by Rhys Bowen
“You mean my amazement and your adoration?” I quipped back, making him laugh.
THE LIFT DOORS opened and we crossed a deserted landing to Bobo’s flat. It smelled even more musty and unpleasant than last time with the rotting food items looking quite disgusting. Darcy recoiled at the state of the place. “Well, one thing is clear,” he said as he crossed the room to hastily draw the curtains. “She’d been living here and intended to come back shortly. She wouldn’t have left the place like this for more than an hour or so.” He looked around. “I wonder if she asked William to hail her a taxicab that evening. Or whether anyone came to call for her. We can ask on the way down.” He went through into the bedroom and pulled the heavy curtains across those floor-to-ceiling windows. “Oh, there’s my dressing gown,” he said, turning back again.
“You can’t take it,” I said hurriedly. “The police will know you’ve been here.”
“Quite right. I wonder whether I have left anything else here? No time for that now. Well, where’s this safe?”
I went over to the wall and removed the painting. Darcy examined the safe and grunted. “Very modern. I don’t think I’ve seen one just like this. So what would Bobo use as a combination? Her birthday? I know the date but not the year.” He tried several with no success. He tried other combinations, then shook his head. He put his ear to the safe and turned the dial slowly. Then he said, “Let’s think. She’s sneaky in some ways. Inventive. But lazy. Wait a minute.” He turned the dial left then right and to my amazement the safe swung open.
“How did you do that?” I asked.
He grinned. “Luck,” he said. “I retraced my steps to where we began and figured she might only have moved the dial once after she closed the safe. Lazy, you see.”
It was a small safe, stuffed quite full. I had expected maybe jewels but I was surprised to pull out mainly photographs and letters. Darcy whistled as he removed a large bundle of five-pound notes. “A little emergency cash,” he said. “And here is where the rest goes.” He held up what seemed to be a bankbook. “Swiss bank account. She plays the helpless female very well but she’s as sharp as they come.”
“Played,” I said. “She’s dead. She wasn’t sharp enough to spot danger coming.”
We both stood in silence for a moment. Then Darcy said, “So what about these photos and letters?”
I picked up one. “‘My darling Gerald, how I’ve pined for you. Are you staying away deliberately, you wicked boy? I’ve been at the Black Cat numerous times and you’ve never shown up.’” I looked up at Darcy.
“A love letter,” I said, then I read down to the signature. “It’s signed, ‘Your heartbroken Hugo.’
“It’s from another man,” I said. “What was Bobo doing with it?”
I picked up one of the photographs. It was of a group of men in bathing costumes, standing with arms draped around each other’s shoulders. I thought some of them looked familiar. It was a small snapshot and I peered harder. “That one looks quite like Major Beauchamp-Chough,” I said. “Only younger and minus the mustache.”
“Probably a younger brother,” Darcy said. “Although most army types tend to look the same. Eton and Sandhurst, you know.” He peered at the photograph. “I don’t know why she’d want snapshots of men on a beach. But look at this.” He held out a picture of a woman standing with a pretty little girl of six or seven by a country cottage. On the back of the snapshot someone had written, She looks just like you, Toby.
“Toby?” I asked. “As in Sir Toby Blenchley? But that’s not his wife?”
“Definitely not,” he said. “I get the feeling we know now how Bobo made her money. I thought it might be selling drugs, but look at all this. Incriminating evidence. I’d bet the farm that Bobo was a blackmailer.”
“Golly,” I said. “There are a lot of items here. So any one of these people would have wanted her dead.”
“I must take this lot to Sir Jeremy,” he said. “I think I’d be playing with fire if I started probing too closely into Sir Toby’s life without proper authority.”
“But she was reputed to be his mistress,” I said. “How could she be blackmailing him?”
“That may be how she worked. She became friendly with powerful men. They gave away too many secrets in the heat of passion and she threatened to expose them. Men with too much to lose.”
“Like Sir Toby,” I said. “The least we can do is to ascertain his movements on the evening Bobo was killed.”
Darcy shook his head. “I already told you that a man like Sir Toby wouldn’t do his own dirty work. He’d have hired someone.”
“Could he risk hiring someone?”
“I expect he has a loyal underling who has done unpleasant jobs before and is well paid for his silence,” Darcy said. “It’s strange how powerful men think they are untouchable.”
“I wonder why he didn’t have someone try to break in here to retrieve the evidence from the safe,” I said, staring down at that snapshot.
“She probably made him think the evidence was in a bank vault or somewhere equally untouchable. In that bank in Switzerland, maybe.”
I leafed through other photographs and letters. I came across a picture of Bobo in a bathing suit, sitting on a yacht with Prince George. He had his arm around her shoulder and they were both holding cocktail glasses. “Surely she couldn’t have tried to blackmail him?” I asked.
Darcy stared down at it. “I suppose it’s possible if she was ruthless enough.”
“Oh dear. That’s exactly what the royal family feared,” I said. “Now he’ll seem to be a suspect again.”
“The only thing against that is that he would never have dumped her body outside the very place where his bride-to-be was staying. Even good old George wouldn’t be that stupid or that insensitive.”
“That’s true.” I felt a little better. I liked George. I liked Marina. I didn’t want this complication to blight their marriage and I certainly didn’t want to believe that George could be a killer. “The person who did this wanted us to jump to the conclusion that it was Prince George and thus divert suspicion from himself,” I said at last. I leafed through more photographs. Faces seemed familiar but only vaguely, the way one recognizes distant acquaintances at parties.
“We should close the safe and go,” I said. “William will get suspicious if we stay up here too long.”
Darcy closed it, then took out his handkerchief and wiped it free of fingerprints. “Can’t be too careful,” he said, grinning. He put back the picture, then looked around the room. “It seems an awful shame to waste the one time we’re quite alone and won’t be interrupted,” he said.
“Darcy O’Mara,” I replied indignantly, “if you think I’m going to allow any hanky-panky in a room where you’ve been with another woman, you can think again.”
He chuckled. “I wasn’t suggesting a full-blown roll in the hay, but a little kiss and cuddle would be nice.”
“I’ve nothing against a kiss and a cuddle,” I said, slipping my arms around his neck, “just as long as you don’t get carried away.”
“I’m not the only one who gets carried away,” he said. “I think you can be quite a hot little piece at times, young woman. But you’re wasting time talking.” And he shut me up very effectively. His kisses were as wonderful as ever and I felt desire welling up in the pit of my stomach. I did want him, badly, and I think I would not only have given in, but even encouraged him at that moment, had it not been for the glimpse of his dressing gown hanging behind Bobo’s door. I pushed away from him. “We should go,” I said. “I don’t feel comfortable here. Whatever Bobo did, however she lived, you liked her enough once to make love to her, and she didn’t deserve to die.”
Darcy nodded solemnly and we left the flat, closing the door behind us. In the lift on the way down, Darcy had the foresight to tuck the evidence inside his greatcoat.
“Any luck, Mr. O’Mara?” William asked. “Find anything?”
“Nothing at all, William, except for an old dressing gown,” Darcy said. “Tell me, when did you see Miss Carrington last?”
“Let me see. It would have been four days ago,” William said, frowning as he tried to remember. “That’s right. Sunday, I think it was.”
“Did she say where she was going? Did she have a suitcase with her?”
“No, the last time I saw her it was just like any other evening. She was dressed to go out, evening gown, long fur coat. I asked her if she wanted a taxicab but she said she was meeting someone, and off she went toward Park Lane. Of course, Frederick might have seen her since then.”
“Thank you, William,” Darcy said. “My best regards to your family.”
“We hope to see you again soon, Mr. O’Mara,” William said. “When this nasty old business is taken care of, whatever it turns out to be.”
How sad, I thought. Nobody knew that Bobo was dead and would not be coming back to her flat. Darcy hailed a taxicab and took me back to Kensington. I invited him to join us for dinner but he said he had better get straight back to Sir Jeremy so they could put together a plan of action. I wished he might have included me, but I understood that he couldn’t. And I regretted not going with him even more so when I found out that Marina was dining with her parents at the Dorchester and my dinner companion was Countess Irmtraut.
Chapter 29
SATURDAY, NOVEMBER 10, FOLLOWED BY SUNDAY, NOVEMBER 11
KENSINGTON PALACE
It feels strange not having anything more to do with the investigation into Bobo’s death. Darcy will show the letters and photographs to Sir Jeremy and they’ll know how to look into the lives of powerful men. I must put the whole thing from my mind and just help Marina prepare for her wedding.
Queenie was in my room, waiting to undress me. “I ain’t going near that foreign lady no more,” she said. “You should have heard her shouting at me, and all because I used the wrong polish on a pair of shoes. Blimey, miss, you’d have thought I had just drowned her only child in a bathtub.”
I sighed. “I suppose you can’t be blamed for not knowing how to treat suede. I don’t possess any suede shoes. And it’s probably a good idea that you stay away from her. I really don’t want word of your behavior getting back to the princess or the major. They’d know you weren’t a suitable maid and it might even get back to the queen.”
“I don’t know why you think I’m so unsuitable,” she said. “I take care of you all right, don’t I?”
I shot her an exasperated look. “Queenie, since we’ve been here you’ve left one evening dress behind and soaked another one. Since we’ve been together you have burned, ironed, singed or shrunk almost everything I own. You really aren’t suited to any kind of work, but you have a good heart. You mean well and actually I’ve grown quite fond of you. The way one does with a dog that pees on the carpet.”
“I don’t pee on the carpet,” she said indignantly and yanked my dress over my head.
I think I was smiling as I fell asleep.
The next day it was strange not to be rushing about worrying. I had posted my letter to Mummy, but I went over to Belinda’s house, stocked it with some food for her and some flowers to cheer her up before she came back to London. And when I returned to the palace that afternoon I learned that I was invited to luncheon with Marina’s parents at the Dorchester the next day. So was Irmtraut, who appeared at breakfast the next morning wearing some sort of hideous national costume with silver buttons down the front. I was thankful she had chosen to dress like this, as it made my outfit look normal and even quite smart. I was a little apprehensive about meeting European royals, even if they had been deposed and exiled. But they turned out to be charming. Marina’s Danish-Greek father and her Russian-born mother both had a good sense of humor and spoke perfect English, and we had a pleasant luncheon together. I was even becoming accustomed to frequenting places like the Dorchester!
Marina told her mother about our shopping expeditions, as a result of which her mother declared she didn’t want to miss out on all the fun and we should all go to Bond Street before the shops closed. Her father said that wild horses couldn’t drag him to go shopping with a gaggle of women and retired to the bar. But we piled into a taxicab and had a spiffing time hunting down odd trousseau items like a blue garter, white silk stockings and a deliciously sinful negligee that made Irmtraut so upset in the shop that an assistant had to bring her a glass of water.
Marina’s mother came back to Kensington Palace with us for tea. Marina took her mama up to show her her suite. I followed, and we were halfway up the stairs when I spotted Queenie coming down. She was carrying an empty tea plate and cup and her mouth was liberally decorated with jam. What’s more, there were crumbs down the front of her black dress.
“Whatcher, miss,” she said, not batting an eyelid that she was passing two royal ladies.
“Queenie,” I hissed.
To my horror, Marina’s mother turned around. Oh golly. She thought I had been calling her.
“Yes, my dear?” she asked, looking puzzled. “I’m actually only a princess, not a queen.”
“I’m so sorry, Your Royal Highness,” I stammered. “I was speaking to a maid. Unfortunately her Christian name is Queenie.”
Luckily both Marina and her mother thought this was awfully funny and an international incident was avoided. I noticed that Queenie took advantage of the laughter to escape down the stairs. I resolved to speak to her sternly next time we were alone.
While we were having tea, a footman appeared with a note on a silver salver. I half expected it to be from Darcy, but it was addressed to Princess Marina. She took it, opened it and smiled. “Oh, how kind. It is from Princess Louise. She says the aunts usually meet for Sunday luncheon at Princess Alice’s apartment and they would love it if Georgiana and I were free to join them tomorrow.”
“That’s very nice of them,” I said. “Are you free?”
She glanced at her mother. “I promised Mama and Papa that I’d go to church with them, but after that we had no plans,” she said. “I think I should meet my future relatives, don’t you?”
“Absolutely,” her mother agreed.
“And I?” Irmtraut asked. “I am not invited?”
“I don’t think they realized you were staying here. I’ll send them a note back and ask that you may be included, Traudi,” Marina said. “Of course you should come with us.”
She was really a sweet-natured person.
“I think that perhaps you should not attend, Irmtraut,” Marina’s mother said. “It is to be a family occasion for Marina to meet her new aunts.”
“Very well,” Irmtraut said stiffly. “I should not intrude on a family occasion.”
“Oh, but Mama, surely . . .” Marina began but Irmtraut interrupted.
“No, you are right. I should not attend,” Irmtraut said stiffly. “I should not feel comfortable and I do not wish to seem like the poor relation.”
“As you wish,” Marina said and I could tell even she was becoming exasperated with Irmtraut.
She turned to me. “Now you must tell me all about these aunts so that I get it right tomorrow.”
Oh crikey. I was clear enough about Princesses Louise and Beatrice, both Queen Victoria’s daughters. Princess Alice, I understood, had married Prince Alexander of Teck, and was thus related to Queen Mary as well as the king. The last royal aunt, the Dowager Marchioness of Milford Haven, was a little more nebulous to me. I knew she was also a granddaughter of Queen Victoria and therefore cousin to my father, but not much else about her. It seemed that Queen Victoria had had enough children to populate the royal houses of Europe.
“But you know her, Marina,” her mother said when I mentioned the name. “Her daughter Alice is your aunt. She married Daddy’s brother.”
“Oh yes. Of course.” Marina smiled. “Then her grandson must be Philip. The blond boy.”
“Such a handsome lad already,” Marina’s mother said. “I wonder who he will marry one day?”
“Unfortunately too young for you, Georgie,” Marina said. “But you have someone else in mind, don’t you?”
So we had a lovely Sunday to look forward to—luncheon with the aunts and then a glamorous soiree with Noel Coward. How easily one slips into the mode of thinking there is nothing extraordinary about this. If only Fig could see me now!
Marina was dining with her parents at Buckingham Palace so it was to be just Irmtraut and me at Kensington again. We were having sherry, prior to dining, when a maid appeared.
“Your ladyship, there is a gentleman to see you at the front door,” she said. “A Mr. O’Mara.”
“Thank you.” I felt my cheeks turning red as I went out to meet him. He was standing in the long gallery off the front entrance, looking around with interest.
“This place could do with a coat of paint,” he said. “Couldn’t they have found anywhere a little less dingy to house a princess?”
“It was the only apartment that was vacant here,” I said. “There are several royal aunts in residence.”
“Ah yes. The Prince of Wales’s Aunt Heap.” Darcy smiled.
“Will you come in for sherry? I could introduce you to the dreaded Irmtraut.”
He looked dubious. “I just stopped by to give you the latest news. We’ve found the birth certificate and no father is listed. It seems the child is already in America.”
“America?”
He nodded. “Sir Jeremy went to have a chat with Sir Toby. He was told that Sir Toby arranged the adoption with a wealthy American publisher while he was over in the States. He said there was a little unpleasantness because Bobo changed her mind at the last moment and didn’t want to give up her baby. But he said he made her see sense.”
“So Toby Blenchley was the father?” I asked.
“Not according to him. She was just a young acquaintance, but he’d heard about her unfortunate circumstances and his mind went instantly to his friend in America whose wife was longing for a baby. So he helped arrange the adoption. End of story.”