The Blood Royal

Could she be sure this was A

‘I think you mean Ethel and Jim,’ the stranger corrected wearily. ‘If you mean my young friends in Hogsmire Lane. Do let’s stop all this secret service rubbish, shall we? We’re not overgrown Boy Scouts. And we haven’t much time to set the world to rights. I’ve been longing to talk to you – I feel I know you, having listened in to your chats withmy guardian. Now, thanks to you, I have some exciting shopping and packing to do. You may have advice to offer me on that … And I’m sure you’re looking forward to spending some time with the handsome commander, drinking a celebratory glass of champagne and toasting an absent friend.’

They walked on for a while, A

To all appearances the best of friends, Lily strolled with A

‘On no account should you confront A

They leaned companionably over the waist-high parapet and decided that the current was flowing east.

‘There’s a tide ru

Catching Lily completely by surprise, she tore the bag from Lily’s shoulder and threw it into the river. Lily squealed and turned on the taller girl, who had reapplied her hold on her right arm, squeezing until it was painful. The only way to attempt to break it was to smash upwards with the left fist at her face and stamp down on her instep at the same moment. Not a difficult manoeuvre. Lily had practised it on bigger and stronger targets. But it would be a desperate move and possibly a noisy one which she’d rather not attempt in a public place with people passing by. A punch in the face would get her out of trouble but she knew that the London bridges were patrolled by beat coppers. Sandilands would not be amused by a report that his plainclothes woman policeman had been arrested for an attack on a Russian aristocrat on Westminster Bridge.

‘Why did you do that? It was my grandfather’s bag. And very precious to me,’ she said, hoping to elicit a response she could understand.

‘Inherited goods mean nothing. They weigh one down. There it goes – the sweat, the screams, the bloodstains. The memories. It’s not popped back up again … it’s settling to rot on the river bed. Gone.’

‘I haven’t much of a past to let go,’ said Lily. ‘I can’t afford to be so cavalier with the little I have.’

‘Poor creature.’ There was no sympathy in the voice. ‘You are upset by the loss of a dirty old bag? I have lost the world. A country. A family. A fortune. A name. All I have left is my life and what is that to anyone? An embarrassment. An anachronism. Even a threat. I’ve become a danger to Aunt Tizzi and my own people. Time to move on.’ Her eyes were drawn in fascination again to the water. ‘They tell me this is the most popular spot in London for suicide. One sees why. How those dark depths call one to oblivion!’

She dropped Lily’s arm and edged a few paces further on to the bridge. She put her hands on the parapet, leaning dangerously forward to stare into the river.

Lily sidled after her. She recognized suicidal despair in the girl’s voice and at last realized why she’d been brought here. Many people killed themselves quietly, dying alone in holes and corners all over London, hugging their unbearable sorrows to their breast. But some – those who seemed to bear a grudge against society – preferred to go with a flourish, screaming out their hatred … or their guilt. Lily knew with a chilling certainty that she’d been chosen, lured on to the bridge, to hear the last words, to witness such a death.

‘I’ve stood here before, you know. Many times. Never quite having the courage … and always stopped by the same thought. Do you suppose, Lily, that if one were to jump, and … natural impulses changed one’s mind at the last moment, one could swim to the bank from here?’

Lily prepared to share her suffering and her speculation. She looked down into the water and shuddered. ‘It’s possible,’ she lied. ‘You might survive. But of course it would depend on the strength of the undertow and the swimming skill of the jumper. Only a strong swimmer would make it. You’d have to be very certain that you really wanted to die and weren’t just calling attention to your own sorrow.’ She remembered with a stab of pity that the moody girl at her side was the survivor of rape, slavery and goodness only knew what other horrors. Horrors which, if Sandilands and his psychiatrist had it right, had affected her mind with the destructive force of unremitting shelling.

Alert to the slightest hint of a suicidal move, Lily closed in on A

Lily sca

Talk. Calm reason. Understanding. That was her best – her only – tool.

‘You’ve been half in love with easeful Death? I can understand that. Very well. Let the past go then, A

‘Nonsense! You haven’t seen it at all, have you? This letter, purportedly from a friend in California, is an elaborate charade! You want to be rid of me.’ Her laughter was sharp and scathing. ‘Who but the English, sensing a threat to their Establishment, would hold back their secret police killers and send in a single girl armed with a few sheets of paper? This is a parlour game – an entertaining piece of whimsy!’

She took Sam Scrivener’s page of meticulous work from her pocket, tore it in two and threw it after the bag into the river. She leaned far over to watch the pieces swirl and dance on the dark surface, drawing a cry of concern from Lily.