by Rhys Bowen
I couldn’t help thinking how wonderful he looked standing there with the breeze ruffling his untidy dark curls. I longed to run my hands through them. I longed to—I wrenched my thoughts back to the current problem.
“You’d better get going,” he said. “I shouldn’t leave them up there alone. They’ll mess everything up. Take care, won’t you?” He leaned forward to kiss me.
“Oh, good, there they are.” A woman’s voice rang out. We looked up to see the Duchess of York hurrying down the hillside with my mother in tow. “Don’t leave without us,” she called.
We waited patiently until they reached us. “You’re about to go back to the house, are you?” the duchess continued. “Jolly good. Your poor mama was feeling quite faint and I felt that I should get back to my daughters. This is the sort of thing they should hear directly from me, not from palace gossip. Elizabeth is very sensitive, you know. I don’t want them upset.”
I nodded. “I saw them a little while ago, ma’am. Elizabeth wants me to go riding with her.”
“Oh, she’d love that, if you have the time. She gets so frustrated at having to go slowly beside Margaret and the groom, and she really is turning into a splendid little horsewoman.”
“I’ll come over tomorrow, if you like. It may be better if she’s away from the castle if the police are going to be there again.”
The duchess looked surprised. “The police? Why would they be at the castle?”
“There has been a death,” I said.
“Yes, I know, but an accidental shooting. It’s unfortunate and very sad for the poor young man but hardly a matter for the police.”
I was going to remark that grouse are usually shot in the air so unless Hugo had the power of levitation he was unlikely to be in the line of fire, but then I saw Darcy’s warning glance and kept quiet. The chauffeur had come around and helped the duchess into the backseat. My mother hopped in beside her. I looked back at Darcy as I climbed in.
“Take care of yourself,” he said.
Chapter 25
Balmoral, then the loch beside Castle Rannoch
August 20
We were a subdued little group who took tea in the sitting room at Balmoral later that afternoon. The men had arrived back, grumbling about the day’s shoot being ruined and who had invited a boy like that who had no idea of the rules of shooting etiquette. I noticed that Darcy was no longer among them. Neither was Major Padgett, nor were Earl and Fritzi. I looked around the assembled company: the king and queen, their older companions, their sons, my cousins, Siegfried, Gussie, my mother and Max. Surely nobody here could have shot Hugo, and certainly none of the above was my contact from the special branch.
I noticed the tragedy hadn’t put them off their tea. There was the usual delightful assortment of teatime favorites on the low tables—hot buttered crumpets, warm scones with cream and jam, freshly baked shortbread, slices of Dundee cake, a Victoria sponge. Maids went among us, refilling teacups. The men were tucking in with relish. Much as I adored such things and had been deprived of them recently, I couldn’t bring myself to eat more than a couple of bites. I hoped Darcy made the local constabulary see the possibility that this was murder and not an accident and that extra precautions should be taken around the royal family.
I waited around for a while to see if Darcy would join us or if there were any developments with the police. I rather feared that the local constabulary would be so in awe of the participants in this drama that they would be quick to write it off as an accidental death. And maybe it was. I hoped that Darcy would at least suggest to the police that they bring in an inspector from Aberdeen. Suddenly I wanted to be away from the stifling atmosphere of that sitting room. I took my leave and drove back to Castle Rannoch—more slowly this time. I didn’t want to risk running into Paolo, the racing maniac, again. As I turned onto the stretch of road that ran beside the loch I saw there was activity at the landing stage and I pulled off to see what was happening. The blue speedboat was in the water, a few yards offshore, with several people working on it. Belinda was sitting with Conchita on the dock, the latter sporting a rather daring halter top and shorts. Belinda was also wearing shorts and their bare toes dangled in the water. It was a delightfully innocent scene. I got out and went over to join them.
“Having fun?” I asked.
“Oh, oodles of fun, buckets of fun,” Belinda said, rolling her eyes. “Conchita and I were just agreeing we can’t remember when we had a more scintillating day.”
“Is there anything more boring than men who talk about nothing but machines?” Conchita agreed. “First Darcy and Augustus go off and leave us, in order to shoot poor little birds, and then Paolo and the American and Ronny do nothing but talk about motors and propellers and equally boring things. We were so glad when the weather improved and at least Belinda and I could sunbathe, but the boys forgot to bring any deck chairs.”
“An altogether annoying day,” Belinda said. “Were you part of the shoot at Balmoral?”
“I was over there, paying my respects to the queen, but I didn’t shoot with them. And I’m rather glad I didn’t join them because there was a horrible tragedy. You remember Hugo Beasley-Bottome? He was shot and killed.”
“Madre de Dios,” Conchita said, and crossed herself.
“How utterly awful,” Belinda said. “Frankly I thought he was a frightful bore and a little too greasy, but he didn’t deserve to die. Who shot him?”
“They don’t know. The theory is that he wandered ahead in the mist and into the line of fire.”
“Horrible.” Belinda shuddered. “What a dope he was. You’d think someone would have basic common sense about staying with the group, wouldn’t you?”
I nodded. Belinda looked at Conchita. “I don’t suppose Ronny’s heard yet,” she said.
“She’ll probably be relieved,” Conchita replied callously. “She didn’t like that he make cow eyes at her all the time. And he was too young for her. Almost cradle snatching, she said.”
“Where is Ronny?” I asked.
Belinda nodded. “In the boat. Where else. Honestly, she enjoys tinkering with motors like a man. And she’s trying to persuade Paolo to let her have a go at driving the wretched thing.”
“She’d probably be very good at it,” I said. “We’ve watched her land planes.”
“I’m sure she’d be fabulous, but you know Paolo. He’s not about to share his new toy, even if he’s not paying for it.”
Conchita stood up, stretching luxuriantly like a cat. “I have had enough of this. I go back to the house to take a nap. I thought racing motorboats would be exciting, but it is very boring. And no interesting men around.”
“There’s that little American in the boat,” Belinda said with a smirk.
“Him? He would not know what to do with a real woman if he found her in his bed. Darcy—he would know, but I do not think I interest him.”
“There’s always Gussie,” I said, cheered by the knowledge that Darcy had not taken advantage of Conchita’s being ready, willing and very able. “He’s rich and available.”
“Then you have him,” Conchita snapped. “Englishmen make the most hopeless lovers. They make love as if they are playing rugby, with horrible grunting noises. And they do not even consider that a woman likes to enjoy it too.” She ran her hands over her swimsuit in a very suggestive gesture, then turned her back on us and started to walk away down the lakeside.
“She’s sulking because Darcy turned her down,” Belinda said. “I hope you’re not going to let him slip through your fingers this time, Georgie. He really is keen on you, you know. He has to be. Not many men would turn down such an open invitation from someone like Conchita—especially since she is so filthy rich.”
“I don’t want to let him slip through my fingers, believe me,” I said. I took Conchita’s place on the dock beside her. “So are you still madly in love with Paolo?”
She shrugged and kicked her feet up and down in the water. “I don’t thi
nk I was ever madly in love. Madly in lust, maybe. And I have to confess the sex is heavenly, and I love the excitement of all that speed.”
I hesitated, wondering if I should share my suspicions. After all, he had been driving away from Balmoral in an awful hurry. “You should be careful about all that speed,” I said at last. “He nearly ran me off the road this morning.”
“I know. He doesn’t think anybody has the right to be on the road but him. Completely selfish, like most men. And he has these odd moments of Catholic guilt—mumbles about needing to go to confession and worries about spending hundreds of years in purgatory. They are a funny lot, aren’t they?”
“So the bloom has gone off the rose, has it?” I smiled.
“To tell you the truth, I don’t quite like playing second fiddle to a boat. I mean, darling, since we’ve been up here he has hardly noticed I’m alive. Except for at night, of course, but then he’s been working so hard all day that he doesn’t have the energy to do it more than once. And he’s talking about needing to go back to his fiancée for her birthday.”
“I’m glad,” I said.
“Glad he’s going back to his fiancée?”
“Glad you haven’t fallen for him in a big way. I wouldn’t want to see you get hurt.”
“Don’t worry about me.” She patted my knee. “I’m a survivor, Georgie. I’m like a cat. I always land on my feet like your mama.”
“I don’t want you to end up like my mama.”
She shrugged. “It’s not such a bad life she’s had. At least she’s never been bored, and boredom is what I dread more than anything. I’m terrified if I got married that I’d be stuck on some dreary country estate and my main excitement of the day would be picking roses and hearing the children recite their party pieces at teatime.”
“You obviously need to marry someone rich,” I said, “then you can have houses all over the place and flit from one to the other.”
“And keep a lover in each place.” Her eyes positively twinkled. Then she frowned, staring past me at the road. “I didn’t know the local policeman had a car,” she said. “I thought they were only issued bikes.”
“He does only have a bike,” I said, turning to follow her gaze. “I expect that’s the plainclothes boys from Aberdeen coming to examine the scene of the shooting at Balmoral.”
“In which case, why are they driving away from Balmoral?” she asked.
“Good point. Perhaps they are heading toward Castle Rannoch to talk to me. I should let them know I’m here.”
But as I stood up, the police car had already come off the tarmacadam and was crunching over the gravel toward the dock. Two men got out, both of them plainclothes detectives, wearing macks and trilby hats in the time-honored tradition. I didn’t recognize either of them—not that I’ve had much to do with local police. I was about to say, “Can I help you?” when one of them called out, “We’re looking for Count Paolo di Martini. Either of you girls know if he’s around here?”
My hackles rose a trifle at being addressed as “you girls.”
“You’ll find him out in that blue boat,” I said coldly.
“What do you want him for?” Belinda asked, but they walked past her as if she didn’t exist. Out at the end of the dock they shouted Paolo’s name and gestured that he should come to shore.
“Go away,” Paolo called. “Can’t you see that I’m busy?”
“Detective Inspector Manson, Metropolitan Police,” one of them shouted, and held up his warrant card. “We’d like to speak to you immediately, if you don’t mind, sir.”
“I do mind,” Paolo said.
“Then let me rephrase it. Signor di Martini, we would like you to help us with our inquiries.”
“Go to hell,” Paolo said.
“In which case you leave me no alternative. Paolo di Martini, you are under arrest.”
“What? What are you talking about?”
I don’t know how long the shouting might have gone on if Ronny hadn’t got the motor started and brought the boat to the dock.
“What nonsense is this?” Paolo demanded as he scrambled ashore.
“Paolo di Martini, I arrest you in the name of the law for the manslaughter of Mavis Pugh.”
Paolo looked almost amused. “Who in God’s name is Mavis Pugh? I have never heard of her.”
Ronny gave a little cry and leaped ashore after him. “It was you, Paolo. You ran her down. You horrid, callous beast. How could you do such a thing?” She flung herself at him as if she was about to strike him.
Paolo put up his arms to defend himself. “But I do not know this person.” He looked bewildered and scared now. “What is this? I am innocent. Belinda, tell them I am innocent. You say I have killed someone? Is not possible.”
“You own a motorcycle, do you not? A motorcycle that we found in your hangar at Croydon Aerodrome?”
“Yes, but . . .”
“On that motorcycle we found conclusive evidence linking you to the hit-and-run death of a young woman. We found traces of her hair and fiber from her jacket on your tires and frame. Now I should warn you that you have the right to remain silent, and anything you say can be used as evidence against you. So if you’ll just come with us without a fuss.” He put a big hand on Paolo’s arm.
“No. There is a mistake. I never run down a person. Never in my life.”
“If you’re indeed innocent I’m sure it will all be sorted out quite easily, sir.” He steered Paolo toward the waiting car and opened the back door for him. “In you go, sir.”
“Belinda, don’t let them take me away!” Paolo shot Belinda a frightened look as the car door closed on him.
Belinda looked utterly stunned. “Oh, God, Georgie. This is awful. I should do something. You know about things like this. What can I do?”
“Belinda, you’ve seen the way he drives. Don’t you think it’s possible that he’s guilty? Remember he almost ran me down at your mews.”
“But he didn’t run you down, did he? That’s the point. He drives fast but he has a racing driver’s reflexes. And I’m sure he’d never hit somebody and then drive off without stopping. He’s not like that. He’s a gentleman.” I could see she was fighting back tears. It was the first time I had ever seen Belinda not composed and in control of herself.
“Come up to the castle and have some tea,” I said gently. She shook her head.
“No, I have to get back to the house so I can be there in case he telephones for me.”
“Come on, I’ll take you back to where you’re staying,” Ronny said. “I have my car here. I’m sure Digby can put the covers on the boat, can’t you, old thing?” She smiled at the young American, who was standing beside her, staring openmouthed with shock.
“Do you want me to come with you?” I asked.
Before she could answer we heard the sound of running footsteps and a figure could be seen racing up the road toward us. As it neared it revealed itself to be a figure not cut out for such activity: round, short, stubby little legs. It was Godfrey Beverley.
“My dears, such excitement,” he said. “Was that really a police motorcar? I thought I could spot policemen a mile away. They call it plainclothes but they all wear identical macks, don’t they? And that was never that handsome Italian count they were dragging away, was it? I presume it was to do with the shooting accident.”
“Shooting, what shooting?” Ronny asked sharply.
“My dears, haven’t you heard? Someone was accidentally shot at Balmoral today. I was up there, tramping around a little myself, and now the place is absolutely crawling with police.”
“Who was shot?” Ronny snapped.
“Some young man, I gather. Nobody I had heard of before. Rumor has it that he was staying with you at Castle Rannoch, Lady Georgiana. Hugo something?”
“Oh no.” Ronny put her hand to her mouth. “Not Hugo. How awful. I was so horrid to him and he was so potty about me. Now I feel like a rat.”
“And they’ve arrested the count
for it, have they?” Godfrey’s eyes were positively bulging. “And I was on the spot. My dears, what a coup.”
“They haven’t arrested the count for it,” I said coldly. “They want him to help them with something quite different. A little matter in London. They weren’t even local police.”
“Oh, I see. Well, no matter.”
Ronny put an arm around Belinda. “Let’s go, shall we? I can’t bear it here another second.”
“And I must get back to the castle,” I said. “Please excuse me.”
Godfrey was staring down the road in the direction of Balmoral as Ronny and Belinda walked up to Ronny’s weathered old Morris Cowley. “Now that was strange,” he said.
“What was?”
“Two guns,” he said. “Why would one need two guns?”
Chapter 26
A cottage and then a lochside
August 20
As soon as I arrived back at the castle I put the estate car away and was going up the front steps when I decided instead to find Granddad. I needed someone solid and unflappable at this moment. The last few days had all been too much excitement. Perhaps Granddad and I could even have a simple dinner together at the cottage, away from the hustle and bustle and the Simpsons and the cousins and Fig. I almost broke into a run as the cottages came into sight on the other side of the walled kitchen garden.
Granddad was sitting outside with a cup of tea beside him. He stood up as I came toward him. “This is the life, ain’t it? Nice fresh air, good cup of tea. I can just feel these old lungs getting better already.”
“I’m glad,” I said.
“The pot’s still warm,” he said. “Fancy a cuppa yourself, love?”
“Yes, I would, actually.”
He looked at me critically. “You’re looking decidedly peaky. Don’t tell me something went wrong today?”
“Horribly wrong.” I recounted the whole thing. “So it seems to me that someone was aiming at the Prince of Wales,” I said. “They were standing quite close to each other and they would have looked awfully similar from behind. Because nobody would have wanted to kill Hugo. He’s nothing to do with the royal family.”