The Blood Royal(136)
Lily nodded, alarmed but puzzled. The voice was low and well modulated. It had, surprisingly, what Lily could have sworn was a reassuring trace of a Scottish accent. Every time she raised her head to look at her companion the wretched woman looked aside, hiding her profile with the brim of her cloche. The first swift glimpse Lily had had of the stranger’s face revealed familiar features and she tried in her mind’s eye to link them with the face she’d so fleetingly seen under a frilly lace cap at the Claridges reception.
Could she be sure this was Anna? Lily decided to be certain. ‘Before I forget,’ she said, ‘I have to pass on regards and good wishes from Ethel and Jack.’
‘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, Anna relaxing the grip on Lily’s arm and slowing her pace. And then: ‘Ah! There’s Westminster Bridge straight ahead. One of my favourite places in London. Your Wordsworth seems to have liked it. Earth hath not anything to show more fair and all that. But then he’d never seen the river Neva flowing in majesty. He’d never seen St Petersburg. In fact he hadn’t seen much, your national wordsmith – I cannot call him “poet” – nor had much experience of places or people. To his naive eye, the French Revolution was a wonderful thing along with daisies, peasants and this view of a polluted river lined with grey buildings. Still, it is the best you have to offer so we’ll go on to the bridge and watch the Thames flow for a while, shall we?’
To all appearances the best of friends, Lily strolled with Anna Petrovna, self-appointed Nemesis of the royal family and possibly mentally deranged killer, on to the bridge.
‘On no account should you confront Anna Petrovna,’ Sandilands had told her. But how did you break off a discussion with a friendly girl on the relative merits of Lillywhites and Harrods when it came to buying hot-weather clothes? How did you leave in the middle of a laughing disagreement over the comparative virtues of cotton and celanese knickers? How did you make your excuses when your arm was being clutched in apparent friendship?
They leaned companionably over the waist-high parapet and decided that the current was flowing east.
‘There’s a tide running and it’s going out fast,’ remarked Anna, staring into the black water swirling fiercely around the piers. ‘It’s racing along with the current, you see. Anything falling into the water from here – if it survived being sucked down into that whirlpool – would be swept up and come ashore … um … round about there.’ She pointed. ‘The Savoy’s back garden. Let’s test our theory, shall we?’
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!’