A Royal Pain (36 page)

The Russian alphabet is different from ours, I read. You will need to master it before you can read Russian words.
My eye scanned down the page. Russian uses the letter
C
when we would use the letter
S.
My gaze moved further. The Russian letter
R
is written like our
P.
I found myself thinking of the two letters someone had sent to Hanni, the first time with a question mark, the second time with a cross through them.
C.P.
not C.P. but S.R.—Sidney Roberts?

Which meant it had to be Edward Fotheringay and his stupid Cambridge leftist secret society. He had studied modern languages, German and Russian. His mother had been Russian. He claimed he had been in India but Colonel Horsmonden had never met him there and Edward had been evasive in answering the colonel’s questions. Which now made me suspect that he had never been in India. He’d been in Russia, training for the moment when he was sent back here to overthrow the government by force, as the communists had done there. Or maybe to create chaos and perhaps a new world war, out of which world communism would emerge triumphant. I should have picked up the signs earlier. He was the one who mixed the cocktails at the party and tried to kill Sidney there. And he had tried to involve Hanni. I didn’t see how or why, unless he wanted to stir up trouble between England and Germany, or use her somehow to put the German communists in power. But she was naïve enough and he was handsome enough that she’d believe anything he told her.

So the next question was: had Edward persuaded her to help him kill Sidney? But it didn’t make sense. We had been at the bookshop together. She had gone up those stairs only moments before me and she certainly had no knife on her, and she certainly hadn’t learned to kill at the convent.

I closed the book and put it back. This was absurd. The letters probably had nothing at all to do with Sidney Roberts or his death. The night dragged on. I must have dozed from time to time, because I sat up with a crick in my neck and noticed that the sky had taken on a grayish tinge. Daylight was coming. Poor Mr. Solomon was lying there, his mouth and eyes open, looking as if he was a wax dummy in Madame Tussauds.

I had to find a way out of here. I prowled as far from the light as I dared, examining side aisles and kicking walls for any sign of a hidden door. But by the time it was light, I had pushed and kicked at every bookshelf and still had found nothing. Of course, there was always the attic that Mr. Solomon had mentioned. It was certainly worth a try. I went upstairs and spotted a trapdoor in the ceiling. It had a cord attached. I pulled and a ladder hung down. I went up it cautiously because I am rather afraid of spiders and I hate cobwebs. It certainly was dusty up there. Piles of books were stacked next to old trunks and shapes hidden under dust sheets. In the half-light they looked ominous and I almost expected a sheet to fly off, revealing God knows what.

But I made it successfully to the small window at the far end. The sill was clean where the police had dusted for prints, and luckily they must have forced the window open because I didn’t have to struggle too hard to do so. I dragged over a trunk, stood on it, and stuck my head out. The world outside was blanketed in thick mist so that it was impossible to see more than a few feet. What I could see was not encouraging. Oh, golly, the roof was steep and ended in a sheer drop. The slates were damp with the heavy mist. I didn’t relish trying to climb out and if I started to slide, I’d have no way of stopping myself.

I climbed back down inside and piled books on top of the trunk until they were high enough for me to climb out of the window. I eased myself out, then pulled myself up until I was standing on the window ledge, holding on to the top of the window frame for support. The only way to go was up. I inched my way around the dormer window, clambering up the side of it until I could reach the top of the roof. I was thankful that I had worn my old lisle stockings and not my good silk ones, and my crepe-soled sandals rather than leather. Even so the slates were horribly slippery and I could hardly breathe because my heart was beating so fast. I straddled the roof apex, rather like riding a horse. In the direction I was facing I could make out that my roof ended against the blank wall of a taller building. No point in going that way, then. I couldn’t see any drainpipe or way down at all.

So I turned around and moved in the other direction, inching forward with my heart hammering in my chest. It was an awfully long way down. I reached a cluster of chimney pots and managed to maneuver past them, then continued on as the roof turned at a right angle. I came to the end of the building and stopped, biting back tears of frustration. Between my roof and the next building was a gap. It wasn’t particularly wide but there was no way I could lower myself down to the gutter and then turn to a position from which I could leap across, even if I had the nerve to leap across. And if I leaped, I had nothing to hold on to.

I had no idea what to do now. My muscles were trembling from the exertion and tension and I didn’t want to go back to that attic window. If I shouted from up here, would anyone be able to hear me? Certainly not see me in this mist. Then the mist swirled and parted for a moment and I heard the lapping of water. Somewhere below me was the Thames. I waited patiently for the mist to part again. The river was a good way down but directly below me, and I had jumped off a tall rock into the loch at home many times. The question was, would it be deep enough? This was answered almost immediately by the deep sound of a ship’s siren sounding eerie and mournful through the mist. Big cargo ships docked here, and it appeared to be high tide. Of course it would be deep enough. Anyway, I couldn’t come up with a better plan after a night with little sleep and a lot of terror.

The sky became lighter and the mist swirled and broke apart. Every now and then I was treated to a clear view of the gray waters below. I could do this. I was going to do it. I swung my leg over and moved, crablike, down the steep surface. A slate came loose and slithered down the roof to plop into the water. A pair of pigeons took off, fluttering, from the roof nearby, almost making my heart stop and making me lose my balance. Through the mist behind me came sounds: the city was waking up.

I don’t know how long I would have perched there, trying to pluck up courage, but I realized that my foot was going to sleep. That wouldn’t do. I had to act now. I took a deep breath, stood up on the gutter, then jumped outward. I hit the water with a mighty splash. The cold took my breath away. I went under and kicked to the surface, spluttering, the taste of oily water in my mouth. Mist curled around the surface of the water and hid the banks, making me unsure in which direction I was facing. My skirt clung around my legs like some horrible type of sea creature as I fought to stay calm. The distant moan of a foghorn reminded me that big ships sailed here. I had no wish to be run down by a passing cargo boat. To my left I could make out the dark outline of the building from which I had just jumped and I struck out for it.

Now the only problem would be finding a way up from the river. A blank wall presented itself to me. Then I heard a shout and saw men standing on a high dock that jutted out to my right. Suddenly one of them peeled off his jacket and jumped in, swimming to me with powerful strokes.

“It’s all right, love, I’ve got you,” he said. He put an arm around my neck and dragged me back to the shore.

I wanted to tell him that I was perfectly capable of swimming to the steps by myself, but he was holding me so tightly I couldn’t talk. We reached a ladder, extending up to a dock, and hands hauled me unceremoniously out of the water.

“Well done, Fred,” voices said.

“You’ll be all right now, love.”

Then one said, “You shouldn’t have done it. He’s not worth it. There’s always something to live for. You’ll see.” And I realized that they thought I’d been trying to kill myself. I didn’t know whether to laugh or be indignant.

“No, you don’t understand,” I said. “I got locked in a building by some communists and the only way to escape was onto the roof, and the only way down from there was to jump.”

“Of course it was, darling.” They looked at each other, grinning knowingly. “Come on, we’ll take you back to the hut and get you a cup of tea. No need to mention this to the police.”

And I realized, of course, that suicide was a crime.

Chapter 36

An hour later I was safely back at Rannoch House, confronting an angry grandfather.

“Almost out of my mind with worry, I was,” he was yelling. “I didn’t know whether something had happened to you or you were just staying late at one of them fancy parties you go to.”

“I’m so sorry,” I said, and explained the whole thing to him.

“Ruddy silly thing to do,” was all he could say afterward. “One of these days you’ll go too far, my girl. If you was a cat, you’d have used up several of your nine lives already.”

“I know,” I said. “But it was really lucky that I took the chance because now I know. As soon as I’ve changed, I’ve got to see Chief Inspector Burnall and tell him what I’ve discovered,” I said. “They are planning some kind of trouble, Granddad.”

“You ain’t going nowhere,” he said firmly. “First of all I’m running you a hot bath, then you’re going to eat a good breakfast and then we’ll telephone Scotland Yard and Chief Inspector Burnall can come to you. He won’t be in his office yet anyway, will he?”

One couldn’t argue. It was like being with Nanny again. When she had that certain look, one just knew that all protests were futile. I allowed myself to be marched upstairs, then I lay luxuriating in hot water for a time before dressing and coming down to a boiled egg and fingers. Even this was like being in the nursery again and it gave me a lovely warm feeling of security.

Granddad made the call to Scotland Yard and Chief Inspector Burnall arrived in person about half an hour later.

“You have something important to tell me, my lady?” he asked.

I related the events of the previous evening. He listened attentively.

“And can you name any of these people?”

“There were two men and one woman, I think, although the woman’s voice was deep and foreign, so it could have been another man. The dead man was Mr. Solomon. I’m sure of that, and I’m pretty sure that one of them was Edward Fotheringay.”

“The same Edward Fotheringay who is currently sharing a London flat with Gormsley?”

I wanted to say “How many Edward Fotheringays can there be?” but I nodded politely instead. At this moment he was listening to me.

Then he smiled and broke the illusion. “This is all rather far-fetched, wouldn’t you say, your ladyship? Are you sure you’re not trying to lead me up the garden path, away from your pal Gormsley, for example?”

“I can prove it to you,” I said. “You’ll find Mr. Solomon’s body in his bookshop. I believe they killed him because he wasn’t willing to go along with their scheme, just as Sidney Roberts had objected to it.”

Burnall was on his feet immediately and making for my front hall. I heard him barking orders into the telephone. He came back into the room.

“I have men on their way there now. So if you’d be good enough to put a statement in writing for us?”

I went to the desk in the morning room and tried to phrase my experience as succinctly as possible. I hadn’t quite finished when our telephone jangled. Burnall beat my grandfather to it. He came back with a quizzical look on his face.

“Now do you mind telling me the truth, my lady?”

“What do you mean? I’ve just told you the truth.”

“There was no body in the bookshop.”

“But I was there. I touched it. It was a dead person. His skin was cold, and I’m sure it was Mr. Solomon’s face.”

“My lads had to break down the door and they found nothing suspicious inside.”

“Then I was right. Those people must have come for the body after I left.”

Burnall was staring at me as if he was trying to read my mind. “It’s a serious offense lying to the police.”

“I didn’t lie!” I could hear myself shouting and I know that a lady never raises her voice. My governess would have been horrified at me. “Look, I might have died last night. Ask those men who fished me out of the Thames this morning if you want proof that I was there.”

His look softened a little. “I don’t doubt that you had some kind of frightening experience, and maybe you were locked in the bookshop by mistake, but I think you let your imagination run away with you, didn’t you? Maybe you touched a cushion or a pile of rags?”

“A pile of rags that was wearing glasses and had teeth? I felt his face, Chief Inspector, and he was dead. If you’d like to take me there, I’ll show you the exact spot where he was lying. If you look carefully enough you’ll find traces of blood, I’m certain. But this isn’t the important matter today. If these people are planning some kind of dramatic and violent act, you need to have men on the alert and in place.”