A Royal Affair

by Allison Montclair

  “Oh. Should we be moving that to a safer place?”

  “No. We’re going to be needing it for some not-so-petty expenses.”

  “You have a new plan,” said Gwen.

  “I have a new plan, but let’s wait for the photos before we commit to it.”

  “And then?”

  “We visit Jimmy, get his opinion on the letters. Then we get Cinderella ready for the ball.”

  * * *

  There was a rap on the door an hour later, and a young man entered, a courier bag on his shoulder.

  “Are you Miss Sparks and Mrs. Bainbridge?” he asked.

  “We are,” said Iris.

  “I’m from Mr. Cornell,” he said, pulling a folder from the bag.

  “Good, we’ve been expecting you. He told you to await a reply?”

  “Yes, Mum.”

  “Go get yourself a muffin and come right back,” she said, tossing him a coin. He caught it, grinned, and vanished out the door.

  Iris opened the folder, which contained a set of photographs. Gwen came over to her desk to look as Iris went through them one by one.

  “That’s our man,” said Iris, pointing. “I’ll bet anything.”

  “Too bad we don’t have movie footage,” said Gwen. “We could tell if he was limping.”

  “Well, he wouldn’t be limping here. Wait, there’s some more—oh!”

  “That’s him,” whispered Gwen. “That’s Magoulias. You were right.”

  “Right about him being there,” said Iris. “I was wondering if he was in cahoots with the first fellow and they had a falling out. This actually makes more sense to me.”

  “We still don’t know who Magoulias was working for.”

  “That’s what tonight is for.”

  “Right,” said Gwen, sitting down heavily.

  “Are you all right?” asked Iris.

  “Seeing his face again,” said Gwen. “It makes me remember it from when we found him. I see his eyes whenever I close mine.”

  “Do you want to give Dr. Milford a ring? Maybe he could squeeze you in for a quick tune-up.”

  “It’s not an emergency,” said Gwen. “I have to learn how to get through these crises without running to him for help straightaway.”

  “If it’s any consolation, you got through Saturday’s events splendidly, in my opinion.”

  “Thanks. I guess I did, relatively speaking. Apart from going into catatonia on the boat.”

  “Luckily, Sally had the antidote on hand.”

  “I don’t want whisky to be the answer to every problem.”

  “Of course not. Just the important ones. Why, we’ve gone almost two days without finding another dead body. I think that’s progress, don’t you?”

  Gwen shuddered. Iris laughed, then took her notepad and scribbled something. She tore the page off and put it in an envelope, then sealed it.

  The messenger returned, muffin crumbs still noticeable on his shirt. Iris handed him the envelope.

  “Give this to Mr. Cornell,” she instructed him. “Tell him that I will call when I know the time and place, and to bring a voucher.”

  “Yes, Mum.” He saluted and left.

  “One more piece of news,” said Gwen. “I have a lead on Vivienne Ducognon. I spoke to Lorraine Calvert, and she thinks that her husband’s cousin’s wife has a French lady’s maid. I could try calling on her on the way here tomorrow.”

  “Fine. Now, pass me the telephone. I’m going to call Jimmy. And then perhaps we should try and match a few people while we’re here?”

  “God, I’ll be glad when this is over and done with,” said Gwen. “Investigating murders does get in the way of one’s actual work.”

  * * *

  J. B. Smalley & Sons was an upscale shop selling prints and lithographs near the theatre district off Earlham Street. James B. Smalley, its proprietor, was a tall, elegant man, always impeccably dressed, with an encyclopedic knowledge of art and printmaking. He was also known in certain circles as Jimmy the Scribe, one of London’s top forgers until the Metropolitan Police put an abrupt end to his career and his liberty in the mid-thirties. He was known in even smaller circles as the top maker of forged papers for British Intelligence during the war, which was why his liberty had been restored.

  No one knew what the “B” stood for. Those who knew Smalley’s past suspected that the “Sons” were nonexistent, added to confer further respectability on a newly forged life. He confined his lawless leanings to consulting for various British intelligence services and the police. Iris and Gwen had come to him on their previous investigation and had found him invaluable.

  A smile lit up his face when he saw them enter the shop.

  “My dear Miss Sparks! And Mrs. Bainbridge!” he said, coming forwards to shake their hands warmly. “You do my humble establishment honour. Mrs. Bainbridge, how is your young narwhal enthusiast doing? I pray that he continues to show interest in the subject.”

  “Oh yes,” said Gwen, laughing. “Your reproduction of that print has been a great inspiration to him. His illustrations of Sir Oswald the Narwhal are much more accurate now, although putting him in a cowboy hat while riding a horse in the American West is biologically unsound, I suspect.”

  “Nonsense,” said Jimmy. “A narwhal must go wherever his adventures take him. I would love to see these pictures sometime. Well, ladies, enough pleasantries. I was given to understand by Miss Sparks that you have need of my expertise.”

  “We do,” said Iris. “May we go in back?”

  “Certainly,” he said, leading them into the storage room. One corner was reserved for a small office. He held their chairs as they sat, then went behind his desk.

  “What’s the scheme this time, Sparks?” he asked.

  “We’d like your opinion on some letters,” she said. “To see if they’re genuine.”

  “Who wrote them?”

  “I won’t influence you by telling you,” said Iris.

  “How can I know if they’re real if I don’t know more about them?”

  “We have others for comparison,” said Gwen, pulling a folder from her bag. “Here are two of the originals.”

  Jimmy pulled on a pair of cotton gloves and took them from her. Then he picked up a magnifying glass from his desk and peered at them closely.

  “These go back some fifty years,” he said. “You can tell by the onionskin—it was much in vogue here then. Good handwriting, poor spelling. And—Ah! These are actually written to Queen Victoria! One of her granddaughters? No, a great-granddaughter. Where did you get these?”

  “We can’t tell you, of course,” said Iris.

  “And they have to go back,” said Gwen.

  “Pity. I know some collectors who would pay nicely for these.”

  “Now, here are the ones we need you to analyse.”

  She handed him two of the less incriminating missives from “A.”

  He took the first page by the corner, then held it up to the light. Then he sniffed it carefully. “Smells like it’s been kept in oilskin,” he said. “Forgive me, ladies, for the impropriety I am about to commit.”

  He brought the paper to his mouth, placed the tip of his tongue against the back, and licked it delicately.

  “My goodness!” exclaimed Iris. “What can you glean from that?”

  “Texture, chemical treatment,” explained Jimmy. “Every country makes its own paper. Each process uses different proportions of chemicals, different sources of wood, rags, what have you. I haven’t even looked at the writing yet, and I can tell you that this came from Switzerland.”

  “You can tell that already? I’m impressed.”

  “We faked a lot of Swiss documents during the war,” he said, picking up the magnifying glass again. “Had to get the paper to match. The Nazis paid just as much attention to detail as we did. Let’s take a look at the handwriting.”

  He pored over the newer letters, then went back and forth between them and the originals.

  “Ther
e’s a passage of time involved between the exemplars and the subjects, of course,” he said. “But one’s handwriting from one’s adolescence will not change overmuch by the time one reaches one’s thirties, barring injuries or other infirmities. She had none?”

  “Nothing that would affect her handwriting, as far as we know,” said Iris.

  “There are enough capital letters in both sets to compare, as well as all the little connections between letter pairs, which is where the giveaways can occur.”

  “Have you found any?” asked Gwen.

  “I have not,” he pronounced. “These are dated from 1918 and 1919. The paper and ink are completely consistent with that period and location. The handwriting is the same. If I were called on to testify in a court of law—and God help the side that calls me, with my record—my expert opinion would be that these are the real article.”

  “They are?” exclaimed Gwen in dismay.

  “Yes. That is not happy news, I take it?”

  “We had a small wager on the outcome,” said Iris, smiling in triumph. “Now, we have a second set. No exemplars this time, so just your conclusion on time and place again.”

  Gwen handed him two of the blue onionskin letters from “C.” Jimmy repeated his taste and smell tests, then peeled off one glove and trailed the tips of his fingers lightly over the papers.

  “Also Swiss, same period,” he said. “And may I venture one psychological observation?”

  “Certainly.”

  “This is the sort of stationery one buys when one doesn’t wish to be connected to it. If, as I gather from the small sample you’ve provided me, your fellow ‘C.’ is not using his personal stationery, then I would suppose that the remainder of this correspondence is of an illicit nature.”

  “Which will remain confidential,” said Iris.

  “Of course,” he said. “I am scandalised that you even feel the need to say that, Sparks.”

  “My apologies, Jimmy,” she said, patting his hand. “I do hope that your sense of honour is not so offended as to refuse a small fee for your services?”

  “Happily, it is not,” he said. “Do you need an invoice?”

  “Strangely enough, we do.”

  “How shall I make it out?”

  “‘For expert services,’” said Iris. “The client won’t want to know more than that.”

  “They rarely do,” he said, writing it out and handing it to her along with the letters. “Don’t forget these. Unless you’d like to make a quick deal on them—as I said, there’s a market for them.”

  “We know,” said Gwen. “At the moment, it’s booming.”

  * * *

  Gwen was gloomy when they left the shop.

  “Cheer up,” said Iris, noticing.

  “I was counting on him backing me up,” said Gwen.

  “If it’s any consolation, I still think you’re right,” said Iris.

  “And what was that about a wager?” asked Gwen. “We never said anything about it.”

  “I didn’t want you to go any further on the topic,” said Iris. “You were so surprised by his answer. I was worried you might let something slip.”

  “Well, the forger certainly knew his business if he could get these by Jimmy,” said Gwen. “Do you think he’s local?”

  “I do. But we can’t do anything more about that today. We have to get ready. What time do you expect your Miss Millie to arrive?”

  “Soon,” said Gwen, looking at her watch. “The reception is not until seven. We should have ample time.”

  * * *

  Millie rapped on the office door right on time, two garment bags slung over her shoulder and a hatbox in her hand.

  “Millie, please come in,” said Gwen.

  “So this is it,” said Millie, looking around. “I was expecting it to be bigger.”

  “It is in our dreams,” said Iris.

  “Any trouble getting away?” asked Gwen.

  “Oh no,” said Millie. “I told them that I needed to bring you your dress, and Mr. Percival approved. Would you like me to help? I’m still on service until five. I wouldn’t mind.”

  “Thank you, Millie. I would appreciate the assistance.”

  “We want you to look your best, don’t we, ma’am? Everyone knows you’re going to the reception. The staff is all atwitter about it.”

  “Goodness, I didn’t mean to set things off like that,” said Gwen.

  “You going on a fancy date for the first time? We’re all happy for you.”

  “I don’t know if I would call it a date,” said Gwen. “It’s more business-related.”

  “You’re putting on extra makeup?”

  “Yes.”

  “You’re wearing a fancy frock?”

  “Well—”

  “Jewelry?”

  “One must consider—”

  “And there’s a gentleman going to take you?”

  “Yes.”

  “It’s a date,” concluded Millie. “Let me get you made up. Where’s the ladies’?”

  “Down the hall,” said Gwen, picking up her makeup case and following her to the door.

  “And I’ll just dress myself, then,” said Iris, taking the other garment bag. “Because I’m a big girl and I know how.”

  She closed the door after Millie and Gwen, then took a small mirror from her desk and propped it against her typewriter. She started by pulling on a pair of black woolen stockings, then put on Millie’s black dress. She coiled her hair into a neat, conservative bun, pinned it securely, then wiped off her lipstick and applied a softer, duller tone that wouldn’t attract much attention. She added the uniform’s white apron and tied it in back, then topped it with the frilly cap.

  She inspected her handiwork in the mirror, frowned, then pulled a pair of spectacles with thick black frames from her bag and donned them.

  Men seldom make passes at girls who wear glasses, she thought. The last thing she needed to be tonight was desirable to the male sex. The more eyes on Gwen, the easier it would be for Iris to accomplish her goals.

  Then Gwen walked back into the office and Iris realised there would never be any danger of anyone looking at any other woman but her.

  She was wearing an indigo silk chiffon gown with a scalloped hem that swirled about her ankles with every step. Every step was taken inside a pair of gleaming white ankle straps with heels just below the maximum two inches. She wore a matching sequined bolero jacket and the same white evening gloves that Iris had last seen holding racy letters in bed. A double strand of matched white pearls draped over her modest décolletage, and a diamond-studded tiara topped her chignon.

  The whole ensemble drew one’s eyes to her face, which had gone from merely beautiful to something Titian wished he could paint. She had gone with a classic English Rose look for her makeup, but with red lipstick bright enough to cut through a fog bank.

  “Madeleine Carroll has just been relegated to second place on every man’s list,” said Iris. “Is that Hartnell?”

  “The frock’s a Hartnell,” replied Gwen, placing a folded, dark blue cape on her desk. “I’ve had it since before the war, but we aren’t showing our shoulders nowadays, more’s the pity, so I found the jacket at Paquin and had them dye it to match.”

  “You are a walking Vogue cover.”

  “Please, don’t be ridiculous,” said Gwen. “This is all Millie’s magic.”

  “Oh no, ma’am,” protested Millie. “All I did was put a few finishing touches on what’s always there.”

  “I need a Millie,” said Iris. “Can I have Millie?”

  “No,” said Gwen.

  “May I borrow her occasionally?”

  “Tell you what,” said Millie. “You make sure my lady goes out more, and I’ll make up the two of you together when you do.”

  “Done and done,” said Iris.

  “I’m not going out more,” insisted Gwen. “I told you, this is for business.”

  “And what business are you doing done up like this?�
� asked Millie.

  “We’re secretly vetting an aristocratic bachelor for a prospective bride,” said Gwen.

  “At an opulent ball,” added Iris. “Which we are crashing.”

  “Is your job always like this?” Millie sighed. “It sounds wonderfully exciting and romantic. Take me next time, and you can both dress up.”

  “Next time, we will,” said Iris. “How do I look?” She twirled in front of her desk.

  “Hang on one second, Miss,” said Millie, coming over and retying the apron. “There. Now the bow’s done properly. There’s one more thing.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Your shoes,” said Millie. “They’re too nice for a lady’s maid.”

  “Oh dear, so they are,” said Iris, inspecting them. “Say, what size are yours?”

  “Fours.”

  “Perfect. May we trade for the night?”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t mind wearing those for a night out,” said Millie, eyeing Iris’s peep-toe sling-backs.

  “I thought you were visiting your sister,” said Gwen.

  “My sister who’s got a boyfriend who’s got a best friend who is dreamy,” said Millie wistfully.

  “Sounds like you’ll be having a more romantic time than we will,” said Iris as she traded her heels for Millie’s sensible work shoes.

  “Here’s hoping,” said Millie. “Good night, ma’am, Miss Sparks. Good hunting!”

  “Thank you, Millie,” said Gwen. “Good night.”

  Iris walked around the room, staring at her feet. “Could these be any clunkier?” she complained. “And I lose an inch. I was short enough before.”

  “The better to hide in dark corners,” said Gwen, sitting behind her desk. “I wish I could disappear.”

  “What’s wrong?” asked Iris, sitting across from her.

  “I’m nervous, is what’s wrong. I haven’t been to one of these affairs—Well, there haven’t been many lately, of course, but the last one I went to was with Ronnie, and that was years ago. Little Ronnie was still in nappies, and I was feeling bloated and unattractive and said so, and the next thing I knew, my husband had whisked me out shopping for a new frock and shoes and we ended up dancing at the Dorchester. I think I danced with every man in the room that night, possibly including a waiter.”