“Yes, I suppose so.” I sighed. I didn’t think I had time for a trip to county hall. Nor did I think they’d be willing to release birth records to someone turning up from out of the blue with no authority. A long trip for nothing. Or at least, not for nothing, because I had found Belinda, and now had a chance to help her. Also I had found that Bobo planned to keep the baby at a little house in the country. And I’d have information to share with Sir Jeremy. Birth certificates would be up to him now.

“Thank you, Maureen. That will be all,” I said.

Her face gradually lit up. “I know who you are too,” she said. “I’ve seen your picture in the papers as well. You’re the lady who’s related to the royal family, aren’t you? My, what an honor, Your Highness. And here was me, calling you ‘miss.’”

I smiled. “My fault for not introducing myself.”

She curtsied before she left. I turned to Belinda. “I have to go. But I’ll come and see you as soon as you get back to London. And I’ll write to Mummy immediately.”

She nodded. “Thanks, Georgie.”

I took her hand. “It will be all right. I promise.”

She squeezed my hand fiercely. “God, I hope so. You must have enough optimism for the both of us.”

Chapter 27

STILL NOVEMBER 8

BACK IN LONDON

It was still raining hard when I arrived back in London. On the train journey home I had carefully composed my letter to Mummy. Then I had jotted down the things I wanted to tell Sir Jeremy. That Bobo was really Kathleen Boyle from Ireland and had a mother living in Deptford. That the baby had been born near Worthing but she had said she wanted to keep it in a little house in the country. That Sir Toby had signed in an American called J. Walter Oppenheimer who had seemed out of place at Crockford’s and who had upset Bobo when he spoke with her. That Sir Toby was known to have been pally with Bobo. I toyed with that. So who was the American and why was she upset by him? Had he threatened her in some way?

I went to the nearest telephone box at Waterloo Station and rang Sir Jeremy’s number. Again he answered in his noncommittal manner and said he was tied up at the moment but would send a car for me in an hour. This made me realize what a dangerous implement the telephone can be. Anyone manning a switchboard could theoretically listen in on a conversation. Might it be worth talking to the girls who operated the Mayfair switchboard and would have connected Bobo’s calls?