Four Funerals and Maybe a Wedding Read online

  BERKLEY PRIME CRIME TITLES BY RHYS BOWEN

  Royal Spyness Mysteries

  MASKED BALL AT BROXLEY MANOR

  (enovella)

  HER ROYAL SPYNESS

  A ROYAL PAIN

  ROYAL FLUSH

  ROYAL BLOOD

  NAUGHTY IN NICE

  THE TWELVE CLUES OF CHRISTMAS

  HEIRS AND GRACES

  QUEEN OF HEARTS

  MALICE AT THE PALACE

  CROWNED AND DANGEROUS

  ON HER MAJESTY’S FRIGHTFULLY SECRET SERVICE

  FOUR FUNERALS AND MAYBE A WEDDING

  Constable Evans Mysteries

  EVANS ABOVE

  EVAN HELP US

  EVANLY CHOIRS

  EVAN AND ELLE

  EVAN CAN WAIT

  EVANS TO BETSY

  EVAN ONLY KNOWS

  EVAN’S GATE

  EVAN BLESSED

  Anthologies

  A ROYAL THREESOME

  BERKLEY PRIME CRIME

  Published by Berkley

  An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014

  Copyright © 2018 by Janet Quin-Harkin

  Penguin Random House supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin Random House to continue to publish books for every reader.

  BERKLEY is a registered trademark and BERKLEY PRIME CRIME and the B colophon are trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: Bowen, Rhys, author.

  Title: Four funerals and maybe a wedding / Rhys Bowen.

  Description: First edition. | New York : Berkley Prime Crime, 2018. | Series: A royal spyness mystery ; 12

  Identifiers: LCCN 2017061359 | ISBN 9780425283523 (hardcover) | ISBN 9780698410268 (ebook)

  Subjects: LCSH: London (England)—History—20th century—Fiction. | Aristocracy (Social class)—England—Fiction. | Women spies—Fiction. | BISAC: FICTION / Mystery & Detective / Historical. | FICTION / Mystery & Detective / Women Sleuths. | GSAFD: Mystery fiction.

  Classification: LCC PR6052.O848 F68 2018 | DDC 823/.914—dc23

  LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2017061359

  First Edition: August 2018

  Cover art by John Mattos

  Cover design by Rita Frangie

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Version_1

  This book is dedicated to the memory of Katherine Kellgren

  who was the brilliant reader of the Audible audio version of my Royal Spyness books.

  She passed away far too young.

  Katy was beautiful, vivacious, gracious and enormously talented.

  She brought every character in my books to life.

  Her reading earned the books almost annual Audie nominations,

  and one year she won Best Female Narrator,

  beating out Meryl Streep.

  I can’t imagine the audiobooks without her.

  Acknowledgments

  Thanks, as always, to my brilliant team at Berkley: Michelle, Roxanne, Jennifer and the marketing and social media gurus who make my life so smooth and simple. Thanks to John for being my first editor and to my sister-in-law Mary Vyvyan, who lets me stay every summer in a home not quite as grand as Eynsleigh (but almost).

  Also, thanks to Hank Phillippi Ryan for sharing her hilarious bird story that inspired a scene in this book.

  Contents

  Berkley Prime Crime Titles by Rhys Bowen

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  About the Author

  Hamish Hector Albert Edward,

  Duke of Glengarry and Rannoch,

  and Hilda Ermintrude,

  Duchess of Rannoch,

  invite you to the wedding of his sister,

  Victoria Georgiana Charlotte Eugenie

  to

  the Honorable Darcy Byrne O’Mara

  son of Lord Kilhenny

  of Kilhenny Castle, Ireland

  at 2 p.m. on Saturday, July 27

  at the Church of the Immaculate Conception,

  Farm Street, Mayfair

  and afterward at

  Rannoch House, Belgrave Square, London S.W.1

  Chapter 1

  WEDNESDAY, JUNE 12, 1935

  16 EATON SQUARE, LONDON, S.W.1

  Things are actually going smoothly for once. I can’t believe it. Here I am, staying at the house of Polish princess Zamanska (known to her friends as Zou Zou) while Darcy is away and I prepare for my wedding. I didn’t think I’d ever write those words, certainly not about someone as wonderful as Darcy. It seems only yesterday that I fled from Castle Rannoch and arrived alone in London, penniless and without a friend in the world. But it’s actually going to happen in a few weeks’ time. Golly. Mrs. Darcy O’Mara. As Jane Bennet would say, “How shall I bear so much happiness?”

  I was standing at my window on the top floor of Princess Zamanska’s lovely Georgian house on Eaton Square (which, in case you don’t know, is one of the poshest addresses in London). It was another glorious summer day. We had been blessed with a long dry spell, so unusual in English summers. In fact my whole spring so far had been a delight, ever since I returned from lending support to my friend Belinda in Italy. In May there had been the king’s Silver Jubilee, with a triumphant procession to St. Paul’s Cathedral, the king and queen riding in an open landau. I had been part of the congregation at St. Paul’s and it was a moving experience.

  This afternoon I had been going through my clothes and seeing which ones might be good enough to take into my future life as Mrs. Darcy O’Mara
. Yes, I know, I’m going to be an ordinary missus, rather a step down for a cousin to the king, but Darcy is actually an honorable, the son of a lord, and because I’m the daughter of a duke people will still have to address me as Lady Georgiana—unless they habitually forget like my maid, Queenie!

  I stared at the items hanging in a rather grand French wardrobe and winced. Aging tweed skirt, a couple of white blouses, cotton frocks made for me by the gamekeeper’s wife at home in Scotland. Hardly haute couture! Actually it wasn’t as if we were going to live anywhere grand. Darcy’s father, Lord Kilhenny, had made it clear he wanted us to consider Kilhenny Castle our home, and that was very nice, but it wasn’t the sort of place you’d want to spend the whole year. (Too cold and dreary, like Castle Rannoch, for my taste!) Also there were times when Darcy needed to be in London for his work—which is rather hush-hush.

  But occasionally we did move in quite grand circles, ranging from an invitation to Buckingham Palace to Princess Zou Zou’s international playboy set (which included my cousin the Prince of Wales and his lady friend from America). I was constantly reminded that my wardrobe was sadly lacking when compared to every other lady’s Paris models. Still there was hope on the horizon in that department too. My mother, the former duchess and now about to marry a very rich German, had promised that she would come to London and we’d shop for a trousseau. She was very grateful to me for saving her from an embarrassing situation in Italy. I didn’t dare count on this, as my mother was the most fickle of creatures and I hadn’t been able to count on her since she bolted from my father and me when I was only two. Still, this time I really had saved her bacon, so she jolly well should be grateful enough to pay for some decent clothes for me!

  I decided that if Mummy came through, I might abandon most of my schoolgirlish and boring wardrobe and become a new and fashionable woman. I’d certainly turned some heads in a borrowed backless dress in Italy. Svelte and sexy, that’s what I would become. My picture in the Tatler: Lady Georgiana, dressed in Chanel at Ascot . . . Lady Georgiana, looking rakish at opening day at Cowes . . . I broke off, grinning at this absurdity. My husband-to-be was as penniless as I was.

  The square below basked in afternoon quiet. The breeze that came in through the window was warm and scented with the sweet smell of honeysuckle and roses. A thrush was singing madly in the garden at the center of the square. A nanny in a smart uniform was pushing a very grand pram. Next year, I thought . . . but I’d want to push my own pram. In any case we probably couldn’t afford a nanny.

  I had just turned away from the window when I heard the doorbell jangle below. Zou Zou wasn’t actually in residence at the moment, having flown over to Paris in her little two-seater plane to do some shopping. I leaned out as far as I dared but there was a porch over the front door and I could see nothing. I stood, listening and wondering who might have come to call. Obviously someone who didn’t know Zou Zou was away. Then I heard the light tap of feet coming up the stairs, a knock on my door. I opened it to see Clotilde, the princess’s maid.

  “My lady, zere is a visitor for you,” she said. (Her French accent was still rather strong.)

  “Who is it?” I asked. For a moment I had a wild hope that Darcy had returned earlier than expected. But then he wouldn’t be a nameless visitor. He’d have bounded straight in past Clotilde and up the stairs.

  “A lady,” Clotilde said. “She did not ’and me ’er card. She merely says, ‘I understand you ’ave Lady Georgiana Rannoch staying ’ere at zee moment. I wish to speak wiz ’er.’”

  Oh dear. That sounded serious. I glanced in the mirror to see if I looked presentable. Not very. It was a hot day and my cotton frock was crumpled. Clotilde must have noticed this because she said, “I recently washed and pressed your green silk, my lady. I will tell zee visitor zat you will be down shortly.”

  “Thank you, Clotilde,” I said. “And please see that my visitor is offered tea or lemonade or whatever she wishes.”

  “Of course, my lady.” Clotilde was a perfect maid: she always knew the right thing to do on any occasion, from turning a blind eye when the princess invited a male friend up to see her etchings to mending holes invisibly in velvet burned by my maid, Queenie, who was about as un-perfect as one could imagine. But Queenie, the disaster-maid, was not with me at the moment. She was still with Darcy’s relatives in Ireland, where she was learning to be an assistant cook. I couldn’t decide whether I should summon her back when we moved into a place of our own. The problem was that efficient maids cost money and of that we had little. Maybe I could ask Mummy to supply me with a maid as a wedding present. But as we had both found out, too-perfect maids aren’t always desirable!

  Hastily I scrambled into my green silk dress, brushed my hair and went downstairs trying to look cool, calm and collected.

  “Zee visitor is in zee small sitting room, my lady,” Clotilde said. I pushed open the door. My visitor was sitting in a chair by the window with a cup of tea in her hand. She looked up, frowning, as I entered.

  “Ah, there you are, Georgiana. I wondered where on earth you had got to,” she said. “We hadn’t heard from you in ages. We thought you might still be in Switzerland but Binky suggested you might be staying with that foreign princess woman, and he was right, clever old thing.”

  My heart sank. It was my sister-in-law Hilda, Duchess of Rannoch, usually known as Fig.

  “Hello, Fig,” I said as pleasantly as I could as I pulled up a chair beside her. “What a surprise. How lovely to see you. I thought you’d be up in Scotland for the summer. That’s why I didn’t come to call.”

  Her scowl deepened. “We were but we came down for a doctor’s appointment. It makes a change from bloody Scotland, where it has rained incessantly this spring. And Binky has taken up golf. Does nothing but hit a stupid little ball over miles of heather into little holes. What a waste of time.”

  “A doctor’s appointment?” I said the words cautiously. “You’re both in good health, I hope? Oh, don’t tell me it’s another baby on the way?”

  “God forbid,” she said, rolling her eyes. “No, I told Binky we have the heir and he can do without the spare. As if anyone would want to inherit that cold and drafty white elephant that is Castle Rannoch.”

  “So it’s just a routine check?” I asked.

  “Actually it’s Binky’s toenails,” she said, with supreme distaste in her voice. “He has ingrown toenails and they are spoiling his golf game. Apparently it requires a small operation to make them right again and he thought it had better be done in London, just to be on the safe side. And I said if I was being dragged to London for his toenails the very least he could do was to take me to Ascot for once. We have so little opportunity to dress up at home. I might buy a new hat.”

  “How jolly,” I said. “Shall you be going on opening day? I might see you there.”

  “You are going to Ascot?” She sounded quite vexed, as if I’d arranged this deliberately to spite her. “On opening day?”

  “Yes, the queen invited me to join her party.”

  “You’re going on opening day with the queen?” Fig really did wince now. She had never forgiven me that Queen Mary had actually become quite fond of me and invited me regularly to the palace—also that I was of royal blood and she wasn’t. To smooth this over I added, “I’m going to borrow one of Zou Zou’s hats. She has some quite outrageous ones.”

  Fig frowned as she looked at the silk dress. “That dress you are wearing looks rather chic. Did you borrow that from your foreign princess?”

  I was dying to say, “What? This old thing?” but I couldn’t pull it off without grinning. “It came from my mother,” I said. “It was one of her few castoffs that actually fit me. On her it came to her ankles and just hung loosely. On me it’s short and formfitting, but at least it’s silk.”

  “One thing I can say for your mother, she does have good taste in clothes.”

 
She took a sip of tea before adding, “Of course the same thing can’t be said for men. Who is her particular beau at the moment, dare one ask? A polo player? A racing driver? A Texas oilman?”

  “They are all in the past,” I said. “It’s still Max von Strohheim, the German industrialist. I think you’ve met him. He’s nice. She’s been with him for a couple of years now, and what’s more, they are planning to marry next month. Big wedding in Berlin. I’m going to be a maid of honor.”

  “Good God,” Fig said. “It seems that everybody in the world is getting married this summer, including you, one gathers. One saw the engagement announcement in the Times. So it’s actually about this wedding that I am here. We haven’t yet received an invitation. . . .”

  “That’s because the final details have not been put into place yet, Fig. We only just heard that I had been given permission to withdraw from the royal line of succession. Until that we couldn’t go ahead. We’ve chosen the date, July 27, and we just have to have invitations printed and mailed.”

  “That was a big step to take, Georgiana,” Fig said. “One does not reject one’s place in society and one’s obligations lightly. I’m sure Binky would never have renounced his place in the line of succession to marry me.”

  I tried to keep a straight face. I didn’t think that any man in his right mind would have renounced anything to marry Fig. I’m not normally so uncharitable, but Fig has been utterly beastly to me since she came to live at Castle Rannoch, making it plain that I was no longer welcome at my childhood home.

  “I was only thirty-fifth in line, Fig. Your children would be on the throne before me if a meteor strike or plague wiped out the rest of the royal family.”

  “That’s true, but all the same . . .” Fig took another sip of her tea, then put down the cup and saucer with a clatter on the little glass-topped table.

  “I intended to marry Darcy whatever happened,” I said. “I would have run off to Argentina if Parliament had said no.”

  “So are we to expect that you will be married from the family seat in Scotland?”