Barbara Cleverly - The Blood Royal

‘Mustard with that, miss? Ketchup? Cup o’ tea?

‘Mustard and a cupper would be grand, Frank,’ said Lily. ‘Milk, one lump, please.’

‘Ah, supper!’ Joe exclaimed in anticipation, picking up his knife and fork. ‘Supper is one of man’s chief pleasures. The other three slip my mind when faced with a banger.’

Lily grinned. She sliced off the crusty end of her sausage first and chewed it with satisfaction, then leaned over to ask, ‘You’re sure this is all right?’

Joe swallowed his sausage and regretfully put down his knife and fork. ‘Well, it is a bit like school dinners, I suppose. But I rather enjoyed school dinners. If you really don’t fancy it, I can think of something else.’

‘No, it’s heavenly. Can’t tell you how much I prefer it to caviar. I meant we don’t risk ruining Frank’s reputation, do we? Look at us. Two refugees from the chorus line of Florodora , still in costume. I wouldn’t want to scare the customers away. It wouldn’t be polite.’

Joe responded to the concern that underlay the light tone. ‘Don’t worry. They’re used to me and my strange ways here, though turning up with a delightful young lady on my arm is not usually one of them. I shall have to put up with a bit of heavy jocularity on that score, I’m afraid. They mostly look on me as a protective presence since I leaned heavily on a street gang that was giving them a bad time. And old Frank’s known me for … oh, it must be going on eight years.’

‘The army?’

Joe nodded. ‘He was in my regiment.’

‘Ah, I understand. You saved his life and he repays you in figgy duffs?’

‘No. You couldn’t be more wrong. It’s to him I owe my life. He’s no more likely to forget it than I am and — I’ll tell you something — you can get rather solicitous and protective of someone whose life you’ve saved, Wentworth,’ he said and added: ‘You’ll find.’

‘ I’ll find, sir?’

‘Oh, yes. You’ll be for ever involved — at a personal level now — in the continued well-being of HRH. You’ll scan the Society pages of the press each day to check up on his health. You’ll be concerned by reports that he has a head cold; you’ll offer up a prayer when you hear that he’s strained a fetlock. It’s thanks to you he’s on his way home to York House tonight, hale and hearty, instead of the Royal Hospital, toes turned up, under a shroud.’

She stared at him with sudden insight.

‘Yes. It wasn’t your waltzing feet or protective arms that saved his life — it was your quick thinking and your annoying habit of exceeding your orders that did it.’ Joe reached across the table and patted her arm with a sticky hand. ‘I’m almost certain I know what happened tonight. I’ll say it now because I shan’t be able to pick you out for special commendation when we get to our meeting — well done! I’m not sure how gratified you’ll be to hear me say it — and probably better not tell your father — but this evening it’s my belief you handed the prince his life … on a plate!’

Joe spooned up the last of his pudding and eased back his chair, eyeing Lily silently. She’d been the subject of that calculating stare before and responded by pulling her stole higher over her shoulders, a gesture he acknowledged with amusement. ‘No need for alarm. I was trying to assess the effect you’re going to have on the rest of the male company gathered in the ops room. Yes! I want you to be there!’ He answered her look of alarm. ‘Your evidence is pivotal — but dolled up as you are … well, I’m concerned that the officers present may unwittingly consign to you a somewhat inconsequential role. You look the part, Wentworth — royal girl-friend — flapperish, fox-trotting gadabout. I don’t want to see my men reacting to that image. Most unfair. I’d like you to change.’

‘You mean they won’t take me seriously if I present myself dressed as I was ordered to dress, sir?’

He ignored the rebuke. ‘I know these men. Effective and clever, but women haven’t played a significant part in their lives, I fear.’

‘Oh, I expect they all had a mother, sir,’ Lily said mildly.

‘One can never be certain about Bacchus … Oh, Lord! Bacchus! Give me your impressions when you’ve met him. He’s the handsome dark cove with the heavy moustache. Looks like a Sargent portrait of an Italian peasant, I always think — the hooded eyes follow you round the room saying, “I saw what you just did!”. You may wish to look away.’

She was trying not to laugh at him. ‘Well, I don’t know what effect he has on the enemy, but by God, Bacchus terrifies you, sir. Has he any redeeming human features, this man of mystery?’

‘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.’