Barbara Cleverly - The Blood Royal

Lily raised her eyebrows in scorn. ‘Mrs Braithwaite knows her business. She knows her clients. You should trust her. I’ve been specially selected for this visit. She thought you might be in need of a good whacking after your disgraceful conduct the other night. And I’m rather good at punishing wayward young gentlemen.’ Lily advanced on him aggressively, reached out, and grasped the loose collar of his robe in one hand. She tugged his face close to hers and snarled, ‘You upset one of our girls. One of our top-drawer first eleven. Can’t have that, can we? I think I’m going to have to send you up to your room and deal with you.’

While she spoke she passed her other hand round his back and slipped the sash of his gown from its moorings at his waist. Trying for a lascivious leer, she looped the length of silk playfully round his neck, encountering a bobbing Adam’s apple but no resistance.

‘Good boy,’ she breathed. ‘I usually use a warm silk stocking. This is what’s called a collier de soie. Tight enough for you?’ She pulled harder until he gasped and nodded. Gratified to hear his breathing growing faster, she put a hand in his oiled hair and pushed him roughly down on to his knees. ‘And this is the position I like my naughty boys to adopt. Stay down! Now, before I drag you off upstairs to administer your punishment’ — she nodded towards the sweeping staircase — ‘I need an apology to take back to the boss. I want to know what you did to make our girl run off in the night. You’re about to be blackballed, you know. You’d better make your side of the story convincing if you’re to do business with us again. We’re very particular who we deal with.’

His voice took on a little boy’s whine as he replied. ‘Not my fault, honestly. How was I to know her husband was in the same regiment? It’s your fault. Should have done your homework. “Confidentiality assured” my arse! “Companionship of the first quality provided” — at least they got that right. She’s married to snotty old Buster Belton, and they don’t come more top drawer than that. Never could stand the fellow! Colonel now, they tell me … swanning about in bloody Burma, leaving his wife alone for years. Deserves all he’s getting. I recognized her at once, of course. Good-looking woman, if you like ’em raven haired. We’d met at two or three regimental dos. I was willing enough, but she wouldn’t have it. Oh, no. Put her completely off her stroke.’

‘You threw her out without paying is what we heard.’

‘Not true! It was her decision to beat the retreat. Too prim and proper despite the tawdry trade she’s involved in. A telephone tart! I wonder if it’s got to old Buster’s ears yet? Perhaps someone ought to tell him the memsahib’s spending her evenings doing war relief of a kind he wouldn’t approve of?’ He made the mistake of turning a waspish face to Lily. ‘Perhaps I’ll ask Warminster to bring me a sheet or two of regimental writing paper … that’ll get his attention. I’m sure I still have some about the place … Anyhow, upshot is, she screamed and ran. Stupid cow!’

An evil twist of the sash round his neck reminded him he was supposed to be abject and he whined again: ‘All her fault … do agree … but I’m ready to take my punishment if you think I’ve deserved it.’

Lily had all she wanted and was eager to leave. She released her grip on his neck and hair, and wiped her sticky hand on the Chinese silk at his shoulder. ‘Thank you for that. Tempted though I am by your offer of a fat bum to thrash, I think I’ll be off now. You can get up, you disgusting old toad. I’ll let myself out.’ She made for the door.

He was fitter and less drunk than she had reckoned. And much more angry.

With a snarl he was on his feet, gown flapping open, and coming after her. Lily turned, reached for and grabbed the loose sleeve of his outstretched arm. As his dash along the corridor carried him forward she pivoted, stuck out a foot, twisted and heaved. He landed full length on his back with a thud and an ominous crack as his skull hit the tiled floor. A plant stand, knocked out of kilter by his flying right elbow, wobbled. Its cargo of aspidistra in heavy pot fell to the ground and exploded like a howitzer in a shower of earth and shards by his ear. He howled. He began to raise himself, hugging his elbow, dazed but vowing retribution. ‘Who the hell are you? Just you wait, madam … I’ll see you in jail. No, I’ll get Jonas to help me drag you upstairs and teach you a lesson … Jonas!’ Filth began to flow from his lips as he embroidered on the punishment he intended to inflict.

The manservant, drawn by the yells and the crash, appeared at the end of the hallway in time to see the tart he’d just let in, one knee on his master’s chest, doing something unspeakable but clearly painful to Mountfitchet’s recumbent and semi-naked body. He stood, uncertain, unable to react. To intervene or make himself scarce? What in hell was going on? Some kind of game? He’d seen some rum scenes under this roof — participated in some, too — but this one looked a bit too real for comfort. Mountfitchet screamed again. Warminster drew his conclusions: this wasn’t playtime. The girl was making him suffer all right.

He decided to let ’er rip.

Aware of his presence, she called out to him. ‘Warminster — if that’s really your name — come closer. I need a witness. In a moment you must fetch a bucket of water and chuck it over your master. He’s not harmed. He’s just had a dizzy spell and tripped over an aspidistra. Oh, and bring a mop for the floor. It’s covered with filth of one kind or another. Now, Mountfitchet, I’ll say this clearly, and if you should later find you’re a little hazy on the details you can refer to Warminster here who is listening with commendable attention: your regiment has severed ties with you, and I for one trust their judgement. Leave those ties cut. Make no attempt to contact the officer you’ve just mentioned to me. Mrs Braithwaite has her connections — she’d set the law on you. And I’d come back and separate you from your crown jewels. Such as they are. My hat and gloves, please, Warminster.’

She paused in the shrubbery, as Mrs Colonel Belton apparently had, to hitch up her stockings and straighten her hat. If Lily had had a Balkan Sobranie available in a dolly bag, she’d have lit it. And taken a couple of nerve-calming puffs while considering her options.

Mountfitchet apparently was not a man to risk an appearance on the streets of Mayfair in his underpinnings. With no sign then, as now, of pursuit, the entirely innocent woman who’d used up so much police time and so many police handkerchiefs had made the mistake of trying to jump into the admiral’s cab. Out of the frying pan and into the line of fire. Poor woman. An encounter with Mountfitchet followed seconds later by one with Fenian gunmen? No wonder she’d been emotional. No wonder she’d stuffed her fingers in her ears, shut her eyes and screamed. And then gone underground.

Sandilands, in his lies, seemed, in fact, to have stumbled on the truth.

Mrs Belton was no more than a neglected army wife seeking cash and excitement. One of the hundreds of lonely and desperate women stepping out under the bright lights of the streets of London. Lily, out on her beat, had shared a park bench and an intimate conversation with many such. She’d heard confidences so raw, so devastating, they could only have been whispered into the receptive ear of a stranger who would listen and not condemn. The dangerous life of a London prostitute was no mystery to Lily.

Mrs Belton was clearly leading a dubious life that could only end in disaster, but she was no Morrigan.

And yet Morrigan had been here.

Someone had fired the last decisive bullet from the pavement a few feet from where she was standing now. Lily retraced Mrs Colonel Belton’s steps through the shrubbery and on to the pavement edge.