Royal Flush

by Rhys Bowen

  We passed through the sparkling new building, our feet tapping on the marble floor. I looked up in fascination at the mural that decorated the wall. It depicted the time zones around the world. It was already night in Australia. I experienced a pang of longing. So much of the world waiting to be explored, and the farthest I had been was Switzerland—all very safe and clean.

  The lunch was surprisingly good with a well-cooked fillet of plaice and strawberries and cream to follow it. As we lingered over our coffee I stared out of the window with rapt attention, while trying not to notice Belinda and Paolo sharing bites of a strawberry in a most erotic fashion. I had seen the storm clouds building in a great bank of darkness, so I wasn’t really surprised by the first clap of thunder immediately over our heads. People who had been standing on the tarmac rushed for shelter as the rains began. Chauffeurs hastily put covers on open motorcars.

  “Well, that’s put an end to any more flying today,” Paolo said. “I hope it stops before I have to ride back to London. Riding a motorcycle in a storm is simply not fun.”

  “You could get struck by lightning,” Belinda said. “I thought you loved danger.”

  “Danger, sì. Getting soaking wet, no.”

  “You’ll have to leave the motorcycle here and come back on the train with us,” Belinda said.

  “But I could not reach the house where I am staying without my motorcycle,” he said. “Where could I spend the night, do you think?”

  Of course he knew the answer perfectly well.

  “Let me think,” Belinda said.

  I turned away, wishing I were not the wallflower again. Then somebody shouted, “Look! There’s an aeroplane attempting to land.”

  I peered into the downpour and thought I could make out a blacker speck against the dark clouds.

  “He must be crazy to try and land in this,” someone else said. “He’ll get himself killed.”

  Everybody rushed to the windows to watch the spectacle. We could see the tiny machine bobbing around, disappearing into cloud one minute and reappearing the next. Then it went into a great bank of darkness. Lightning flashed. Thunder roared. There was no sign of the plane. Suddenly a cheer went up. The little craft came out of the cloud, only a few feet above the runway, and touched down, sending out a sheet of spray behind it.

  Everyone streamed out of the restaurant. We followed, caught up in the excitement, and stood under the canopy as the small craft came toward us. It was a biplane, no bigger than a child’s toy.

  “It’s a Gypsy Moth,” Paolo said. “Open cockpit, you know. I don’t think I’d be brave enough to land a Moth in this kind of storm.”

  The aeroplane came to a halt. The pilot swung himself out of the rear cockpit and climbed down to applause and cheers. Then he took off his helmet and a gasp went up from the crowd. The pilot was a woman with striking red hair.

  “It’s Ronny!” Paolo exclaimed, pushing forward through the crowd.

  “Ronny? It looks like a girl to me,” I said.

  “Veronica Padgett, darling.” Belinda was following Paolo through the crowd. “You know, the famous aviatrix. She just set the solo record from London to Cape Town.”

  The pilot was now making her way into the building, graciously accepting the cheers and congratulations as she moved through the crowd.

  “Ronny, well done,” Paolo called out as she passed us.

  She looked up, saw him and gave him a big smile. “What-ho, Paolo. Bet you couldn’t do that.”

  “Nobody in his right mind would have attempted that, Ronny. You’re quite mad, you know.”

  She laughed. She had a rich, deep laugh. “Possibly. I told myself so many times during the last half hour.”

  “Where have you come from?” Paolo asked.

  “Not far. Only over from France. I knew I probably shouldn’t have taken off, but I didn’t want to miss a party this evening. But the whole thing was utterly bloody. Couldn’t see the blasted railway lines in France and then there was fog over the Channel and then I flew into this bank of filthy weather. Bucketed around all over the place. I almost lost my lunch, and my compass was playing up too. No idea where the damned runway was. My God, it was fun.”

  I looked at her in amazement. Her face was positively glowing with excitement.

  “Come on, let’s get out of this infernal weather,” she said, turning up her flight jacket collar as another clap of thunder sounded overhead and the wind whipped across the aerodrome. As we fell into place behind her, Belinda tapped Paolo on the shoulder. “Are you planning to introduce us or are you keeping her all to yourself?” she asked.

  Paolo laughed, a trifle nervously. “I’m sorry, I should have introduced you. Ronny, these are my friends Belinda Warburton-Stoke and Georgiana Rannoch. Girls, this is Ronny Padgett.”

  I saw Ronny’s eyes widen. “Rannoch? Any relation to the dukes of?”

  “The last one was my father; the current one is my brother,” I said.

  “Good God. Then we’re almost neighbors. My family place is not too far from you on the Dee.”

  “Really? It’s amazing we’ve never run into each other before.”

  “I don’t go up there often,” she said. “Too damned quiet for my taste. And I’m a good bit older than you. When I was shipped off to boarding school you were probably still crawling around in nappies. And I left home for good when I was sixteen. Didn’t want any part of being presented and all that bosh. Since then I’ve never stayed in one place for long. Born with wanderlust, I suppose. Are you up there much yourself?”

  “I have to go up to Scotland in a couple of weeks,” I said. “But not to Castle Rannoch if I can avoid it. It’s not the liveliest of places these days. I’m due at Balmoral for the grouse shoot.”

  “Murdering all the poor defenseless little birds,” Ronny said. “Barbaric when you come to think of it. But by God it’s fun, isn’t it? I suppose it must be in the blood, don’t you think?”

  “I think it must,” I said. “I adore hunting but I always feel jolly sorry for the poor fox when it’s torn to pieces. I’m not a particularly good shot, so I don’t feel sorry for the grouse in the same way. And they are awfully silly birds.”

  Ronny laughed again. “They certainly are. Maybe we’ll bump into each other sometime. If I’m there you can come and shoot with me on the estate.”

  Belinda, I noticed, was pouting. She was used to being the center of attention.

  She tugged at Paolo’s arm. “After what Ronny has just achieved, the very least you can do is to fete her with champagne,” she said.

  “Belinda, I sometimes think you believe that all I am good for is keeping you supplied with champagne and cav iar,” Paolo said.

  “Not at all, you do have other uses.” She gave him her cat-with-the-cream smile.

  I saw the lingering glance that passed between them. Then he turned to Ronny. “I’m instructed to buy you champagne if they stock a decent bottle at the bar here. Coming?”

  She looked around, then laughed again. “Why not? You only live once, don’t you? And I’ve never yet said no to a decent champers.” She strode ahead of us, through the crowd and into the main hall of the building. “I don’t suppose you’ve seen my maid, have you?” she asked, her eyes searching the crowd. “Timid little thing. Looks as if she expects everyone to bite her. I told her to meet me here with the dress I plan to wear tonight. She damned well better show up or I’m sunk. I can’t go to a party dressed like this.”

  We made our way toward the bar but there was no sign of a maid. “Probably waiting for me at the hangar, which is where I left the motorcar, thank God. At least it will be dry.”

  “You have a motorcar, do you?” Paolo asked, eyeing her with interest. “Any chance of a ride into town?”

  “Sorry, old thing. I’m heading for deepest Sussex. No use at all.”

  “Too bad,” Paolo said. “I came on my motorcycle and I do so hate getting wet. Now I have no choice but to leave the wretched thing here and go back t
o London by train.”

  “What a hardship for you,” Belinda said in a clipped voice.

  He put an arm around her shoulder. “I didn’t mean it like that, mi amore. I just meant that once I am in London I will have no means of transport except for those horrible taxicabs that creep around slower than beetles. I’m sure Ronny drives deliciously fast.”

  “I certainly do, old bean,” she said, and laughed again.

  We were just entering the bar when a young woman called out, “Miss Padgett!” and came toward us, staggering under a large suitcase. She looked red faced and distinctly flustered. “Oh, Miss Padgett, I’m so sorry I’m late,” she gasped. “It started to thunder when I was halfway from the station and I had to take shelter. I’m mortally afraid of thunder, you know. I hope I haven’t inconvenienced you.”

  “Of course you bloody well have,” Ronny said. “You can’t seem to get anywhere on time. But you’re lucky this once. I’ve been waylaid to drink champagne, so run along to the motorcar and wait for me there.”

  “The motorcar?”

  “It’s in the hangar. You know. Number 23? You’ve been there before. Where I keep the Moth.” She turned to us. “Heavens, it’s like talking to a brick wall. I take it you have efficient maids, Lady Georgiana?”

  “Please call me Georgie, everyone does,” I said. “And at the moment I have no servants at all. I’ve recently moved to London and frankly I’m still slumming it.”

  “Splendid idea,” Ronny said. “You see, Mavis, Lady Georgiana is the daughter of a duke and she can make do without servants. So you’d better shape up or I may have to follow suit. A new age is dawning, you know.”

  Paolo had been conferring with the barman, and there was a satisfying pop as the cork flew off a bottle of Bollinger.

  “Well, go on then,” Ronny said to the long-suffering Mavis, who was now staring at me in fascination. “Take my suitcase and put it in the car, then wait for me there. Oh, and see if you can put the top up. We don’t want to get wet.”

  Mavis attempted a curtsy then staggered off. As she went, Ronny’s clear voice echoed across the marble foyer. “I’d sack her in a moment but frankly I know I’d find things like washing and ironing too tiresome.”

  Chapter 4

  Rannoch House

  August 13, 14 and 15, 1932

  Wet.

  “So what did you think of Ronny?” Belinda asked me on the way home.

  “Interesting. Different.”

  “She’s certainly her own person, isn’t she?” Belinda said. “Heart of a lion, but she doesn’t care what she says or whom she insults.” She turned to Paolo, who was slumped in the window seat. “I saw you were rather taken with her.”

  “She amazes me and amuses me,” he said, “but as to anything more, she has about as much sex appeal as a plate of spaghetti Bolognese.”

  “I don’t know, spaghetti can be quite sexy, if eaten in the nude.” Belinda gave him the most provocative look.

  Paolo laughed. “Belinda, you are quite the most shameless girl I know. Angelina would go and say a dozen Hail Marys if a thought like that even crossed her mind.”

  “That’s why I’m more fun than Angelina,” Belinda said. “Go on, admit that you have more fun when you are with me.”

  “Of course I do, but I do not think you will make anybody a suitable wife.”

  I watched them as the train chuffed toward Victoria. Belinda was going to wind up like my mother, leaping from bed to bed with gay abandon, I decided. The thought seemed to worry me more than it did her.

  They dropped me off at Rannoch House then disappeared, presumably for a night of sin. I didn’t sleep much either. The thunderstorm had left the air sticky, and even with the windows open it was too hot to sleep. I lay awake, listening to the sounds of the city, and found myself thinking about Belinda and Paolo. What would it be like to spend the night in the arms of a man? Then of course my thoughts turned to a particular man. What was he doing at this moment? Was he really still recuperating at his family’s place in Ireland or was he somewhere else, with someone else? One never knew with Darcy.

  When I first met him I had thought him a wild Irish playboy opportunist, living by his charm and his wits. But now I suspected he was more than he had told me. In fact I thought he might be some kind of spy. For whom I couldn’t say, but definitely not for the communists. He had taken a bullet that almost cost him his life to save the king and queen.

  I just wished I knew where he was. I wished I had the nerve to show up on his doorstep. But I was rather afraid of what I might find there. When it came to men, I seriously lacked confidence—probably because the only male I knew until the age of eighteen was my brother.

  I fell asleep eventually and woke to the sound of the milk-man’s horse and the rattle of bottles. The air had cooled overnight and the sweet smell of roses and honeysuckle wafted across from the gardens in the middle of the square. I got out of bed feeling energized and renewed, the black mood of the day before having vanished with the night air. My nature is such that I can never stay down in the dumps for long. And today I had a task ahead of me, one that might set me up with a splendid income for the foreseeable future.

  I sat at my desk and composed an advertisement for the Times. When I had finished I was rather pleased with myself and wanted to show it to Belinda. But I knew better than to disturb her before eleven o’clock and especially when she was probably not alone. So I printed it out neatly and delivered it to the Times office. I thought the girl who wrote the receipt for it looked at me strangely and I wondered if she recognized me. I do appear in the odd photograph in the Tattler, since the press thinks of me as an eligible young woman of good pedigree. (Little do they know the state of the Rannoch bank accounts.)

  “Are you sure this is what you want it to say, miss?” she asked.

  “Yes, quite sure, thank you.”

  “Very well.” She took my money. “So this will appear for the first time in tomorrow’s paper and run until you tell us to stop it.”

  “That’s correct,” I said. She was still staring at me as I left the office.

  I came home full of anticipation and went through my wardrobe for garments suitable for evenings on the town. Luckily I had had a maid for one whole week earlier in the summer, and during that time she had cleaned and pressed my good clothes, so that my evening dresses were not as crumpled as my everyday wear. I sat in front of the mirror and experimented with putting my hair up. (Disaster. I looked like Medusa.) Then I got the scissors and snipped at the ends in the hope of turning it into the kind of sleek bob Belinda wore. Again not too successful. Now all I had to do was wait.

  The next morning I ran out to buy the Times as soon as the newsagent was open and there it was on the front page in the middle of the other advertisements. Alone in town on business? Let Coronet Escort Service enhance your evening’s entertainment. Our high-class girls make ideal companions to grace your dining and dancing. I had had to supply a phone number, naturally, and had no choice but to give the Rannoch House number. I just hoped that nobody recognized it and told Binky or Fig. But then I reasoned I wasn’t doing anything wrong. That Mr. Hiram Schlossberger had enjoyed every minute of my company the other evening. So why shouldn’t similar gentlemen pay for the privilege?

  Clearly the idea was not a silly one, because that afternoon I received my first telephone call. The man had a pronounced North Country accent, but I couldn’t hold that against him. I thought of all those rich mill owners and people who said things like “Where there’s muck, there’s brass.” Even if his conversation and manners were boorish, he’d pay well. He asked me my price, which no man of breeding would do, and stammered a little when I told him five guineas.

  “That’s an awful lot,” he said. “She’d better be good.”

  “The very best,” I said. “A high-class girl from a good family. You’ll be enchanted with her.”

  “I bloody hope so,” he said. “Have her meet me at the Rendezvous Club be
hind Leicester Square. That’s close to where I’m staying.”

  “Very well,” I said. “And what time shall I tell her?”

  “Ten o’clock?”

  I put down the mouthpiece. It wasn’t going to be dinner then, at that hour. Nor a theater. A late supper at a nightclub, maybe? Then dancing, gambling, a cabaret? My heart raced in anticipation. This was the sort of life I’d dreamed of living—out late with the bright young things, coming home at dawn.

  I spent a ridiculously long time getting ready, soaking in a hot bath and then actually trying to apply makeup, something I’ve never really learned to do well. But when I looked in the mirror, I was satisfied with the luscious red lips, even if black mascara on my eyelashes didn’t really go with my red-blond hair and coloring and the cocktail dress was not as slinky as I would have liked. It was one that the gamekeeper’s wife had run up on her sewing machine for my season. It was a copy of something I’d admired in a magazine, but somehow the combination of Mrs. MacTavish’s sewing skills and my taffeta didn’t make me quite look the same as the softly draped girl with the cigarette holder in Harper’s Bazaar. But it was the best I could do and I looked clean and respectable.

  My heart thumped wildly all the way in the taxicab. We passed the bright lights of Leicester Square with its theater marquees and bustling crowds and finally pulled up on a dark side street.

  “Are you sure this is it, miss?” The taxi driver asked in a concerned voice.

  I wasn’t sure. It looked awfully dark and lonely. But then I saw a blinking sign over an entrance. Club Rendezvous. “Yes, this is it,” I said. “Thank you very much.”

  “You are meeting somebody, I hope,” he said as I paid him.

  “Yes, I’m meeting a young man. Don’t worry, I’ll be fine.” I gave what I hoped was a confident smile.

  The taxi sped away, leaving me alone in the deserted street. It had rained again and the flashing red sign was reflected in the puddles as I crossed the road. I pushed open the door and found myself facing a flight of steps going down to a basement. Music spilled up to greet me—the wail of a saxophone and a heavy drumbeat. I held on to the rail as I went down the steps. This then was a real nightclub. I had never been in a place like this. The stairs were steep with worn carpet on them. And I was wearing my one pair of high-heeled shoes, in my attempt to look glamorous. I haven’t mentioned yet that I am apt to be clumsy in moments of stress. Halfway down, my heel caught in a threadbare patch in the carpet. I pitched forward, grasped at the railing and ended up slithering down the last of the stairs, arriving at the bottom in a most undignified way as I cannoned into a potted palm. I hastened to pick myself up before anyone observed this unorthodox entry. I was in a sort of dark anteroom with an antique writing desk and chair, mercifully unoccupied. The area was separated from the main area by a row of potted palms, one of which now had a frond hanging down, thanks to me. A man had just been emerging from the club beyond the palms. He was staggering slightly as if drunk and started in alarm when I came hurtling down the stairs toward him.