The Blood Royal Read online

  ‘What, you are about to ask, does he “do for pleasure”? Well, I’ll tell you. Er … he translates stories from the Russian … Pushkin, I think.’

  ‘Ah.’

  ‘Into Portuguese.’

  After a satisfying moment of disbelief, her laughter burst through.

  ‘My other men you already know. I’ve called in Hopkirk and Chappel, who are still working on the admiral’s death, and Rupert Fanshawe whom you danced with this evening.’

  ‘I’d feel easier appearing in uniform.’

  ‘The meeting’s called for three a.m. I can send you back to your hostel to change. It’s in the Strand, isn’t it? Mrs Turnbull’s ghastly barracks? I’ll put you in a taxi. No – I’d better come with you and face the old dragon myself.’

  ‘No need for all that, sir. I changed at my aunt’s apartment.’

  ‘The hat shop lady?’

  ‘Yes. She lives over the shop in Bruton Street. And don’t worry about a taxi. I’m quite sure I have my own conveyance close by.’

  Sandilands raised an eyebrow. ‘Ah! The Pumpkin Express! It’s well after midnight. Are you sure it’ll still be there – the rather eye-catching Buick that’s been following you about all evening? Is that what you have in mind? It was at the Yard. It followed us to the hotel. It followed us from the hotel. It’s been at our heels all along the Embankment.’ He enjoyed her surprise for a moment. ‘I’m expecting it to be cheekily parked in the taxi rank when we leave. Now, tell me, Wentworth – who do you know who drives a cream-coloured American sedan?’

  ‘My aunt sent me out with her chauffeur, sir. She was concerned for my safety.’

  ‘Prescient lady! Sandilands? Not to be trusted with nieces. Everyone says so.’ Joe grinned and looked at his wristwatch. ‘You’ve got just over an hour. Long enough?’

  ‘Ample, sir.’

  ‘Then I’ll hand you over to … what’s his name?’

  ‘Albert, sir. Albert Moore. He was a sergeant in the London Regiment.’

  The Buick was loitering conspicuously in the middle of a line of shiny black cabs, an exotically striped chameleon poised to lick up a row of beetles.

  With a swirl of his cape, Joe approached the driver. ‘Albert Moore? Joe Sandilands … how d’ye do? Glad to see you’re on hand, sarge! Your Miss Lily’s had quite an evening. And so, it would seem, have you.’ He leaned forward, elbows on the lowered window, and said confidentially: ‘But it’s not over yet, I’m afraid. Look – could you take her back to Bruton Street and then on to the Yard? And see our girl doesn’t fall asleep on the back seat. We need her fresh, alert and firing on all cylinders. National emergency on our hands tonight!’

  Fresh and alert? Lily paused at the door of the ops room at five minutes to three. Was that how she was feeling? Unexpectedly – yes. She’d got her second wind. A strong cup of coffee from the hands of Aunt Phyl, who’d waited up, had sharpened her wits.

  She’d been glad of the older woman’s understanding comments. And her brevity. ‘Back there again? Must be urgent. No – don’t tell me yet. Save it for breakfast. It’ll be a late one – it’s a Sunday. Glad to see the dress has survived the evening intact. I’m assuming the same condition for you, love. I’ve ironed your skirt and put out a fresh blouse and bloomers. Bacon sandwich? No? A bath, then? You’ve just got time. Use the Yardley’s lavender. That’ll spruce you up a treat.’

  Smelling sweetly, freshly uniformed, shiny faced, Lily knocked and entered, to find that the men were already in place. All rose politely to their feet. Five pairs of eyes watched her as she came in, some inquisitive, some hostile. Sandilands and Fanshawe were still in evening dress, the outer layers removed, collars discreetly loosened, waistcoats unbuttoned. The other three were in their smart city suits ready for the day.

  ‘Right on time, constable. We’ve saved you a place over there.’ Sandilands greeted her with an expansive gesture. He indicated a seat opposite him at the end of the table.

  ‘Settle down, everyone. Now – Miss Wentworth, I don’t believe you’ve met our James Bacchus, have you?’

  Sensing that there was no time for a formal presentation, the Branch man and the constable nodded cordially at each other across the table. Lily registered quiet dark eyes above a large nose and a top lip so exuberantly moustached she had the impression that a small but hairy rodent had climbed aboard his upper lip and gone to sleep there. She found she was smiling at him and receiving a raised eyebrow in return.

  ‘Now then – we all know who we are, I believe? You’ll remember Miss Wentworth? And you know why she’s here. First I’ll update you on the Prince of Wales. He is safely back in his London home, unscathed, and will tomorrow be whisked away to the country – to an as yet undisclosed location – to stay with friends. The press will publish the usual false information concerning his whereabouts.’ He cocked an eyebrow at Bacchus, who nodded confirmation. ‘And, to go on – it’s likely we are contemplating a case of murder. We await the post-mortem report, of course, but according to the medical authority who was present at the scene, the victim died of poisoning. Potassium cyanide.’

  The Branch men pursed their lips. A heavy silence fell.

  Wondering at this sudden paralysis, Lily was struck by a sudden insight and kicked herself for not having made the deduction earlier: she was the only person at the table who was not feeling some measure of doubt and self-recrimination. Her excitement must have dulled her perceptions. Tonight, a man had fallen dead under their very noses and his death would have to be explained. As would the apparently fortuitous escape of the Prince of Wales. Someone would have to tell His Royal Highness how close he had come to a sudden and agonizing end. That the man he had witnessed writhing in agony at his feet was his stand-in.

  Not only was there a crime to be solved, there was negligence to be accounted for. Blame to be assigned. And – here it was again – a career to be lost.

  Which of these men would end the evening taking the blame? She calculated that whoever emerged as scapegoat would have the doubtful comfort of being accompanied into the wilderness by Sandilands – if the commander stuck to his form of shouldering responsibility. Hopkirk and Chappel, though evidently concerned, were most probably in the clear, she concluded, guided by her scanty knowledge of police politics. This had not been a CID operation. At all events, two of these five officers would not survive the night, Lily reckoned. Sandilands and …? She glanced around the stony faces and came to a sad conclusion.

  Her selected candidate looked up at that moment, caught her eye, caught her thought, and scowled.

  ‘The question is – was the Serbian prince, Gustavus, the intended victim or did he barge in and accidentally consume poison meant for our own Prince of Wales? We must consider both possibilities. Either way, this is a task for the Branch. The dead man was a foreigner of doubtful origin and uncertain political leanings – you have a file on him, Bacchus?’

  ‘We have, sir. I’ll pass around a few copies for information.’

  At this point, Lily, to her embarrassment, found that she’d raised her hand to catch teacher’s attention. Someone failed to repress a scoffing grunt.

  ‘Yes, Wentworth?’

  ‘The victim’s wife confided to me in the powder room that he is … was … “an impostor”, sir. That’s the exact word she used. I questioned her usage and she confirmed that she meant what she said.’

  ‘Interesting. Possible impersonation. Are we surprised? Lot of that sort of thing about in London town these days. Impostor, eh? We’ll take this up again with the Princess Zinia, whoever she may be. Takes one to know one, possibly. I’m aware that these jokers tend to work in pairs. Let’s admit, gentlemen – it would be greatly to our advantage if we could reveal the so-called Prince Gustavus to be a charlatan.’ He smiled round the table. ‘Even better if his evening suit should prove to have something interesting in the lining … like a slender garotting wire or a slim package of some white powder. Yes, Bacchus, a path worth pursuing. See what you c
an come up with.’

  Bacchus gave a wry grimace in response and made a note.

  ‘And we’re considering the attempted assassination of a member of our own royal family. This also is in your purview, Bacchus. We’ll only get to the bottom of it by establishing just how the poison was administered. We’ll trace the events backwards. Rupert – you and I were sitting right there at the table when the Serbian succumbed. Much to our discredit. Miss Wentworth was, at the crucial time, performing her duty down below in the ladies’ room, and only surfaced to witness the last moments of the tragedy. Rupert, I want you to give the company an idea of what transpired.’

  A knock at the door sent them all silent. A constable entered with a large brown envelope in his hand. ‘Sir, a newsman called in at reception. He said you’d be needing these. Top priority, he said.’

  ‘Indeed! Thank you, constable. Leave it on the table, would you?’

  Sandilands opened the envelope and spent some moments inspecting the contents. ‘As good as police efforts,’ he commented. ‘No – better. We’ll start by reminding ourselves of the evening’s work – here’s a photograph of the POW at the start of the proceedings, safely in the arms of the Met.’ He paused for a moment, studying the print. ‘Goodness me! Whatever were you doing with him, Wentworth?’

  ‘A waltz, sir,’ Lily confirmed as Cyril’s deliberately glamorous photograph circulated to astonished stares from the CID men.

  ‘And he survives to waltz another day – let’s keep that in mind. And here’s a useful shot of the company at the table before the event.’ He paused, absorbed by the next subject. ‘Followed by a society pose showing our victim – scarred cheek, shifty grin – in the close and apparently friendly company of the POW.’

  Rupert shuddered. ‘We should have picked him up and marched him straight out, sir. We sat there and watched.’

  ‘Your anxiety is shared, Fanshawe. But remember Gustavus was there at the Prince of Wales’s invitation. Let’s not indulge in unwarranted breast-beating; we were reacting to the social demands of the situation. This is not a police state. Our role is to advise and protect. We do not pick up and march out a gentleman who has been invited to seat himself at the prince’s table. We had both arrived at the same assessment: that there was no threat to the Prince of Wales’s well-being. Gustavus was unarmed. He’d been searched. He was surrounded by security officers – one false move and he’d have been rendered harmless. And he knew that. Rather tormented us with his heavy-footed humour on that score. He was revelling in the attention, you’d say. And enjoying cosying up to the prince.’

  ‘Sir!’ Lily spoke swiftly. ‘Again, his wife has an explanation. No sinister political motive involved – she claimed that he was seeking proximity for purposes of social aggrandizement. He just wanted his photo in the press … posing with the prince, on the front page of the society journals.’

  Rupert groaned. ‘They will do it! I’ll make that steward account for the bulge in his back pocket.’

  Sandilands nodded and carried on. ‘Now here’s a view of the table as it was at the moment Prince Gustavus sank gargling from view on the far side. The plates and glasses – I want you to consider them. The contents have been bagged and bottled and are at present at the lab undergoing the usual tests. Rupert – take us through it.’

  ‘The far side, where you see a half-full glass of wine, was the POW’s place. Next to him, on his right hand, where you see an empty glass, was the place Miss Wentworth had originally occupied. In her absence, Gustavus, finding the effort of shouting in Serbian from his original place over the table too demanding, had sidled round, taking his glass with him, and plonked himself in Wentworth’s vacated seat. He had previously turned down offers to have food fetched but had consumed a quantity of wine.’

  Sandilands took over. ‘Aided in his consumption by the copious amounts poured out for him by Fanshawe here. What exactly were you hoping to achieve by that, Fanshawe?’

  ‘I thought I’d achieved my end, sir.’ Fanshawe’s tone was truculent and resentful. ‘I was trying to incapacitate the ghastly fellow. He tried several times to reveal secrets he ought never to have been in possession of. You heard him. Miss Wentworth may have branded him an impostor – whatever she means by that Boy’s Own Paper designation – but he showed a certain depth of knowledge of our services’ operations. Showing off for the prince, of course, but there were other receptive ears in the neighbourhood. It seemed the only way of silencing him. No one believes a word uttered by a man in his cups. Rendering the subject harmless, sir, that’s what I was doing. As no one else seemed about to take it upon himself,’ he added rebelliously. ‘It was hardly believable, the gross behaviour the man exhibited, but he caught sight of Miss Wentworth’s full plate – she had to my notice not attempted so much as a forkful – and began to dig in. He clearly couldn’t resist the red caviar – he started with that.’

  Inspector Chappel grimaced. ‘Well, they say that Rasputin of theirs had the table manners of a hog and the appetite of a brown bear. Must be the cold winters that do it.’

  ‘Not immediately, but several forkfuls later, in mid-sentence, mouth still full of food, he keeled over.’ Rupert pushed on with his account. ‘Choking, red in the face, unable to breathe, clutching his heart. All the symptoms of a heart attack or cyanide poisoning.’

  ‘And I can confirm the latter. In attempting to resuscitate him, I’m sure I detected a strong scent of almonds on his breath,’ Sandilands said.

  ‘Sir, one of the dishes – the fricassee of Persian lamb – had almonds amongst its ingredients,’ Lily offered.

  ‘As well as all the spices of the orient. As good a way as any of disguising the scent of cyanide. I took some of that dish myself. Like many others now snoring peacefully in their beds,’ he added thoughtfully. ‘So – by mistakenly eating from Miss Wentworth’s plate, the Serbian signed his death warrant.’

  ‘Er … No chance, I suppose, that anyone would be targeting Miss Wentworth herself?’ Chappel asked sheepishly. ‘I know, I know – it sounds ridiculous, but training makes me bring it forward. Purposes of elimination and all that … clear out the underbrush. She was the one who was handed the poisoned plate, after all. Got to consider it!’

  ‘A reasonable thought, Chappel …’ Rupert Fanshawe allowed, ‘if we must plod every tedious inch of the pedestrian way to the truth. But – and this will come as a surprise to you fellows – Miss Wentworth was not, in fact, the one who was handed the poisoned plate.’

  He waited for the astonished stares then carried on, his voice purring with anticipation: ‘And, as long as the spot-light’s on the constable, may I suggest we follow up with a further reasonable thought? We should remind ourselves that what we are seeking in all this is a malign female presence. An unknown woman on assassination bent. Our Morrigan.’ He turned a sweet smile on Lily. ‘Now, Miss Wentworth was the woman closest to the Prince of Wales from beginning to abrupt end and she had continuous access to him. We, gentlemen, had placed our prince in the hands of a stranger for the whole evening. A stranger to him … a stranger to us. Can any one of us claim to know who she is? Where she comes from? Who precisely stands as her guarantor? Oh, I am much to blame. I should have taken immediate action.’ He shook his head to underline his self-recrimination. ‘If only I had acted in accordance with my training and arrested Miss Wentworth the moment it became clear that her behaviour at the buffet was suspicious, we could have avoided a murder.’

  ‘Eh? What are you on about?’ Lily murmured.

  ‘Suspicious behaviour? Describe it, Fanshawe.’ Sandilands was peremptory.

  Fanshawe enjoyed the incredulity for a moment. ‘I watched as the food was being put out. I watched as Wentworth followed the prince to a table. There she snatched his plate from him and replaced it with her own. Oh, it was neatly done. But the movement was not in the briefing. It exceeded instructions. It was surreptitious and possibly suspect. We were at the ball to prevent a young woman – a young woman wi
th certain social graces – “Mayfair”, I believe, was the Assistant Commissioner’s judgement – from getting close enough to the prince to kill him. And here was one such sitting by his side and forcing the food of her choice on the prince with all the skill of a music-hall card sharp. She could easily have anointed the oysters with something nasty held in her hand. If I’d made a fuss and had both plates taken away at that moment, the poison would have been discovered there and then. And Prince Gustavus would still be alive. You have my unqualified apology, sir.’

  Rupert drooped then raised his head in defiance. He swept his floppy blond quiff off his forehead, the better to stun them with his blue eyes ablaze with an emotion which clearly anticipated a coming martyrdom. ‘I’m ready to accept whatever proportion of blame you care to assign to me, sir.’ And he added coldly into the shocked silence: ‘After you’ve chucked the book at Wentworth.’

  Lily shivered, devastated by the implications. The two plates had been exactly alike. If Fanshawe had proceeded with the scheme he’d just outlined there was every chance the plates would have been confused on their way to the laboratory. Intentionally or accidentally. Who would ever know? She wouldn’t have been able to distinguish them herself. Both carried her fingerprints and those of the prince. Accusations would have been made. From what they’d stitched together of her background she knew they could make a spectacularly convincing case against her. ‘Left-wing, anti-royalist, worms her way into the Royal Presence …’ Poison was known to be a woman’s choice of weapon.

  A pit of horror opened up before her. If they were seeking an easy suspect to cover for their incompetence, she would find herself occupying a cell in Vine Street within the hour. She looked instinctively to the commander for support.

  Her appeal went unacknowledged. He was watching Fanshawe, head on one side, quizzical, encouraging him to go further. It occurred to her – and the realization hit her like a thump in the stomach – that for these men, all of whom had a position to lose, the career, the life even, of a lowly woman policeman on the point of leaving the service anyway would count for little. She was expendable. They were officers. Ex-military. It was men of their kind who’d sent out Tommies to die in their thousands on the Somme. She too was no more than cannon fodder.