, Wesson?” he demanded, forcing the bleeding head even further back. “Come on! Who was it?”

  Wesson’s eyes, full of loathing and fear, were almost popping out of his head as he screamed, “Don’t you know, you fucking pig? Don’t you know? It was your fucking pig mate, Elkin, that’s who!”

  McHarg sighed deeply, released the man’s head and straightened up. Sometimes being right left an even more bitter taste than being wrong.

  He turned back to Partington, who scrabbled away from him in alarm.

  “Listen, McHarg, I don’t know anything about any of this, believe me, nothing at all, how could I? You know where I’ve been since the trial began, in custody, you know that, this is nothing to do with me. Nothing!”

  The words came out in a series of shrill rising scales.

  “You can do better than that,” said McHarg conversationally as he walked slowly towards the naked man. “Who else could putting me in hospital benefit? That was the intention, wasn’t it? To hospitalize me—or worse—so I couldn’t give evidence?”

  “No. No!” screamed Partington as his pursuer’s bulk loomed over him like a dark mountain. “They didn’t need to do that, not for me, not for me. I wasn’t going to be convicted, there was no way your evidence would get me convicted, so why should I want to fix you? Why?”

  His tone had deepened by a couple of octaves in search of a convincing sincerity. McHarg stood very still looking down at him, then slowly he nodded.

  “You know, Stanley, I think I believe you.”

  Relief rose like an Asian dawn over Partington’s face, but as McHarg continued, “And that being the case, we’ve got to ask ourselves why?” the relief faded and was replaced by a grey wariness whose coloring derived from fear.

  And not just fear of me either, thought McHarg.

  “So why was I attacked?” he demanded. “And where does that wheelchair woman fit in?”

  There was a sound of movement behind him.

  He turned just in time to receive Wesson’s charge. There was little strength in it but the man’s weight forced him backwards a couple of paces against Partington and instinctively the naked man began to grapple with his legs. McHarg lost his balance and crashed back against the wardrobe, bringing a peal of terrified screaming from the woman locked inside.

  There was no room for subtle manoeuvres, decided McHarg. He wrestled Wesson aside and brought his right fist down from a great height onto the base of Partington’s neck. The man twitched like an epileptic for a moment, then went still. McHarg swung the edge of his stiff left hand across Wesson’s throat. As he fell back choking, McHarg pushed himself upright and drove his foot against the wardrobe door.

  “Shut up!” he yelled.

  The silence that followed was like a church at midnight. Then into it crept a distant noise.

  The street door opening.

  McHarg moved swiftly and silently onto the landing. Below, he could distinguish voices. At least two. Innocent intruders, or friends of Partington, it hardly mattered which. It was time to go.

  He ran lightly down to the next floor. The footsteps were ascending the stairs. There were two doors on this landing. The first one he tried opened and he slipped inside.

  The windows of this room were shuttered and in the gloom he sensed rather than saw its emptiness. The floor seemed to be tiled with some kind of mosaic pattern and there was an elevated chair between a couple of columns at the far end. A large bathroom? he wondered, but had no time for investigation as the footsteps moved along the landing and began to ascend to the next floor.

  He slipped out as quietly as he’d entered and ran down the stairs to the street door.

  It was only when he was safely out into the daylight once more and mingling with the afternoon throng in Shepherd Market that it occurred to him.

  He had no personal experience to go on, but from what he had read and heard, that room he had glimpsed could well have been some kind of Masonic temple.

  CHAPTER 4

  “Sorry I’m late,” said Deirdre Connolly, a little breathless from hurrying and all the prettier because of it.

  Flora McHarg regarded her with cool amusement as she slipped into the chair pulled out for her by the waiter who’d brought her to the table. She had received the same treatment when she mentioned the Connolly name. It was not, she had since noted, universally meted out.

  “I had to shake Judith,” explained Dree. “She suddenly decided she didn’t fancy her Catholic Mothers’ luncheon club. I thought, Christ! if I bring her along here, we could have the first recorded case of assault with a deadly lobster! Thank God she’s taking the kids off on a visit tomorrow, Sunny Carolina. Wants me to go too. I’d just love that old Southern hospitality!”

  Flora laughed at the unsubtle parody. “You going?” she asked.

  “You’re joking! Hey, have you ordered?”
/>
  “Now you’re joking. In places like this I don’t order till the bearer of the privy purse turns up. Have you seen the prices? Sorry, of course you’ve seen the prices! And sorry again. Well-brought-up girls should know how to accept largesse graciously. Which I will now do.”

  The two women had met twice since their first encounter. Dree’s pleasant open personality was as little spoilt as may be by her wealthy background, but it had allowed her to indulge her spontaneity to the extent of admitting no obstacle or delay to a new friendship. She had taken very strongly to Flora, who, for her part, while she was not about to be condescended to, found the Irish girl very easy to like, and when invited to lunch at one of Boston’s smarter seafood restaurants had replied gravely that she had no objection to this redistribution of unearned wealth.

  Their orders were taken swiftly and efficiently and preprandial drinks brought.

  “One thing about you Connollys,” said Flora. “You’re very useful for getting service.”

  “I’d have thought you’d have become a little blasé about it by now,” probed Dree.

  The other’s clear, unblinking grey eyes regarded her mildly.

  “You mean with Christie? No, you’re wrong. He’s an extremely conventional kind of person, your brother. He always insists on going places where he isn’t known.”

  “Oh. That must be, I mean, well, don’t you mind being so…”

  “Furtive?”

  “I didn’t mean exactly that.”

  Flora smiled. “I’ve never been particularly furtive, which I suppose is why I get beaten up by angry wives in washrooms. Besides, Christie isn’t what you’d call a frontpage Connolly. There are quite a lot of pretty respectable places where he’s not known.”

  The irony was unmaliciously stressed and Dree laughed out loud. “Sorry. I’m sorry. None of my business anyway.”

  “I don’t mind,” said Flora. “Feel free. Then I can take my turn at your love-life with a clear conscience, can’t I?”

  She smiled again, but this time got no response from the American girl, whose expression had become close and wary. Flora raised her eyebrows.

  “No trade, huh? You see, I’ve almost gone native. And how’s that for Connolly timing? Here comes the soup to smooth over your embarrassment.”

  After the waiters had retired, Dree bent over her soup as if to inhale the delicate fishy odors and said in a low voice, “I’m sorry, Flora. I didn’t mean to be rude…”

  “That’s all right. I meant to be nosey. I know quite a lot about your family from Christie. About your father and your eldest brother, of course. That must have been hard to take. About the legendary Old Pat who would surely cut you off without a penny if he knew you were wasting his substance buying expensive meals for an English Protestant. About Conal who’s already planning to repaint the White House if he can hold his marriage together. But about you, very little have I heard. Hence my noseyness. Sorry.”

  Dree laughed. “Oh Flora,” she said. “It’s good to have met you. You feel like one of the family straightaway.”

  “Don’t bet your diamond studs on it,” said Flora.

  Dree twisted her face in self-reproof. “There I go again,” she said. “I’m sorry. Is it bad with you and Christie?”

  “Depends how you look at it,” said Flora. “In every relationship there comes a point of decision. Christie’s a good man, he’s got a young family, he’s a conscientious Catholic. Point of decision! There’s a lot of bed mileage in it yet, but both of us know in our hearts that there’s no way he’s going to leave Judith. That’s what made her assault on me so ironic.”

  “I’m sorry,” repeated Dree sincerely.

  “That’s OK. Don’t think of it as losing a sister-in-law, think of it as gaining a parasite. This soup’s delicious. I may sting you for another bowlful.”

  The note of flippancy did not ring altogether true from the mouth of this serious and self-contained girl. Dree observed her sympathetically and suddenly felt a strong temptation to share her own problems, fears and hopes with her new friend. But she resisted it. Flora McHarg created an impression of absolute trustworthiness but their acquaintance had been too brief to risk an indiscretion.

  They finished their soup and the waiters removed their dishes.

  As she helped herself to another glass of Muscadet, Flora said casually, “Do you get the feeling we’re being watched?”

  “What?”

  “At the bar. The tall man eating olives like they grow on trees.”

  Deirdre glanced and sighed. “Oh, him. That’s Sam. The Granda has this neurosis about me being kidnapped or assassinated, so he’s hired Sam to keep an eye on me. It’s been going on for years. Sometimes it’s quite useful, like when Jude beat you up. Mostly it’s a pain. From time to time I’ve complained, but all that happens is he gives me a new one. So in the end I’ve stopped complaining. At least I can recognize this one. Clever of you to spot him, though. He must be slipping.”

  “Not so clever,” said Flora. “I grew up with that look.”

  “What look?”

  “Watchful violence. Or violent watchfulness. The cop’s look the world over.”

  “Yes?” said Deirdre, interested. “How do you mean, you grew up with it?”

  Flora laughed and sipped her wine.

  “You’re wondering if I come from a long line of crooks!” she said. “Au contraire, or perhaps not all that contraire. My father was—is—a policeman, that’s all.”

  Her tone alerted Dree, who said, “You don’t hit it off?”

  “No,” said Flora.

  “I’m sorry,” said Dree. “What kind of policeman is he?”

  “Tough.”

  “I mean, his job.”

  “Now, he’s nothing much, I suppose,” said Flora uninterestedly. “Slapping tickets on topless bathers at a seaside resort. But he used to work at Scotland Yard. He was like your Sam there, in the minding business. But his was royal family while Sam’s is…royal family too, in a way, wouldn’t you say?”

  The next course arrived, lobster for Flora, halibut for Dree.

  As the waiters served it, Dree sat back looking thoughtful. “McHarg,” she said. “McHarg.”

  “That’s my name,” agreed Flora.

  “No. Your father, I mean. Who in special did he look after?”

  “In the Royal Family? One of the lesser Princes, for the most part. Arthur, I think. Yes, Arthur.”

  Dree choked down another mouthful of wine. It was absurd, schoolgirlish, to let the mere mention of his name affect her like this. How the hell was she going to get through the next week? And how could anything but anticlimax await her at the end of such a nerve-grating, time-destroying eternity of anticipation?

  “Are you all right?” enquired Flora, forkful of lobster in suspense.

  “Yes, I’m fine.”

  “For a second you were showing the classic symptoms of ptomaine poisoning, which would not help your credit with the management.” Flora’s tone was light but she regarded the other girl anxiously.

  “No, really, it’s OK. How’s the lobster?”

  “Succulent.”

  “Great. Your father, did he like his work?”

  She was back in control now, recalling a square rock of a face and a probing, unblinking gaze and trying to see points of resemblance in the features opposite her, but failing. Except that perhaps there was a strength, a kind of self-contained watchfulness…but no threat of violence, surely?

  “Yes, he seemed to like it. More than his family sometimes.”

  “And the Prince. What did he think of the Prince?”

  This was absurd. But the temptation to talk about him was stronger than she could resist.

  “Well,” said Flora, sucking at a claw, “he was no respecter of titles, my father, at least he had that going for him. But he seemed to have a pretty high regard for young Arthur. He felt he’d overcome his deprived background pretty well.”

  “That’s an odd thing to
say.”

  “He’s an odd man. Why so interested, Dree?” she asked shrewdly.

  “Just wondering how the other nine-tenths live,” replied Deirdre with an attempt at pertness. “Why did you fall out with him, Flora?”

  Flora shook her head slowly. “My turn to clam up,” she said mildly.

  “Sony.”

  She toyed with her halibut for a while. I have to be adult, restrained, discreet, she told herself. As I’ve been for the past nine months. Longer. But like any good Catholic girl, I’ve got to believe in signs too, I’ve got to. I need all the help I can get.

  “Flora,” she said, “I’ve decided that maybe we can trade after all.”

  CHAPTER 5

  McHarg was committing burglary.

  It was a desperate, foolhardy act, but he had a sense of time slipping away from him. He had covered his tracks in Sanderton to some extent by phoning Davison before he left and telling him, as brokenly as he could manage, that his resignation was in the post and that he was going away somewhere quiet for a couple of days to sort himself out. But his encounter with Wesson and Partington must have blown the gaff where it mattered. He had gone straight round to Betty Woodstock’s flat afterwards. Getting no reply, he had phoned the BBC and discovered the woman was still on sick leave. He didn’t believe it. The coincidence of her disappearance so soon after the assault was too great. Nor did he give much credit to the story that she was convalescing in Scotland, but there was no quick way to check that.

  So McHarg had returned to the St John’s Wood flat. There seemed nowhere else to go, unless he made a direct assault on Inspector Elkin. That was certainly on the agenda, but McHarg was a tidy-minded man. He wanted things to be quite clear in his mind before he confronted his ex-colleague. Elkin had sicced Wesson on to him. Elkin had known where he was going to be. And Elkin had introduced him to the girl in the wheelchair.

  There the chain of causality snapped.