Chapters (37)
- Cover
- Berkley Prime Crime Titles by Rhys Bowen
- Title Page
- Copyright
- Dedication
- Chapter 1
- Chapter 2
- Chapter 3
- Chapter 4
- Chapter 5
- Chapter 6
- Chapter 7
- Chapter 8
- Chapter 9
- Chapter 10
- Chapter 11
- Chapter 12
- Chapter 13
- Chapter 14
- Chapter 15
- Chapter 16
- Chapter 17
- Chapter 18
- Chapter 19
- Chapter 20
- Chapter 21
- Chapter 22
- Chapter 23
- Chapter 24
- Chapter 25
- Chapter 26
- Chapter 27
- Chapter 28
- Chapter 29
- Chapter 30
- Chapter 31
- Historical Note
“Seven thirty at Liverpool Street Station. Can you imagine?” She looked around. “And there is no telephone and I wouldn’t know who to call either.”
“I suppose you could always order a taxicab or two.”
“I don’t think it would go down well to meet royal young ladies in a taxicab,” she said. “I’d better go and find the major. He will know.”
She looked completely washed out. “I’ll go for you,” I said. “If you have to be up that early you should go to bed now.”
She gave me a big smile. “You’re wonderful, Georgie. Thank you. Tell him I need the motor to be here at seven. I believe it’s quite a long way to Liverpool Street Station, isn’t it?”
“Yes. The other side of London. But half an hour should be sufficient.” I smiled and went back out into the night. It was crisp and cold and my footsteps echoed on the path as I made my way around to the main entrance of the palace. I realized I could have taken a shortcut through the courtyard to his back door, but I didn’t think it would be correct to appear at a back door unless it was an emergency. Also I was reluctant to cross that courtyard in the dark. My key admitted me to the main foyer, which was bathed in gloom. There was just one small lamp alight over the stairs and I found myself tiptoeing across the marble floor before I came to what I remembered to be the major’s front door. There was a calling card in the brass card holder and I peered at it to make sure I was in the right place. I was about to knock when my hand was poised, frozen, a few inches from the door.
Major Gerald Beauchamp-Chough.
“Crikey,” I whispered.
HE WAS GERALD. I knew there were plenty of other Geralds in the world, but it all made sense now. The upright major who hoped to be promoted to colonel could never risk letting anyone know that he was a homosexual. It would mean the end of his career. The only problem was that he had not been at the palace all evening. He had arrived back at the same moment as ourselves. Or rather he had said he had just arrived back. But then I remembered. Princess Alice had seen him from her bedroom window when she was going to bed.