King and Joker (14 page)

Kate was an idle hussy. Quite quickly Louise lost patience with her and let the story princess take over. The story princess in her best writing wrote quickly down all the things which she knew Mrs Handishaw would like, paying special attention to what Jerry called the good 'n' evil scene. In Tolkien good is all misty and evil is something over there, in that dirty old mountain, and the best thing to do about it is to whop off a few more orcs' heads. But in the real world good and evil are all mixed together, for instance … she stopped writing and thought of instances when really good people had things which were wrong with them: Mother could be almost mad in her hate of her few ancient enemies, and Durdy had been a complete bitch to most of her nurses until Kinunu showed up … and evil, is anybody
evil
? The image of a single letter scribbled on a pair of clean panties flipped into her mind … rubbish! That's not evil. That's just sick. She put on a public face (intelligent attention) and let the story princess finish the essay off. A minus. Julie will be furious, but how can she expect anything except Bs if she keeps treading on all Miss Handishaw's sacred toes?

Shutting the book she saw that it was still only just after half past seven. Well done, story princess! You have your uses; now, what would you like for a reward? Why, to sit on a throne, of course. Trouble is, there's only one pair of thrones in the Palace, and that's in the ball-room where Mother's cultural dagoes are whooping it up. Yes, but the curtain will be drawn across the dais and you can get round through the robing-room—and, actually, it might be quite useful to hear how Mother makes a speech in Spanish. At least that's what you can tell people if they find you lurking around on the dais. Lucky you're wearing a dress. Pity it's not a long one, and there ought to be a tiara at least. Louise half closed her eyes and tried to imagine the bitter twinkle of diamonds in her straight mousy hair. Public face, sweet and gracious but capable of stern command. Have to practise stern command. Practise on McGivan? Better start with the dogs.

She strolled out into the corridor still wearing her public face in case she bumped into a strayed Bolivian poetess. The Library lay round the corner from the run of State Rooms along the West Front; the wide corridor was busy with footmen, and the last guests still arriving, looking very much more as though they were used to this sort of thing than English people usually did in the Palace. It would be fun for Mother to be able to speak Spanish all evening and then complain at supper about the agony of listening to South American accents.

Louise put on a proper smile for Pilfer as he stalked towards her, stooped and dismal, looking like the minister of some furiously narrow-­minded sect who has been visiting the fleshpots for the sole purpose of going back to his chapel and blasting their wickedness from his pulpit. Probably, she thought, he was just disappointed at once again having failed to catch Mr Lambert using Private Apartment silver for a State Apartment do.

The hum of talk was not like that of real parties; it was quite loud, but missed out most of the shriller tones of chat.

At the door of the ball-room Pilfer's enemy, Mr Lambert, took a deep breath and raised an eyebrow at her.

“No, I'm not coming in,” she whispered. “I just wandered along for a glimpse of the bright lights.”

He nodded, then bent his head to listen to a fat little man with a vast, curling beard. When he straightened he let the breath go in the stately bellow which was his stock-in-trade.

“His Excellency Senor Jose Grando Y Batet!”

Under his raised chin Louise could see that the blue velvet curtains were indeed drawn across the far end of the room, almost like stage curtains. She strolled on against the current of guests and as though it were the normal thing to do slipped into the little robing-room which Father always called the vestry. She shut the door before she turned on the lights. Both the cupboards that held the robes were locked. Honestly, no long dress, no tiara, not even any velvet and ermine! Well, as Mrs Handishaw was always crooning, imagination is a marvellous gift. In imagination Louise robed herself in grandeur—much quicker than the real thing. She turned off the light, opened the door to the dais and slipped through.

It was very nearly dark behind the curtains, which were also thick enough to fuzz the hundred-voiced mutter of cultural back-chat, making the sculptors and dancers and administrators and so on all sound a bit tiddly. Louise moved slowly forward. Story princesses don't grope, even in the dark. She felt with her feet for the two steps to the dais and went up them at a stately pace, judging her course so well that the front edge of Mother's throne brushed her knee exactly when she was expecting it. She settled down on to the slightly prickling velvet with her back and neck held as straight as if she had been Queen Mary. She was deep in a fantasy of quelling an incursion of rebellious peasants into her own throne-room when Mr Lambert's bellow broke through, only the first few syllables drowned by the dying chit-chat. “Ladies and Gentlemen, pray silence for the Patron of the Anglo-Hispanic Cultural League, Her Majesty Queen Isabella, Lady of the Most Noble Order of the Garter, of the Royal Order of Victoria and Albert, Dame Grand Cross of the Royal Victorian Order, and Grand Master of the Order of the British Empiyaaah!”

Rapidly Louise re-peopled her throne-room with a glittering throng of courtiers, soldiers, delegations from loyal cities and ambassadors from exotic islands.

“Our much-loved subjects,” she murmured, stretching out to touch the hand of the imagined consort at her side.

His hand was real.

With a thundering bounce of the heart Louise jerked away, almost out of the throne, opening her eyes to peer through the gloom by now she could see the shape sitting there, a little hunched but wholly familiar. From beyond the curtains Mother's clear voice began its welcome.

“Father,” whispered Louise, already more frightened than amazed.

He appeared not to notice, but to be listening intently to the speech. Shakily she rose and touched his shoulder, then shook it. His head tilted slowly, at first as though he were falling asleep but coming at last to an angle which could not be true.

Chapter 10

M
utters and whispers. A choked-back fit of coughing, some way off. Out of dark mists a white light, harsher than sunrise. Screw eyes shut.

“Stand a bit over, Bella, and you'll keep that spot out of her eyes. She's coming round.”

Father's voice. His face close in the clearing mists. Mother black against the whiteness. Sir Sam's trousers.

“I thought … I'm all right … I thought you were …”

“Wasn't me. You've only fainted, She'll be OK, Bella. Bert, d'you feel up to putting in an appearance back there? Last thing we want's a panic. Sam, get them to send a stretcher, will you, then get on to the Yard?”

“I'm all right. I don't need a stretcher.”

“Lie still, Lulu.”

“I'm all right, I tell you!”

With a wriggling twist Louise jerked to her knees, almost blacking out again as she did so. She stared round. The curtains were still closed but the glare flooded from spotlights overhead, fierce and shadowless. At its centre Father sat slumped on his throne still, with his head at that inhuman skew. She flung round to see who'd been speaking to her.

“Take it easy, Lulu,” said Father, kneeling beside her. “It's poor McGivan. Don't look again. Only somebody's been fooling around with his moustache. You'd do much better to lie down again till the stretcher comes.”

“No!”

“OK. Well, take it easy. Hold my arm. There. Good girl.”

Louise leaned on him as she stood, shaking her head to clear the last of the mists.

“I'm all right,” she said, though the floor still seemed to slither a little under her feet. “I'm so sorry. I spoilt your speech, Mother. I … I couldn't help it. What … happened to McGivan?”

“Don't know, yet. Ah, here's the stretcher …”

“I can walk. I really can. Please. If somebody … Bert or Nonny …”

(You couldn't ask for Mother. She'd have to go back to the guests and put on a show.)

“Sure? Well, OK. No, don't go, Durnley. Will you stay here with McGivan and see that nobody touches anything? Snape, will you find the Prince in the ball-room and ask him to come back here? Bella, you stay with Lulu till Bert comes. We're going to have to tell the guests that they'll have to stay till the police take over, at least. It'll look better if we're both out there together—provided you feel up to it, that is.”

“Of course,” said Mother. “You huill tell Nonny that Lulu is all right, Vick?”

He grunted and slid between the curtains. Mother looked more sad than frightened. She bent to whisper so that Durnley, the stretcherman, couldn't hear.

“Hue couldn't both come,” she whispered.

Louise nodded. Of course, they were on show, and Mother had to be the only mother. She clasped her slim, chill hand and squeezed it to show that she understood and wasn't judging Nonny for not being there. In a very few moments Albert came back through the curtains. Louise put her arm round his shoulders and let herself be led away through the robing-room, wearing her public face, serious, for use at funerals. As they passed the main entrance to the ball-room they heard Lambert's mellow bellow.

“Your Excellencies, your Grace, my …”

“That's all right, Lambert,” interrupted Father's voice. “Ladies and Gentlemen, first let me assure you that nobody is in any danger at all. But I'm extremely sorry to say…”

The words faded out of hearing. The corridor seemed full of servants, each making a crude pretence, while Louise and Albert went by, to have some duty that brought them there. They didn't find themselves alone till they were on the stairs.

“Bert, was he dead?” whispered Louise.

“'Fraid so,” said Albert. “I mean Father checked on you, looked at him for a couple of seconds, made a no-go face and came back to you.”

“How did you find us?”

He stared at her.

“Jesus, Lulu, when everyone's listening to a speech and then they hear this scream …”

“Scream? Me?”

Now, vaguely, she remembered something wrenching at her throat, but not any noise.

“My first thought was that the joker had struck again,” he said. “Putting a tape of
Bride of Dracula
up there, timed to go off during the speeches.”

“Bert, I saw him!”

“I know you did, poor kid. Don't think about it.”

“No, I don't mean that. I saw him earlier, up in the Nurseries. He'd been … talking to Kinunu.”

“Oh. OK, I'll tell Father. I suppose it might be important. Get it clear in your mind, Lulu, but don't worry about it. You must have had the hell of a shock. I did too, though I'd only just seen Father go through the curtains. McGivan did look damned like him, for once.”

“Bert! Do you remember what Nonny said?”

“No. About McGivan?”

“Yes. After Father'd first shown him to us. Mother said he'd never be mistaken for Father, and then Nonny said he might do for a lying-in-state.”

Without any warning she found herself crying. All along the Middle Corridor the slow sobs came, not wrenching or painful but not easing either. Only a couple of hours ago McGivan had been deep in his snuffling ecstasies in Kinunu's arms; only a couple of hours ago he'd been standing by Kinunu's bed with his trousers round his ankles, as full of shame as a dog caught rolling in a cow-pat, but alive, alive. The suddenness of the change filled Louise with darkness. Not really having liked him made it no better. You could cope with somebody dying, even if you loved them, provided they were ready for it.

“Bert!”

“We're nearly there, kid. Take it easy.”

“I forgot. Tell Father that Durdy wasn't very well, I thought. I asked Kinunu to send for Doctor Simm if there was anything wrong, but I'm not sure she understood.”

“OK. If Father can't make it I'll go up and check, soon as I can. Here you are. Sure you'll be all right? Would you like me to tell Pilfer to bring your supper up here?”

“Oh, yes please. Thank you, Bert. I'm all right now. Don't forget to tell Father about Durdy.”

He'd done his best, but it was merciful to be alone, so much so that it took a definite act of will not to lock the door. When Louise went to her bathroom to wash her face she found that apart from a streak of her new anti-Nonny eye-shadow she mightn't have been crying at all. Angrily she wiped away the smear, scrubbing at it as if she was trying to remove the unreal, skin-deep calm as well. If ever she wanted to show grief she would have to act it, and even then there would be no real connection between the desolation inside and the grimaces on the surface. Oh, hell!

She went back to her room and crouched by the bookshelves, looking for something to fill her mind and stop her thinking about McGivan. McGivan and Kinunu, making love. Kinunu giggling and whispering “Yethyeth” and teasing, and McGivan snuffling like a badger digging into an ants' nest. How extraordinary people were. You'd never have guessed that McGivan would have got that far with her. Perhaps Kinunu had simply teased him into it. And all the while the blue square of the monitor had stared down at the bed and the room had been full of the voices of Durdy and Louise, talking next door.

Louise actually had her hand on
The Two Towers
when the idea came to her. She froze, then slowly dragged the book clear. McGivan had heard every word. He had heard about her own birth. Father bad talked to Durdy about it before then. He knew. He knew about Father's struggles on the loo, too. And of course he knew about Fatty Toad and Sir Sam's trousers. McGivan had been the joker. And somebody had killed him because of that.

She leafed through the book in her hand to the chapter called “The Voice of Saruman”. “Behold, I am not Gandalf the Grey, whom you betrayed. I am Gandalf the White, who has returned from death.” BASTARD!

He'd even have known that this was her favourite book, because she often talked to Durdy about it. She stared at the red scrawl, unshaken. She hadn't destroyed the book because it was a present from Albert. Could they prove it was McGivan's writing? A scrawl, probably left-Handed, with a coarse felt pen?

A knock at the door. Pilfer, very grave with the supper tray, not saying a word but managing to lay out the cloth and cutlery in a hushed and sympathetic manner. (Albert said Pilfer's father must have been an undertaker. That was why Pilfer wore black gloves, Albert said—his father had got a reduction on the price of mourners' gloves by buying them in quantity, and Pilfer had inherited several gross.) Louise thanked Pilfer and sat down to eat, surprised by her sudden hunger. Poor McGivan. Poor, dotty McGivan. At least he must have had some fun out of his jokes. And Kinunu.

She'd finished the soup and was halfway through one of a pair of chops, dressed with a brandy-and-cream sauce, when Father's head poked round the door.

“How are you feeling? Nothing wrong with your appetite, at least.”

He always grumbled like that when a member of the Family was tactless enough to fall sick.

“I'm all right. But listen, Father …”

The head poking round the jamb made a sharp frown, but cleared as the door opened wide. A stranger followed Father into the room, a softly handsome slim man, about Father's age but with a full crop of black hair, slicked hard to either side of the parting. He had that look of almost machine-made politeness which Louise was so used to in diplomats, top civil servants and Palace officials—except that Sir Sam would probably have taken him aside and very very tactfully given him the name of a better tailor.

“This is Detective Superintendent d'Arcy,” said Father. “My daughter. Lulu, what's this about your having seen McGivan in the Nurseries?”

“That's right. I'd been talking to Durdy …”

“That's my old nurse, Superintendent. She's bedridden.”

“… and when I came out he was outside, er, I mean in the Night Nursery. He'd been talking with Kinunu,”

“And that's my nurse's nurse. Yes, Lulu, what time was this?”

“Just after six.”

“Sure of that?” said Father.

“Six!” said the Superintendent at the same moment.

“Yes, the cuckoo clock had just struck.”

“You can't rely on that,” said Father. “It's never been the same since old Haakon swore he could make it tick less noisily. Did you check the time any other way?”

“Er … no, I don't think so. Next time I looked at a clock was when I was doing my homework. It was about half past six. I remember I thought my French hadn't taken me as long as I thought it had. Oh! You met Sir Sam outside the Library just then. He'd been in to look for you.”

“That's right, Superintendent,” said Father. “It must have been about half past six.”

“But the clock in the Nursery is not reliable, er, Sir?”

“I'm going up there now. I'll look at it. Lulu, Bert said you thought Durdy was off colour.”

“She seemed so tired and wandery. I wasn't sure Kinunu would check her properly. That's all.”

“Right. I'll nip up there now. That is provided you don't want me to stay, Superintendent.”

He nodded and was going before Mr d'Arcy could clear his throat.

“Please sit down,” said Louise. “D'you mind if I finish my supper?”

The second chop was congealing and the sauce had become a slobbery goo, but she thought that having to pause to eat might help her think without seeming to think. Mr d'Arcy got out a notebook and stared at it. Louise chewed a tiny corner of chop and waited. Suddenly he looked up.

“Now, Your Highness,” he said. “This won't take long. It's not frightening. I've a daughter just your age, and I wouldn't have her frightened for the world.”

His voice was deferential, but like his suit it wasn't quite right—a bit too much here, a bit too little there. Uncomfortable for him.

“It's all right, I'm not frightened,” said Louise, also not getting it right, not because of the remains of chop in her mouth but because she was suddenly very frightened indeed. If McGivan had been killed because he was the joker, then all the jokes would come out, including the rape of her own room, and the reason for it.

“Did somebody kill him?” she whispered.

“It looks that way, Your Highness. At the moment we're working on the theory that he stumbled on a terrorist group who were planning to disrupt the reception. They killed him and then ran off. There's a lot of work to be done on how they got in and out, of course. But the first essential is to establish the movements of the deceased. That's why I was surprised when you said you had seen him at six this evening. His Majesty had made a rough estimate of time of death a good half hour earlier than that. Of course His Majesty is not a pathologist, and we'll have to wait for our own doctor's report. At the other end of the time-scale, Sergeant Theale checked the, er, robing-room and the thrones at approximately twenty past five and saw nothing. So the question of the exact time when you saw the deceased is most important. However, I think we had better start by your telling me how you found the body, and we'll leave what happened in the Nursery until His Majesty returns and tells us whether the clock is right. Are you sure you feel up to this, Your Highness?”

Deliberately Louise had been niggling a scrap of meat from the bone while he spoke, to hide the altered tension in her mind. Sir Sam's Venezuelan terrorists! That was frightening, but in a quite different way, a way she could cope with. She put on a public face and turned towards him.

“It's all right,” she said, “ask anything you want.”

Even at a grisly moment like this the story princess had her uses. Louise could see how she bowled Mr d'Arcy over as she answered each of his careful questions. He took detailed notes which gave her plenty of time to think. The robing-room. Its locked cupboards. Its light off. The door to the dais shut. All that.