Wild Boy and the Black Terror (26 page)

“How many guests are coming?” he asked.

“Two hundred and thirty,” Wiggins said.

“
Two hundred and bloomin’ thirty?
”

“Is that a problem?”

“No. No problem.”

Wild Boy breathed in, trying to focus his thoughts. He remembered Marcus’s words.
Control your emotions. Concentrate. Think
.

“Where do the carriages arrive?” he said.

“Here in the forecourt.”

“So where do the guests go from here?”

Wiggins led the way, walking stiffly and upright, as if he had a plank shoved down the back of his tailcoat. Wild Boy followed along a hallway decorated with pink ripples on the marble walls, bronze candle stands and a plush velvet carpet that tickled his feet.

He couldn’t believe how different this place was from St James’s Palace. Everything here sparkled and shone – the gilt frames around oil paintings of royal families, the silver side tables and golden carriage clocks, the teardrop chandeliers that hung from oval friezes. Everywhere candlelight glinted off crystal.

Halfway along the hall, a marble staircase swept up to the first floor alongside a balustrade of twisting golden flowers.

“The Grand Staircase,” Wiggins announced. “These lead to the State Apartments, where Her Majesty waits before greeting her guests.”

“That is where she will be with the black diamond,” Lucien said, following. “Where do the guests go from here, Wiggins?”

Wiggins led them into a long gallery. Kings and queens watched from oil paintings, their faces dimly lit by moonlight that filtered through a snow-covered skylight. Wiggins scuttled ahead and opened the doors. He cleared his throat and bowed, flourishing his hand as if he was presenting a Wonder of the World.

“The Royal Ballroom.”

It was the largest and most lavish room Wild Boy had ever seen, a world of red and gold – strawberry wallpaper with golden mosaics of griffins and hydras, candlesticks tied with silk ribbons, gilt window frames and a huge golden fireplace. Crystal chandeliers as large as cathedral bells poured light onto a dance floor framed by red velvet benches. Beyond, a string orchestra was setting up on a small stage.

Wild Boy rested a hand against the door frame as the gaudy colours began to swirl. He saw red and gold sequins, something that wasn’t real. It was Clarissa, dancing on her high wire, dazzling in her circus costume.

He covered his head as the image changed to Augustus Finch. That scarred, savage face. “Hear what they say!” Finch shrieked. “Hear what they say about Wild Boy!”

Lucien touched his shoulder. “Are you all right?”

Wild Boy shook the hand away, harder than he had meant to. Lucien stepped back.

Clear your head. Concentrate
.

“We’ll keep all the guests in this ballroom,” Wild Boy said, looking to Lucien. “Get some of your Gentlemen to dress as servants. They can be among them, serving drinks.”

“Serving drinks?” Wiggins complained, his voice reaching a falsetto. “Drinks are served in the refreshment room.”

“There ain’t no refreshment room tonight,” Wild Boy said. He stopped himself from shouting at Wiggins, aware that he needed the man’s help.

“But these events are structured in a particular way,” Wiggins protested. “The husbands collect the programmes, and then there is the polonaise, and the…” He sighed. “Do you know what
any
of this means?”

“No, I dunno what anything you’re saying means, mister. Don’t know about high society, dinners or dances or nothing like that.”

“Then what does someone like you know about?”

“Catching killers.”

Wiggins was about to speak, but the words caught in his throat. His posture slumped, as if the plank had suddenly been swiped from his back. “Did you say
killers
?”

“Thank you, Wiggins,” Lucien said. “That will be all for now.”

Wild Boy was glad to see the floor manager scuttle away. He wished Lucien would do the same. This was going to be hard enough without him breathing his stale breath down Wild Boy’s neck. At least they had agreed to work together. But Wild Boy felt so weak. It was as if, without Clarissa, he was only half a person.

Lucien checked his pocket watch. “Ten past eight. The guests arrive in fifty minutes. So, Wild Boy, where do we begin?”

28

“
T
he staff,” Wild Boy said. “We’ll start with the staff.”

Buckingham Palace usually kept a staff of around a hundred men and women. Tonight, every one of them was a potential danger. The killer could sneak into the palace disguised as a royal footman or a groom. So all but ten of the staff had been given the night off. That left three maids to attend the Queen, four servants to train the Gentlemen in their disguises as waiters, two for guiding carriages and Wiggins – the Royal Floor Manager – to announce guests as they arrived.

These men and women were gathered in a line on the dance floor, together with the members of the string orchestra. Wild Boy had to be sure they could all be trusted, and that they were sharp enough to spot trouble.

As he walked along the line, each of the servants stepped back and drew a breath. They had been told the Wild Boy of London was here, but had all assumed it was a joke.

Wild Boy stopped by one of the grooms. His gaze roved around the man’s clothes and then lingered on his leathery face. He saw a missed button on his shirt, and a white spot below his left ear. Shaving cream.

“Eyes ain’t too good, are they?” he asked the man.

“I cannot afford spectacles.”

Wild Boy glanced at Lucien. A servant with bad eyesight was no use in a hunt for a killer. Better he was out of the way. Lucien gave a signal, and the groom was invited to enjoy an evening’s rest from his usual duties.

Wild Boy continued his inspection, examining the servants and musicians in the glare of the ballroom’s chandeliers. “He’s all right… She’s good…”

He stopped at a pretty parlour maid who was only a little taller than he was, and leaned close to smell her arm.

“You stink of perfume,” he said. “And you’ve cleaned your nails. Meeting your lover tonight in secret, right?” He looked at the other servants along the line. “Anyone know who the lover is?”

They shook their heads furiously.

“Could be the killer in disguise,” Wild Boy said, thinking aloud. “Using that way to sneak in.”

The girl, too stunned to respond, allowed herself to be led from the ballroom.

That left eight servants and the orchestra. Wild Boy smiled at the group and one of the musicians fainted. “Maybe get rid of him an’ all,” he muttered.

“We have forty-five minutes,” Lucien said. “What next?”

All of the Gentlemen stood behind him, waiting for instructions.

Think. Concentrate
.

“Windows,” Wild Boy said. “Everyone follow me.”

At first no one did. Instead they all looked to Lucien, seeking confirmation of the order.

“Don’t look at me,” Lucien barked. “Do what the boy says.”

The Gentlemen followed Wild Boy around the ballroom, examining latches and locks and peering out to window ledges. The patio doors were framed by heavy red curtains that were bunched in drapes, like stage curtains opening for a show. The show was snow –
lots
of snow pattering against the glass and settling thickly beyond the porch.

Wild Boy selected ten of the Gentlemen. “You lot are window patrol. All of these windows gotta stay locked. No one gets in or out. Look here, where the snow’s piled up on the ledges outside. These windows open outwards. That snow means no one’s opened them, so no one’s got in that way.”

“But how on earth will we catch the killer unless he gets inside?”

“We gotta
see
the killer to catch him,” Wild Boy said. “If we keep these windows closed, then he’s got to come in through the ballroom door, same as the guests.”

“What if a lady swoons?” one of the men asked.

“Let her swoon. Better than getting the terror.”

He felt another twist in his gut. He knew he should have been enjoying this, a chance to order the Gentlemen about. But without Clarissa it felt so wrong.

Don’t think about it. Stay focused
.

He shouted to Wiggins in the doorway. “Any secret passages into this room we should know about?”

Wiggins scoffed. “Why would there be a
secret passage
?”

“I dunno, usually one, ain’t there?”

“Not in Buckingham Palace there is not.”

“All right.” Wild Boy jumped onto one of the velvet benches beside the dance floor and addressed the Gentlemen who weren’t checking the windows. “You lot are on candle duty. Whatever causes the terror burns with black smoke, we know that much.”

“But what is it that burns?” one of the men asked.

“Don’t know that yet. Maybe fiddled candles or some sort of oil. We gotta check every light in this place, anything with a flame. Make sure they ain’t got nothing suspicious about them. They should be orange-almond–oil candles, like these, and smell sweet like marzipan. Any ain’t got that smell, come and get me. Oh, and don’t go breathing its smoke.”

“Or what?”

“Or you’ll see your worst nightmares and die.”

“I… Oh.”

Wild Boy jumped down, spoke to two others. “You and you, guard the fire. No one throws nothing on the flames. Anyone tries, grab ’em. Could be the killer.”

“Forty minutes till the guests arrive,” Lucien said. “The artist is here.”

A short man was brought forward, dressed in a flowing white shirt with lace ruffles and a starched collar so high it tickled his cheeks. When he saw Wild Boy he screamed for five seconds, then lit a thin cigarette.

“I am here to see
you
?” he asked.

“Can you draw?” Wild Boy said.

“Draw? I am Franz Winterhalter. I have exhibited at the
Salon de Paris
.”

“Good for you. I’m gonna describe two people and I want you to draw their faces. Only we gotta work fast.”

“I assume this is a joke?”

Wild Boy stepped closer and plucked the cigarette from the man’s lips. It was something he’d seen Marcus do to signal impatience, and it worked. The artist’s eyes bulged and he coughed smoke.

“Do I look like I’m joking?” Wild Boy said. “Lucien tells me that if you do this, then you’re the right man for the Queen’s next portrait. So are you gonna get out your pencils or should we send for someone else?”

The artist nodded several times. “Only, I sketch in ink, not pencil.”

For fifteen minutes Wild Boy described Gideon and Dr Carew to the artist in as much detail as he could. The drawings wouldn’t be perfect, but they’d at least give the servants an idea of who to watch out for. He didn’t bother to describe Spencer. Surely his mask or burned face would be enough to give him away.

Winterhalter set to work with his inkpot and quill.

“Twenty-five minutes,” Lucien said. “Where is the Queen’s jeweller?”

The next man brought forward was tall and thin, with a single strand of hair slicked across an otherwise bald head. He carried a small cushion with a tiara for the Queen, a nest of pearls with the last black diamond set in the middle. Beneath the chandeliers, the jewel shone brighter than ever, dazzling Wild Boy’s eyes.