‘She’s dead,’ said Estée. ‘She died of consumption on the ship back to Europe. My father was a very restless man, he liked to travel. So, I suppose my childhood was a little like yours. When I was a baby we lived in Canada; I can’t remember much of that. Then we were in Patagonia, and then we went to New Zealand. We were there for several years, until my mother got sick. Then she wanted to go home to Ostermark. She had a sister in Starberg, called Esther. My father tried to trace her when we got here, but she must have moved away, or married and changed her name, because we never found out where she was.’
‘If we could find her now,’ said Sally, ‘she might be able to tell us something.’
‘She may not want to see me,’ said Estée. ‘She and my mother quarrelled.’
‘What about?’
‘I don’t know. All I know is that it preyed terribly on my mother’s mind while she was dying. She didn’t—she didn’t die very easily. And afterwards, my father just lost heart. We came to Starberg as planned, but my aunt wasn’t here. Then we started running out of money. My father wrote to England, but my grandmother didn’t answer his letters or telegrams. They’re quite wealthy, you see, the Mertons. There’s a mill in Leeds, and a lot of property. Papa caused them trouble, but he was never disinherited, and Grandmama always sent him money when he ran out. Until now.’
‘Perhaps she died,’ Sally ventured.
‘She was very old, so perhaps she did,’ said Estée. ‘But we would still have expected to hear from her solicitors. There was family money that was being left to him.’ The cab turned out of a back street into a wider thoroughfare, and the dimness inside was momentarily lessened by a shaft of weak winter sunlight. She leaned forward. ‘You have a scar, there. On your cheekbone.’
Sally lifted a hand and touched it. ‘Yes. My mother says I fell against a sideboard when I was very small.’
Estée pulled her hair back from her face. ‘I have one, too. It’s been there as long as I can remember. And you have a mole, there on your neck. Just like me. I can’t believe even twins have the same moles and scars.’
‘It does seem very strange,’ said Sally. ‘All the same, I don’t quite see how we can discover the truth. My mother’s behaviour is so strange at the moment, I don’t dare speak to my parents.’
‘Part of me wants to do nothing,’ said Estée. ‘Yet another part of me says that if we don’t find out, we are going to regret it. You can do what you want about your mother. Meanwhile, I’m going to start by going through my father’s papers. I want to see if I can find my birth certificate.’
‘I’ll do the same,’ said Sally. ‘Is there anything else you can remember that might give us some help?’
‘Nothing. No. Wait. Does the name Astrid mean anything to you?’
‘Astrid?’ Sally shook her head. ‘Not at all. Is there any reason why it should?’
‘My mother gave me a pendant, a family piece, when I was about twelve,’ said Estée. ‘She told me to look after it carefully and not to lose it. It had the name Astrid engraved on the back, in funny, old-fashioned writing. It was gold, shaped like a star with about twenty points to it.’
‘A multi-pointed star?’ said Sally sharply. ‘About this big? With a hollow space on the other side, as if it used to be a locket?’
‘That’s right.’ The colour drained from Estée’s face. ‘Oh, dear God, you have seen it, haven’t you? Don’t tell me you’ve got the other half?’
‘As far as I know it’s in the legation safe,’ said Sally. ‘I was wearing it on the night of the opera riot. The chain broke and I nearly lost it. Do you have yours on you now?’
‘I don’t have it any more,’ said Estée despairingly. ‘I pawned it. I was coming back from the pawnshop in Quay Street when I was caught in the riots and arrested. And I don’t even have the ticket I need to redeem it. It’s been stolen.’
CHAPTER SEVEN
It was late Tuesday afternoon, and Clive Taverner was sitting at his desk in the chancery when word was brought to him that the new Procurator of the Queen’s Guard had arrived at the legation and was asking to see him.
‘Richard Greitz? To see me?’ Clive, who had been preparing a cipher telegram about that same gentleman’s appointment for transmission to London, looked up at Francis Sinclair with some irritation. ‘Don’t be ridiculous. He can’t want to see me.’
‘Well, you see sir, Mr Melhuish is not here this afternoon.’
‘I know. Nor likely to be, either, from what I am told.’ Clive twiddled his pen. He had not seen Melhuish since the disastrous opera party on Saturday night, and did not know where he was. According to Charles Fakenham, who had served with him the longest, Melhuish was given to mysterious disappearances. Nobody knew exactly where he went, though there were all kinds of lurid speculation; in any case, after a few days, he always came back. The problem for Clive was not the minister’s dissolute lifestyle, but the fact that his own position, in Melhuish’s absence, was not yet officially recognised.
‘I’m sure the procurator knows you haven’t presented your credentials, sir,’ said John Pritchard from his desk nearby. ‘He has turned up unannounced, it’s obviously not intended to be an official visit. He and Mr Melhuish always got on well. If he’s taken the trouble to come, it might be politic to receive him.’
‘Very well.’ Clive looked down at his dark grey suit, wishing he had put on his black one, which was better cut. ‘Where is he now?’
‘I took the liberty of inviting him to wait in the lower office, sir,’ ventured Sinclair. ‘He’s there now. I can show him up, if you wish.’
‘Certainly not. I’ll go down and see him now.’ Clive put the draft of his telegram in the desk drawer and locked it. Melhuish had a separate office on the first floor which he kept for formal appointments and, as he made his way down to it, Clive found himself rapidly revolving the little he knew about Richard Greitz through his head. The new procurator’s family was related to the Ostermarkan royal line, though the connection was several generations back, and on the wrong side of the blanket. Nevertheless, he came from influential stock and was generally spoken of as a powerful man. Clive was not entirely sure what he had done to deserve this reputation. As Governor of the Queen’s Guard, that strange military organisation which had outlived the monarchy it had originally served, Greitz had had the day-to-day running and personal loyalty of a small force of guardsmen, and that was all.
It was the Procurator of the Queen’s Guard, the position until now held by Nordernay, who wielded the political power. Now, most unexpectedly, that power had devolved to Greitz, which made him a very important person. Clive opened the office door and walked into Melhuish’s office. It was an austere room, rather grand, with red velvet curtains, an enormous mahogany desk superbly uncluttered by any papers, and a forbidding portrait of Queen Victoria on the wall. The room’s sole occupant stood up. He was a dark-haired man of medium height and neat appearance, dressed in a suit of sober, but expensive, cut. Mindful of the man’s importance, Clive smiled and reached out his hand.
‘Your Excellency, how do you do? This is an unexpected pleasure. Clive Taverner; I am Secretary of Legation here. Unfortunately Her Majesty’s Minister, Mr Melhuish, is not with us today, but I am happy to receive you in his absence.’
‘Mr Taverner.’ Greitz shook hands, a double clasp in the Ostermarkan manner. Clive noted that his hands were warm and his grip firm. He gestured for the man to be seated, and sat down himself on the other side of Melhuish’s desk.
‘My congratulations on your appointment, Your Excellency. I am sure it is well deserved. Though I must own—I hope you will not take this amiss—I am somewhat surprised at the speed of it.’
‘Alas for Nordernay,’ said Greitz with a faint smile. ‘His death was most unexpected, was it not? Not to mention scandalous. I am told they talk of little else in the fashionable drawing rooms. However, to the average Ostermarkan, Mr Taverner, I think my appointment would not appear so unexpected as it doe
s to you. You see, until Nordernay became procurator some fourteen years ago, the post was always held by members of my family. It was my misfortune that, when the position fell vacant in seventy-two, a situation arose which prevented me being offered it. Nordernay’s appointment was something of an aberration.’
‘An hereditary office, then.’
‘In a manner of speaking,’ Greitz agreed. ‘And no sinecure, Mr Taverner. The Queen’s Guard may have largely ceremonial duties these days, but the procurator’s powers are extensive and his role important. Particularly in a situation such as exists with the present duke.’
‘Indeed, yes.’ Taken aback by the directness of the man’s approach, Clive sought for the proper degree of concern. ‘I believe His Serene Highness has been the victim of a stroke.’
Greitz shrugged slightly. ‘That is only part of the problem. Frankly, Duke Carl is very old and has never really recovered from the death of his son. The matter was hushed up, but I am sure you will have heard that it was suicide. An unhappy love affair—well, he always was a most unstable young man. There is no other direct heir, so you will understand why many interested outside forces are intently following what is happening here. It has happened before. We are a small country, surrounded by great powers. Seventy years ago, it was France: today, it is Prussia and Austria-Hungary. You must know that to such as these, our independent status is considered an affront.’
‘I understand,’ said Clive. He knew that the direct line of the Ostermarkan royal family had died out in the early nineteenth century. The country’s continued existence, as a dukedom under a cadet branch of the family, had been one of the surprise outcomes of the Congress of Vienna. It had survived against expectation, when other dukedoms and petty kingdoms had been eaten up by their powerful neighbours, but now only the life of one frail old man seemed to stand between it and extinction. That Greitz was fishing for assurances of British support was clear, but Clive was not in a position to give them. He was not the British Minister, and furthermore, there had been no instructions from Whitehall. In any case, Foreign Office opinion on the Ostermarkan question was known to be sharply divided.
‘Let me tell you the story of my family, Mr Taverner,’ said Greitz, after a slight pause. ‘It is an interesting one, I think, and very instructive if you wish to understand this country. My ancestress, the mother, if I may so term her, of the current branch of the Greitz family, was the half-sister of our famous eighteenth century Queen, Elsabetta. As a young woman she fell into disgrace for reasons that are now not clearly understood outside of the family; she was briefly exiled, and then returned, bringing with her a little boy, who was my great-greatgreat grandfather. It was a great scandal, and also a great love story, for the father of her son was none other than the Margrave Greitz of that day, and he was also her sister’s husband. It was a strange relationship, but they remained devoted to each other for the rest of their lives. When he died, the Margrave arranged that both his family title, and his rank as Procurator of the Queen’s Guard, should descend to this illegitimate son, and his descendents. So you see, for over a hundred and fifty years now, the members of my family have been the protectors of Ostermark. Through our efforts the country has been kept safe and secure and its borders intact, apart from the rest of Europe, and we have always dealt severely with those who attempt to meddle with that status quo. I take that tradition very seriously, Mr Taverner. Now that I am Procurator, I hope to halt the threat posed by our greedy neighbours. Ostermark must remain autonomous, independent and apart.’
‘I understand,’ said Clive again, and then—he could not believe he had the effrontery to say the words, but they sprang, unbidden, to his lips—he continued, ‘I think I may safely say, Your Excellency, that Ostermark’s existence is not considered an affront by Great Britain, and that we shall continue to support you to the utmost of our ability.’
Greitz relaxed. His face broke into a charming smile. ‘I am most relieved to hear you say that, Mr Taverner. You are, indeed, a friend to this poor country.’ He stood up, and reached out his hands. In a state of shock, Clive took them and pressed them automatically. He followed Greitz to the door, and saw him down the stairs to the ground floor entrance where the doorman summoned his carriage. On the threshold, the procurator paused.
‘By the way, where is Mr Melhuish?’
‘He has been called out of Starberg, Your Excellency,’ said Clive numbly. ‘I believe he will be returning soon.’
‘A pity. Goodbye Mr Taverner. I have so much appreciated our conversation.’
There was a terrible smell in the stairwell as Clive went upstairs, and by the time he reached the chancery he felt slightly faint. Francis Sinclair and John Pritchard were standing together at the front window, looking down into the street.
‘He’s waiting outside, sir,’ said Sinclair.
‘In this cold weather? What can have happened to his carriage?’
‘It’s my observation that fellow never feels the cold,’ said John Pritchard. ‘I’ve seen him walking in the ducal park in winter and I swear, he’s got bare feet.’
‘He’s going next door,’ said Francis Sinclair. ‘I think he’s going to Mr Melhuish’s apartment.’
‘Hell.’ Clive joined the others at the window. ‘He obviously didn’t believe me when I said he’d been called away. I suppose young Melhuish is at home?’
‘He was certainly there this morning,’ said Francis. ‘With a girl, no less.’
‘A girl? Stephen Melhuish?’ Pritchard grinned. ‘Well, there’s a turn-up for the books.’
‘He can have a convent of nuns in there as far as I’m concerned, as long as he keeps his head,’ said Clive brusquely. ‘I hope to God he has the sense not to tell Greitz his uncle’s missing.’
‘Greitz has gone inside, sir,’ reported Pritchard.
‘Tell the porter to watch the building,’ said Clive. ‘I want to know when he leaves. And for God’s sake, get someone in here to look at the drains. This building stinks to high heaven.’
The knock on the apartment door came as a surprise. Stephen, who was not used to callers, opened it suspiciously. A dark-haired man in a grey suit stood on the hall carpet, smiling slightly, leaning on a slim, silverhandled cane.
‘Good afternoon.’ The visitor produced a card, speaking first in Ostermarkan, then immediately switching to a fluent, attractively accented English. ‘I am Richard Greitz. Could I perhaps speak with Mr George Melhuish?’
‘My uncle isn’t here.’
‘Is he not? Well, perhaps I could come in and write him a letter—’
‘It would be better if you did that at the legation,’ said Stephen. He stood his ground in the doorway. Greitz lifted an eyebrow.
‘Of course, you are his nephew, are you not? Stephen—may I call you Stephen?’
Stephen did not reply. Greitz smiled again.
‘No matter. If you see your uncle, perhaps you could tell him I would like very much to speak with him. Goodbye, Mr Stephen Melhuish. Or rather, au revoir.’
He tipped his hat with his cane, and withdrew along the landing. Stephen waited until he heard his footsteps on the stairs, then went back to the drawing room where Estée was waiting.
‘That was very unpleasant,’ said Stephen. ‘Margrave Greitz must have thought me extremely rude.’
‘Who’s Margrave Greitz?’
‘The new Procurator of the Queen’s Guard. He wanted to speak to my uncle.’ Stephen handed her the card. ‘We’d better hurry. We’re meeting Miss Taverner again in less than half an hour. Have you got the certificate?’
‘Not yet.’ A battered notecase sat on a drop-leaf table which Stephen had wheeled into the centre of the drawing room. It had been collected with Estée’s clothing from her former lodging, and was now all that remained of Jonathan’s effects, for Estée had authorised the landlady to sell the rest of his belongings to cover their debt. The woman would cheat her, she was certain, but most of the fight had left Estée when she had seen
her father’s body on the stretcher, and she no longer had the energy to care. She clicked the notecase shut. ‘It doesn’t seem to be here. My father kept all his important papers in this case; it’s the only place it would have been. But there’s nothing in it to say I was ever born at all.’
‘Perhaps Miss Taverner will have better luck,’ said Stephen. He pulled his watch out of his pocket. ‘We’d better leave. We’re expected in Quay Street in twenty minutes, and we have to find a cab.’
In the end, it took rather longer to get to Quay Street than they had expected. Sally was waiting for them at the pre-arranged rendezvous, standing outside the perfumerie with its rose-filled flower boxes, and looking distinctly uncomfortable at being alone. Unfortunately, her attempts to find a birth certificate had been no more successful than Estée’s. Her mother kept her private papers in the drawing room, and as luck would have it, the maid had been in there cleaning when she had gone to search.
‘I’ll have to try again later this evening,’ she said. ‘There’s really only one place it can be. By the way, something very queer happened on my way here. I don’t know for sure, but I think someone was following me.’
‘Following you?’ asked Stephen. ‘Why do you think that?’
‘There was a man outside the coffee house in the New City. I noticed him particularly as we went in, and again when the cab came back. There’s nothing especially strange about that, but I caught a glimpse of him again when I left the apartment to come here. I think he may have followed me home.’
‘What did he look like?’
‘Dark-haired, bearded, in his late twenties. I didn’t like the look of him much. It gave me quite a fright, but perhaps I’m just especially jumpy this afternoon.’
‘We’d better be careful, all the same,’ said Stephen. He glanced at Estée, who was looking thoughtful. ‘Is there anything the matter?’
‘No. No, I was just thinking.’ She put her hand into her pocket and brought out her purse. ‘Come on. Let’s get this over and done with.’
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