The Blood Royal Read online

  Joe did mind. He toyed with the notion of making use of the dreaded word ‘austerity’ and wagging a reproving finger at her, but he hadn’t the time. He let the moment pass and here she was, smoothing down the already smooth chignon at the nape of her neck and dimpling.

  ‘Ten minutes to Paddington as long as you’re not held up in Park Lane … you’ll have time for a cup of tea. You have your ticket, sir? Clean handkerchief?’

  Joe suppressed a schoolboy urge to present his freshly washed hands, front and back, and bare his faultless teeth in a ritual snarl for Matron’s nightly inspection. A spurt of mischief pushed him to pat his inside wallet pocket in a theatrical manner. Impervious to teasing, she tilted her head in acknowledgement of his gesture and nodded her approval. The woman was turning herself into his nanny.

  If your taste inclined to the statuesque – and Joe’s did – Amalthea Jameson was undeniably attractive. She was a tall, well-shaped blonde from a good military family, a product of Cheltenham Ladies’ College and Oxford. She had had her training with a recently retired deputy commissioner and was eagerly sought after by his colleagues. Sandilands had to agree with them that he was an ungrateful bastard who didn’t deserve her. Sly approaches suggesting her transfer to the department of a more appreciative boss had been made to him. Quite out of order, he thought. Miss Jameson was not a commodity to be traded, and as she seemed happy – suspiciously happy – to serve the office of commander in spite of the apparent demotion, there was little he could do but grind his teeth and try to appreciate her undoubted qualities.

  Ah, well … perhaps she would find some poor soul, marry him and leave? And then he could put in for a male secretary who wouldn’t sigh in his ear and concern himself with the state of his handkerchief. Trivialities! Joe reproved himself for being distracted by them. Time he followed his guns to the country.

  He was under no illusion as to the style of entertainment on offer: an all-male gathering, the other guests being stars from the government and the military. A general flown in from Ireland, an admiral snatched from his battlecruiser, the flamboyant head of the Secret Service lured from the Savoy Grill and a press baron: all these featured on the list Commissioner Horwood had himself written out for him in pencil. It had concluded with the name of the head of the diplomatic service. And perhaps this outspoken mob would be needing the active services of a diplomatist before the weekend was out. The presence of Max Beaverbrook, leader of what he himself called ‘the Press Gang’, promised to be somewhat inflammatory when another name on the list was that of Winston Churchill, the man he had seriously annoyed with his articles in the Daily Express.

  Joe expected a clash of antlers at worst, point-scoring at best. They’d been promised a soothing after-dinner performance from the exiled Russian bass, Chaliapin, accompanied by Rubinstein on the piano and, according to the pencilled note, a soprano called Olga?/Vera? would be released from Covent Garden to put in an appearance on the second night. Nothing but the best on offer for the Gratton Gang, evidently. But his sharp sister had it right, Joe reckoned. ‘Minnow’ had been a little derogatory, perhaps, but all the same … he did wonder what on earth a not-very-exalted policeman could be expected to contribute to the occasion.

  He would have been glad of the reassuring presence of his mentor and friend, Sir George Jardine, at his side. It had been some time, in the turbulence of Calcutta, before Joe realized that the deceptively suave governor of Bengal was the eyes and ears of his Britannic majesty in India, the éminence grise behind the viceroy. The man who oiled the wheels of empire. But he was by no means a sinister presence in company. Whenever the affable and approachable Sir George entered a room, the mood lightened, the chatter speeded up and laughter broke out. And George had been quick to see, in the new Scotland Yard detective seconded to his police force, a sociable and clever young aide. Together, the two of them, with mutual understanding, made up a tongue-in-cheek charm department that eased the social levers. Joe sighed and comforted himself with the thought that at least the Commissioner, as his present boss, might possibly be in his corner.

  A working weekend and Sandilands, if anyone noticed him, would be on trial of some sort. The Commissioner had said as much in his forthright, old soldier’s way: ‘Don’t be shy, Sandilands. Sing for your supper. I’m sorry I can’t promise any young ladies for you to fascinate but at least you’ll be able to concentrate on the matters in hand.’ The ironic gleam in the brigadier’s eye told Joe that unofficial reports of his encounters in India had followed him home. ‘We’ll see what your year’s apprenticeship with George Jardine has done for you,’ the brigadier chuntered on. ‘I hear very good things from my old friend. He rather curses me for enticing you back to London. He had expectations that you might be persuaded to stay on in India and train up in the dark arts of … er … dynamic diplomacy. Would that adequately convey the flavour of the strong-arm shenanigans and double-dealing you and George go in for? Help him keep the Raj on the rails is what he meant.’

  Joe had politely disclaimed any talent for diplomacy, dynamic or otherwise.

  ‘Well, you turned down what could have been a spectacular career, young man. I’m sure you had your reasons.’

  By his silence and downcast eyes, Joe indicated that he was unwilling to share them and the brigadier hurried on: ‘Still – you survived a year with George. Takes some doing! It must have left you supremely placed to undertake the very particular demands we’re about to make on you. You thought India was a serpents’ nest of intrigue and violence? Just wait until you get your briefing on the capital. Some silly oafs tried to bomb Westminster while you were away pig-sticking and sinking the chota-pegs. And they were a whisker away from blowing up Scotland Yard. And now we’re getting these attacks on military gents. In broad daylight and on the street! Work to be done, my boy! And not much time.’

  Joe was uncomfortably aware that he could be absenting himself from London at an inconvenient moment. He’d calculated that on these last long days of a long hot summer the regular villains would be cooling their toes in the sea at Southend, but the tug of war between his impatience to be off and his feelings of guilt at a fancied dereliction of duty was making him uneasy. No one would blame him. The Special Branch wouldn’t even notice his absence. And the CID superintendents he’d be leaving in charge would heave a sigh of relief. The granite features of that Yorkshireman he was beginning to trust … Superintendent Hopkirk … loomed into his mind. Yes – Joe was both annoyed and reassured by the thought – Hopkirk and his team of inspectors would be glad to be getting him off their backs for a bit.

  On a whim, against all protocol, he’d nipped into the inspectors’ room without being announced the other day. Just to keep them on the hop and remind them of who he was. He’d remembered and put a name to most of the faces through the thick fug of cigarette smoke, faces that glowered back at him with suspicion. The resentment hadn’t lasted longer than the few seconds it had taken him to dive with his usual military authority straight into a discussion.

  The moment had been a good one – the men appeared to have been sunk, not in the usual seditious talk, but in a serious discussion of police business when he burst in, and they hadn’t felt caught on the back foot. The impromptu meeting ended with good-humoured quips on both sides. He’d felt easy enough in their company to announce that he might be off the scene for a few days and to demand reassurances that they wouldn’t go about the place getting into trouble while he was away. He’d been pleased to provoke the traditional response delivered with ponderous irony: ‘Won’t do anything you wouldn’t do, sir – you can bet on that much!’

  Predictable but, at least – less stiff … more accepting.

  And yet the relief at his news, though silent, was perceptible. He harried the troops. He knew that. He had no intention of letting up.

  And now – decision time: to go or to make his apologies? He toyed for a moment with the notion that he had a choice in the matter and tried out one or two of the d
ozen convincing excuses available to him. He selected one. Correctly reading his uncertainty, Miss Jameson sighed in understanding.

  It was the sigh that triggered his decision. The undemanding open moorland beckoned. And, after all, he wasn’t going quite to the ends of the earth. Hopkirk could always send a telegram to summon him back if anything blew up. Oh, Lord! There was a thought that could have been better expressed. He grimaced.

  The company gathering for the weekend party promised to be intimidating but they might well be congenial – if the birds were flying well and the right mood was struck. Joe enjoyed shooting and lively conversation. And the food at the grand house would be good; he thought he could count on that. There would be wine – perhaps with a bit of luck tankards of foaming Exmoor ale would accompany Cook’s game pie?

  Joe grabbed the old army trenchcoat he kept by him winter and summer from the branched hatstand by the door and threw it over his arm; he tweaked his bowler hat from the topmost twig. The daily reminder of his slavery to the city, the hat was a hated object and, in a gesture of defiance, decision and mischief, he lobbed it across the room at Miss Jameson.

  She caught it in flight with the swift reaction of a lacrosse player and clutched it dramatically to her bosom: a lady accepting her knight’s gage of honour. The size seven and a half bowler was barely equal to the task of encircling her left breast, he noted, and looked away, disturbed by the image. It was his guess that she would take the opportunity of having the wretched headgear cleaned and re-blocked during his absence. Well, let her get on with it. He’d decided to replace it with a soft stalker’s hat from the gents’ outfitters in Taunton High Street.

  It usually poured with rain when he was in Devon but the promise of being back in the country, at peace under a dripping tweed brim, the scent of wet earth and heather filling his nostrils, made him quiver with anticipation. He was eager for the undemanding company of two or three tail-wagging, slobbering spaniels at his heels. In imagination he scratched their throats, turning his head this way and that to avoid their blasts of pungent breath. With a jaunty wave he dashed off to clatter down the stairs and out to the waiting motor car.

  A day or two of freedom and comradeship on the moors stretched before him, walking, riding and tracking wild creatures instead of predatory humans. And no Miss Jameson! Bliss!

  Chapter Three

  Paddington Station

  ‘Cupper tea, constable? You’ve got ten minutes before the Bristol Flyer gets in. Naw! Go on! Put your tuppence back in your pocket, love – it’s on the house. Drop of milk, one sugar was that?’

  ‘Thank you, Stan. I’d love one. But I’m paying all the same. Rules are rules.’ The insistence could have sounded prim but Woman Police Constable Lilian Wentworth softened her words with a broad smile. In any case, Stan the tea man was not about to take offence. Not from Miss Wentworth. From his stall on the platform he saw everything that happened on the station and he was always ready to oblige the boys – and the women – in blue with his impeccable information and advice. Especially the honest ones who did a good job.

  He nodded his approval, accepted her pennies and handed over a mug of tarry tea. ‘Some of your blokes aren’t so particular!’ he commented. ‘In fact where’s that PC who’s supposed to be escorting you today? Useless great lummox. He’ll be in the back of the refreshment room, I expect, refreshing himself.’

  He didn’t add ‘with a pint of brown ale’. Police Constable Halliday, six foot burly beat bobby, married, five children, a betting man, was always on the scrounge.

  ‘You’ve got that wrong, Stan. I’m escorting him. I’m responsible for my partner, they tell me. I may have to carry him home at the end of the day.’

  Stan grinned at the thought. Lily Wentworth’s height was at the lower limit for acceptance on the force, he would have guessed. And, as far as anyone could judge, under all those layers of blue serge uniform, she was as slender as a whippet.

  ‘On Waifs and Strays patrol all week, then, miss? Looking out for runaways?’

  ‘That’s right. Makes a nice change from last week’s duty – Hyde Park! Six days on the trot from four in the afternoon till eleven in the evening.’ Lily Wentworth rolled her eyes to convey the horror. ‘On Public Order and Lewd Behaviour Prevention patrol.’

  Stan grimaced in sympathy. ‘They give you women all the worst jobs. Did you catch anyone in … flag … in flag—’ Stan cut short his unthinking burst of curiosity.

  ‘Flagrante delicto? With his trousers down, you mean? I’ll say! I’ve seen more male posteriors in action than an army doctor. All shapes and sizes.’

  Stan’s face creased with embarrassment at the answer he’d provoked. The women police were noted for their frank way of speaking. He’d never allow a daughter of his to join their ranks. Even if they’d take her. Mixing with rough, foul-mouthed coppers every day – that was no occupation for a girl. Some of the language they used flummoxed him, army veteran though he was. They didn’t swear – oh, no, far too ladylike for that. But they knew all the right words for all the wrong things. Things that, as unmarried ladies, they didn’t oughter know. And they didn’t scruple to use them. Sometimes they even expressed the inexpressible in Latin. Educated girls, the lot of them. Had to be. They stood up in open court, bold as brass, and delivered evidence that made the magistrates’ hair curl. The beaks sometimes had to clear the general public out of the courtroom before a woman policeman was allowed to open her mouth and give testimony.

  ‘We got a good bag. We netted a member of parliament, a duke’s valet and a lawyer – a King’s Counsel, no less! – and several professional gentlemen. They spent the rest of the night closeted together in a cell in the Vine Street nick!’ Lily’s laugh was suggestive of mischievous thoughts. ‘Can you imagine, Stan, how the conversation went?’ She put on a pompous Music Hall voice: ‘“I say, you chaps – regular customers at this establishment, are you? Well, I’m in a position to offer you sinners a little useful advice …” I blame the spring weather, Stan. It brings out the worst in men. Seasonal urges? If I were Commissioner, come March the twenty-first, I’d double the park patrols.’

  Stan liked to listen to this girl. She didn’t have the pursed lips and strained vowels of other ladies he’d heard talking – the ones who sounded as though they were sucking on an ice cube. Her voice rushed along, reminding the Yorkshireman of one of his native moorland becks, going somewhere and carrying you along with it, frothing with good humour. He asked her a question to prolong the conversation. ‘Did they get away with it?’

  ‘Course they did. A clear case of collusion whilst in custody. The accused all denied the charges of lewd conduct. They claimed to be members of the Hyde Park Ornithological Society.’

  ‘Bird fanciers?’ Stan wheezed with the effort of suppressing a laugh. ‘That’s a new one!’

  ‘They told the magistrate how they were skulking in the shrubbery by the Serpentine – as you do when you’re innocently studying the antics of the golden-crested wren. Or was it the great crested grebe? One or two were a little under-rehearsed. Though one of them – impressively – managed to come up with Podiceps cristatus which earned him an approving nod from the magistrate. Abruptly, their peaceful activities were curtailed by the arrival of a pair of over-officious officers of the law (that’s me and Halliday). “Aha!” says his honour knowingly, “Custos officiosus! Dark blue plumage? Yes … Thick as sparrows on the ground, these days.” They all fell about laughing at his little joke and were out on the street again by noon. Not even a five quid fine. Waste of police time.’

  The constable sighed and then added, her tone brightening: ‘But better than the arrests, we made at least ten interventions. Always better to prevent an attack than arrest someone for it afterwards, don’t you think, Stan? If there’s anything more satisfying than catching and thumping a rapist, it’s decking one before he’s had a chance to hoist his mainsail.’

  Stan pretended not to hear. Chattering … pent-up … mind elsew
here, he decided indulgently. Expecting trouble. He’d noticed that while she sipped her tea, smiled and talked, her eyes never stopped moving, surveying the crowd gathering along the platform on to which the incoming train would spill its west-country passengers. And she’d positioned herself behind the tea urn out of sight of anyone coming on to the platform from outside. She was using him as cover. He didn’t mind.

  The young woman seemed to have her own unorthodox tactics for crime-fighting. The male constables spent their time swaggering up and down on the platform. At the sight of the uniform, the pickpockets, con-artists and pimps melted away into the shadows, only to drift back unscathed the moment the tall helmet disappeared from view. WPC 1555 wasn’t walking about, flushing out her prey and sending it scattering before her. She was lying in wait. In her calculating watchfulness Stan saw something that reminded him of native hunters he’d seen in India in his army days. The village tiger trackers could sit for hours, days even, up a tree watching over the lure of a tied-up, bleating goat. When the moment came they would be instantly alert and firing. Stan’s tea urn was her tree and he was pretty sure he knew where she’d find her goat.

  Smart girl, this one. And careful.

  Stan looked surreptitiously at the slight form swamped by the heavy uniform and wondered how she managed with her unimpressive height and weight to convey such determination. The military cut of the jacket with its official Metropolitan Women Police Patrol badge was intimidating but it did not allow of easy movement. The high collar, Stan noted with a stab of sympathy, was, on this warm day, chafing her slender neck and raising a nasty red mark. The hat, which was held in place by a chin-strap, was a wide-brimmed dome like a riding helmet. It sat heavily on her head almost snuffing out the pretty face below.

  Stan sensed that it was a pretty face. He was not at all certain that he’d be able to identify number 1555 if he ever saw her out of her uniform. Grey eyes? Green? He’d have guessed grey eyes but – her hair? No idea. He lowered his gaze, embarrassed to be caught staring, and turned his eyes to her boots. They couldn’t be comfortable. Knee-high, laced and made of a heavy leather, they could have been designed for Charlie Chaplin. And yet he’d seen these women take off and fly in them in pursuit of a villain. They’d trip up, kick out, stamp and do their ju-jitsu – anything to get a man down and incapacitated.