Malice at the Palace Page 14

  Chapter 16

  STILL NOVEMBER 5

  KENSINGTON PALACE

  I have had the very worst news in the world. I can’t bear to think about him. I won’t think about him. I’ll push him right out of my mind and get on with the task I’ve been charged with. I’m a Rannoch, damn it. Duty comes first!

  Countess Irmtraut. I added her to my list of suspects. And now that I thought about it, she seemed the most likely. Perhaps she had opened the front door to find Bobo there. Bobo had been drinking. We knew there was a goodly amount of alcohol in her system. She told the countess things she didn’t want to hear, threatened to expose the prince, to harm Marina. So Irmtraut had given her a drink laced with Veronal. And when the drink didn’t kill her, Irmtraut had smothered her and dumped her body outside.

  It seemed a little far-fetched but possible. Irmtraut was a big, beefy woman. Certainly strong enough to overpower a delicate, fine-boned specimen like Bobo, already rather tipsy. The one problem was that there were servants at the palace. Even if Countess Irmtraut had opened the front door herself, a servant would have surely seen, surely heard Irmtraut talking to someone. Then I remembered what had happened when I arrived at Kensington. Nobody had answered the front door. Nobody had seen me cross the foyer. In fact the person who had first encountered me was none other than Irmtraut.

  And she did have the temperament, I decided. She was emotional, jealous, high-strung. And she adored Marina. Now I’d have to find a way into tricking her to reveal a morsel of the truth. As I came back to apartment 1 I let myself in through the front door. No servant appeared and I was able to cross the full length of the foyer unseen. So it might have been possible that Bobo let herself in, or was admitted by the countess. But if she had been killed here, someone would have had to drag or carry her out to the archway beneath the clock tower. That would take strength, and such an undertaking would have had to leave a trace. I remembered Bobo’s sparkly gown, the beads around her neck. Wouldn’t sequins have come off, beads have snapped if she had been dragged along the cobbles?

  I went back outside and retraced my steps along the side of the building and around to the archway. I didn’t notice a single bead or sequin lying along the path. There was another difficulty with my theory: Bobo’s white dress would have been covered in mud. And it wasn’t. Which brought up another problem—what happened to her overcoat? It had been a beastly night earlier on. She wouldn’t have walked across the park to Kensington Palace with no coat on. So where was it? Hanging in someone’s wardrobe at the palace right now? Or in the boot of somebody’s car, or already dumped into the Thames? I went back inside. I could hear Irmtraut and the princess still conversing in the sitting room.

  Without hesitating I tiptoed up the stairs. Irmtraut’s room was on the same floor as mine, but overlooking the front door, where our car had picked us up last night. Outside her door I hesitated. I didn’t know whether she had brought a maid with her from whatever country she lived in. I hadn’t seen one, but good servants are trained to be invisible, as I had told Queenie. And I suspected Irmtraut would insist on well-trained servants. I gave a tentative knock. No answer. I glanced down the hallway, then turned the handle. The room was unoccupied and I breathed a sigh of relief as I stepped inside and closed the door behind me.

  I looked around. A meticulously neat room, as one might have suspected. A prayer book on the table beside the bed. A silver-backed hairbrush, small box of hairpins and powder compact on the dressing table. But no clothing draped over the backs of chairs. No shoes left beside the bed. On the table by the window was a pad and envelopes, a half-written letter and what looked like a scrapbook. I glanced at the letter. It was in what was probably Russian and I couldn’t read that language, although I could make out the word “Mama.” A letter to her mother, then. And the scrapbook contained newspaper cuttings pertaining to her cousin’s wedding, some cut from that morning’s papers.

  On one wall was a huge carved oak wardrobe. I opened it, and my nose wrinkled at the smell of mothballs and stale scent. She had almost as few items of clothing as I did. Either she had not brought many garments with her or she was the proverbial poor relative, as I was. One couldn’t help feeling sorry for her and I suspected that coming to England to be part of her cousin’s wedding was a very important happening in a dull life.

  I examined the items of clothing. All good quality but not of the latest fashion and showing signs of wear. At the back was a good-looking fur coat that caught my eye. I stroked the softness of the fur. Not mink. Not sable. Something more rugged. Beaver, maybe? Could it possibly be Bobo’s missing overcoat? I felt for pockets and thrust my hand into one, finding nothing more than a handkerchief. The other contained a bus ticket in a foreign language and a couple of hairpins. I removed the coat from its hanger to see if there was a name inside. There was a manufacturer’s label. It said Silbermann, Berlin.

  A lot of effort for nothing. I didn’t think Bobo would go to Berlin for her clothes. I was just hanging it up when to my horror I heard a noise. Footsteps coming down the hall. The door handle started to turn. For a second I froze, not knowing what to do. Then I plunged into the wardrobe and pulled the door to behind me, still clutching the heavy fur coat. I heard Irmtraut’s heavy tread come into the room. I eased the wardrobe door open a fraction more so that I could see out. I just prayed she hadn’t come upstairs to take a nap or to change for dinner. I watched her go over to the table and pick up the letter and envelope. She was heading back for the door again when she looked in my direction.

  “Ach!” she said in an annoyed voice, strode over to the wardrobe and shut the door firmly. I heard a lock click into place as I was plunged into complete darkness.

  “Now look what you’ve done, you idiot,” I said to myself. The fur tickled my nose. The unpleasant smells added to my discomfort and I was terrified I’d do what I had done before and give away my presence by sneezing. I pressed my nostrils firmly shut and kept them clamped until I had to breathe. There was no sound in the room and I suspected Irmtraut had gone downstairs with her letter. But that was of little comfort. I was trapped in a wardrobe until Irmtraut came up to change for the theater. And then she’d find me and I’d have to come up with some kind of plausible excuse for hiding in her wardrobe. Another English joke, maybe? In England we always hide in wardrobes on a special saint’s day and leap out to scare the occupants when they are changing for dinner. It might just work. She might just be gullible enough to believe it. But I didn’t think I could bear to be trapped with the smell of mothballs and lily of the valley scent for that long. I felt along the surface of the door. There was a plate but no handle inside. I was indeed in a pickle. Then I remembered the hairpins in the coat pocket. I retrieved them and poked hopefully into the hole on the plate. I’d read about opening locks with hairpins but unfortunately I hadn’t actually been given the specifics of how to do this. Had there been a key in the lock? Had she turned the key? Perhaps the door automatically locked itself, in which case I was definitely doomed. I started to go through other pockets, mostly empty. Really, what was this woman thinking? How could she exist with no makeup or coins or anything else useful? Then finally I found something—at first I thought it was a nail file, until I recoiled in pain and examined it more carefully. It was a little knife, rather sharp. What on earth was that doing in a jacket pocket?

  I inserted the knife into the crack and kept jiggling until the latch gave and the door swung open. I took big gulps of air as I stepped out into the room, then I stood examining the knife in my hand. It was designed like a miniature sword, with an ornate handle. Very pretty, but also quite deadly. Did Irmtraut feel she needed such a hidden weapon for protection? Or something more sinister? But then Bobo had been drugged, then suffocated. The autopsy had not mentioned her having been stabbed with a stiletto-like blade. I went to return the knife to the pocket and realized I had no idea which pocket it had come from. An overcoat and two boiled wool j
ackets had pockets. I tried to remember the feel of the fabric as I searched pockets. Not rough. Probably boiled wool. But which of them? Irmtraut would know. If I put it back in the wrong one, she’d realize that someone had been through her things.

  I strained my ears for the sound of approaching feet, afraid she’d come back and catch me with the knife in my hand. At least I’d have the weapon, I thought, and giggled nervously. I have been known to giggle in moments of extreme stress. I examined the two jackets and noticed something—the slight odor of wet sheep coming from one of them. The dark blue one. I picked it up and sniffed. This jacket had been out in the rain in the not too distant past. I put the knife back into what I hoped was the correct pocket and made my way hastily out of the room.

  A stupid exercise for nothing, I told myself as made my way along the corridor. Or was it? I knew that the blue jacket had been out in the rain. And Irmtraut had a knife in her pocket. Perhaps she had taken it with her, just in case, but had not needed to use it. I still wasn’t ready to cross Countess Irmtraut from my suspect list.

  I went back downstairs and found Irmtraut alone with the remains of the tea.

  “Marina went up to change for the theater,” she said. “It will be a dramatic play tonight? Your Mr. Shakespeare, perhaps?”

  “Oh dear no,” I said. “Quite the opposite. A musical comedy by Mr. Noel Coward.”

  “With many English jokes?”

  “I’m afraid so.” I smiled at her face. “At least it will be more cheerful for you than last night, eating your toad in the hole all alone,” I said. “And with the major also gone, I presume you had no visitors all evening?”

  “Nobody.” She sniffed. “But I am used to being alone.”

  “So nobody even came to the front door?” I asked. “You didn’t hear a knock, perhaps? Or see someone moving around outside?”

  “Why should I hear this? It is not my place to answer doors. Did someone inform you that a visitor came to the front door?”

  I nodded. “I was told that someone came to deliver a message to me,” I said, saying the first thing that came to mind. “A friend who thought she would find me here. But she could make nobody hear and thought nobody was home.”

  Irmtraut sniffed. “I heard nothing. You should ask the servants. But they do not pay proper attention, I think. They remain shut away in their own quarters, enjoying themselves. They are very lazy, these English servants. I never got the pickled herring I sent for. This is always the way without a butler or proper housekeeper to watch over them.”

  “Your room is above the front door,” I went on, trying desperately to think of what to ask her that might be revealing. “You didn’t hear a car pull up all evening?”

  “Only when you and the princess returned home. Until then nothing. It is very boring.”

  “I’m sorry. It must have been. But tonight will be better.”

  “With English jokes I do not understand,” she said. “You will please tell me when I should laugh.”

  I left her then and went up to my own room. She had not seemed at all rattled by my questions and one would have expected such a person to become easily flustered. But perhaps Countess Irmtraut was made of sterner stuff.

  Queenie was sitting on my bed, tentatively brushing the hem of my burgundy velvet dress.

  “You got this in a right mess, didn’t you?” she demanded, looking up as I came in. “Caked with bloody mud.”

  “Sorry. I had to walk in the rain when I went to have dinner with Princess Louise,” I said, then wondered why I was apologizing to a maid. I’m sure none of my royal relatives would have done so.

  “Well, it’s ruddy hard work trying to brush off the mud without brushing off the nap and getting a right earful from you,” she said. “And nobody even bothered to bring up me tea.”

  “Oh dear. Hold on a minute. I’ll go down and find you some. The tea things are still out in our sitting room.” I knew I was being too soft, but I couldn’t help it.

  As I came back into the sitting room Irmtraut was standing at the window, looking out. When she heard footsteps she let the curtain fall and spun to face me. Was I mistaken or was that a guilty look on her face?

  I couldn’t say that I’d come to fetch my maid some cake. She’d be horrified.

  “I decided I did want a little sustenance after all,” I said, putting a scone and a couple of pieces of shortbread on a plate. “Almost time to get dressed for the theater.” And I breezed out again.

  Queenie was duly grateful and wolfed down the food while I laid out what I wanted to wear with the burgundy dress to the theater. But my thoughts were racing. What to do next? Obviously someone should have a little heart-to-heart with Prince George to find out why he came in late to dinner last night. I didn’t want to do that, but I could take a look at his car to see if it had really been in an accident. And maybe ask his servants what time he left St. James’s.

  Then I should interview the servants here. The lie I had made up on the spot for Irmtraut was a good one, I decided. Nothing to do with any sort of crime. A friend had heard I was staying at the palace and came to say hello. But she couldn’t make anyone hear when she knocked on the front door. She wandered around a bit, looking for a way in, then gave up and went home. I’d ask indignantly if nobody heard or saw her.

  My thoughts went back to Irmtraut and the damp jacket with the knife in the pocket. But the method of the murder was so different from a quick stab in the dark. If someone had fed Bobo a cocktail or two, and one of them laced with Veronal, then it had to be someone she knew. A complete stranger couldn’t force alcohol down her throat. So that probably ruled out the drug lord. Such subtle killing was not their way of operation. The quick knife or bullet in the dark or kidnapping and dumping someone in the Thames would be what I’d expect from them. And if Bobo was a habitual drug user it would make no sense to kill the goose that laid the golden egg, would it?

  “Do you want me to run your bath?” Queenie asked, interrupting my reverie.

  I REALIZED THAT the next thing I should do would be to question the servants, but there wasn’t time before the car arrived to take us to the theater. We set off and had not gone far before there was an enormous flash of light, followed by an explosion to our right.

  We all jumped but Irmtraut screamed. “Assassins! We will all be killed by Bolsheviks!”

  It had taken me a minute but when the second flash and bang went off I realized. “Don’t worry. It’s only Guy Fawkes Night.”

  “Guy Fawkes?” Irmtraut asked. “What is this?”

  “Who is this,” I corrected. “He was a person who tried to blow up the Houses of Parliament many years ago. We still celebrate his beheading by burning his effigy on bonfires and setting off fireworks every November fifth.”

  “You burn people? This is most barbaric,” she exclaimed.

  “No, not real people. Just an effigy—Guys made of old clothes, stuffed with straw. And we set off pretty fireworks. Children love it.”

  A rocket shot into the sky, sending down a trail of colored stars. Marina and Irmtraut gazed out of the window, entranced. It had occurred to me that tonight would have been a good time to kill somebody, with all the flashes and bangs going off. Which seemed to indicate that the earlier killing of Bobo Carrington was not premeditated. Or the killer knew he or she could carry out the planned killing without risk of being disturbed.

  The play was a big success—a witty period piece with some good musical numbers, Noel as the duke, and a lovely French actress as the female lead. Even Irmtraut laughed, although I suspected she didn’t understand the jokes. I went to the stage door during the interval and sent a note to Mr. Coward, telling him that we were in the audience, and was rewarded by being invited backstage at the end of the show. Noel, sitting in his brocade dressing gown, an ebony cigarette holder held nonchalantly between his fingers, was his utterly charming
self and promised to set up a little soiree for Princess Marina to meet the stars of the London arts world. She was, like most people, quite dazzled by him. She didn’t even blink when he said, “Your future spouse is a good pal of mine. Charming boy. Utterly charming. You’ll have fun with him.”

  I was terrified he was going to add, “I know I did.”

  “Georgiana, your friends are wonderful,” Marina said in the car ride home. “What a kind man. And so clever too. Is he married? Will we meet his wife?”

  “No. He’s not married, at the moment,” I answered vaguely.

  I was suddenly overcome with fatigue. I had been awoken before dawn and had had to undergo too many shocks to the system for one day. It was all I could do not to fall asleep in the car. We arrived back at the palace to find a late supper awaiting us. A thick brown Windsor soup, cold meats, veal and ham pie, baked potatoes and pickles. Simple but satisfying. Only I could hardly eat a thing. Now that I wasn’t absorbed in watching a play my stomach had clenched itself in knots again. My thoughts jumped from the body under the arch to Countess Irmtraut’s damp jacket with the knife in the pocket to the unpleasant session with DCI Pelham and Darcy’s dressing gown behind that bedroom door. And they wanted me to help get to the bottom of this before the news leaked out and became a national scandal. And if the press did get wind of it, then it was quite possible that Darcy’s name would be in the papers, or even that he’d be seen as a suspect. I found myself praying fervently that he was currently in some far-flung part of the world, even if I knew I should hope he got all that he deserved.