A Royal Affair

Book 2: Sparks & Bainbridge Mystery

by Allison Montclair

Genres: Amateur Sleuth; Historical Mysteries

Synopsis

More goes wrong than could be imagined when Iris Sparks and Gwendolyn Bainbridge of the Right Sort Marriage Bureau are unexpectedly engaged to dig into the past of a suitor of a royal princess.

In London 1946, the Right Sort Marriage Bureau is just beginning to take off, and the proprietors, Miss Iris Sparks and Mrs. Gwendolyn Bainbridge, are in need of a bigger office and a secretary to handle the growing demand. Unfortunately, they don’t yet have the necessary means. So when a woman arrives—a cousin of Gwen’s—with an interesting and quite remunerative proposition, they two of them are all ears.The cousin, one Lady Matheson, works for the Queen in “some capacity” and is in need of some discreet investigation. It seems that the Princess Elizabeth has developed feelings for a dashing Greek prince and a blackmail note has arrived, alluding to some potentially damaging information about said prince. Wanting to keep this out of the palace gossip circles, but also needing to find out what skeletons might lurk in the prince’s closet, the palace has quietly turned to Gwen and Iris. Without causing a stir, the two of them must now find out what secrets lurk in the prince’s past, before his engagement to the future Queen of England is announced. And there’s more at stake than the future of the Empire—there is their potential new office that lies in the balance.

Release date: July 28, 2020

Publisher: St. Martin's Publishing Group

Print pages: 320

Sample

CHAPTER 1



“Men find me intimidating,” boomed Miss Hardiman. “That’s the problem.”

“Surely not,” Sparks protested.

“Oh, it’s been like that ever since I was little,” Miss Hardiman continued, at a volume that made Sparks fear for her eardrums. And the windowpanes. “Not that I was little for long. I was the tallest early on. You have no idea what that’s like.”

“I never have,” Sparks agreed, shrinking back at the onslaught. “But they must have caught up with you eventually.”

“By that time, they had grown up terrified of me,” said Miss Hardiman. “And I had got used to being the Terror of Tiny Town. I liked it, to tell the truth.”

“The truth is what we require here at The Right Sort,” said Sparks.

From our clients, at least, she thought.

“So, you came to London in thirty-nine?” Sparks asked, holding her steno pad in front of her, painfully aware of its inadequacy as a shield.

“Right. Perfect timing. Things went potty right after I showed up.”

“Not cause and effect, of course.”

“Oh, dear! You are a caution, and that’s no lie! No, I showed up in July, two months of dashing about, looking for work, then came the war. I joined up right away, of course.”

“Well done,” acknowledged Sparks. “Where did they assign you?”

“Office jobs at first,” said Miss Hardiman. “But I presented too much of a distraction, or so they told me, and not for my bombshell looks, which was disappointing. Yes, I’m joking, I know what I look like. No, I was too much of a tiger in a cage. I switched over to the motor pool, which was boring. Finally, I found my true calling.”

“Which was?”

“I was an Ack-Ack Girl,” declared Miss Hardiman proudly. “Started as part of a team, worked my way up to commanding my little squad.”

“Really?” exclaimed Sparks, perking up. “You got to fire the big guns?”

“Oh, yes, and it was glorious! Perched up on the hilltop with the twin 525s, watching the searchlights scour the sky, trying to spot the Messerschmitts coming out of the clouds, calculating trajectories on the fly, bellowing commands at the tops of my lungs! Then BOOM!”

Sparks involuntarily snapped her pencil in two.

Gwen, where the blazes are you? she thought. I need reinforcements.

They were sitting on opposite sides of her decrepit desk in the small office which constituted the entire premises of The Right Sort Marriage Bureau. It was a humid Tuesday morning in early July, and the standing fan that Gwen had managed to sneak out of her in-laws’ home pushed the thick London air only a few inches forwards before it gave up, leaving the rest of the office, particularly the space around Sparks herself, unrefreshed.

Miss Hardiman had, since only one of the two proprietors was present, plunked herself down in the single guest chair directly across from Sparks. She was tall enough, even seated, to bring the top of her head in line with the dartboard that hung on the wall behind the door. This gave her the appearance of having a gaudily striped halo, the bull’s-eye perched over the top of her energetically bobbing bun.

Sparks found her eyes drifting towards the bun, her hand itching for a dart.

“One moment,” she said, taking the surviving portion of her pencil and sharpening it. She licked the point when she was done, a habit left from childhood.

“Right,” she said. “Ack-Ack Girl. Any success?”

“Two confirmed, shared a third,” said Miss Hardiman. “Do you know that we were the only women in the services who actually killed the enemy?”

Not the only ones, thought Sparks, maintaining her bland expression.

“How about you?” asked Miss Hardiman. “How did you spend your war?”

Who do you work for? shouted Carlos, his hands around her throat, her own scrabbling for the knife under the pillow …

“Clerical work,” said Sparks. “Nothing as exciting as what you did.”

“But essential, I’m sure,” said Miss Hardiman with more than a touch of condescension.

“Every cog in the machine matters,” said Sparks.

“Is it odd to say I miss it?” asked Miss Hardiman. “It was terrifying, but I felt I had purpose like I never had before. And now, of course—honestly, I envy you.”

“Me? Why me?”

“You still have purpose,” said Miss Hardiman. “You’re in charge here.”

“I am only in charge of myself,” said Sparks. “Mrs. Bainbridge and I are equal partners and have no other employees. I’m hardly a mover and a shaker.”

“But you run your own show, with no ridiculous men to boss you about,” said Miss Hardiman. “That seems like paradise, in a way.”

“It is different,” said Sparks. “We’re making a go of it, I’m glad to report.”

“After all the publicity about solving the La Salle murder, I should think so.”

“That’s not our normal line of work,” said Sparks. “It fell into our laps, much the same way a grand piano does in those American cartoons. Now, let’s get back to finding you a good candidate. Would you say, given your … enthusiastic personality, that you would be happier with a man who stands up to it, or one who would give in to it?”

“Ohh, that’s the nub, isn’t it? I’d think the first, except the arguing could get exhausting over the long run. But if the lad folds the moment I challenge him, there’s no fun. Could I ask for a bit of both?”

“You could,” said Sparks, jotting down the answer. “Finding him is the trick.”

“Which do you prefer?” asked Miss Hardiman.

“I’ve had fun. I’ve been exhausted. I’m back to fun at the moment.”

“You’re not married yourself, I notice.”

“Correct.”

“How do I know you’re any good at setting people up?”

“Because we had enough faith in our abilities to do so to start a business doing it, and we’ve had enough success for others to share that faith. Yes, I haven’t followed a flower girl down the daisy-strewn aisle myself, but I bring a particular perspective to the search, and Mrs. Bainbridge brings a different but equally useful one. We are now on the hunt, Miss Hardiman. We shall put our minds to it, and contact you with a suitable candidate shortly.”

Maybe one who’s hard of hearing, she thought as she rose to shake Miss Hardiman’s hand.

She quashed the thought immediately.

* * *

Iris was in the middle of typing up her notes when Gwen returned, waving a pair of keys dangling from a metal tag.

“Got them,” said Gwen. “Sorry I took so long. Mr. MacPherson was particularly difficult to find today.”

“Where did he turn up?”

“Napping in a vacant office on the second storey, broom in hand. How did things go with the ten thirty?”

“Letitia Hardiman is now our latest client, I am happy to report. Tall, almost your height, in fact. Assertive, extremely loud. She led an antiaircraft battery during the war, which is impressive.”

“When you say ‘extremely loud’…”

“She brought down two bombers by yelling at them.”

“Hmm,” mused Gwen. “We have Mr. Temple amongst our eligibles. Didn’t he lose most of his hearing to an explosion?”

“I thought of him, but it shouldn’t be that superficial. And with all the shouting that would come from that match, I would fear for the equanimity of their neighbors. Maybe we should match her with someone who lives in a detached house. At the end of a street. In a cul-de-sac.”

“Right. Well, I’ll take a look once you’ve typed it up. Who’s next on the schedule?”

“We have a Miss Oona Travis at eleven thirty, then a Miss Catherine Prescott at noon. Nothing after that, so I suggest lunch.”

“Suits me. Shall we take a look at the office next door since we have a free slot?”

“Let’s.”

Iris pushed herself up from her desk, which creaked ominously in protest. She glared at it.

“It’s been doing that more and more,” she said as she walked between the desks to the door. “One of the legs has gotten rickety, but I can’t figure out where the problem is. I’d get Mr. MacPherson to fix it, but he’s been even more rickety lately.”

“It’s what we get for taking what came with the office,” sighed Gwen. “At least your desk has four working legs. Mine has three and The Forsyte Saga supporting the fourth corner.”

“A sturdy choice,” commented Iris as she followed her down the hall. “Have you read it?”

“I keep meaning to,” said Gwen. “It’s very long. That’s what drew me to it for its present purpose. Here we are. ‘Cooper and Lyons, Chartered Public Accountants.’ I wonder what ever happened to them.”

“Any idea of when they last occupied the space?”

“Mr. MacPherson was uncertain on that point,” said Gwen, turning one of the keys in the lock. “As he is on most points.”

She opened the door, peered inside, and gasped.

“Iris,” she said in awe. “There are desks!”

“Let me see,” said Iris, pushing past her. “Oh! How lovely!”

The office itself was wider than their own by some four or five feet, which gave it room for a second window compared to their single one. There were no signs that it had been inhabited by anything human in years. There were signs of inhabitation by smaller species, and the place might have been swept and dusted within living memory, but that was not certain.

What had drawn their immediate attention was a pair of massive matched mahogany desks, one in front of each window. They were broad, sturdy behemoths, resting on thick square columned pedestals, each of which in turn contained a drawer and a cabinet facing the two women.

“Tell me it’s true,” whispered Gwen.

She walked between them, her arms spread, trailing her fingers across the faded burgundy leather inserts, gently wiping the coating of dust from the gold-tooled ornamentations along the borders. She knelt reverentially in front of one of the desks to examine the logos on the drawers.

“Harrods,” she breathed. “Partners’ desks from Harrods, Iris. I could positively swoon!”

There were no keys apparent, but the center drawer had been left unlocked. Gwen slid it open. It was empty.

Iris did the same at the other desk, and grimaced. “Something was living in mine,” she said.

“So you’ve already taken possession of that one,” said Gwen, smiling.

“Well, if we do expand, we should try to get the office furniture thrown into the deal.”

Iris tried the other drawers. Some were empty. The rest were locked. “I left my lock picks in my handbag,” she said with chagrin.

“You carry those with you all the time?” asked Gwen. “What on earth for?”

“For occasions like these,” said Iris, feeling about the underside of the center drawer. “No, no secret compartment here. Maybe in the bottom drawers.”

“Listen!” urged Gwen, sliding one open, then closing it. “So silent, so smooth. The craftsmanship—my God, I could sit behind this all day and spend my idle minutes opening the drawers.”

“Easy for you with your height,” said Iris. “I would require a chair. And so would you, if only for appearances’ sake.”

“There aren’t any,” observed Gwen, looking around.

“So we’d need two for the desks and two for our clients.”

“Only one, surely,” said Gwen. “We’re matching up individuals.”

“Two, because I’ve noticed that having one centered between us smacks of an official interrogation after a while. And because sometimes they come with a friend or a relative for moral support, and we’ve made them wait in the hallway, or I end up sitting on my unstable desk, which is like roller skating during an earthquake.”

“And your legs distract the gentlemen,” added Gwen.

“Precisely,” said Iris. “So, four chairs, and a new filing cabinet. Desk lamps. Another fan. A second telephone line, with some form of intercom system connecting it with the first. We’d need to paint.”

“A rug would be nice,” said Gwen. “I wonder if there are any I could filch from the attic at home. Yes, I’m beginning to see that we’d have to come up with the funding for all of that, not to mention the security deposit on the additional office. And you’ve forgotten the key element.”

“A secretary,” said Iris. “Secretary slash receptionist slash clerk. Our very first employee. We may become employers, Gwen. How very capitalist of us! Do we have enough to make this expansion?”

“We do not,” said Gwen. “We may have it in a few months if things keep going at the present rate. Six more wedding bounties would give us enough. If only…”

She paused and sighed.

“What?” asked Iris.

“If only I could pry control of my estate away from that irritating guardian of mine,” said Gwen. “I could invest in our business.”

“Have you approached him about it?” asked Iris.

“I still need the final approval from Dr. Milford declaring me capable of managing my life without a straitjacket.”

“How’s that working out?”

“He wants me to get through two more months of therapy to make certain that I’m stable.”

“Then don’t sit on my desk,” advised Iris. “Shall we get back to work?”

“I suppose,” Gwen said. “Iris, is it wrong that I am experiencing lustful feelings towards this desk?”

“I am not one to judge,” said Iris. “I’ve had a few interesting encounters involving desks. Not with the actual desks themselves, mind you, but they make my short list of favourite pieces of furniture.”

“How would you rank them?”

“Hmm. Third. No, fourth. I forgot about the ottoman. That was a precarious but ultimately very rewarding experience.”

“You short girls are so versatile.”

“There have to be some compensating factors. Gwen, stop playing with that drawer or I will call Dr. Milford myself.”

Gwen guiltily slid it closed and stood.

“Goodbye, Cecil,” she whispered, giving it a pat.

“You’ve already named the desk?”

“I’ve already named all the drawers.”

“Dear God.”

They left the office of Cooper and Lyons and locked it behind them, then stood side by side on the stairwell, peering out the grimy window.

“Mr. MacPherson says they have two new tenants coming into the second storey,” said Gwen.

“The third is still completely vacant,” said Iris. “We’re the only tenants up here, but I sense that things may be picking up. And I hear they’re breaking ground on the new building next door. I feel we should grab that office while the grabbing’s good.”

“We could go back to the bank for another loan,” said Gwen.

“We had to go to, what, fifteen different banks the first time? None of them took the idea of a marriage bureau seriously.”

“Until we saw Mr. Lastings. He liked us. And we’ve been prompt with our payments.”

“We’ve only been in business for five months,” Iris pointed out.

“Precisely. And it’s taking off. Well, rumbling down the runway. Picking up speed. Gaining lift, or whatever the term is.”

“No airplane metaphors, please,” shuddered Iris.

“Sorry. So, assume we’re paying double to the bank, double to the building, and a secretary—”

“We can’t manage it yet. Let’s hope for Cupid’s arrows to work their wonders soon. Back to work, partner.”

Their present desks had once provided a sense of ambition and optimism. Now they seemed shabby and resentful, as if they knew that the women they had faithfully served had found something better and they would soon become a distant memory.

Iris slid into her chair and rested her chin on her elbows for a moment. Her desk creaked, and she pulled back immediately and glared at it.

“Someone’s coming up the stairs,” said Gwen.

“Miss Oona Travis, I assume,” said Iris, checking her watch. “She’s early. Always a good sign. You take the lead on this one. I’m still getting my hearing back from the last one.”

They both busied themselves with paperwork to avoid the appearance of idly waiting for their next customer. Gwen glanced up with her best smile. Then it became real as she saw a woman standing in the doorway.

“Patience!” she exclaimed. “What a lovely surprise!”

“Hallo, darling,” said the woman, coming in to receive a kiss on the cheek.

“Iris, meet my cousin Patience Matheson,” said Gwen. “Lady Matheson, I should say.”

“How do you do?” said Iris, coming around the desk to shake her hand.

Lady Matheson appeared to be in her late thirties, which meant that she was probably ten years older than that, guessed Iris, basing her assessment on the expertise and expense invested in the makeup and coiffure. She was dressed in a light blue linen suit with three ropes of perfectly white, perfectly matched pearls around her neck; the strands joined at a lovely ruby pendant surrounded by white diamonds.

“What on earth brought you here?” asked Gwen.

“I came to see you in your new enterprise,” said Lady Matheson, looking around. “Well. Remarkable, I must say. I never thought I would see you doing this sort of thing.”

“No one did,” said Gwen. “Not even me. It goes to show you how unpredictable life can be.”

“We’ve all had more than our share of unpredictability,” agreed Lady Matheson. “In fact, my being here must fall into that category.”

“We weren’t expecting you, certainly,” said Gwen. “Not that I’m not delighted to see you. It’s been some time. Iris, Patience is—Well, I’m not quite sure how to describe it. She’s not exactly a lady-in-waiting—”

“Oh, heaven forbid!” said Lady Matheson, giving an exaggerated shudder.

“But she works for the Queen in some capacity.”

“Do you?” said Iris. “I’ve always found the phrase ‘in some capacity’ both wonderfully vague and intentionally concealing.”

“How so?” asked Lady Matheson with a smile as she sat down in the guest chair.

“It’s boring enough to fend off further questions while hinting at areas of occupation too mundane to warrant any interest. People, as a result, have the idea that you do something without knowing what it is, or even thinking it’s something that it isn’t.”

“You’re the one who went to Cambridge, aren’t you?” observed Lady Matheson.

“Yes.”

“So you think you’re smarter than most people.”

“Just the ones who went to Oxford.”

“Lovely!” Lady Matheson laughed. “I must repeat that one to—Well, I have an Oxford friend or two, of course.”

“Patience, it is wonderful to see you,” said Gwen. “But we do have a client coming in.”

“I could handle the interview if you want to have a cousins’ reunion,” offered Iris.

“That won’t be necessary,” said Lady Matheson. “I am Miss Oona Travis, your eleven thirty.”

“What?” exclaimed Gwen.

“I am also Miss Catherine Prescott, your twelve o’clock,” said Lady Matheson. “That gives us a full hour together. I know that you have the only occupied office on this level, and that the one below us is entirely vacant, but I would like to ask you to close and lock your door, if you don’t mind.”

They stared at her, then at each other. Iris shrugged and got up.

“That’s ten pounds down the drain,” she muttered as she walked to the door.

She stepped out into the hall and peered down the stairwell. There was a man in a brown three-piece suit on the third-storey landing, nonchalantly smoking a cigarette. He looked up at her, gave a quick two-fingered salute, then resumed his pose, watching the stairs below him.

Iris returned to The Right Sort and closed and locked the door behind her.

“Brown three-piece suit, brown shoes, five ten, black hair, clean-shaven, well-built, mid-thirties,” she said as she retook her seat. “Yours?”

“Mine,” said Lady Matheson.

“Armed?”

“Possibly. I’ve never asked.”

“Does he have a name?”

“Possibly. I’ve never asked.”

“Patience, what on earth is going on?” asked Gwen.

“Ten pounds, you said?” Lady Matheson asked, ignoring her and looking at Iris. “What does that get one?”

“In the cases of our now mythical female customers, our efforts to find them a suitable husband,” said Iris, sitting behind her desk.

“How does that fee work out per hour?”

“It varies,” said Iris. “We’re up to nine weddings now.”

“And several promising relationships,” added Gwen.

“I see,” said Lady Matheson.

She reached into her bag and pulled out her purse.

“For your lost time,” she said, placing two five-pound notes on Iris’s desk.

“Oh, Patience,” protested Gwen. “We can’t possibly—”

“Yes, we can,” said Iris firmly, taking the notes and stuffing them into her top drawer.

“But Iris—”

“Think of Cecil and all the other little mouths to feed,” said Iris.

“Fair point,” conceded Gwen.

“I thought your son’s name was Ronnie,” said Lady Matheson.

“It’s a private joke,” said Gwen.

“All right, you have our time and attention,” said Iris. “Let’s talk. I take it you’re not here to find a husband.”

“No, I’ve got one already,” said Lady Matheson. “He’s out in the country somewhere, I’m not sure which place. Probably in Scotland, blasting birdshot into unarmed pheasants.”

“While you get to suffer through the London summer with us,” said Gwen.

“I will be joining the royal family when they go to Balmoral,” said Lady Matheson. “Might even bump into Lord Matheson if he’s not too careful, but I have an errand or two to run before I do. I was having tea with Emily Bascombe on Monday and your names came up.”

“Oh, how is Em?” asked Gwen. “We heard she’s in the family way.”

“Glowing and voracious,” said Lady Matheson. “She mentioned that the two of you met at her wedding.”

“Essentially,” said Iris. “That was when we became friends.”

“She takes indirect credit for your decision to start up this odd little business. She told me that you, dear cousin, were responsible for bringing her and George together.”

“I planted some seeds that took root and bloomed quite nicely,” said Gwen.

“And that you, Iris—may I call you Iris?”

“Certainly.”

“That you did some digging into George’s background at Emily’s request.”

“There were some rumours that needed debunking,” said Iris. “I was able to make some satisfactory enquiries.”

“And you both put your talents to use in solving the La Salle murder. We were all quite abuzz about that.”

“Have you brought us another murder to solve?” asked Iris.

“Oh, dear,” Gwen sighed. “I’m still not over the first one.”

“No, no.” Lady Matheson laughed. “This is more in your line. But before I go any further, I need to ask for your assurances that everything we discuss from this point on will be absolutely confidential.”

“Of course,” said Gwen immediately.

“Hold on a tick,” said Iris. “You do understand that we are not legally entitled to make those assurances.”

“But Iris—” began Gwen.

“Gwen, you remember how well our protests of client confidentiality went over with Detective Superintendent Parham when he came barging in here with his bully boys. Lady Matheson, if you are here to discuss any criminal matters—”

“I am not,” said Lady Matheson. “At least, not yet.”

“Ominously put,” said Iris. “Do you expect them to become criminal?”

“I would doubt it highly, but I cannot say to a degree of absolute certainty that they won’t. But if that does turn out to be the case, you have my word that you may then bring that information to the proper authorities.”

“Meaning the CID,” said Iris.

“Meaning the proper authorities,” said Lady Matheson.

“So it may involve matters not involving the CID,” said Iris. “Are we talking about international affairs?”

“At the moment, we aren’t talking about anything, and I won’t subject myself to further interrogation until I have Miss Sparks’s agreement,” said Lady Matheson, a huffy tone creeping into her voice.

Gwen was looking at her carefully.

“This involves the Queen in some way, doesn’t it?” she asked quietly.

“Miss Sparks, do I have your word?” asked Lady Matheson. “I am asking on behalf of Queen and country.”

“I served the King during the war,” said Iris. “I suppose I ought to extend the courtesy to his missus. You have my word, under the condition that the moment things turn sour, it is no longer binding upon me.”

“Done,” said Lady Matheson. “And I anticipate that all of this legal-ish verbiage will turn out be quite unnecessary. Now, to the matter. We would like the two of you to vet someone, much as you did with George Bascombe.”

“That sounds easy enough,” said Gwen.

“Why us?” asked Iris. “Surely you have people at the Palace who can do that sort of thing.”

“This is a matter of particular delicacy,” said Lady Matheson. “We’d rather not have it known internally, given how gossip flies about, nor do we want the subject of the vetting to get wind of it. We don’t want a word of it anywhere near the press. It’s probably nothing, but we need to make sure that it’s nothing and that it stays nothing.”

“The ‘we’ in that sentence?” asked Iris. “Is it the same ‘we’ as in, ‘We were all quite abuzz,’ or a different ‘we’?”

“Myself, one other person working directly under me—and the Queen,” said Lady Matheson.

“Oh, my,” breathed Iris.

“Patience,” said Gwen. “Are you asking us to vet Prince Philip?”


Copyright © 2020 by Allison Montclair.