Текст книги "The Blood Royal"

Автор книги: Barbara Cleverly

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Текущая страница: 19 (всего у книги 27 страниц)

‘But how do you know she was leaving, Jim?’

It was Ethel who answered. ‘We were here in the street. She came to her window. Up there, miss. And she waved to us. And blew us a kiss. She had her hat and coat on.’

‘And did she say anything as she passed you?’

Looks of scorn greeted this question. ‘Naw! She never passed down here,’ said Jim. ‘More sense. She’ll have gone out the back way. Over the yard and across the allotments, turn left and you’re in the Church Street.’

Lily began to see a further advantage of a roost in Hogsmire Lane.

‘We waved back. We wished her good luck,’ Ethel said with a touch of defiance. ‘She was a nice girl, miss, your friend. Gave us all a lollipop every Saturday. I’ve still got mine that she gave me yesterday.’ The little girl rubbed her eyes with the hem of her pinny and began to sniff.

‘She may come back when the bother – whatever it is – has blown over,’ Lily said. ‘She’ll be glad you stuck up for her. And look – I think my friend would like you to have this.’ She took a sixpenny bit from her pocket and handed it to the girl. ‘You can be quartermaster, Ethel. Next Saturday’s lollipops. In case she’s not back in time.’

As the small silver coin disappeared with coos and muttered thanks into the depths of Ethel’s pocket, Lily put her hat back on and stood up. ‘Well – I can see I shall have to go back to Paddington and pick up my suitcase before I knock on Mrs Royston’s door. Landladies don’t take kindly to females who appear with no luggage on their doorsteps and I see this is a very respectable part of town. A good five bob’s worth! Keep your eyes peeled for the rozzers, kids! Especially the ones with the moustaches. They’re the nastiest.’

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Joe was uneasy. He prowled about his office closing drawers and straightening pictures. He tapped the wall clock and checked it against his wristwatch. They agreed that it was now two o’clock. Where’d she got to? He’d quite forgotten to tell her they were expected at Cassandra Dedham’s house for tea. Would she make an appearance back at the Yard in time to accompany him?

A phone call had come from Princess Ratziatinsky at noon to say that Wentworth had left. He wanted to finish up at the Yard, close his files and get something to eat. He’d had time for a shower and a cup of tea and a change of clothes back at his flat just before dawn but since then had been chained to his desk, listening to reports and moving his men around. He’d told her to take a taxi back. A ten-minute drive.

Common sense reasserted itself. She’d probably nipped off to visit her parents and tell them all her adventures. Sunday. It was her day off. She’d completed her self-imposed task and was clearly at liberty to spend the rest of the day as she wished. Yes, that’s what London girls did on the Sabbath, after all – they went back home for luncheon with Ma and Pa. The traditional slice of roast beef, no doubt. Apple pie to follow? A pang of hunger hit him and he dealt with it.

Hunger and lack of sleep he’d learned to accommodate in his war years. He hadn’t expected he’d need those skills working at a desk job. He allowed himself a momentary tight grin. He would never accept an easy existence. Too many mischief-makers to be brought to account; too many scores to settle. This blasted Morrigan, for one. The woman should have been under lock and key by now. She was running rings round him. A slight but unmistakable feeling of dry-mouthed giddiness disturbed him. He recognized it for the moment of controlled terror before the whistle blew. A warning he should heed?

Joe reviewed his plans. The prime minister and Mr Churchill? Aware, alert and doubly guarded. The prince? Hidden away. The rest of the royal family? Not on Bacchus’s list but, after much thought, Joe had taken the precaution of advising a week at Sandringham. On their remote estate in Norfolk they were easier to isolate but close enough to the capital to protect. Distance, the local plod and a selection of Branch men were covering the situation.

He grimaced. This was turning out to be an expensive operation in policing terms. And it would get worse.

Still no Constable Wentworth. There had been no problems with the interview. The princess had been impressed with the constable’s discretion and had been able to supply her with what she wanted, which seemed to be the names of five people who had ducked her event. No harm there … and she might even come up with one of her ‘insights’. And the girl was merely running errands, not running into danger. The pavements of London were her territory, its low life her confidants, by all appearances. She was probably safer in their company than his.

Joe grimaced as he reminded himself of the close shave Lily had had the previous evening, sitting, fork in hand, messing about with a plateful of poisoned food. The lab tests had, indeed, traced the cyanide to the lower stratum. She’d taken it well – no squeaks or recrimination. No, not one. But he’d rather not get a reputation for sending girls in to do a man’s job. And his chaps had certainly not been impressed – disharmony and disruption had been mentioned. Threatened, he’d say, if he were honest. Better take her out of the equation, all things considered, he decided. She’d done her bit and he wasn’t prepared to put unnecessary strains on morale.

He slid the photographs of the ball from their envelope and studied them, pausing for rather longer than he ought over the one where she’d been waltzing with the prince. He wondered if the arsehole Tate would sell it to one of his society rags. Joe doubted that he had the power to prevent him and he could see it would be hard to resist the temptation of publishing a shot as glamorous as this one. Please God the girl’s identity wouldn’t become the subject of national speculation! Embarrassment bound to follow for all concerned. Perhaps the undeclared hold Lily clearly had on Cyril Tate and the respect – even affection – he seemed to have for her would be strong enough to stay his hand? Puzzle, that. With her modest origins and his rackety, disgraced aristo background, any common ground between the constable and the newsman was a mystery to Sandilands.

He stared, disturbed by the print. He ran a speculative thumb around the face he rather thought Botticelli would have admired. With women about the place, he’d have to watch his language more carefully. Was it right to impose this extra discipline on his men? It had been fascinating to observe the reactions around the table. And informative. Joe liked to collect these impressions; he liked to be aware of weaknesses as well as strengths. He’d noted interest varying from lascivious appreciation (Chappel) to exaggerated distaste (Fanshawe). Hopkirk, he would have judged, was unmoved. Bacchus, like Sandilands himself, he would have sworn was intrigued in a professional way by the possibilities. Until she got up his nose and seriously challenged him. The girl was a chameleon. And, as such, she might have proved of some use to them. Shame no one else was prepared to acknowledge this.

But perhaps there was someone who would appreciate her qualities?

Sandilands came to a regretful decision. She’d fizzed like shaken-up ginger beer at the idea of redeployment but had been quite seduced, he was sure, by the group photograph of Philip Lane surrounded by his harem of bright young girls. He’d ring his friend in Lancashire and start paving the way for a transfer. Now she’d had a taste of the detect-ive’s life which Sandilands had, from their first meeting, deduced was an unusual but overriding ambition with this girl, she might welcome the chance to train on for the real thing with Philip.

He snatched at the telephone at the first warning burble.

‘Send her straight up, will you.’

‘Ah. Do come in, Miss Wentworth. Sit yourself down. Glad you could spare me the time. Sunday. Your day off, of course. Lots to fit in, I expect. Father and mother both well, I trust?’ The tone was understanding, the smile devastating.

Lily showed no sign that she was deceived by this show of affability. She looked at the clock in consternation. ‘Oh, I see. Gosh, I am late! Oh, sir, I hope you weren’t worried …’

‘Worried? I shot myself in a mood of black despair an hour ago,’ he said drily.

‘Terrible aim, sir! Glad you missed.’

He felt himself responding to her shy grin with a surge of good humour. He controlled it and cleared his throat. Straight to business.

‘Now – I’ll bring you up to date. Here, back at base, we’ve been very busy. The Branch have been gathering everything they had on these Russian women who seem to be blighting our lives at the moment.’ He pointed to a thick file on his desk. ‘This has just come up. It’s all the Branch could scrape together on Miss Peterson. Bacchus and his chaps went round with cat-like tread and cutlass between teeth to the address we’d had under surveillance since the early hours. They mounted a raid on the premises. With no result, I’m afraid. No one at home.’

‘No one, sir?’ She was looking at him in astonishment. ‘Not even a little family having breakfast?’

‘What? As a matter of fact, if I must dot the i’s and cross the t’s, yes, there was a family in residence. A perfectly innocent family – man, wife and five children apparently in various stages of readiness for the day, taking an early breakfast. No lodgers kept. The father’s a porter at Smithfield meat market. Husky sort of bloke. He made objection to Bacchus’s invasion and ranted on about Englishmen, homes and castles. Sent Bacchus off, tail between his legs.’ Joe couldn’t hide his satisfaction. ‘The men made further inquiries in the street and hung about observing for an hour then gave it up as a bad job and came back to HQ. Another false trail, I’m afraid.’

‘Did you see Honeysett? Was he of any help?’

‘Yes. He tried his best. But his female employee gave away little about herself. Did her job well. Went home at the end of the day. She never socialized with the rest of the staff. We checked on her three referees. Princess Ratziatinsky – conveniently or sinisterly, depending on your point of view – was one of them. Conspiracy are we suspecting? She was the only one who gave a telephone number so, naturally, it was to her that Honeysett approached initially. Satisfied by all he heard from that establishment and being unable to make swift contact with the others – one was a lady at present travelling in Europe and the other a military gentleman posted to the North West Frontier province a year ago …’

‘False, sir?’

‘I don’t doubt it. Honeysett was devastated. Angry to have been taken for a ride. There was no intention on the steward’s part to deceive, of course. He told us what he knew. But what he knew was a load of codswallop. No such girl ever at that address. And where have we heard this sorry tale before? Bells ringing, are they? So there we are. Again. Now – I’ve spoken to the princess. You made a good impression. And tell me, did she come up with anything that interested you?’

The girl seemed amused. Worse than that, she was grinning at him. She took off her hat and began to fan herself with it. Her straw-coloured hair stuck out round her face and he realized that she was, in fact, a bit breathless but shining with excitement. His mother’s cat, the ghastly old tiger-striped killer – what was his name? Tippoo – came to mind. Electrified by triumph. Hair on end, Lily had come to tell him she’d killed a rat and he might expect to put his foot on the squishy corpse the moment he stepped outside.

‘Oh yes, she did, sir! She gave me the name of the woman who tried to poison the prince and told me where she was living. I went straight round there – oh, I know, disobeying orders, and I expect you’ll be angry with me, but it was on my way back …’

‘Get on, constable!’

‘Well, she made fools of Bacchus and his Keystone Kops, but I’ve got her, sir!’

Joe looked anxiously at the door. ‘Got her? Lord! You’ve not left a body down at reception, Wentworth? What on earth have you done?’

‘Oh, nothing like that! No fisticuffs. But I did some detecting. I know what she looks like, I know who she is and I can guess where she is but I can’t for the life of me work out why this woman would want the prince dead. Or Admiral Lord Dedham or Churchill or Lloyd George. Perhaps you’ll be able to tell me?’

‘Wentworth, start at the beginning. You got there …’

Joe listened patiently to Lily’s account, making occasional notes of names and other details that caught his attention.

‘And you’d describe the princess’s manner as – helpful – on the whole?’

‘On the whole, sir. And on the surface. No more than that. I wouldn’t trust her as far as the garden gate.’

‘Aha! Let’s think of her as “Princess Rat”! Go on, Wentworth.’

‘She doesn’t like us much. She has strong views on the political situation and, though grateful to this country for the shelter she’s receiving, doesn’t scruple to voice her criticisms. But she would never, I think, condone the assassination of the prince or cover for any would-be assassin. Her community of refugees has too much to lose. It would be a suicidal idiot who stove a hole in the lifeboat he was travelling in. And she has much loyalty to the notion of kingship, which seems in that company to trump nationality. Or even friendship.’ Lily paused for a moment and then added: ‘She’s a politician. She weighed her options and in the end she decided to give her up. Your Morrigan. But on her terms. Not ours. Oh, no, not ours.’

‘In what way did she “give her up”?’

‘She handed me the name of a woman who might well have been at the ball as a guest but was, in fact, working in the kitchens. No surprises! It’s the girl I saw smearing the prince’s plate. She’s Anna Petrovna, and she’s related to the princess. She was living just a short distance away, but in a much less grand district. In fact just across the road from the address Bacchus raided. She was watching his antics from behind the net curtain of her upstairs front. I thought I’d just check on it on my way back here … I hadn’t at that time realized I too was being deliberately sent off on a wild goose chase. These Russian women are making monkeys of us, sir.’

‘It’s how they pass their time, Wentworth. I wish they’d take up needlepoint but they find espionage more stimulating. So, you’re reporting that Miss Petrovna is gadding about London, free as the wind. You haven’t got her at all, any more than Bacchus had. Or Hopkirk. A stroll across the allotments and the whole of the West End is at her feet.’

‘No, sir! I know exactly where she is. I must have been within a few yards of her this morning. She was listening to what I was saying through a keyhole for all I know.’ Lily shivered.

‘Keyhole? Whose keyhole?’ he asked with suspicion. And then with sudden alarm: ‘Oh, my God! She was there? Within a few feet of you? What makes you think so?’

‘The coffee cups. A tray arrived moments after I did. It was laid for four. The maid who brought it was surprised to see me and asked if she should bring another cup. Which would have made it five. One too many. She was hurried out of the room. There had been four women there when I arrived, not the three who greeted me. Anna must have skipped out when I rang the doorbell. The coffee cups had no significance for me at that moment but it hit me later. The princess was pleased and relieved to be able to get me off the premises by sending me along to Hogsmire Lane. The gesture made her appear cooperative to the police but she was giving nothing away as she knew perfectly well that the address had already been abandoned. She – and possibly the whole of the Russian establishment – is sheltering this woman. You’re going to find that a hard nut to crack, I think.’

‘Wentworth, we are not unaware of this. The princess and her entourage have been the subject of close surveillance ever since she moved to London. She knows it, of course. Clandestine manoeuvring is meat and drink to her. She’s at the heart of a network that has tentacles covering the world and she works tirelessly for her own kind: émigré Russian aristocrats. She has a finger in every ambassadorial pie from here to Hong Kong and back again the other way.’

‘I’ve just remembered – they were about to set off for lunch at the embassy. They could have taken Anna along with them and …’

‘And left her there. On what is technically foreign territory. If she stays holed up in the embassy, we can’t touch her. They could spirit her out of the country in a bag in no time. But I think she was pulling the wool over your eyes. Which embassy, for a start? Did she say? That part of town is an international diplomatic enclave. You can’t throw a stone without knocking off an ambassador’s silk hat. And with the political situation as it is at the moment in that benighted country Miss Petrovna would be the very last person the present Russian mob would want to see come grinning round the door. We’re not contemplating the usual diplomatic protocol – these are bloodletting rogues and scoundrels we have to deal with. No idea how to behave on a world stage. They might approach our government and ask to have her removed.’ Joe sighed. ‘With the usual vociferous complaints about Scotland Yard intimidation and mismanagement. Whatever happens, I think we could be looking at diplomatic involvement. The quickest way to wreck a career. Damn!’

‘Sorry, sir. If I’d caught on straight away I could have rung you from the princess’s house …’ Her voice trailed away and she hung her head, waiting for a rebuke.

He smiled. ‘… and requested a snatch squad? “Come quickly! She’s hiding in the butler’s pantry!” I can’t quite see how that would have worked.’

‘No. They’d never have got past Foxton, sir.’

‘Well, cheer up. You’ve done wonders. I’m very pleased, Miss Wentworth.’ He sat back, eyeing her with satisfaction. ‘Would you like to hear me ruin someone’s lunch?’ He picked up the telephone and asked for a London number. ‘Have I got Bacchus? James! Listen. You may wish to reschedule your surveillance in the light of certain information which comes to hand. Your girl was watching your storming of forty-two, Hogsmire Lane from her outpost in the upstairs front room of number sixty-seven … yes, I said sixty-seven … which was her actual address. No … not there any longer. Clean pair of heels over the allotments at the rear… She’s taken shelter with her countrymen. She was playing cards with the Princess Ratziatinsky when Wentworth called this morning. Yes. Wentworth has been entrusted with the girl’s details … things like real name, character, possible motive, that sort of thing … By all means. I’m sure she’ll be glad to update your information.’

Joe held the earpiece at an exaggerated distance from his ear and grimaced. ‘That’s got him going. He’ll burst a blood vessel trying to keep up now. I wouldn’t want to be one of his chaps.’

‘And you’ve just killed off any chance of my ever gaining Bacchus’s confidence, sir,’ she murmured.

‘No harm done. That was dead in the water anyway. You’re never going to be soulmates. In any case, I doubt the chap has a soul.’

‘Poor Bacchus! No mother and now no soul? I can begin to feel sorry for him.’

‘Waste of time. I’ll try to keep you off his back. Best I can offer.’

He watched as the girl shrugged and conceded a bleak smile. He thought he’d try for a warmer one. He’d been a bit hard on her, perhaps. ‘And now … reward for a jolly good morning’s work! I’m going to say a few words that may produce a reaction. Are you ready?’ He gave her the benefit of his most seductive tone. ‘What about roast beef … Yorkshire pudding … horseradish sauce … apple charlotte …’

He sat back, alarmed, as the girl went off like a pistol, jumping to her feet and laughing. ‘Gawd, sir! You know how to make a girl wet her knickers! … Oh, Lord! Oh!’

Her face turned crimson at her indiscretion. She put a hand over her mouth, eyes wide with horror, burbled something and started for the door.

Joe leapt up, dashed over and grabbed her by the arm. ‘Steady on! Don’t bolt! I’m not insulted. I’ve heard worse in the trenches.’

‘Sorry, sir. It’s just a common saying … where I come from it means nothing, not a …’

‘Shh. Don’t go and spoil it. I’ve never had a compliment of the kind before. I’m rather relishing it. The nearest I’ve come to such a pinnacle of approval is from Amalthea Jameson who declared once, in a fit of heightened emotion – occasioned by a bunch of violets, I remember – that I certainly knew how to make a lady’s heart flutter. I think I prefer the earthier tribute! But look – before you lose complete control of your tongue and any other dicky bits of your anatomy, why don’t we get someone to drive us to Simpson’s-in-the-Strand? Lunch goes on there until supper time. And their gravy is wonderful. They make it with red wine, you know.’

Joe burbled on, calm and amused, until he felt her muscles begin to relax again. He released her arm. Though still avoiding his eye, Lily managed to get her voice in gear. ‘I’d like that, sir. And perhaps while we’re about it, you can tell me about Anna Petrovna’s motive. I don’t think I mentioned one?’

She was putting on her gloves when the phone rang.

In his urgent quest for roast beef and suitable accompaniments, he very nearly ignored it. Grumpily he picked up the earpiece and announced himself. He looked questioningly at Lily.

‘A package, you say? For Miss Lily Wentworth, care of this office? How big is this package? Three feet by two? That big? And heavy? I say – have you checked it for … Of course. Can’t be too careful these days. Then get two strapping fellers to haul it upstairs, will you? Use the lift. I’m just off to lunch but I can wait a few more minutes, I suppose. Tell them to get a move on, will you?’

The commander waited until the two uniformed coppers left before he approached the brown-paper wrappings of the carefully boxed parcel with a penknife. He first examined the label. ‘They made no mistake, Wentworth. It is indeed addressed to you care of my office. Were you expecting anything of this nature? Bagatelle board from Hamleys? Travelling guillotine? The missing Mona Lisa?’

She shook her head, perplexed. He clicked out the blade of his knife and began to strip away the wrapper.

After five minutes of combined effort, they stood speechless, absorbing the contents.

Sandilands was the first to regain his voice. ‘Congratulations, constable! You seem to have made a very favourable impression. A most gracious gesture – I’m sure even you will agree.’

He bent and picked up an envelope that had fallen from the wrappings. He waited while she opened it and read the message on the single sheet it contained. When she coloured and put it away he asked no question.

They continued to stare. Joe approached the painting of the Russian forest, now reset in a heavy gilt frame, and peered at it more closely. He shook his head and looked again. His fingers reached out to touch it but left off before they contacted the oil surface. He began to speak hesitantly, as though talking to himself and feeling his way through hostile territory in the dark: ‘I wonder – and you’ll tell me if you think this a fanciful idea – are we … could we possibly be … looking at a motive? Of sorts? A motive for murder? Anna Petrovna’s reason, if you can call it that – most would say “unreason” – for wanting the Prince of Wales dead? Is it staring us in the face? Am I making an unwarranted and utterly crazy assumption? If not, it’s worse than we thought.’

He turned to Lily, full of foreboding. ‘We’re staring into a depth of madness that makes anarchy and revolution look like cool common sense.’