by Rhys Bowen
“I’m going to visit family,” I said over my shoulder, “but I expect I’ll do a little shooting. How about you?”
“I may do a little shooting myself but I’m particularly going to watch a chum of mine try out his new boat. He’s designed this fiendish contraption with which he plans to break the world water speed record. He’s going to be trying it out on some ghastly Scottish lake, so a group of us decided to come along as a cheering section.”
“Really?” I said. “Where shall you be staying?”
“I’ve managed to wheedle a sort of invitation to a place nearby called Castle Rannoch,” he said. “I was at school with the duke, y’know. I must say the old school tie works wonders everywhere. But I can’t say I’m looking forward to the castle with great anticipation. Positively medieval by the sound of it. No decent plumbing or heating and family ghosts on the battlements. And the live occupants sound equally dreary, but it really will be dashed convenient for all the excitement so I expect I’ll be able to stomach it for a few days. How about you? Where are you staying?”
“At Castle Rannoch,” I said smoothly. “It’s my family home.”
“Oh, blast it.” He flushed bright pink. “Don’t tell me you’re Binky’s sister. I really have bally well put my foot in it, haven’t I?”
“Yes, you do seem to have,” I said. “Now, please excuse me. I don’t want to miss the first sitting at luncheon with the vicars and spinsters.” I spun away from him and stalked off fast in the opposite direction.
The dining room was quite full by the time I arrived, and not just with the threatened spinsters and vicars, but I was found an empty table and handed a menu. I noticed a man seated opposite me staring with interest. He was an older military type—slim, upright bearing and neat little mustache, and I wondered if he made a habit of picking up young women on trains. In fact he half rose to his feet, as if to come in my direction, when he was beaten to it by another man.
“I’m frightfully sorry,” the latter said in high, breathless tones, “but the whole wretched place appears to be occupied so I wondered if you’d mind frightfully if I joined you. I promise that I don’t slurp my soup or drink my tea from the saucer.”
He was the complete physical opposite of the other man—short, chubby and pink, with a dapper little mustache and a carnation in his buttonhole. His dark hair was carefully combed to cover a bald spot. Completely inoffensive in any case and he was giving me a hopeful smile. He could even have been one of the aforementioned vicars, traveling minus dog collar.
“Of course,” I said. “Do sit down.”
“Splendid. Splendid,” he said, beaming at me now. He took out a crisp white handkerchief and mopped his brow. “Warm on this train, isn’t it? They’ll all get a frightful shock when they reach Scotland and the usual howling gale is blowing.”
“Do you live in Scotland?” I asked.
“Good lord, no. I’m a cosmopolitan bird myself. London and Paris, that’s me.” Then he extended a pink, chubby hand. “I should introduce myself. I’m Godfrey Beverley. I write a little column for the Morning Post. It’s called ‘Tittle Tattle.’ All the juicy gossip about what’s going on around town. You’ve probably heard of me.”
A small alarm bell was going off in my head. This man was part of the press. Was he ingratiating himself to me so that he could get the inside scoop on my current rapid departure from London?
“I’m sorry,” I said smoothly, “but we take the Times, and I pay no attention to gossip.”
“But my dear young lady, you must be one in a million if you don’t find gossip utterly delicious,” he said, looking up expectantly as soup plates were delivered to our table.
“Ah, vichyssoise—my favorite,” he said, beaming again. “I’ve heard they do a decent meal on this train these days. So much better than when they used to stop for lunch at York and we all had to cram down awful sausage rolls in twenty minutes. And I didn’t get a chance to ask you your name, my dear.”
I tried to come up with an innocuous name and was just about to say Maggie McGregor, which was the name of my maid at home, when the maitre d’ appeared at our table. “Some wine for you, your ladyship?” he asked.
“Uh, no, thank you,” I stammered.
“Your ladyship?” My table companion was gazing at me in eager anticipation. He put a hand to his mouth like a naughty child caught at the biscuit barrel. “Oh, heavens above, how silly of me. Of course. I recognize you now from your pictures in the Tattler. You’re Lady Georgiana, aren’t you? The king’s cousin. How absolutely crass of me not to recognize you. And here I was thinking you were an ordinary wholesome young girl going home from boarding school or university. You must have thought me frightfully presumptuous, trying to sit at your table. And how gracious you were about it too. Please do forgive my boorishness.” He half rose to his feet.
“Not at all,” I said, smiling to calm his fluster. “And please do stay. I hate to eat alone.”
“You are too, too kind, your ladyship.” He was positively bowing now.
“And I am an ordinary wholesome young woman,” I said. “I am going home to visit my family.”
“To Castle Rannoch? How delightful. I shall be staying at my favorite inn, not far from you. I always like to go up to Scotland during the season. Everybody who is anybody is there, of course, and there is always the chance that your esteemed family members will appear from Balmoral and mingle with humble commoners like myself from time to time.” He paused to work his way through the soup. “I presume you have been invited to Balmoral?”
“Yes, one is always expected to put in an appearance each season,” I said, “but I plan to spend a few days at home on the family estate first.”
“They must all miss you so much when you are away,” he said. “Have you been traveling in Europe?”
“No, I’ve been in London for most of the time,” I said, then I remembered that he was Mr. Tittle Tattle. “Of course one visits friends frequently at their country houses. I’m a country girl at heart. I can’t stay in the city for too long.”
“How true, how true,” he said. “So do tell me with whom you have stayed recently. Any juicy scandals?”
“Not since the German princess,” I said, knowing he would be fully conversant with that one.
“My dear, wasn’t that awful? You are so lucky to have escaped with your life, from what one hears.”
The empty soup plates were whisked away to be replaced with roast pheasant, new potatoes and peas. Godfrey Beverley beamed again. “I have to confess that I do adore pheasant,” he said, and tucked in with relish.
“So tell me,” he asked after he had demolished most of the food on his plate, “what is this we hear about your esteemed cousin the Prince of Wales and his new companion? Is it true what they are saying, that she is a married woman? Twice married, in fact? And an American to boot?”
“I’m afraid the Prince of Wales does not confide in me about his lady friends,” I said. “He still sees me as a schoolgirl.”
“How shortsighted when you have blossomed into such a lovely young woman.”
I was about to remind him that he had also taken me for a schoolgirl, and he must have remembered at the same moment because he became flustered again and started playing with his bread roll. The plates were removed and a delicious-looking queen pudding was placed in front of us.
“I wonder if she will be up in Scotland?” he asked in conspiratorial undertones.
“She?”
“The mysterious American woman about whom the rumors are flying,” he whispered. “She certainly wouldn’t be invited to Balmoral, but I do hope to catch a glimpse of her. They say she is the height of fashion—which reminds me, have you seen much of your dear mother lately? I am inordinately fond of your dear mama.”
“Are you?” My hostility toward him melted a little.
“Of course. I adore that woman. I worship the ground she treads upon. She has provided me with more material for my columns than any
other human being. Such a deliciously naughty life she has led.”
The hostility returned. “I see very little of her these days,” I said. “I believe she is still in Germany.”
“Oh no, my dear. She’s been in England for the past couple of weeks at least. I spotted her at the Café Royal the other evening. And she sang with Noel Coward at the Café de Paris the other night. There is a rumor he’s writing a play for her. You wouldn’t happen to know if that’s true, would you?”
“You obviously know more about her than I do,” I said, feeling ridiculously hurt that she had been in London and hadn’t contacted me once. Not that she had contacted me for months on end when I was growing up or away at school. The maternal instinct never ran strongly through her veins, I suspect.
I managed to eat my meringue without shattering white bits all over me and also managed a couple of polite answers to Mr. Beverley’s persistent questions over coffee. With great relief I drained my cup and called over the steward to pay my bill.
“Already taken care of, your ladyship,” the steward said.
I looked around the car, a little flustered over who might have been treating me to lunch. It certainly wasn’t Mr. Beverley. He was counting out his money onto the tablecloth. Then I decided that perhaps Sir William might have arranged this, trying to soften the blow of my having to leave London in disgrace, I suppose.
I rose and nodded to Mr. Beverley, who also staggered to his feet. “My lady, I can’t tell you what a pleasure it was to make your acquaintance,” he said. “And I do hope that this will be the first of many meetings. Who knows, perhaps you will be free to take tea with me one day while I am at the inn. There is a delightful little teahouse nearby. The Copper Kettle. Do you know it?”
“I usually take tea with the family when I am home,” I said, “but I’m sure we’ll bump into each other at some stage, if you are planning to stay in Scotland long. Maybe at one of the shoots?”
At this he turned pale. “Oh, deary me, no. I do not relish killing things, Lady Georgiana. Such a barbaric custom.”
I almost reminded him that he had tucked into the pheasant with obvious relish and that somebody had had to kill it at some stage, but I was more anxious to make an exit while I could.
“Please excuse me,” I said. “I was up very early this morning and I think I need to rest after lunch.” I gave him the gracious royal nod and retreated to my compartment. Really this had been a most tiresome two days. It was with great expectation that I thought of home.
Chapter 8
Still on the train
August 17
The compartment was warm with afternoon sun and I was replete with a good lunch. I must have dozed off because a small sound woke me. The slightest of clicks, but enough to make me open my eyes. When I did, I sat up in alarm. A man was in my compartment. What’s more, he was in the process of closing the curtains to the corridor. It was the military-looking man who had been eyeing me closely in the dining car.
“What do you think you are doing?” I demanded, leaping to my feet. “Please leave this compartment at once, or I shall be obliged to pull the communication cord and stop this train.”
At that he chuckled. “I’ve always wanted to see that done,” he said. “I wonder how long it takes to stop an express going at seventy miles an hour? A good half mile, I’d guess.”
“If you’ve come to rob me, I have to warn you that I am traveling with nothing of value,” I said haughtily, “and if you’ve come to assault me, I can assure you that I am blessed with a good punch and a loud scream.”
At this he laughed. “Oh yes, I see what they mean. I think you’ll do very well.” He sat down without being asked. “I assure you that I mean you no harm, my lady, and I ask you to forgive the unorthodox method of introduction. I tried to introduce myself to you in the dining car but that odious little man beat me to it.” He leaned closer to me. “Allow me to introduce myself now. I am Sir Jeremy Danville. I work for the Home Office.”
Oh, golly, I thought. Someone else from the government making sure I got home safely and caused no royal scandal. He probably wanted to know what I’d told Godfrey Beverley.
“I caught this train deliberately,” he said, “knowing that we could talk without danger of being overheard. First I want your word that what I am going to say to you will never be repeated to anyone, not even to a family member.”
This was unexpected and I was still in the process of waking up from my doze. “I don’t see how I can agree to something when I have no idea what it is,” I said.
“If I told you it concerns the safety of the monarchy?” He looked at me long and hard.
“Very well, I suppose,” I said.
I began to feel a little as Anne Boleyn must have done when she was summoned to the Tower and discovered it wasn’t for a quiet dinner party. It crossed my mind that someone might have telephoned the queen over my little gaffe and I was about to be dispatched posthaste to be lady-in-waiting to a distant relative in the Outer Hebrides.
Sir Jeremy cleared his throat. “Lady Georgiana, we at the Home Office are not unaware of the part you played in uncovering a plot against Their Majesties,” he said. “You showed considerable spunk and resourcefulness. So we decided you might be the ideal person for a little task involving the royal family.”
He paused. I waited. He seemed to expect me to say something but I couldn’t think of anything to say as I had no idea as to what might come next.
“Lady Geogiana,” he resumed, “the Prince of Wales has recently had a series of unfortunate accidents—a wheel that came loose on his car, a saddle girth that broke on his polo pony. Fortunately he was unharmed on both occasions. These could, of course, be deemed unlucky coincidences, but as we looked at them more closely, we found that the Duke of York and his other brothers had also experienced similar unlucky accidents. We have come to the conclusion that someone is trying to harm or even kill members of the royal family, or more accurately heirs to the throne.”
“Golly,” I exclaimed. “Do you think it’s the communists at work again?”
“We did consider that possibility,” Sir Jeremy said gravely. “Some outside power trying to destabilize the country. However, the situation and nature of some of these accidents draw us to a rather startling conclusion: they appear to be what one might call ‘an inside job.’ ”
I went to say “golly” again and swallowed it down at the last moment. It did sound a trifle schoolgirlish. “You mean someone has infiltrated the palace?” I said. “I suppose that’s not completely impossible. After all, one of the communists managed it in Bavaria.”
“We don’t think it is the communists this time,” Sir Jef frey said bluntly. “We think it’s closer to home.”
“Someone connected to the family?”
He nodded. “Which makes our surveillance rather difficult. Naturally we have our special branch men protecting the Prince of Wales and his brothers to the best of our ability, but there are times and places when we can’t be present. That’s where you come in. They’re all currently at Balmoral for the grouse shooting.”
“Well, that’s all right then, isn’t it?” I looked up at Sir Jeremy. “They’ll be safely out of harm’s way up there.”
“On the contrary. The Prince of Wales had a near miss while out driving only yesterday when the steering locked on the shooting brake he was driving.”
“Gol—gosh,” I stammered.
“So you see we were glad to know that you were on your way home. You are part of their inner circle. You can move freely among them. You’ll be the ideal person to keep your eyes and ears open for us.”
“I’m not actually invited to Balmoral for another week,” I said.
“That’s no problem. Castle Rannoch is close enough, and several members of the Balmoral shooting party are currently staying with your brother. We’ll let Their Majesties know that you will be arriving early and will be joining the shoot as part of your brother’s house party.”
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House party! That certainly didn’t sound like Fig. Surely no guests would stay long enough at Castle Rannoch to shoot anything, particularly if Fig displayed her usual meanness and allowed only half a slice of toast each for breakfast and two inches of hot water in the bathtub. Another thought struck me.
“Do Their Majesties know about this?”
“Nobody knows except for a handful of our men,” Sir Jeremy said. “Not even the Prince of Wales or his brothers suspect that these are anything more than accidents. In fact the Prince of Wales made a joke that he should probably check his horoscope before venturing out. And nobody is to know. Not the slightest hint, you understand. If this is true, then we are dealing with a cunning and ruthless person, and I want to make sure that we nab him before he manages to do some real damage.”
“And you have no idea who this person might be?”
“None at all. We’ve conducted a thorough check into the backgrounds of all the royal staff, in fact into all those who might have access to the Prince of Wales and his brothers. And we’ve come up empty.”
“I see. So you weren’t exaggerating when you said it was one of us. You really meant one of our inner circle.”
“As you say, your inner circle.” Sir Jeremy nodded gravely. “All we ask of you is to keep your eyes and ears open. Our man on the spot will make himself known to you and you can report anything suspicious to him. Naturally we do not expect you to place yourself in any kind of danger. We can count on you, can’t we?”
It was hard to make my tongue obey me. “Yes. Of course.” It came out as a squeak.
Chapter 9
Castle Rannoch
Perthshire, Scotland
August 17
Night had not quite fallen as our aged Bentley turned into the driveway leading to Castle Rannoch. The sun sets very late in summer in Scotland and although I could see the lights from the castle winking through the Scots pine trees, the horizon behind the mountains still glowed pink and gold. It was a rare glorious evening and my heart leaped at the familiar surroundings. How often had I ridden my pony along that track. There was the rock from which Binky dared me to dive into the loch, and there was the crag that I alone had managed to climb. Beyond the fence our Highland cattle looked at the motorcar with curiosity, turning their big, shaggy heads to follow our progress.