The FitzOsbornes in Exile (14 page)

It was almost dusk by the time the policemen gathered back in the little drawing room, where we were all eating wedding cake—except for the dormouse, who was licking milk from the end of the eyedropper.

“Well?” said Aunt Charlotte impatiently. “What have you discovered?”

“It appears,” said the inspector, “that Her Highness was shot.”

“Yes, we’d worked that out for ourselves,” said Veronica. “But have you identified the pistol? Can the owner be traced?”

“It’s probably a small handgun,” he said, peering at his notes. “Likely to have been manufactured, and perhaps purchased, in America. Either single-barreled or else … not. A fairly old gun, if it’s single-barreled. If it were double-barreled, the assailant would have fired a second bullet.”

“Or else he fired the first bullet outside, to test the gun was working,” said Veronica. “Or thought I was mortally wounded after one shot, and knew if he stayed any longer, he’d be caught. What about fingerprints?”

The inspector shook his head. “Now, if the gun itself were found … but it doesn’t appear the assailant threw it away.”

“So, you haven’t discovered
anything
useful?” said Simon, exasperated.

“Well!” huffed the inspector in offended tones. “If certain persons hadn’t destroyed
valuable evidence
 …” Toby had told them about the poison-pen letters.

“And what would
that
have shown you?” snapped Veronica. “That they’d been typed using a small Olivetti that was probably purchased somewhere in Europe, on a brand of writing paper available throughout the world?”

I did feel a bit sorry for the policemen. When they’d asked for the names of any person who might have reason to dislike Veronica, Simon said, “Anyone who’s ever sat next to her at a dinner party, the majority of this year’s debutantes, and the entire readership of the Fascist newspaper
Action.
” Toby, upon being informed that ladies who were shot were generally the victims of rejected suitors, provided them with the name of Lord Elchester’s nephew. Aunt Charlotte berated the youngest constable for spelling “FitzOsborne” incorrectly and nearly made him cry. And …

Oh! I’ve just thought of something!

Back again, hours later. Glancing over my journal entry, I suddenly had an idea about the man Simon had seen from the staircase, the man in the ordinary coat and hat. What if the gunman had been the same man I’d seen outside the church, and he’d been waiting for a glimpse of
Veronica
, not Julia? Comparing descriptions, Simon and I agreed that the men were of similar height and wore similar clothes, so Simon and Toby went off to the newspaper office to see if the wedding photographs had been developed. Luckily, they had. Even more luckily, the sub-editor accepted Toby’s improbable story about being the photographer hired by the Stanley-Rosses, having a whole roll of film over-exposed, and needing to purchase some newspaper photographs to save his professional reputation from utter ruin.

“But couldn’t you just have told the police and had
them
requisition the photographs?” asked Rupert, who came round this afternoon for tea.

“What, send PC Plod after them?” said Toby. “And have him drop them in the street or accidentally file them in the wastepaper bin?”

“Anyway, we
did
give them the photographs, after we’d had a good look at them,” said Simon. “The man’s face wasn’t very clear—he had his hat pulled down low and his collar up—but Sophia recognized him.”

“I said he looked familiar, but I couldn’t think where I’d seen him,” I corrected.

“Yet none of us recognized his voice,” said Veronica, frowning. “Although I suppose he could have been trying to disguise it. It was rather hoarse, wasn’t it?”

“And quite high-pitched,” said Simon.

“Definitely English, though, not German or anything like that,” mused Veronica. “Of course, we only heard two words.”

So, it’s as much of a mystery as before—but it was rather exciting, for a moment, to think that my journal had provided a clue, however small. And I might yet recall
why
he seems familiar …

After that, Simon was summoned to the library to type some letters for Aunt Charlotte, and Veronica went off to telephone the Reverend Webster Herbert about the Basque children, two dozen of whom are due to arrive in Milford in a few days. Toby, Rupert, and I sat around the tea table, discussing the bits of the wedding we’d missed. Anthony, it turned out, had become rather drunk after his best man laced his champagne with vodka; an elderly aunt got her tiara caught in an elaborate floral arrangement, knocked over a candle with her elbow, and set fire to the tablecloth; and a scandalous divorced second cousin, whom nobody could remember inviting, had caught Julia’s bouquet.

“Oh, and I forgot to ask,” said Toby. “How was the Fourth of June?”

Apparently, this is some big day at Eton, when there are speeches and cricket matches and a procession of boats and fireworks, and all the families turn up with vast picnic hampers.

“Everyone was busy with the wedding preparations, so it was just David and Penelope this year,” said Rupert with a sigh. “Well, I don’t blame the rest of them for wanting to stay away. Poor Mummy must have been to a dozen of them by now.”

“I suppose David loved it,” said Toby.

“All those fellow Old Etonians slapping him on the back and reminiscing about the best days of their lives,” agreed Rupert. “If
I
ever have a son, I won’t be inflicting any of that rubbish on him. He can go to the local secondary school.”

“Do you suppose even
they
have ridiculous, pointless rules?” asked Toby. “Remember that time I sat on the—”

Whereupon both of them collapsed in giggles, and their gasping attempts at explanation just left me bemused. Apparently, Toby, in his second year, had sat upon a certain wall at Eton, causing widespread horror and disbelief because only a select few were allowed to rest their behinds on that particular stretch of brickwork. It all sounded rather silly to me.

“Very silly,” said Toby, taking a deep breath and wiping his eyes. “Oh dear. Do you suppose Oxford will be as bad?”

“It couldn’t possibly be,” said Rupert. “And even if it is, it’s only three years, not six.” He took the dormouse out of his pocket for a feed just as Toby was called away to the telephone.

Rupert proceeded to tell me a lot of interesting facts about dormice—that they spend most of summer up in trees and most of winter fast asleep in nests on the ground; that they love honeysuckle and hazelnuts; and that their tails are so fragile that often the skin and bones fall apart, which is why some dormice seem to have such short tails. They’re really quite adorable, I’ve decided, with their enormous dark eyes and shell-like ears and extravagant whiskers—not at all rattish.

“Sorry!” cried Toby, coming back in ten minutes later. “Aunt C suddenly realized you two were alone in here, so I’ve been ordered back to chaperone you. Don’t mind me, I’ll keep my eyes shut and my fingers stuffed in my ears. Carry on.”

I started to laugh—both doors were wide open, and maids had been marching in and out to clear the tea things, so it was hardly the place for a bit of romance, even if the idea had entered either of our heads, which it most certainly had
not
—but Rupert went a bit pink and said he had to be getting along, anyway. Once he’d departed, I was sent for by Aunt Charlotte and subjected to one of her “little chats.”

“Quite an old family, the Stanley-Rosses, good breeding on both sides,” she said loftily. “But, my
dear
child, there’s hardly
any
money. I believe they’re thinking of selling that London house—too expensive to keep up and not much point now Julia’s married off—but regardless of all that, the boy’s a
third
son. He won’t inherit a scrap of land. You can do far better than
that
, Sophia.”

Although she then gave me a rather dubious look, taking in my ink-stained fingers (my pen leaks) and bird’s nest hair (the hairdresser’s lacquer spray from yesterday proved very difficult to wash out, and hanks of my hair are still sticking out at odd angles).

I couldn’t think of anything to say in my or Rupert’s defense, it was all too idiotic. The situation wasn’t helped any by Simon coming in halfway through with some letters to be signed, realizing what was going on, trying to back out, then being ordered by Aunt Charlotte to sit down and find that address she’d been looking for. He gave me a sympathetic grimace, then rustled noisily through the papers on the desk, feigning deafness but clearly trying not to laugh. The moment I could get away, I rushed upstairs to my room, to the comfort of my journal—although now I’m far too irritated to write any more. I think I’ll go and have a very long soak in the bath, using the rose-scented bath salts I bought with my first month’s allowance. They’re supposed to be soothing. Besides, they might help dissolve some of this hair lacquer.

7th June 1937

I was still indignant about Aunt Charlotte this morning and spent half an hour unburdening myself to Veronica, who was very sympathetic.

“She’s given up on me, you see,” Veronica said, nodding. “I’m causing far too many problems. She thinks you’ll be easier to marry off.”

“But I’m
sixteen
!” I said. “I don’t
want
to get married! Well, not at the moment, anyway. In about ten years’ time would be perfect … And poor
Rupert
! We were just sitting there, talking about dormice! Something embarrassing happens every single time I see him. He’ll probably run away and hide the next time he catches sight of me.”

“I’m sure he won’t,” said Veronica. “He seems very sensible—and he’s excellent in a crisis, isn’t he? I mean, look at how he was at the wedding. And if he isn’t already used to mothers and aunts inspecting him as possible husband material, he soon will be.”

“ ‘It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune, must be in want of a wife,’ ” I said, sighing.

“Is it?” said Veronica, looking surprised. “
Universally
acknowledged? Surely that presupposes life similar to human societies beyond this planet, and besides—”

“No, no, it’s a quote from … Never mind,” I said. “Anyway, Rupert’s not in possession of a good fortune.”

“Well, he’s more likely to earn one than either of us,” said Veronica, scowling. She jumped up from my bed and began pacing the room. “We’ve received no education to speak of, no training for anything but marriage—and not even much training for
that
. It’s appalling the way sex is treated as some sort of dark, mystical secret.”

“I
know
,” I said. I wondered if Julia could be persuaded to tell whatever she knew when she got back from her honeymoon.

“Discouraged from attending university, kept out of the professions, paid half a man’s wages if we
do
take a menial job,” Veronica went on, her voice rising. “Expected to be
grateful
that women have finally been given the vote, then criticized when we take an interest in politics, because we can’t possibly
understand
what we read in the newspapers. Forbidden from doing
anything
because we’re such fragile little creatures—”

Veronica is confined to Montmaray House until her would-be assassin is caught, so she’s behaving a bit like a bear in a zoo. I’m sure bears are quite good-natured if allowed to wander round the mountains, doing as they please—but even the nicest bear would soon become very cross if locked in a cage and bombarded with stones by small boys.

“And now
this
!” growled Veronica, brandishing the latest stone, otherwise known as
The Times
, which was the reason she’d come in to see me in the first place. The newspaper contained a letter written by Lord Elchester, who complained that the refugees at Stoneham Camp were thieving little hooligans and ought to be shipped straight back home.

“How would he know if they
were
? He doesn’t live anywhere
near
Southampton!” Veronica exclaimed. “He’s just using it as an excuse to proclaim his despicable political opinions!”

“Do you think some of the children
are
behaving badly?” I asked anxiously. After all, two dozen of them were about to arrive in Milford.

“With their experiences in the war, I wouldn’t be surprised,” said Veronica. “Although I doubt any of them are worse than Henry.”

At that point, Phoebe sidled into the room, for no apparent reason. Perhaps she’d been told to keep a close eye on us, in case assassins started climbing through the windows and concealing themselves in the wardrobe or under the bed. If they do, I can’t think of anyone less likely to deter them than Phoebe, especially at the moment—she’s even paler and thinner than usual.

“Are you ill?” asked Veronica, not unsympathetically. But Phoebe only shook her head and trembled even more. (She finds Veronica rather intimidating.) Looking round, she caught sight of a crumpled handkerchief under my dressing table, scooped it up, and vanished as quickly as she’d appeared. I wondered if she’d been hoping to have a word with me alone, so I cornered her later in the bathroom. She was laden with a stack of towels, so I knew she wouldn’t be able to make an easy escape.

“Is everything all right?” I asked. “You’re not worried that an assassin will attack us, are you? Because there’s no way anyone could get inside this house, and even if they did, Harkness was in the war—he’d soon sort them out.”

“I know, Your Highness,” she said, setting the towels on a chair. “He’s got his old pistol out of its case and polished it up.” She looked even more miserable at this.

“Then, is your family all right?” I said. “Your mother’s not, er …” She couldn’t possibly have had
another
baby, could she?

“Oh, no, Your Highness. I mean, she’s well, Your Highness.”

“And your sister, the one who’s just gone into service in Salisbury?”

“She’s … she’s all right, thank you, Your Highness.”

If I went on enquiring about every member of Phoebe’s family, we’d be there for hours. I pondered for a moment as she hung up the towels. Perhaps she just needed a holiday. She’d had every second Sunday off since we’d arrived in London, but it would take a whole day to travel to her village by train and bus. She’d no sooner get there than she’d have to leave, and even then, she’d be late coming back.

“Do you need a week off?” I ventured. “To go and see your family?”

Her whole face lit up, but she demurred. “Oh, but I couldn’t, Your Highness,” she said. “I haven’t any leave due to me. I’ve not worked long enough.”

“Never mind about
that
,” I said, making a mental note to get Toby to ask the housekeeper (as she, like everyone else, adores him and indulges his every whim). “If you
could
, would you like to go and see your family?”

“Ye-es, Your Highness,” she said—very reluctantly, as though I were dragging a confession of murder out of her. Then I understood. She wouldn’t be paid for the week if she didn’t work, and there’d be the train ticket and the bus fares, and I knew she sent most of her earnings home. Poor Phoebe! It made me want to join Daniel’s next march in support of Fair Working Conditions for All—but as that’s impossible, I made a silent vow to use my allowance, and Veronica’s and Toby’s, too, if necessary, so that Phoebe could have a proper holiday.

“If it’s what you want, I can try to arrange it,” I said. “And don’t worry about the train fares or anything. Of course, if you don’t want to go, that’s all right, too.”

“Well,” she said, wringing her hands. I stood there a bit longer, smiling encouragingly, but eventually gave up and turned to go.
Then
the dam burst. Oh, she
would
like to go home, please, because her favorite brother—the one who’d been in trouble in Liverpool—was back, having lost his job up north.

“What sort of trouble?” I asked, madly curious.

“It weren’t his fault,” cried Phoebe, in full flow by then. “It’s the police—they’ve got it in for Blackshirts …” Her eyes widened and she clapped her hand over her mouth.

“Your brother’s joined the
Blackshirts
?” I said, goggling at her.

“You won’t tell Her Highness, will you?” she begged.

I assumed she meant Veronica rather than Aunt Charlotte. But before I could say anything to reassure her, Barnes came in to see why Phoebe was taking so long with the towels, and it was probably only my presence that saved Phoebe from a tongue-lashing. Phoebe shot off downstairs and I walked back to my room, my thoughts whirling.

A
Blackshirt
! No wonder Phoebe gets into such a fluster whenever Veronica starts railing against the Fascists! But why would a nice village boy (I assume he’s nice if he’s Phoebe’s favorite brother) want to dedicate himself to someone like Mosley—especially if it caused the poor boy to lose his job? Why would
anyone
want to be a Fascist? I thought of asking Veronica, but she’d only tell me he must be a complete idiot. She is not very balanced on the subject of Fascism. Although, I must admit, she thinks fanatical Communists are idiots, too. Actually, anyone who blindly follows
any
form of dogma, whether written by Marx, Hitler, or God, is regarded by Veronica as a complete idiot.

So I decided to go and ask Simon. I’d been eager to learn more about his political views, anyway. Sometimes he appeared to agree with Chamberlain, the Conservative Prime Minister, and other times he favored Winston Churchill (also a Conservative, although Churchill seems to be Chamberlain’s sworn enemy these days). Then, on other issues, Simon supported the Labour Party. Of course, mostly Simon argued the opposite of whatever Veronica had just said. I waited till Aunt Charlotte had left for one of Lady Bosworth’s interminable luncheon parties and Toby had gone for a walk in Kensington Gardens with Rupert. Then I went looking for Simon, eventually finding him in an armchair in the library, engrossed in a thick leather-bound volume. I tilted my head sideways to read the gold lettering on the spine.

“What’s ‘tort’?” I asked.

“Aarrgh!” he said, jolting upright. “Oh, it’s you.” He started to shove the book under a cushion, realized I’d already seen the cover, and blushed.

“Is it something
scandalous
?” I asked, intrigued.

“It’s perfectly proper,” he said. “Oh
—here
you are, then, if you don’t believe me.” And he held out a page, which consisted of a lot of complicated legal language, quite unintelligible to me.

“Hmm,” I said. “So why did you try to hide it?”

“Are you going to pester me until I tell you?”

I pulled a footstool closer, sat on it, and stared up into his face. “Perhaps,” I said.

He sighed.

“Or I could just ask Toby,” I said.

“No, don’t!” he said quickly. “All right, then. If you promise not to tell anyone.”

“I can’t promise till I know what it
is
,” I said. “But I won’t tell if there’s a good reason to keep it secret.”

It was destined to be a Day of Astonishing Revelations. It turns out that Simon has enrolled in night classes, to study law.

“But why would you want to keep
that
a secret?” I asked, bemused.

“For one thing, I doubt the Princess Royal would approve. She prefers me to spend every waking moment engaged in official duties.”

“Oh. Yes, I see what you mean. But Toby wouldn’t mind.”

Simon fiddled with the cover of the book. “I don’t want him to know, Sophia, in case …” He took a deep breath, then spoke in a rush. “In case I don’t do very well. I haven’t been to school before, I’m not used to working for examinations, and you know Toby doesn’t take
any
kind of study seriously.”

Gazing into Simon’s face, I was filled with an intense but confused emotion. Admiration mixed with pity might be the closest way to describe it. I thought of how Simon must have felt, watching Toby open that acceptance letter from Christ Church, knowing how little Toby valued it …

“I swear, I won’t tell
anyone
,” I said fiercely—perhaps a little
too
fiercely, because Simon looked surprised, then slightly worried. I hastened to change the subject. “But, Simon, you distracted me. I came down to ask you a question.”

Simon seemed relieved when he realized all I wanted to know was why people became Fascists. First he explained about German Fascism—how Hitler had taken advantage of the terrible conditions in Germany after they lost the Great War, how he’d ruthlessly eliminated other political parties and the free press, had set up storm-trooper armies and secret police and propaganda units and youth societies, so that now it was difficult and dangerous for a German to choose
not
to be a Fascist.

“Yes, I know about that,” I said. “But why do
English
people become Fascists? Why would they want a Fascist dictator instead of a Parliament they could elect?”

Simon looked down at the book in his lap and drew his brows together. “You know, I once heard Mosley speak, years ago, in Trafalgar Square. It wasn’t so much
what
he said but how he said it. He really knew how to use his voice. All that practice in the House of Commons, I suppose. And then there were his men in their black uniforms, flinging their arms up in salutes and waving their banners. It seemed so impressive.” Simon glanced at me, giving me his half smile. “And he’s said to be very good-looking, by those who care about such things. There are quite a few
lady
Fascists, you know.”

“Ugh! I think he’s creepy,” I said with a shudder. (Mosley personifies the word “cad” to me. The words “scoundrel” and “rake” and “knave” also come to mind. Well, perhaps not “knave,” that’s a bit too medieval. Mosley is a thoroughly modern villain.) “So, it’s just having a charismatic leader, that’s all there is to their popularity?”

“It’s also what he promises. Everything will become perfect the moment he takes over. Industry will be more efficient, there’ll be jobs for all, workers will get paid more for working less, education and health care will be freely available. It’s all a lot of nonsense, of course. None of his ideas would actually work, and half of them contradict the other half. But for people without much education, with badly paid, backbreaking jobs—or no jobs at all—it must sound wonderful. And he’s careful to say exactly what his audience wants to hear. He promises to get rid of the idle rich when he’s talking to unemployed miners up north, then he vows to abolish the Communists and trade unions when he’s talking to his fellow idle rich. But the
main
thing is that he claims he’s the only one who can save Britain from war.”

“By letting Hitler do whatever he wants,” I said, disgusted.

“Well, it’s not that different from Chamberlain’s policy of appeasement,” Simon pointed out. “And who wants to go to war? You know how terrible it was last time. Imagine how much worse it’d be with modern armies, with aeroplanes able to bomb entire cities to rubble.”