A Royal Affair

by Allison Montclair

  Well, she needed to regain custody first, didn’t she? She hated that she had to ask her in-laws for permission to take her son shopping for toys. Maybe Lady Carolyne would relent while Lord Bainbridge was still in East Africa.

  “BOMBED FIVE TIMES! EVEN THE JERRIES CAN’T DEFEAT A CHILD’S DREAMS!” shouted the sign over the entrance, illustrated with a photograph of staff members handing out toys while wearing tin air raid hats.

  Gwen speculated for a moment about the efficacy of a tin hat in warding off bombs. She decided she’d rather be in the country.

  A doorman held open the door and nodded encouragingly to her. She rallied her nerves and went in.

  In the central atrium she was immediately overwhelmed by the bright colours flooding her view from every angle. The noise level rose exponentially, amplified by the towering space. A crying baby seemed to have been stationed at every intersection, and a shop girl to her left was frantically replacing an avalanche of stuffed animals cascading from a mountain of them on a display table, while a pair of twin girls wrestled for a bear dressed as Churchill that each wanted, not caring that there were dozens more exactly like it right by them.

  The stuffed animals were thinner than she remembered, she observed. Even they had suffered from rationing. They bore up under the deprivation of their cotton innards quite bravely, under the circumstances.

  She climbed the stairs to the Boys’ Department and was rewarded by the sight of an entire Western section. Mannequins dressed as cowboys and Indians stood ready to go to war on top of the shelves and giant posters of Tom Mix, Roy Rogers, and other American actors smiled benevolently down from the walls, hands resting on the butts of their guns.

  The aisles were filled with boys, many of whom were waging some kind of range war, galloping about while screaming and shooting at each other with their index fingers while the mothers and nannies minding them might as well have been bound and gagged and tied to railroad tracks, for all the good they were doing.

  Whoopee ti yi yo, Gwen thought, and she plunged into the aisles, sidestepping ersatz Indians in short pants shooting invisible arrows with invisible bows while their counterparts clutched their chests dramatically and fell to the ground.

  “May I help you, madam?” said a young sales clerk. “Or should I say, howdy, ma’am? What kin ah do fer ye?”

  “Oh, you poor thing,” Gwen laughed. “Is that required here?”

  “Ah reckon,” said the clerk. “What might you be prospectin’ fer?”

  “A birthday present for a young boy,” said Gwen.

  “Cap pistol, perhaps? We’ve got some mighty fine replicas. Gen-you-wine six-shooters, pearl-handled like General Patton’s. Or these here Colt revolvers, the same what used to be carried by Pony Express riders through the Badlands.”

  “I’m trying to win my way back into his mother’s good graces,” said Gwen. “I don’t think a cap gun will do that, although they do look quite authentic. What about a play set?”

  “They went thisaway, ma’am,” he said, leading her to another aisle. “This here’s a popular choice.”

  He showed her a boxed set of die-cast metal figures—a bright red stagecoach pulled by a pair of brown galloping horses, plus four cowboys and three Indians in various combative poses, three of them mounted.

  “You can vary the scenarios, which is what I like about them,” he explained, momentarily dropping the accent. “The cowboys could save the stagecoach from an Indian attack, or they could be highwaymen and the Indians could come to the rescue, or whatever the young lad wants it to be. The young feller, I should say.”

  “I like it. American-made, I assume?”

  “Ah’m afraid so, ma’am. Our factories ain’t back up to speed, and there ain’t enough metal available for toys just yet, so we’re getting much of our stock from the States. Which you’d expect, given that’s where the cowboys and Indians all live. Although we’re starting to get the Japanese toys in now.”

  “Really? Already?”

  “They weren’t bombed as badly as we were,” he said. “Cheap, inferior products, but they’re out there. A lot of us don’t take kindly to selling them, but the war’s over, so what’s a feller to do?”

  “I’ll buy the American set,” said Gwen firmly.

  “Thank you, ma’am,” he said, plucking it from the shelf. “Ah’ll ring that up for you. Will there be anything else?”

  “Actually,” said Gwen, considering. “One more item, if I may.”

  “Sure thing, ma’am.”

  CHAPTER 8

  Iris was back at her desk when Gwen returned, shoving a sandwich into her mouth. She waved Gwen’s note with her other hand and motioned her to her desk.

  “Any luck with Madame Bousquet?” asked Gwen.

  Iris shook her head, then pointed an imaginary gun at her temple and let her eyes grow wide in fear.

  “She was threatened?” exclaimed Gwen. “By whom? And how did they know?”

  Iris shrugged, still chewing.

  “Could you please swallow that so we could skip the Marx Brothers routine?” asked Gwen. “My Italian accent is wretched, anyway.”

  Iris swallowed, then followed the sandwich with a glass of water.

  “I left you high and dry too long,” she said. “Had to dash once I got back. No time for a proper lunch. Apologies. So we’re being paid a visit in a few minutes?”

  “We are,” said Gwen, putting her shopping bag under her desk. “They received a letter with instructions. More important, it contained a letter written to Alice. I assume it was of an intimate nature, given how careful Patience was not to say anything about its contents.”

  “Score one for you,” said Iris. “Any clue as to who wrote it?”

  “She said it was signed with one initial.”

  “Oh, I hope it was a Z!” said Iris.

  “Tell me about Madame Bousquet. Use actual words in sentences this time.”

  “Someone must have threatened her since yesterday. She wouldn’t give me much. But I did get the name of Alice’s maid. Vivienne Ducognon. She works for a woman named Calvert. Know any?”

  “Lorraine Simpson married a Daniel Calvert, but I have no idea if she has a lady’s maid, much less a French one. I could give her a call, see if any of her husband’s family employs one. But how could anyone have learned about Madame Bousquet since we did?”

  “Either our blackmailer was following leads independently and found her, or—” She hesitated.

  “Or what?” asked Gwen.

  “Or there’s a leak somewhere in our communications,” said Iris. “And it wasn’t us.”

  “You can’t mean Patience,” said Gwen.

  “Lady Matheson is the Queen’s solver of uncomfortable problems. She knew the truth about Talbot all along. She would have had a head start on all of this. She hired us to dig it up independently so she could pretend it came from an outside source.”

  “Then why shut down Bousquet?”

  “Maybe Lady Matheson only needs part of the truth to come out for her purposes, and Bousquet has the wrong part.”

  “What purposes? Does she want this to be true or not?”

  “I suppose it depends on whether she wants Philip to become Elizabeth’s husband or not. And that depends, in turn, on to whom she owes her loyalties.”

  “The Queen, surely.”

  “One would hope,” said Iris. “But employment doesn’t always equal loyalty.”

  “So what do we do?”

  “Until we know more, we do what we were hired to do.”

  “Then to whom does our loyalty belong?” asked Gwen.

  “Good question,” said Iris. “You’re the one with the moral compass. You tell me.”

  “That’s not fair.”

  “Have you recently become immoral without letting me know?”

  “Of course not. It’s just that—” She stopped.

  “It’s just that what?” prompted Iris.

  “I don’t exactly know what our choic
es are right now,” said Gwen. “I would say our loyalty is to the King.”

  “But we’re working for the Queen. Or, rather, the Queen’s woman, who we assume is working for the Queen’s interests, which we in turn assume are also the King’s interests, which we also assume are the country’s interests.”

  “The lines of accountability are stretched rather thin by the time they reach down to us,” said Gwen.

  “And we still have no direct evidence of anything,” Iris pointed out. “Just a decent working theory, and now our correspondent is forcing the issue before we have any certainty.”

  “What do we do?”

  “As I said, what we are being paid to do,” said Iris. “Until and unless we come across some reason to do otherwise.”

  “Sounds manageable.”

  “But we are going to keep a sharp watch for that reason,” said Iris.

  “All right,” said Gwen. “That’s them coming up the steps, if I’m not mistaken.”

  Lady Matheson swept in, followed by a younger woman carrying a brown leather courier bag slung from her shoulder. The latter wore a tan linen suit, unadorned by any ornamentation, and had a terrier-like alertness, seeming ready to pounce on any small mouse of a detail before it could scurry away. She looked around the office with barely concealed disdain, her lip curling slightly as she saw The Forsyte Saga at work, bravely supporting Gwen’s desk.

  Behind them, they glimpsed the bodyguard standing in the hall. He reached in after the women entered the office and pulled the door shut. His silhouette filled the frosted glass, facing the stairs.

  Lady Matheson looked at the guest chair, which seemed to shrink under her gaze, then looked back at Iris.

  “Right,” said Iris, getting up. “Please take my seat at my desk, Lady Matheson. And you are?”

  “Mrs. Penelope Fisher,” said the younger woman. “I believe we’ve spoken on the telephone, if the two of you are Miss Travis and Miss Prescott.”

  “Only to you,” said Iris, moving over to sit on the windowsill. “I’m Iris Sparks. This is my partner, Mrs. Gwendolyn Bainbridge. How do you do? Please take that seat there, and then we’ll begin.”

  “Thank you,” said Mrs. Fisher, pulling the guest chair up to the desks.

  “Isn’t this cozy?” said Lady Matheson acerbically. “One would think with what we’ve paid you, you might have invested in another chair.”

  “It’s on the list,” said Gwen. “Now that we’re all here, perhaps you should fill us in on the letters.”

  Lady Matheson nodded to Mrs. Fisher, who opened the courier bag and pulled out a manila folder. Gwen put on her gloves and took it from her, then opened it so that Iris could see its contents over her shoulder.

  The first sheet was covered with the same scrawl as the previous letter, its top similarly torn off. Gwen held it up to the light.

  “No watermark this time,” she observed. “He’s not continuing with the same stationery. Looks like the same handwriting.”

  “Looks like someone deliberately using the wrong hand to disguise his handwriting,” added Iris. “But it’s the same person as the first letter, if I’m any judge. Have you had them analysed by an expert?”

  “Not yet,” said Lady Matheson. “We’re keeping the number of people who know about this to the bare minimum. Once we catch the man, we’ll do more.”

  “Is that the plan now?” asked Iris. “To catch him?”

  “The plan is to avert embarrassment to the Crown,” said Lady Matheson. “There are alternative ways of accomplishing that goal. Read the letter.”

  “‘Here’s a taste,’” read Gwen. “‘If you don’t want the rest on the front page of the Tatler, put a personal advertisement in the Saturday Times to Violet from Lily with a telephone number. I will call at two in the afternoon with further instructions. The price is five thousand pounds. No bargaining, no excuses.’”

  “Five thousand,” said Iris. “Clearly, we’re all in the wrong professions, although it’s probably just mad money for the Queen. What about the other letter?”

  The second sheet in the folder was of light blue onionskin, slightly faded. Its creases divided it into thirds, and the folds were loose and supple.

  “It’s been read many times,” said Gwen softly. “Opened, then refolded and replaced. I have letters from Ronnie that—Well, speaking as a woman, this letter appears to have been kept by someone who valued it.”

  “There should be fingerprints,” said Iris.

  “We’ll have that done,” said Lady Matheson. “Read it.”

  “It’s in German,” said Gwen. “Shall I translate?”

  “If you feel up to the task,” said Lady Matheson.

  “Finishing school in Geneva, thank you very much,” said Gwen. “I’ll manage.”

  It was strange, she thought, reading someone’s letters from another era. Intruding on the past, where all those who lived there were now old. Or dead. She cleared her throat and read.

  “‘My dearest A.,’” she began. “‘I will be in Lugano on the seventeenth, my usual rooms. Leave a note with Franz at the front desk. My heart will not be denied. C.’ And that’s all.”

  “That’s it?” exclaimed Iris. “He expects to be paid for that? It doesn’t name names. It could be from anyone to anyone.”

  “I imagine he’s keeping the juicier ones in reserve,” said Lady Matheson. “Princess Alice was in Lugano, wasn’t she?”

  “While they were in exile,” said Iris. “Before Andrea came back to Greece.”

  “And he came back without her,” said Lady Matheson. “He left her behind out of concern for her safety. You say the dates work out for Philip’s birth?”

  “They do,” said Gwen. “Or at least, they don’t not work out.”

  “Any ‘C’s in her life, assuming this purported lover was clumsy enough to use his actual initial?”

  “Christo,” said Iris. “Andrea’s younger brother. He and Alice were close. How close, I wouldn’t venture to guess.”

  “But every tabloid journalist in London would,” said Lady Matheson. “We cannot discount it. That’s the damnable thing about this entire business.”

  “Then are you going to place the advertisement in the Times?” asked Gwen.

  “We already have,” said Lady Matheson. “We will all meet back here tomorrow at one thirty.”

  “Here?” exclaimed Iris. “Why here?”

  “Because we used your number in the ad,” explained Lady Matheson, an amused glint in her eyes as she saw the gathering outrage before her.

  “Who the hell said we would agree to that?” sputtered Iris in fury. “That was never part of the bargain!”

  “I could hardly be publishing a private palace number in the Times’s personals, could I?”

  “Really, Patience,” said Gwen. “This is beyond the pale. Next thing you know, you’ll be expecting us to make the purchase for you.”

  Lady Matheson and Mrs. Fisher exchanged glances.

  “Now that you’ve mentioned it,” began Lady Matheson.

  “No,” said Iris firmly. “Go to the police. You have the clout to keep this quiet, but what you’re talking about is illegal.”

  “It is,” said Lady Matheson. “Sometimes one has to ignore that, as I’m sure the two of you know, given your recent experiences.”

  “Why us?” asked Iris. “A man will be waiting in a deserted rendezvous for a woman to walk in with five thousand pounds. How do we know this won’t result in a dead woman, no money, and no letters?”

  “It’s potentially dangerous,” acknowledged Lady Matheson.

  “Potentially, my foot,” said Gwen. “It’s nothing but dangerous.”

  “Which is why Miss Sparks is best suited for undertaking the task,” said Lady Matheson.

  “What makes you think that?” asked Iris.

  “Your training during the war,” said Lady Matheson. “You can handle yourself in a tight spot, even when unarmed. Don’t ask me how I know about that, by the way.
”

  “You are very well informed,” said Iris. “But even with my so-called skills, why me? There are people—there are women working for the Crown in various capacities who are just as qualified. I’m a civilian.”

  “Which is the major part of why I’d rather you be the one,” said Lady Matheson. “I want no connection between this transaction and anyone working for His Majesty’s government.”

  “You had that in mind all along, didn’t you?” asked Gwen. “You knew when you hired us to look into Philip’s background that you might be using us for the exchange.”

  “Using Miss Sparks, Gwen,” said Lady Matheson. “I wouldn’t dream of putting you through this.”

  “That’s unfortunate,” said Gwen. “Because there is no possible chance of her going in without me.”

  “Wait a second,” said Iris. “There’s no reason for one of us to go in, much less both of us.”

  “There is every reason,” said Gwen. “First, he’s less likely to try something if there are two of us. Second, even though there will be two of us, it’s still two women, so he won’t feel as threatened. Third, as a practical matter, you need an extra person with an extra pair of hands. There are too many objects being passed around—money, letters, possibly torches to be held if it’s a dark place, as one imagines it would be. We want Iris to have her hands free in case she needs to bring those special skills into play. Really, when you come right down to it, I should be the one making the exchange, with her as my protector.”

  “This is utter nonsense,” said Iris. “We’re not doing this, Gwen.”

  “I think we should,” said Gwen.

  “You do?” asked Iris, looking at her in surprise. “Why?”

  “Because the Queen needs us,” said Gwen simply. “You had an entire war to serve Crown and country, while I and my wealthy, married, maternal status fled to the safety of a country estate. I’ve contributed nothing, Iris, but now I have a chance to do something.”

  “You lost a husband to the war,” said Iris. “The country cannot ask you to do more.”