The Royal Assassin (2 page)

I hoped he meant me and not the entire Archivist Society. I gave him a gracious nod and replied, “We are always eager to help Her Majesty and the government. And of course you,” I added, making my last words sound like an afterthought. My lack of assurance where the duke was concerned made me prickly.

“Good, because I can't imagine how we'll be able to discover why this Russian was killed unless you help.”

Acting as Princess Kira's secretary, I'd see him almost daily. Thoughts of his constant proximity made me feel flushed. Aloud I said, “Aren't you interested in who killed the guard?”

“No.
Why
is more important. If it was an anarchist, why kill only the guard? If this is part of some Russian insurrection, why kill the guard on the train and not one who was protecting the tsar in Scotland? If the murder was a personal vendetta, why wait until the guard was in England?”

“You think the princess is the target?”

“Or the princess and the Duke of Sussex. Or her hosts in London, the Duke and Duchess of Hereford.”

“Should I be armed while typing?” I couldn't resist asking in a dry tone.

Blackford took me seriously. “No. Scotland Yard is keeping an eye on Hereford House, the duke maintains a full staff, and the princess has a chaperone who could hold off an army of anarchists with her temperament alone.”

What was I getting myself into? “Do I have to pass an interview with the chaperone or the duchess?”

“The duchess is a friend. We have this worked out between us, and the chaperone has no say.”

I stared at him as if he'd overlooked an important point. “If she can hold off an army, what is one hired secretary?”

“Officially, you work for the duchess. She is lending you to the princess.”

“How long have I been working for the duchess?”

“Not long. The princess and Sussex stopped off for a short visit on their way to London, so we'll go this afternoon and introduce you to the duchess before the princess arrives.”

“How long do we have to set this up?”

“Two days. The princess is in a hurry to reach London.”

“Why?”

“Princess Kira is a painter. She likes to paint street scenes.”

“I'll have to get hold of Frances Atterby and learn if she's free to help run the bookshop again. You're certain I won't have to run all over England with this princess?”

“Yes.” He gave me a smile that reached his eyes and took my hand again. “I'm not an ogre, Georgia. I know how much your bookshop means to you.”

“But if the princess takes off for someone's country estate, you'll expect me to go along.” I knew how the duke's mind worked.

“She doesn't want to leave London with all these new sights to paint. And all the major art galleries are in London.”

I'd only have two days to research painting so I'd have some idea what the princess was talking about. In French. I'd have to step carefully or I could blunder badly. “Won't she want to paint in the countryside?”

“Her family's kept her on their country estate most of the year. She's had little opportunity to visit St. Petersburg, and she wants to live in a big city. London will be new and exciting for her.”

But why was she staying with the Herefords? Then I remembered. “The Duchess of Hereford is a well-regarded painter, isn't she?”

“Yes.”

“That explains why the princess is staying with her.”

“The Herefords are young enough not to bore a young lady and cosmopolitan enough not to make her think all Englishmen are provincial louts.”

“So everything is focused on this princess and no one cares about the guard who died.” I pulled my hand away and folded my arms over my stomach. I would have tapped my foot but there was no room between the boxes. I hadn't met the princess but so far I'd not heard anything to make me like her. My sympathies lay with the guard's family. I was seventeen when both my parents died. Their murder still haunted me.

“We care because we need to know why he died. Scotland Yard has very little evidence to link anyone to the killing.”

“So the murderer will go free.”

“Hopefully, we'll catch him before he kills again.” Blackford looked squarely into my eyes, knowing he'd said the words that would make me go along with this investigation.

•   •   •

BLACKFORD RETURNED TO
the bookshop in the afternoon to escort me to the home of the Duchess of Hereford. I couldn't think of any reason why he always used the ancient carriage given to his family by the Duke of Wellington for services rendered at Waterloo unless it was to aggravate me. Sitting high off the ground, I found it difficult to climb in and out of it even with assistance. In short, I was at a disadvantage. I appeared foolish.

I glanced over at an urchin who was hawking a free broadsheet, and my aggravation grew. My shop stocked dailies and weeklies that we charged customers for. I didn't like free competition on my doorstep.

“Miners' strike. Show solidarity,” the boy bellowed at us, a page held high in his ink-stained fingers. I was about to shoo him away when he smacked the duke in the chest with a copy.

The duke glared as he took the paper and then gave me a hand up before climbing into the coach after me. “Well, at least the price is right,” he muttered and tossed it aside. “Solidarity, indeed.”

An image of the unsullied duke manning the barricades with the grimy miners brought a smile to my lips.

Once we were under way, he glanced across the carriage at me and said, “You cleaned up nicely.”

I was wearing my newest white shirtwaist with a blue skirt and clean white gloves. Emma had tamed my hair into a proper coiffure under a wide-brimmed straw hat. I was surprised he noticed. “Thank you.”

His grin widened. “I rather liked you covered with ink and, what was that, coal dust?”

“Yes,” I hissed out through clenched jaws. No woman wants to be reminded of her less-attractive moments.

“It gave you a certain dangerous disguise.”

Heat rose to my cheeks. “Could we focus on the case at hand, please?”

His expression was instantly serious. “Of course. The Duchess of Hereford has two charming young children, a talent for painting, and a well-run home. She's a decent employer but she expects punctuality and meticulous work.”

“How old is she?”

“Perhaps a few years your senior.”

We stopped on Park Lane in front of a beautiful redbrick home that probably had been built during the early Georgian period. The front garden was full of roses, and well-tamed greenery bordered the walkway to the front steps.

When the duke helped me down, I slipped on the top step of the carriage and nearly knocked him over. Fortunately, the muscles I felt through his silky wool suit jacket were up to the task of saving my dignity. The shock of the near tumble didn't speed my pulse as much as feeling the marble inside his sleeves.

I walked toward the front door with a heated face, then stopped on the path. “Blackford, you didn't tell me the Herefords are your next-door neighbors.”

“Yes. Hereford and I have known each other since we were in our prams.”

A butler answered the footman's knock, took Blackford's card, and led us into an immaculate formal parlor done in blues and creams. I walked around, admiring the paintings on the walls. One in particular, showing a young boy and a younger girl, captured my attention.

“I painted that portrait of my children two years ago,” came a voice from behind me.

I turned and gave a deep curtsy. “It is beautiful, Your Grace.”

She'd already turned to Blackford, calling him Ranleigh. He in turn called her Lady Beatrice. She was tall, thin, and graceful, with a low-pitched speaking voice. The sort of woman Blackford needed to marry.

I was depressed already, and I hadn't yet learned what my duties would be.

The duchess sat down, offered us tea, and on our refusal said, “The princess will be arriving about noon the day after tomorrow. It would be good if you were here a little early, Miss Fenchurch, to appear part of the household.”

“I'm going to use the name Georgia Peabody, if you don't mind,” I said. “I don't want anyone connecting my work here with Fenchurch's Books.”

“Of course. Miss Georgia Peabody, then. Do you speak any languages?”

“I speak some French. And I read it very well.”

“And you type?”

“Yes, Your Grace.”

“And your handwriting?”

“Clear, but not flowery.” I wanted her to understand I was from the middle class. I didn't have time to deal with anything above utilitarian.

“Excellent. Let me show you the rooms you need to be familiar with. Then we'll sit down and put our heads together on what we know and what we need to know.”

She was businesslike. I thought I might like working with her.

“Where is Hereford?” Blackford asked.

“He took our son and left this morning for our estate. He said if we're going to have a Russian invasion in his house, and a female Russian invasion at that, he was leaving.”

Blackford laughed. “Sounds like Hereford.”

The duchess did not look pleased. Leading us down a corridor, she opened a door on a pleasant morning room with a lovely view of the back garden. On a desk by the window was a typewriter. She showed me where I'd find ink and notepaper and typewriter supplies. “You'll work here and have your lunch served to you in this room. There's a cloakroom and a retiring room by the back door. This way, please.”

She showed me where I could use her modern “facilities” and hang my coat. There was a table by the coatrack already holding a small hat and a pair of darned gloves. “My daughter's governess's,” the duchess said by word of explanation and led us back to her beautiful parlor.

Once we were seated, she said, “You'll be expected to be here
from ten until five. Servants talk, and they'll quickly figure out if you're not who you say you are.” Then her attitude softened. “Try to be as indispensable to the princess as you can. I've been told she could be in grave danger, and I have no idea how to respond. I've also been told you're very resourceful.”

“I try to be. How much do you know about the princess?”

“She's nineteen. She has an excellent talent for painting. I'm told there was much searching in the Almanach de Gotha to find a good match for her. Someone who would tolerate her painting. Sussex adores her talent and is a good match for her, being a third-generation descendant of a ruler just as she is.”

“The Almanach de Gotha?”

“The stud book for all the royal families in Europe,” Blackford told me with a hint of a smirk.

Oh. Of course there would be one. I couldn't imagine why the duke found it amusing, however. He was in Debrett's, the British aristocratic equivalent. “Are they fond of each other?” I asked. “The princess and Sussex?”

The duchess looked blank. “I suppose they will be.”

I wasn't sure if that was an encouraging statement. “What do you know about her as a person?”

She gave me a rueful smile. “Not much that would be helpful to you. The tsarina wrote the queen about the girl's artistic talent and then the princess herself sent the queen a painting. It was—breathtaking.”

“How long will she be staying with you?”

“Until she returns to Russia. I don't know how long she plans to remain. Sussex will be a constant visitor. He seems more smitten than she is and wants to win her over.”

“Win her over?” This sounded like a complication.

“Perhaps that's the wrong phrase.” The duchess thought for a
moment. “She's perfectly willing to marry him, there's no trouble there. It's just that Sussex is in his late thirties. He should have married some time ago, but he's so boyish, no one thought to marry him off until he inherited the title three years ago. It appeared to everyone that his sickly father would outlive us all.” She gave a small shrug. “His mother has always been the dominant one in the family and has blocked every effort to find her son a suitable wife. The dowager duchess would keep him tied to her apron strings until he was sixty if Victoria allowed it.”

If I were Princess Kira, I'd be running in the opposite direction. “She plans to stay weeks? Months? Until the wedding?”

The duchess's eyes widened at the thought. “Oh, I hope not. The wedding is scheduled for next spring. Before the Jubilee celebration. Surely she'll leave by November and return in April. I think the princess is due to stay at Osborne with the queen for a short time before the wedding. Windsor Castle would be more convenient, but Victoria prefers to spend the spring at Osborne.”

This investigation could keep me away from the bookshop for two months. I shot a dark look at Blackford, who'd sat silently through our conversation. The smile he returned was enigmatic.

For a moment, I was sorry he'd come back into my life.

T
HAT
evening, Emma Keyes walked with me to Sir Broderick's along the busy pavement. Families strolled together while enjoying the seasonably nice weather and speedy walkers rushed home to dinner or evening pursuits. The roads were clogged with carriages and hansom cabs, wagons having already returned to be reloaded for the next dawn.

I noticed that several male heads turned when we walked by but knew their glances weren't for me. Emma had been an attractive child who'd blossomed into a beautiful woman. Mercifully, she'd also been born with brains and good judgment. Otherwise, no woman could have stood her.

When we arrived for the Archivist Society meeting at Sir Broderick's large town house, Jacob, his assistant, opened the door. He took our cloaks and said, “We're meeting in the parlor.”

Emma froze on the second step heading upstairs as I turned to face the young man at the bottom of the staircase. “Not the study?”

He grinned. “Mrs. Hardwick and Sir Broderick have the room cleaned up ready for company, so we're using it tonight. Go on, take a look.”

We always used the study. I rushed around the elevator with Emma on my heels and threw open the door. When I came to a surprised stop, she collided with me, and we both took a few steps into the room.

The parlor appeared just as it had a dozen years before when Sir Broderick left the house on his feet for the last time. Now he sat in his wheeled chair in front of the roaring fire smiling at us. “Come in and have some tea. Blackford will be here shortly and then we can start.”

I walked over to where Mrs. Hardwick had placed the tea service and a plate of Dominique's scones. “You've worked a miracle,” I told her. “He hadn't used that elevator to come down here until you arrived.”

“He probably wasn't ready to use it until now,” she replied. She was a square-faced woman with gray streaked in her light brown topknot.

“I've known him since before the accident,” I said. “And I believe you've instigated this marvel.”

She smiled at my words and her face lit up with kindness, making her beautiful. Sir Broderick was lucky to have hired her as his housekeeper. Luck he deserved.

I took my tea and a scone and sat next to Frances Atterby. “Dominique hasn't lost her touch with scones,” she told me.

I took a bite. The flavor made my eyes close in rapture. When I opened them again, I took another look around the room. The new fabric on the chairs and sofas was smooth and crisp, and the draperies had been hung so recently they lacked faded patches
from the sun or soot from the fire. Sir Broderick and Mrs. Hardwick must have spent the past few weeks redecorating this room without telling any of us.

“What's the new case about?” Frances asked.

“If things end up as Blackford wants them, I'll need you in the bookshop again. Emma will be there to help.”

“Good. My son's wife has a sick relative in the country and she thinks I would make a fine nurse.”

“You would.”

“Can you see me in the country, tending the sick and gathering eggs and milking cows? She forgets I ran that hotel with my husband before she was born. I'm a Londoner, and my family is here.” Frances finished her scone and nodded firmly, her jowls wobbling.

“I'll claim you as my sister if it'll help.” Adam Fogarty stopped his ceaseless pacing behind our sofa.

“Ah, Adam, you'll always be a brother to me,” she responded. “How's the leg?”

“Better. The weather's been fair. So, what's our case?”

“The Duke of Blackford is presenting it,” I told him.

“Not more spies.” I detected a groan in his reply.

“Anarchists this time.”

“Worse,” he said and continued his stroll around the room.

At that moment, the duke walked in followed by Jacob. We all, except Sir Broderick, rose and gave Blackford a low bow or curtsy. He bowed to Sir Broderick and then gave the room a bow. Then he sat down near Sir Broderick but away from the scorching heat of the fire. Mrs. Hardwick brought him a glass of whiskey.

The preliminaries out of the way, Sir Broderick said, “I called this group together tonight to plan our investigation into the murder of a Russian imperial guard in a British railway coach
and to implement our protection of the princess he was assigned to bodyguard. This princess will be marrying the Duke of Sussex, the son of a cousin of our queen.”

“He was the only bodyguard?” Adam immediately asked.

“Yes.”

“Is that usual? To have only one guard?”

“She's of low rank in the royal family, and once she arrived in Britain, the Russians expected us to protect her.”

“What does the princess say about the attack? The guard should have been right there with her.” Adam Fogarty scowled, clearly puzzled.

“He wasn't. They were in a station and he stepped off the train for a few minutes. His body was found in the luggage carriage. The tsar leaves Balmoral for home shortly with the tsarina and the rest of his guards and household. The queen has promised we'll do everything we can from this end to catch the murderer.” Blackford glanced around the room at each of us. “Her Majesty expects a quick but thorough investigation.”

“She wants results,” Sir Broderick muttered.

“Was anyone seen with him?” Fogarty reverted to his police sergeant training whenever he began asking questions.

“Porters, ticket collectors, and stallholders were all questioned. No one saw anything. You'd think a man in a Russian Imperial Guards uniform would stand out in Yorkshire,” the duke said.

“Was the platform busy?” I asked.

“Yes. The train the princess and her entourage rode on headed to London stopped at the same time as a train bound for the queen and Balmoral. It's a small station. The railroad arranges the schedule so no other trains pass the area near that time. Government ministers and servants were on the platform trading
gossip and intelligence about the state of things in the queen's household. They were all focused on getting their own questions answered in the few minutes before the trains pulled out in opposite directions.”

“Have questions been asked of those arriving in Balmoral?” Frances asked.

“Yes, and no one noticed the guard.”

“How was he killed, and was anything taken from the body?” Emma asked.

“He was stabbed from the front. One strike to the heart. Quick and clean. One of his epaulets was torn off in a quick, brutal struggle and a button was missing.”

“Was the killer marked by the guard?” Emma asked.

“Possibly. There was blood on one hand, but it may have been the guard's.”

“Did they find either the epaulet or the button?”

“No. If they weren't lost amid the piles of baggage, then the killer must have taken them with him. Possibly accidentally. If this was deliberate, it sounds like the anarchists. I can't think of anyone else wanting this type of souvenir,” Blackford replied.

“What about blood? Shouldn't the killer have ended up all bloody?” I tried to picture the scene. Someone in the railway station or on a train should have noticed blood on a passenger.

“There was a pool around the guard on the floor of the railway carriage, but his uniform may have kept the killer from being sprayed with it. Russian uniforms are thick. When he was found, there was more blood on the inside of his coat than the outside. His tunic was soaked with his blood.”

I studied Blackford after he told us this last piece of information. “So the blade was long?”

“Long and thin. Easily hidden.”

“Someone obviously came prepared to kill. I wonder if he came up on the London train.” I glanced at Blackford to see if he was thinking the same thing I was.

He shuddered. “Otherwise, the murderer had been in Balmoral with the queen.”

“Were any tickets sold at that station in Yorkshire for either train? Or after they left, did the conductors find any passengers without a ticket?” The killer had to go somewhere after the murder. If he came up from London and wanted to go back there . . .

“No, but they did report that a stranger bought a ticket to London on the next train through the station. A stranger without luggage,” Blackford told me.

“Did they get a description?”

“Tall, bearded. He reportedly looked like a tramp and said very little.”

Looked like a tramp? I imagined anarchists dressed this way.

“Where was the luggage carriage on the train in relation to the coach for the princess?” Adam Fogarty asked.

“They were next to each other, so the guard wouldn't have been on the platform long. Which probably cut down on the number of people who might have noticed him.”

“So far, we know little about the princess and less about the dead guard,” I told them. “Your Grace, could you get us any information that Scotland Yard has uncovered on either one?”

“The guard's name is Lidijik, Semyon Lidijik. He's been in the guards eighteen years, married, two children. They live in St. Petersburg, but he and his wife come from the country estate owned by the princess's father, Prince Pyotr Romanov. Lidijik didn't seem to be the kind of person anyone noticed. Not particularly ambitious. He was an adequate soldier. No known enemies.”
Blackford stared me in the eye. “You see, Georgia, I am paying attention to the victim.”

“Thank you, Your Grace.” Once again he surprised me. Ordinarily, he considered the needs of Whitehall before he gave the victim a thought. His ability to amaze me was one of the many reasons I looked forward to working with him.

“I plan to see Sussex on his return and get him talking. He was on the train, he's spent time with the princess, and presumably he saw her bodyguard. Hopefully he noticed something.”

“Something he doesn't realize is important?” Emma asked.

Blackford made a quick face before he spoke. “Poor Sussex will never realize the importance of anything. The trick is just to get the man talking. And then to keep listening.”

“This is outside the realm of our normal sources of information,” Sir Broderick said. “Have the Scotland Yard detectives interviewed any of the government ministers who were on the train? Did they see anything?”

“The passengers continued to London on the train with the body and have been questioned. I spoke to one of them, Lord Tayle. He and the other ministers were in separate railway compartments from the carriage the princess rode in. He got out at that rural Yorkshire siding where they take on water and coal when they're making the run between Balmoral and London. The northbound train arrived about a half minute later, and he searched out Lord Rogers to ask him to continue trying to discuss an unpopular measure with Her Majesty. The queen often refuses to discuss bills she doesn't approve of.”

Blackford shook his head. “Tayle was so focused on his task that he didn't notice any strange activity. No one in a Russian uniform. He doesn't think the princess or Sussex got out of their carriage, but he's not certain.”

“We have no eyewitnesses and little evidence despite a very small window of opportunity,” Sir Broderick began. “Any suggestions on how we should proceed?”

“I've already set up with the princess's hostess, the Duchess of Hereford, for Georgia to act as their secretary and to tutor the princess in English. Georgia will be able to talk to the princess as well as observe any dangers around her.” Blackford smiled, knowing any plans would now have to be made around his scheme.

“Will she have to go away again?” Frances asked.

“Only from the bookshop. She'll have her evenings and Sundays free, and she'll be able to live at home,” the duke assured her.

“Where does this leave us with the investigation into the explosion and robbery at the Marquis of Shepherdston's? We did promise to look into that first,” I reminded them.

“You'll be on the Russian investigation full-time,” Sir Broderick said, “but the rest of us can work on both. And I can call on more members of the Archivist Society to help with both investigations. It will stretch us in two directions for a while, but I'm sure we're up to the challenge.”

Wonderful. Sir Broderick and the Duke of Blackford seemed to think as one. What was it about powerful men? “Have we learned anything new in the Shepherdston investigation?”

In response, Sir Broderick said, “Jacob, would you bring Mary in, please?”

Jacob returned in a minute with a slender young woman who was no bigger than a boy. Mary! I remembered her immediately. She'd been a maid for the Gattengers until her master's arrest for murder and treason brought her to the attention of the Archivist Society. After the Gattenger house was closed up, she served as a maid in our borrowed house in Mayfair while I pretended to be Georgina Monthalf, lover of the Duke of Blackford.

We made sure Mary never learned the true identity of Georgina or her lady's maid, Emma.