Queenie was duly grateful and wolfed down the food while I laid out what I wanted to wear with the burgundy dress to the theater. But my thoughts were racing. What to do next? Obviously someone should have a little heart-to-heart with Prince George to find out why he came in late to dinner last night. I didn’t want to do that, but I could take a look at his car to see if it had really been in an accident. And maybe ask his servants what time he left St. James’s.

Then I should interview the servants here. The lie I had made up on the spot for Irmtraut was a good one, I decided. Nothing to do with any sort of crime. A friend had heard I was staying at the palace and came to say hello. But she couldn’t make anyone hear when she knocked on the front door. She wandered around a bit, looking for a way in, then gave up and went home. I’d ask indignantly if nobody heard or saw her.

My thoughts went back to Irmtraut and the damp jacket with the knife in the pocket. But the method of the murder was so different from a quick stab in the dark. If someone had fed Bobo a cocktail or two, and one of them laced with Veronal, then it had to be someone she knew. A complete stranger couldn’t force alcohol down her throat. So that probably ruled out the drug lord. Such subtle killing was not their way of operation. The quick knife or bullet in the dark or kidnapping and dumping someone in the Thames would be what I’d expect from them. And if Bobo was a habitual drug user it would make no sense to kill the goose that laid the golden egg, would it?

“Do you want me to run your bath?” Queenie asked, interrupting my reverie.

I REALIZED THAT the next thing I should do would be to question the servants, but there wasn’t time before the car arrived to take us to the theater. We set off and had not gone far before there was an enormous flash of light, followed by an explosion to our right.

We all jumped but Irmtraut screamed. “Assassins! We will all be killed by Bolsheviks!”

It had taken me a minute but when the second flash and bang went off I realized. “Don’t worry. It’s only Guy Fawkes Night.”

“Guy Fawkes?” Irmtraut asked. “What is this?”

“Who is this,” I corrected. “He was a person who tried to blow up the Houses of Parliament many years ago. We still celebrate his beheading by burning his effigy on bonfires and setting off fireworks every November fifth.”

“You burn people? This is most barbaric,” she exclaimed.

“No, not real people. Just an effigy—Guys made of old clothes, stuffed with straw. And we set off pretty fireworks. Children love it.”