The Blood Royal

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Lily headed off to the north-east, guided by the stern bells of the Russian church in Moscow Court booming out on the far side of Hyde Park. They ceased on a dying peal, leaving an unnatural silence flooding down from the rooftops. This was a moment to enjoy — a moment of rare peace when the streets were empty of motor traffic and pedestrians. It would be short lived. Lily caught in the distance the notes of the military band playing for church parade in the middle of the park. Soon the huge crowds the ceremony attracted would be spilling back on to the streets again, spiritually refreshed and heading home or for the pub in search of bodily restoration.

‘It’s not far,’ the princess had said. ‘In the middle of that disgusting rookery off the Gloucester Road.’ She’d quivered with distaste. ‘They keep promising to knock it down and cleanse the area of riff-raff but what happens? Every year another street of houses is repaired and more ruffians move in. Do have a care, Miss Wentworth. Anna could do better for accommodation. Heaven knows, she’s not without influential contacts. It’s my opinion that she’s in the throes of some sort of self-imposed chatisement. Wallowing in degradation. I’ve offered help but all she will take from me is what I feel least able to give — references to her character when she seeks ever more demeaning posts. She remains in touch with Sasha, though they are no longer as close as they once were, I sense.’

Smells of roasting joints coming from kitchen quarters explained the deserted pavements. After lunch people would flock outside in their hundreds, dressed in their Sunday best. Visiting day in a sprawling capital. Families would be crossing London to see their friends and relations in distant suburbs. Lily wondered how Anna Petrovna — a mentally fragile and lonely Russian woman — was spending her Sabbath. Would she be back in her lair, lashing her tail in fury that her prey had got away? Planning her next assault on the English Establishment? Had Bacchus’s men dragged her off already for questioning? If so, Lily rather hoped their first question might be: ‘Why on earth are you trying to do harm to the country that offers you shelter?’ Or were they somewhere about the place, quietly watching the house?

Lily decided not to confront the woman, even if the opportunity arose. Sandilands wouldn’t thank her for muddying the waters. But there were other useful things she could do, if she could come and go unnoticed. She pulled her hat lower on her forehead.

She was entering a very mixed area. What her father would have called ‘Queen Anne in front, Mary-Anne behind’. Substantial Victorian facades progressed from family houses of some grandeur and single ownership to well-to-do business premises (Lily noted a firm of solicitors and a car dealer’s showroom) to apartment houses with ranks of front door bells and finally to lodging houses.

No vacancies. The signs were strong on the wing. As were English Gentlemen accommodated; No females; No foreigners; No travellers. Lily couldn’t think how a single migrating Russian girl had ever managed to find a toehold on this cliff face of forbidding respectability.

A left turn into Hogsmire Lane answered her question.

Hogsmire Lane didn’t live up to its bucolic name. It conjured up muddy fields and wild hedgerows a-froth with may blossom but here there was not a sign of foliage, flower or farm animal, though this must, at one time in the last hundred years, have defined the western outskirts of the city, its ragged line marking the place where the built-up town ran straight into the fields and hedges. Nor was it a ‘lane’, but a short and run-down street linking two grander ones, a left-over, left-behind, rotting backwater. It was not a thoroughfare in which the princess would ever have set foot and, modestly dressed though she was, Lily hesitated to walk down it herself. A narrow, heat-cracked road separated York stone flagged pavements that abutted the front walls of the narrow terraced houses. One or two of the houses were boarded up with plywood planks at door and window but, for the most part, panes of glass gleamed, a tribute to the elbow grease, newspaper and vinegar of the housewives. Front doorsteps, all nine inches of them, were recently donkey-stoned, proclaiming to whoever was passing that here resided a decent God- and neighbour-fearing family.

Lily thought she knew what to look out for. Bacchus’s men were too professional to be discovered loitering in the street re-tying their shoelaces or propped against a lamp post with their heads in the Racing Times. She decided to watch out for fit-looking men dressed a little too well for the area; encyclopedia salesmen with heavy briefcases; Jehovah’s witnesses in dark-suited pairs. She decided there was no sign of a Branch presence.

Lily crossed the road to avoid a swaggering youth being tugged along by a bulldog puppy on a chain and paused to get her bearings. Honeysett had reported that the address he had for Miss Peterson was ‘care of number 42’. And yet the princess had told Lily number 67. What was going on? A quick glance along the street told her that number 42, on her left, the one that would have come in for a certain amount of attention from the Branch, had a brown front door, recently painted and it was still on its hinges. The house had discreet net curtains at its ground-floor window. In front of it, on the pavement, was a group of children out at play. Lily was pleased to see them. In any street the behaviour of the children was the best indicator of unrest or aberration, and these children were playing normally.

They were already dressed for the day in their smartest clothes. Probably expecting a visit from Grandma or due any minute to set off with the family across town themselves. They’d clearly been got ready and sent out of the house with a warning to keep themselves clean and tidy. They had on white collars, pulled-up socks and shiny boots, Lily noted. One boy, the smallest, was even wearing a Little Lord Fauntleroy suit, years old and passed down the family. He appeared ill at ease in it and was sitting cross-legged a few feet away, excluded from the game, Lily guessed, on account of having to keep his frills clean while his three brothers and one sister played hopscotch. They bobbed with subdued energy up and down the number grid chalked on the flagstones.

Number 67 was opposite but not directly opposite. In a confusing old London way the numbers on this street ran consecutively and started back on themselves to complete the tour. Number 67 had a green front door, as did several others in the street, and like number 42 it passed Lily’s clean window test.

With a confident smile, she approached the children. She grabbed Little Lord Fauntleroy from behind and, carrying his slight weight in front of her, she began to hop the chalked grid, bouncing his feet on each of the squares and chanting the rhyme as she went.

‘Five, six, seven, this way to heaven. Eight, nine, ten, turn round again.’ She reached the top and hopped back. ‘Three, two, one, you’ve had your fun!’ She deposited the giggling child on his feet at the start.

‘Again! Again!’ he shouted, holding up his arms.

Lily obliged.

Fighting for breath she addressed the oldest boy, distinguished by his sailor collar. ‘I wonder if you can help me?’

They stared at her with surprise and suspicion. No one replied. Instead they gathered together in a huddle and the big boy appeared to be laying down the law. His sister defied him. ‘Naw! Gerraway, Jim! She’s never! Look at ’er! Seccetary or somefin’ — that’s what she is. An’ anyway — rozzers i’n’t women. An’ if they woz they’d never play hopscotch.’

Emboldened, Jim looked her up and down and asked: ‘You the law, miss? You with the rozzers? We don’t talk to them … Dad’d tan our arses.’

Lily was affronted. ‘Crikey, no! I’m looking for digs. Secretary as you guessed, miss!’ Lily beamed at the little girl. ‘I’ve just got a position in a solicitor’s office … Crabtree and Bingham at the end of the road. A friend of mine lives hereabouts … she’s going to help me find a respectable place to stay. I’ve just got in to Paddington this morning. Only I’ve lost the number she gave me. I’m sure this is the right street and she said it had a green front door.’

The children relaxed. ‘Oh, that’ll be Mrs Royston’s at number sixty-seven.’ They all pointed. ‘She takes gels in.’

‘And she’ll have a room spare. She’ll be looking for someone to fill the upstairs front now,’ the girl added knowingly. Head on one side contemplating the stranger, she came to a decision, grinned and confided: ‘Don’t offer her a penny more than five bob a week, all in. She’s a mean old bat. She’ll screw more out of you if you don’t stand up for yourself.’

‘Well, thanks for the advice!’ Lily said cheerfully. She lowered her bottom to perch casually on the window ledge of number 42 and took off her hat as a gesture of ease. The children gathered round, intrigued. ‘I wonder if you know my friend? She’s called Anna and she’s got dark hair and she’s very pretty. She works up west in a big hotel.’

Their faces fell and they looked at each other again. Finally, the girl offered: ‘Well, you’re out of luck. Annie’s gone. Legged it. Right after the rozzers was ’ere.’

‘No! You must have got that wrong. Annie’s never in any trouble … she’s a good girl, Annie. Hard worker. Honest as the day is long. I’d go bail for her any day.’

‘Oh, she’s in trouble all right,’ the boy said portentously. ‘Five of them there were. Four uniform and one in plain clothes. Knocked us up before six. Ma and Pa were having their breakfast. Ethel and me — we listened on the stairs. Wanted to know where a certain Anna Peterson was, they said. Come over real nasty when Pa told ’em where to get off.’

‘Pa don’t like the law,’ the girl explained. ‘No one round here does. Always on the take. Bent as a hairpin, my ma says. They banged Pa up in the nick once. Fitted him up for receiving. He never deserved it. It were only a dish o’ tripe as no one else wanted. He don’t forget! Sent ’em off with a flea in their ears.’

‘Good old Pa,’ said Lily. ‘That’s the stuff to give ’em. And they had no idea where Annie was?’

‘Naw! They banged on a few doors …’ Jim indicated the houses on either side and immediately opposite, exactly the houses Lily would have tried herself if she’d been on police duty, ‘but nobody in this street’d split. “Don’t know nuffin’! No idea what you’re on about!” that’s what they all said. Even crabby old ’erbert at number sixty-five told ’em to sling their ’ook. They never tried Mrs Royston’s. Annie got clean away. She must have heard the ruckus. Waited an hour and ten minutes, she did, before she done a runner.’

‘But how do you know she was leaving, Jim?’

It was Ethel who answered. ‘We were here in the street. She came to her window. Up there, miss. And she waved to us. And blew us a kiss. She had her hat and coat on.’

‘And did she say anything as she passed you?’

Looks of scorn greeted this question. ‘Naw! She never passed down here,’ said Jim. ‘More sense. She’ll have gone out the back way. Over the yard and across the allotments, turn left and you’re in the Church Street.’

Lily began to see a further advantage of a roost in Hogsmire Lane.

‘We waved back. We wished her good luck,’ Ethel said with a touch of defiance. ‘She was a nice girl, miss, your friend. Gave us all a lollipop every Saturday. I’ve still got mine that she gave me yesterday.’ The little girl rubbed her eyes with the hem of her pinny and began to sniff.

‘She may come back when the bother — whatever it is — has blown over,’ Lily said. ‘She’ll be glad you stuck up for her. And look — I think my friend would like you to have this.’ She took a sixpenny bit from her pocket and handed it to the girl. ‘You can be quartermaster, Ethel. Next Saturday’s lollipops. In case she’s not back in time.’

As the small silver coin disappeared with coos and muttered thanks into the depths of Ethel’s pocket, Lily put her hat back on and stood up. ‘Well — I can see I shall have to go back to Paddington and pick up my suitcase before I knock on Mrs Royston’s door. Landladies don’t take kindly to females who appear with no luggage on their doorsteps and I see this is a very respectable part of town. A good five bob’s worth! Keep your eyes peeled for the rozzers, kids! Especially the ones with the moustaches. They’re the nastiest.’