The Tin Princess, Page 2

  Miss Bevan threw up her hands and flounced back to the sofa.

  "Dunno," she said.

  Becky was goggling. The more she thought about it, the more she goggled. The marriage of a prince was a matter for international politics. Kings and queens and statesmen were involved; they had to consult ambassadors, draw up treaties, consider every dynastic and diplomatic implication. What had he been thinking of, this Prince, to take his illiterate cockney mistress up to Manchester and marry her in secret? Perhaps he was as naive as Becky herself had been, puffing at her one cigarette in the shrubbery with her beefy lover.

  And besides...

  "You thought I wouldn't have heard of Razkavia," she said diffidently. "Well, I had, because I was born there. I'm a Razkavian citizen."

  Miss Bevan stared. Then she flew into a passion.

  "You're a spy!" she cried, and leapt up to stamp furiously on the polished floor. "You come here to prod your blooming nose in, didn't yer? Who's paying yer? Eh?Whose side you on? The Germans? The Russians? If I had a gun I'd shoot you where you sit, you baggage, you crawly, slimy hypocrite. Bloody sauce! How dare you come in here pretending butter wouldn't melt, and all the time--"

  "Shut your pan," said Becky hotly. It was an expression she'd heard, but never used, and it worked. Miss Bevan blinked and shut up mutinously. Becky went on: "Don't you dare get angry with me. I am Razkavian, and I had no idea who the Prince was, and I'm certainly not a spy. Do you think I'm likely to betray my own Prince now that I know who he is?"

  "What you doing in this country then?"

  "We're in exile."

  "Why?"

  "Nothing to do with you."

  "Yes it is, 'cause I'm a bleeding princess, ain't I? I got a right to know who's teaching me. Sit down, go on. Stop scowling at me. I don't think you're a spy, really, you blush too easy."

  Becky sniffed and sat down frostily; she hadn't been aware she'd stood up.

  "All right," she said, "I'll tell you why we're in exile. My father was a lawyer and he tried to start a movement for democracy, and they arrested him and put him in gaol. He caught typhoid and died. So my mother took me and my grandmother and we came to live here. That's all."

  "You're not likely to be on the side of the Prince then, are yer?"

  "It wasn't the Royal Family who locked him up, it was the Court. I've got no grudge against Prince Rudolf."

  Miss Bevan, or Princess Adelaide, raised an elegant eyebrow, but finally nodded and sat down, sullenly plucking at a thread on her dress. Then she looked at Becky helplessly.

  "What can I do?" she said.

  Becky blew out her cheeks in bewilderment. "Well ... to start with, you'd better learn to read. And write. You can't go on signing things with an X."

  "S'pose not." She sat up. "Go on then. When we gonna start?"

  Becky looked around. There were no books in the room, but the Ludo board lay open in front of them.

  "You can start by learning to read the rules of games. You know what they're about, so that's a way in. And colours - here we are - that's nice and easy. This says RED..."

  They spent half an hour on that, by which time Adelaide could read START, HOME, FINISH and the four colours.

  "We'll have to do writing too," Becky told her. "I'll look for a copy-book this afternoon. You can learn the most elegant hand they've got. In fact you'll have to learn all kinds of things, won't you? You'll need more than a reading and writing teacher. You'll need--"

  But she never finished the sentence, for that was the moment when the bomb went off.

  There was a powerful BANG and a blast of air that blew the curtains up and slammed the window shut, breaking all the glass. Both girls ducked instinctively, Becky grabbing for the papers on the table and Adelaide turning to crouch by the sofa, wide-eyed.

  After the first shock, Becky leapt up to see what had happened. Adelaide joined her at the window. Becky had been aware of the sound of a carriage drawing up outside the house, a horse blowing hard and shaking its head, only a second before the explosion; and as the dust that had risen in a great cloud drifted over the dry road and the laurels, she saw it - shattered. The horse lay twitching in the shafts, messily, and the coachman lay still. Halfway up the garden path, unharmed, mesmerized, stood the figure of Herr Strauss, Prince Rudolf of Razkavia.

  For a moment no one moved. Then the Prince turned to look up at the window, his eyes seeking Adelaide's, and then the entire road seemed to come to life: doors opened, servants appeared at gateways, a nursemaid with her two small charges craned to see, a stout gentleman with a walking-stick ran clumsily up, a butcher's boy with a basket of meat cast a professional eye at the horse; and then from nowhere the straw-hatted detective, J. Taylor, appeared at the side of the Prince and spoke quietly.

  "That's the detective," said Becky. Her voice was shaking.

  Adelaide said nothing. She was watching with fierce concentration. J. Taylor glanced out at the road and snapped his fingers at the butcher's boy, who dropped his basket inside the gate and took off his cap.

  "Go and find a copper," they heard J. Taylor tell him. "Quick as you can. We'll need a doctor, too, to certify the death. Do that in under ten minutes, and there's half a crown for you. Hop it."

  "I've seen him before," Adelaide said quietly. "I know I have."

  J. Taylor seemed to know how to take charge of things; he appointed the stout gentleman to keep guard over the shattered carriage, he tore a curtain loose from the broken door and laid it gently over the dead man, he took a clasp knife from his pocket and did something to the horse, which fell still. He wiped the knife clean and stood up, his eyes meeting Becky's and moving to look expressionlessly at Adelaide; and then he joined the Prince and entered the house.

  "You gone pale," said Adelaide critically.

  "Hardly surprising," said Becky.

  "Doesn't suit yer. Listen, when Rudi - the Prince - comes in, you pretend you don't know who he is."

  Becky was about to argue, but there came a knock on the door, and the Prince himself came in.

  "My dear..." he said.

  Adelaide ran to him almost protectively, but stopped. Behind the Prince was the jaunty figure of the straw-hatted detective, serious now, and as he stepped into the doorway Becky had the most curious sensation: because J. Taylor and Adelaide were looking at each other with an almost electric intensity.

  The moment passed.

  The Prince, who seemed dazed - at all events, he hadn't seen what Becky had, that fierce reciprocal glance - gathered himself and said, "My dear. I am sorry to interrupt your lesson, but I must ask Miss Winter to leave us now. As you have seen, Miss Winter, I am in some danger. I think it has passed for the moment, but I would not want to expose you to any more of it. This gentleman will escort you home."

  Adelaide said, "No, Becky - stay a moment. She'll come down in a minute, Rudi." She pushed the door to, shutting the men out. Then in a fierce whisper she said, "What's his name? That feller in the straw hat? What's he called?"

  "I gave you his card - oh, of course, you can't read it," said Becky, and went to pick it up from the little bamboo table. "J. Taylor, Consulting Detective, care of Garland and Lockhart, Photographers, Orchard House, Twickenham...What's the matter?"

  Because her pupil had clutched a hand to her heart, and gone pale. Her great dark eyes were wide. Then she snatched the card from Becky and sank into a chair as the colour rose in her cheeks again.

  "You'd best go," she said hoarsely. "Go on. He'll be waiting. But you come back, you hear?"

  "I promise," Becky said.

  Bemused, she left the room and went downstairs, to find the Prince standing anxiously in the hall. She tried to remember not to curtsy as he nodded to her, and then she went out to join J. Taylor, Consulting Detective, in the garden.

  Chapter Two

  MRS GOLDBERG

  When Becky reached the garden gate, the butcher's boy came panting up, red-faced, and stopped in surprise when he saw her.

&nbs
p; "Oh! It's you!" he said. "D'you see the explosion, then? See the dead bloke? All his tripes and giblets hanging out?"

  "Don't be disgusting."

  "Here, you all right for cigarettes? Fancy a smoke in the bushes again? Eh?"

  She turned away. J. Taylor came up, and the butcher's boy turned his attention to him instead.

  "I found a copper," he said. "A big fat one. He'll be here in a minute. Five bob you said, didn't yer?"

  J. Taylor gave him a couple of coins, and walked away with Becky.

  "Shouldn't you wait for the police?" said Becky.

  "Herr Strauss will deal with them. He's got my card; they can find me if they want me. And it's not as if I actually saw the bombers; no one did. They'll have used an infernal machine."

  "A what?"

  "A clockwork timer to explode the dynamite. They don't have to throw bombs any more, that's old-fashioned. Where are you going, Miss Winter? Can I escort you anywhere?"

  They were halfway down Church Road by this time, and Becky found that she was shaking helplessly. She didn't know whether to trust him or not; but the Prince obviously did, and...

  Her head began to swim, and he took her arm.

  "Here, sit on this bench. Put your head down, that's it. It's shock; only natural. You'll feel better in a minute or two."

  "Thank you," Becky muttered. "I feel very foolish."

  "Well, you don't look it. Stop worrying."

  "That poor coachman..."

  More and more people were gathering back along the road, outside the house. Someone was cutting the reins to free the dead horse from the shafts of the carriage; a policeman was lumbering up from the other end of the road.

  "Are you really a detective?" Becky said.

  "Yes. Among other things. I've been looking for that young lady for ... oh, ten years; since we were kids. I thought she was lost for good. But a month ago I caught sight of a face that reminded me of her, and I traced her to that house. I was going to call and surprise her, but then I realized what the lay was, and I thought I'd be discreet. She was called Adelaide..."

  "She still is."

  "What's she doing chumming with a prince?"

  Becky looked up sharply. "How do you know he's a prince?"

  "It's not hard to find out. Servants talk; you can look up coats of arms. I made his acquaintance a week or two ago, which is why he knew who I was this morning. I wanted to be sure he was treating Adelaide right, you see. He's in love with her, poor guppy; innocent as a baby. I'm concerned, because if he's in political trouble I don't want him dragging her into it."

  "She's in already," Becky said. "She's married to him."

  "What?"

  "She showed me the marriage certificate... I suppose it doesn't matter my telling you, if you know her," Becky added doubtfully.

  His eyes flared with anger. "Irresponsible half-wit! He does need looking after! Pitching her into a situation like this... It'd be hard even for a girl born to the princess trade. What does he expect of her, for God's sake?"

  "He didn't force her into it. It was her choice too, I suppose. She knows who you are, by the way."

  He looked at her intently. She told him of Adelaide's reaction when she'd learned his name from the card, and he nodded.

  "She'd know Lockhart and Garland too," he said. "No doubt it's her. After all this time ... I'm blowed."

  "Who are Lockhart and Garland?"

  He looked up the road, consulted a watch, snapped it shut and stood up.

  "Listen, Miss Winter. I think we'd better work together for a while. If you're not busy for the next hour or two, can I take you to Twickenham and introduce you to an old friend of mine? She'll vouch for me, and for Adelaide, and it'll give us a chance to tell you the whole story."

  Becky was far from sure about the propriety of this. But he seemed honest, and she was vastly intrigued; after all, the more she knew, the more she could help Adelaide.

  "Very well," she said.

  In the train he told her how, years before, he had been an office-boy in the City, and had helped a young lady called Sally Lockhart solve the mystery of her father's murder. It was a murky story, with Chinese secret societies and opium and an enormous ruby mixed up in it. Adelaide had been the maidservant (more of a slave, really) of a vile old woman called Mrs Holland, who had played a part in Sally Lockhart's story, and after the mystery was cleared up and the villains disposed of, Adelaide vanished. They'd been afraid she was dead, until J. Taylor had caught a glimpse of Adelaide a month before, and traced her to Number 43 Church Road, and met the Prince.

  Becky said, "Is Miss Lockhart the friend I'm going to meet?"

  "Yes. She's Mrs Goldberg now."

  Sally (Mr Taylor called her that) was a crack shot with a pistol, apparently. She worked as a financial consultant, and she was married to the political journalist Daniel Goldberg, who had helped to rescue Sally's little daughter when she was kidnapped the year before.

  He told all this in the simplest, most matter-of-fact way, as if kidnappings and opium dens were everyday features of life. Becky was more impressed by this than if he'd tried to play it up. Then she realized what Mr Taylor had said about a child.

  "Did you say that Mrs Goldberg had a child? Before ... before she was married?"

  "Yes. It happens, you know. Little Harriet was Fred Garland's daughter; he died in a fire. He was with me the night Adelaide disappeared. She'll remember him, I'm sure."

  That set the seal on it: Becky was fascinated. If you were a single woman, you needed great strength of character to have a child and remain respectable. Oh, you needed a lover too, but there was no shortage of those; Becky knew that from the butcher's boy. She found herself looking forward to meeting this gun-toting female desperado Mrs Goldberg, and finding out how she did it.

  Orchard House, in Twickenham, stood at the end of a quiet tree-lined road near the river: a big Regency villa covered in white stucco, with a gravel drive and a stable block off to the left. There was a light ironwork balcony, and a glass-covered veranda to the side, overlooking a wide garden. It seemed an odd place from which to run a detective agency.

  "Well, we're an odd crew," said J. Taylor. "I've got an office in the Edgware Road, but I haven't had the cards printed for that yet. This is home rather than workplace."

  He showed her into a comfortable, jumbled kind of room - a mixture of studio, workshop and sitting room, with French windows open wide to let the sun in. There was a cabinet containing blue china, there was a wall of bookshelves, there was a grand piano; and on an easel by the door, something that drew Becky like a magnet - an oil sketch of a surburban road on a sunny morning, a lovely thing, bright and swift and full of spring air.

  "Pissarro!" she said, before she could help herself. "Oh! I do beg your pardon..."

  Seated on the sofa by the French windows was a young woman with blonde hair and dark-brown eyes. She was biting through a strand of thin navy-blue wool from the bulky piece of knitting on her lap.

  "Hello, Jim," she said. "Who's this?"

  "This is Miss Winter. She's brought me luck. Miss Winter, this is Mrs Goldberg."

  Mrs Goldberg stood up to shake hands. She was slim and pretty, and younger than Becky had expected. She had the same direct, vivid, friendly curiosity in her expression as J. Taylor did, almost as if they were brother and sister.

  "And yes, it is by Pissarro," Mrs Goldberg said. "I bought it last week. Have I made a good choice?"

  "It's lovely. Monsieur Pissarro stays with some friends of my mother's when he comes to London, and we know him slightly, that's how I recognized his style..."

  Mrs Goldberg was still holding her knitting, and Becky was staring at it, rudely, because the woman she'd heard about on the train, this daring adventuress who fired pistols and married socialists and had a child out of wedlock, was hardly the sort of person to knit, surely.

  Mrs Goldberg saw where she was looking, smiled, and tossed the bundle to J. Taylor.

  "I don't believe
it," he said, holding it up against himself: a fisherman's jersey. "It blooming fits, as well."

  Mrs Goldberg laughed. "Jim bet me five pounds I couldn't do it," she said. "It's taken me nearly a year, but I wasn't going to let it beat me. Come on, dub up," she said to him, holding out a hand.

  He counted out five sovereigns. "Don't bet with women," he said to Becky. "Here, Sal, we've walked into a prime lark here. It is Adelaide, and she's married to the Prince. MissWinter's her language tutor. Oh, and someone tried to blow him up this morning."

  "They didn't succeed, I hope?"

  "There was a bomb in his carriage," Becky said. "An infernal machine, Mr Taylor thinks."

  "A bomb?" said Mrs Goldberg. "I've never heard a bomb explode. What sort of noise does it make?"

  "D'you know, I can't remember. A bang, obviously, but whether it was a sharp one or a deep one or a whooshy one I couldn't say. I was upstairs in the sitting room with Miss Bevan and it blew the glass out of the window. It made a lot of dust..."

  "Miss Bevan? Is that what Adelaide calls herself?"

  "Yes. But..." Becky felt a moment's doubt again; should she be exposing Adelaide's secrets to these strangers? But she'd seldom felt so welcome, seldom met people she trusted so instinctively.

  Mrs Goldberg saw her hesitation, and took a stereoscope from the sideboard, fitting a slide into the frame before handing it to Becky. The picture showed a little girl with enormous dark eyes, dressed as a kitchenmaid, and the next showed her as a flower-girl, and then as a biblical maiden, and then as a fairy, and then as Little Nell. Was she Miss Bevan? It was hard to say. Then Mrs Goldberg handed her another.

  "Yes! It's her!"

  It was the very one she'd seen earlier that morning in Miss Bevan's own room: the little girl on the man's knee, and the sentimental song. She told Mrs Goldberg about it, and the other woman clapped her hands with delight.

  "I don't believe it!" she said. "Adelaide... We thought she was dead, we thought she'd vanished for ever..."

  "Why did you take so many pictures?"

  "It was when we were starting out. We sold them individually, at first, and then we made sets - Scenes from Dickens, Scenes from Shakespeare, Castles of Britain, Corners of Old London and so on. But Adelaide had vanished by that time, so she was only in the early ones. And she's kept it..."

  Becky told her about how Adelaide had reacted on hearing the names Taylor and Garland and Lockhart.