I crept down the hall, counting doors, trying to make sense of what I’d just seen. I passed the Prince of Wales’s suite. The room had to be Prince Siegfried’s. And from the outline of the figure against the light on the landing, it could be none other than Tristram. I hadn’t even realized that Tristram knew the prince. So why was he visiting him in the middle of the night? Naïve as I was, I could only come to one conclusion. And this was someone who only yesterday had proposed marriage to me. Like everything else at the moment, it didn’t add up.

Chapter 27

Chapter 27

Farlows
Saturday, May 7, 1932

I finally managed to sleep after placing a chair back under my doorknob and awoke to hear that doorknob being rattled fiercely and then a loud tapping on my door. It was broad daylight. I opened the door to find the maid with my morning tea. It was a lovely day, she said, and the gentlemen were off to play golf. The American ladies were joining them. If I also wanted to, I’d have to hurry.

I had no intention of straying from my mother, Lady Mountjoy, and Marisa. There had to be safety in numbers. I dressed and came down to breakfast to find Belinda busy attacking the kidneys. “Lovely spread,” she said. “One forgets how much one misses this sort of thing.”

I smiled at her and went to the sideboard to help myself.

“You’ve been awfully quiet,” she said. “Are you worrying about your brother?”

“No, I’m worrying about me.” I looked her straight in the eye. “Someone’s trying to kill me.”

“Oh, Georgie, surely you’re imagining things. You’re the type of person who has accidents, you know that.”

“But several accidents in one week? Even I am not that clumsy.”

“Horrible, I agree, but accidents nonetheless.”

“Only not last night,” I said. “Someone strung black thread across the top of those stairs. I found a piece on my skirt.”

“And nails in the wall?”

“No, but there were holes where nails could have been. My attacker must have removed them. He or she is obviously very sharp.”

“He or she? Who do you think it could be, then?”

“I have no idea,” I said, still staring at her. “Someone who is somehow linked to the death of de Mauxville. Tell me, was Tristram Hautbois on that boat on Sunday?”

“Tristram? No, he wasn’t.”

“Well, that shoots that theory, then.”

Belinda got to her feet. “I really do think you’re letting your imagination run riot,” she said. “We’re all your friends. We’ve known you for years.”

“And haven’t been quite straight with me.”

“What do you mean?”

“That you didn’t tell me you frequented Crockford’s. You were well known to the staff there.”