“Will you be needing an invoice?” asked Gwen.
“I don’t know what that is,” said Lady Matheson, counting out the notes. “Nor do I know what a ‘receipt’ or a ‘contract’ are.”
“In fact, you were never here,” said Iris.
“No, I wasn’t.”
“How do we contact you?”
“At this number,” said Lady Matheson, handing over a card with the money. “Use the names under which I made this appointment. The woman who answers the telephone will connect you to me. She won’t know who you really are.”
“What happens when you receive the follow-up note demanding payment?”
“We will address that when it happens,” said Lady Matheson, rising from her chair. “Good luck, ladies.”
She shook hands with Gwen and Iris, then stood by the door for Iris to let her out. The two women watched as she walked briskly down the stairs past her bodyguard, not even acknowledging his existence as she went by. He looked up at Iris and Gwen, winked, then followed.
“We just made ninety pounds, and I’m still not quite sure how it happened,” said Gwen as they returned to their desks.
“It puts us well on the way to reuniting you with Cecil,” said Iris.
“Start up a new type of business, and you scrimp and scrounge,” commented Gwen. “Solve one measly little murder, and the world beats a path. Don’t we need to be licensed to be detectives?”
“This is not being detectives,” said Iris.
“What is it, then?”
“Advanced gossip. Well within our capabilities. Oh, do you want to be Oona Travis or Catherine Prescott for our contact calls?”
“Does it matter?”
“We should be consistent, just so the secretary won’t be surprised by different voices for the same names.”
“It makes no difference to me. Which one do you want?”
“I shall be Oona, then,” declared Iris. “I’m the exotic one, aren’t I?”
“If you say so. This is all so strange. I feel as if we’re doing something unseemly, charging the Crown for this.”
“They have more money than we do. And this is business, not noblesse oblige.”
“Still, it seems inappropriate.”
“Think of it as helping out family.”
“Family?”
“You’re related in some fashion, aren’t you?”
“Oh, I suppose I am,” Gwen laughed. “I can’t remember how many degrees of consanguinity lie between me and the throne. I think Mummy once told me that I was one hundred seventy-third in line when I was born, but what with some dying and others producing heirs, I have no idea where I stand now. Oddly enough, my son is closer than I am, thanks to the in-laws.”
“There was a pair of aristocratic lads at Cambridge who were in the mid-two-digit range,” remembered Iris. “They used to keep a massive chart on the wall, crossing out and adding names as events dictated. They had a running bet as to who would be closer when they graduated. It was all rather tasteless and obnoxious.”
“Who won the bet?”
“No idea. One of them bought it later, commanding a tank division at El-Alamein, so the other has moved up a notch by now. Now, to the matter at hand. The princess loves a prince.”
“Thirteen years old,” Gwen sighed. “Can you imagine marrying someone you fell for at thirteen?”
“Who was your crush when you were thirteen?” asked Iris.
“I don’t want to say,” said Gwen, blushing.
“Come on, you tell me yours, and I’ll tell you mine,” urged Iris, grinning at the other’s discomfort.
“A stable boy at my grandfather’s estate,” said Gwen. “Actually, my immediate love was my horse, Sir Prancealot—”
“Did you name him that?”
“I did. His real name was something boring and lineal.”
“I never thought that I could feel embarrassed for a horse until now. So, off to the stables you’d go, in your jodhpurs and boots, a pocket full of sugar cubes—”
“Yes. And I would pat his muzzle while Derek—”
“Ah, Derek. Now, there’s a proper name for this story.”
“While Derek would saddle him and lead him out. Then he’d give me a leg up.”
“I’ll bet he did. How old was this strapping young lad?”
“Fifteen, and don’t try to make this into a D. H. Lawrence novel.”
“Sorry. Pray, continue.”
“Derek was handsome, and kind, and courteous,” said Gwen dreamily. “Of course, my attentions were quickly transferred from Sir Prancealot to him. He smelled of horses and straw, and wore suspenders over his undershirt in the summer so that his arms and shoulders were bare. And magnificent.”
“Mmm,” said Iris, closing her eyes for a moment. “Right. Go on.”
“There’s not much more to tell,” said Gwen.
“There isn’t?” exclaimed Iris. “Why not?”
“It was a crush, no more,” said Gwen. “The physical contact we had was limited to his hands making a step for my foot when I climbed into the saddle, and his hands on my waist to steady me as I dismounted.”
“Did you at least accidentally stumble on the dismount so that your body pressed against his? It’s a standard move.”
“I did once,” confessed Gwen. “And I couldn’t sleep at all that night. I fantasised that he was a noble in disguise, fleeing some evil plot, and that he would reveal himself and carry me away to his Bavarian castle. I wasn’t even certain where Bavaria was at the time, but it sounded like the right place to end up.”
“And after that?”
“Tragedy!” cried Gwen with a sob, pounding her fist into her chest. “I learned that he loved another!”
“Oh, my sweet wronged Gwendolyn! Who dared come between you?”
“A girl of fifteen from the village who actually knew what to do with a fifteen-year-old stable boy, which I certainly did not. They were caught aloft in the loft. Or was it in the croft? I always mix those up.”
“Acroft in the croft?”
“Perhaps. In any case, he was discharged from my grandfather’s service. I heard he married the lass, and they had seven children in seven years.”
“No Bavarian castle for her, then. Just as well, given how things went in Bavaria after that.”
“Who was your crush at thirteen?”
“Oh, I was a good girl at thirteen.”
“No, you were not.”
“No, I was not,” agreed Iris. “And curse you for seeing through me so easily. His name was Trevor. He was also thirteen—none of your older-stable-boy ambitions for me. We were in school together. He had a keen interest in the sciences, and we often went after school to the Natural History Museum.”
“Ah, I know it well. I’ve chased after my son there on many occasions. Did you hold hands under Dippy? Kiss amidst the creepy crawlies?”
“No, but we discussed beetles at length.”
“A solid basis for romance.”
“We were the smart ones in the class. He was the only boy who treated me as an equal, so naturally I responded. I was frequently left on my own at that stage of my life. Mummy was off pamphleting and organising clinics, Daddy was doing whatever Daddy did, which was unclear after the Crash—I suspect it involved drinking at whatever club was still willing to extend him credit—so I was frequently on my own. No nanny at that point—the household staff was down to the cook and one overworked maid, so when Trevor and I came home from the museum one day, there was no one else around.”
“Aha!”
“It was purely for scientific research,” said Iris blandly. “We wanted to see what the human body looked like. We were very solemn and serious about it, and sat across from each other on the rug in my room without touching. Then we put our clothes back on and played backgammon in the drawing room. So, it was a much more prosaic experience than yours.”
“Prosaic!” exclaimed Gwen. “You saw a naked man at thirteen!”
“A naked boy.”
“I didn’t see a live naked man until after I was married!”
“Did your husband know about him?”
“I shall throttle you. I was referring to my husband, of course.”
“Didn’t you tell me you took some art class with life models when you were younger?”
“They were draped, you ninny. Whatever happened to Trevor?”
“I ran into him earlier this year. He talked about beetles. He continues to study them.”
“Not as interesting when you’re an adult, I suppose.”
“Well, he was off to the Amazon to find some new ones, so not quite as dull as all that. I felt the old stirrings, to tell you the truth. There was a moment where we looked at each other and I knew that he remembered that afternoon without saying anything about it. He smiled, and I blushed, can you believe it? I actually blushed. But I was otherwise involved at the time, so that was the end of it. I didn’t become a naturalist, and I don’t think I would have been happy tramping through the heart of darkness unless there was at least one good club within walking distance.”
“The Amazonian jungles are noted for their lack of decent nightlife,” agreed Gwen. “Well, let’s get back to our new client.”
“Have you ever met them? The royals? You were presented at court, weren’t you?”
“Before the old King, unfortunately. All of those fittings for the perfect gown, hours of curtsy lessons with Miss Betty at Vacani, hours of waiting on the actual day because I was in the latter half of the group. I made it as far as the entrance, clutching my Card of Command to be passed by the nine footmen to the Lord Chamberlain, and then His Majesty looked at his watch and announced, ‘Consider the rest of yourselves presented,’ and hurried off to what we later learned was a date with Mrs. Simpson. We were all shuffled downstairs for a perfunctory champagne toast, and that was that. It was all rather shabby, looking back at it.”
“How dreadful! I’m so glad Mummy’s politics and divorce kept me from having to go through all of that. Where did you have your ball?”
“My mother’s parents’ house by Courtfield Gardens. Grandmother had been presented to Queen Victoria, of course, and talked about it incessantly. I danced with several boys, only three of whom were tall enough to look me in the eyes, and those three couldn’t dance for toffee.”
“So that’s not when you met Ronnie.”
“No, that was a year later. Someone else’s season, someone else’s ball. He could look me in the eye, and my God, he could dance!”
“And that was all you needed in a husband,” teased Iris.
“No, but that was all I needed at a ball. It turned out that he had everything else as well.”
“How long did it take you to find that out?”
“The second dance, I think. I didn’t want to rush into things.”
“You fall hard when you fall.”
“I only fell once,” said Gwen. “I don’t know if I’ll ever fall like that again. One only falls that hard when one is young and dewy-eyed. In any case, getting back to your question—I’ve never met our current king and queen, much less Princess Elizabeth. I wouldn’t have, given the difference in our ages. Have you met her?”
“No,” said Iris. “I saw the prince a few times back in the beginnings of the war. He was squiring Osla Benning around back then. Do you know her?”
“I know of her. I didn’t know about her and Philip. What happened?”
“He wanted her, according to rumour, but she ended up marrying someone else. Smart girl—I ran into her once towards the end of the recent festivities. She was doing something hush-hush, I gathered.”
“As were you.”
“Yes, but she wasn’t with my group. She never talked about what she did. I never talked about what I did. It wasn’t an enlightening conversation.”
“And her husband survived the war?”
“Yes, so presumably she’s happy and not some ex-lover trying to botch things for someone courting in the court.”
“I was wondering if there could be others in that category,” mused Gwen. “Frustrated wartime affairs and the like. He’s in the navy. We would have to check every port.”
“I think our best bet is to take the letter at face value for now,” said Iris. “The threat stems from something in his mother’s past. I thought the handwriting was quite coarse in nature.”
“But the stationery was from Smythson’s, and they sell to quality,” said Gwen. “So whoever wrote this was faking the coarseness. There were no misspellings.”
“No, there weren’t,” agreed Iris. “But that doesn’t necessarily mean that it was written by someone of quality. It could have been someone with access to someone else’s stationery, which opens the doors to servants, staff, friends. I wonder if Lady Matheson brought in a handwriting expert.”
“Might be worth the suggestion, although she may not want to bring any more outsiders into this affair. What did you make of her?”
“Condescending as hell in an outwardly courteous way, which suits her for her present environment. It never occurred to me that the Queen would have someone like her, but it makes sense. They all need someone to clean up their messes behind the scenes, even if they’re wearing white gloves while they’re doing it.”
“What about this Talbot fellow? We don’t have anything other than his name and that he must have some connection to the prince’s family.”
“Especially to his mother. Some scandal in her past, perhaps? That could scotch the engagement before it even happens. The odd thing—”
She stopped, putting her fingers to her brow, staring into her palms. Gwen waited for the lightning to strike.
“I’m not certain,” said Iris finally, “but the name rings a soft, muted chime somewhere in the distant recesses of my memory.”
“Something you can talk about, or something stored in the secret archives?” asked Gwen
“The latter. I should ask Sally. Which reminds me, we have his play reading tonight.”
“Yes. I’m trying not to think about it.”
“Why?”
“I’ll be performing in front of people. I’m not a professional actress.”
“It’s just a small gathering of writer and actor friends in his living room. No critical reviews after, at least not for us. It should be fun.”
“You know very well that I don’t like fun,” said Gwen in a sepulchral tone.
“Come on. It’s for Sally.”
“Yes, for dear Sally,” said Gwen. “I shall set aside my fears. Well, General, what’s our next step until then?”
“We need to know the basics about the prince and his past. I think that I shall toddle off to the library and do some research.”
“I’ll go with you,” offered Gwen.
“No, no need,” said Iris. “Division of labour. You man the office, I’ll dive into the stacks.”
“We don’t have any appointments this afternoon,” said Gwen. “We can split the research.”
“Have you ever done research of this nature?”
“No, but you could show me where—”
“Look, I’ve been trained in this, and it would be much quicker if I did it on my own.”
“Yes, but I would like to learn how to do it,” said Gwen.
“Gwen, I would be happy to teach you sometime when the clock isn’t ticking,” said Iris. “But we have a deadline, and not to put too fine a point on it, I can get it done in half the time if I’m on my own.”
“That’s not a fine point,” said Gwen hotly. “It’s a sledgehammer.”
“We have a business to run,” said Iris. “Two businesses, at the moment.”
“This is why we need a secretary,” fumed Gwen.
“Yes, it is,” agreed Iris. “But until that happy day, it makes sense to do it this way.”
“You like me being the Watson to your Holmes, don’t you?” said Gwen.
“What? Where did you get that silly idea?”
>
“Our first adventure. You flouting your education and your secret training while I trailed along, taking all my cues from you and blundering about.”
“I had the education and I had the training,” said Iris. “You roped me into that mess because I had them and you needed them. So who was following whom?”
“You enjoyed every moment of it, playing your characters, getting into rows, putting your life on the line…”
“Saving yours,” Iris reminded her.
“Yes, and don’t think I’m not forever in your debt for that,” said Gwen. “But we were equal partners in that investigation, and we should be equal partners in this one.”
“Fine, you’re not Watson,” said Iris. “If I’m Holmes, who are you?”
“I’ll be Bulldog Drummond,” declared Gwen, smacking her fist into her palm, then wincing slightly.
“I fight better than you do,” Iris pointed out.
“You had to say that,” said Gwen. “Fine. You can teach me how to fight after you teach me how to do research.”
“I will, I promise,” said Iris. “But right now, give me this afternoon. I’ll meet you at Sally’s, and we’ll ask him a few questions after the reading. Please, darling? May we do it this way today?”
“Very well, go,” grumbled Gwen. “I hope the dust makes you sneeze uncontrollably.”
“No doubt it will, pouty girl,” said Iris, rising and putting on her hat. “I’ll see you at Sally’s.”
She left, fluttering her fingers in farewell. Gwen watched her in chagrin.
“When did it become Let’s All Be Condescending to Gwen Day?” she said to herself.
She stared moodily at the keys to Cooper and Lyons, Chartered Public Accountants, and fought back the urge to go back into their former office and play with the desk drawers some more. She looked at her watch. Their normal lunch hour had passed, and she was feeling peckish. She picked up the keys, hung their “Out to Lunch” sign on the outer doorknob and adjusted the little hands on the clock indicating her return time, then went downstairs.
Mr. MacPherson was in front of the building, eating a sandwich and drinking from a thermos, the contents of which she did not wish to know.
“Here are the keys, thank you,” she said, returning them to him.
“Think you might take the place?” he asked, his mouth full.
A Royal Affair Page 3