The Tin Princess Read online

  Eventually, the outer door closed, and there was silence. Becky stayed where she was for some time before coming out cautiously. It was disturbing, because she'd seen the Count as being as strong and steadfast as the Rock of Eschtenburg itself; and yet what he'd sounded like in the Map Room was furtive.

  She couldn't tell Adelaide: Her Majesty had quite enough to think about. Jim was the person to confide in, if she could only track him down. Becky left a message in his room, and crossed her fingers.

  That evening, in the Drawing Room, Becky set out the board for a new game, The Continental Railway Race. The board was a map of Europe, and Adelaide took one look at it and sniffed with disdain, because Razkavia was too small to be shown.

  "Some map this is," she said, and flicked a fingernail at the little tin trains that were going to race from London to Constantinople, or Brindisi to Stockholm. "Tin trains, tin ships going down the whirlpool - you know what I am, Becky? I'm a tin princess. Like chess: I come all the way across the board and turned into a queen. Still only tin, though... Want a game of chess? No, I don't either, tonight. Let's go out on the terrace and get some fresh air. It's so blooming stuffy in here..."

  Becky opened the French windows, and they went out to lean on the stone balustrade and look out over the parkland. The air was still and close. The line of forest was vague already; individual trees were lost in a blur of gloom, and the sky above was darker than ever, steel-dark with a touch of Prussian blue. The grass of the park, stretching out to the distant woodland, was swept here and there by little cats'-paws of turbulence that stroked the surface for a moment and vanished again. Suddenly a rent appeared in the clouds and the last of the sun struck through, making the grass and the trees ring out at once with a green so intense Becky could almost hear it. A fretful breeze flattened the grass like an invisible spirit, swirling towards them and brushing their cheeks with coolness.

  "Becky," said Adelaide, turning to face the dark line of trees across the glowing grass.

  "Yes?"

  "I suppose this is my home now, innit?"

  "I suppose it is."

  "I never thought I'd ever have a home. I thought I'd die on the streets, or in the workhouse. Or in gaol. I thought it was bound to end like that... Or disease. I thought I'd get, you know, one of those diseases ... or consumption, maybe ... and waste away or go mad and die in a lunatic asylum. I was sure of it."

  "Well, you won't, will you?"

  She said nothing for a minute. Then Adelaide sighed so deeply she almost shook. She gazed at the forest as the breeze played with the dark ringlets around her face.

  "Poor Rudi," she said gently. "I never ... I never loved him, Becky... I was fond of him, I really was, but ... I think when you've done what I've done, when you've gone with men for money, I think you stop being able to love ... I dunno. It's funny. There's three men I might have loved. One was an old boy called Mr Molloy. He looked after me when I first met Jim and Miss Lockhart. He was like a father tome, he was kind and gentle... Then there was the old King. That's odd, isn't it? I only knew him a month and he had every reason to hate me, but I got that fond of him..."

  Her voice faltered. The sunlight had all gone, the sky was bruise-black-purple; the wind from the forest was stronger now, and cool gusts made Becky pull her shawl closer around her shoulders.

  "I think he loved you too," she said.

  "Becky, am I doing all right as Queen?"

  "What a funny question! I don't think anyone in the world could do better."

  "I think Miss Lockhart could. Mrs Goldberg, I mean. When these Talks are over, d'you think she'd come and visit us?"

  "I'm sure she would. We'll write and ask."

  "I think..." Adelaide said quietly, her hands on the stone coping and her head turned away, "I think if she... I'd love to feel that she was proud of me... I think if she approved, I wouldn't mind what anyone else thought."

  "Who's the third man?" Becky asked after a few moments.

  "The third man?"

  "After Mr Molloy and the King."

  "Oh, that. I dunno. I probably made a mistake, it's probably only two. I'm going in now; it's getting chilly. I'm going to have a cup of chocolate and then go to bed. Don't hang about here catching cold. You've got a lot of talking to do tomorrow."

  After Adelaide had gone to bed, Becky sat and read for a while, but she couldn't settle. She went to knock on Jim's door, but he was never in; she tried to play chess by herself, left hand against right, and then forgot whose move it was; she tried The Continental Railway Race, and gave up when her little tin train reached Vienna; she tried to read again, but the only books were either tedious or frivolous, and she was too tired for the one and too much on edge for the other.

  Finally, she wrapped her shawl around her shoulders and went out on the terrace again. The evening was wild now; she could hear the lashing of the trees even from where she was, and felt a strange apprehension as if spirits were abroad in the wind, tossed and swept like dead leaves from one spot to another, never resting, never giving back their goodness to the earth, never fully dead but in some vast limbo between life and extinction, tossing and tumbling without end...

  She stood at the end of the terrace gripping the balustrade, and closed her eyes to the blustery darkness to feel the wind more fully.

  Suddenly, with a vivid apprehension of fear, she opened them again; and a moment later, an arm encircled her throat, a hand was pressed over her mouth, and someone bore her roughly to the ground.

  Chapter Eleven

  INSIDE THE GROTTO

  And a voice whispered in her ear: "Becky - it's Jim - hush - keep still - there's danger -"

  She felt herself pass from one kind of tension to another. He took his hand away from her mouth and twisted up into a crouch, peering through the balustrade.

  Moving as quietly as she could, she sat up too, looked where he was looking, and saw against the pale stone of the Palace wall below them the dark figure of a woman moving slowly out from underneath the terrace.

  "Who is it?" she whispered.

  "It's an old servant ca7lled Frau Busch. She's the widow of the huntsman who was with Prince Leopold when he died..."

  Becky was suddenly aware that Jim had a pistol in his hand, though she hadn't seen him draw it. The fitful moonlight glittered in his eyes. The woman had stopped no more than twenty yards away from them, in the shadow of a dark bush.

  "What's happening?" Becky whispered. "What's she doing?"

  "Sssh," was all the reply she got. Jim was watching intently. After a minute she saw his expression change, for something was happening further along, and as she peered between the fat stone balusters she saw another figure moving silently around the corner of the building to join the woman waiting by the wall.

  "Another woman," Becky whispered. "Or is it?"

  She sensed a tension in Jim like that of a cat waiting to spring on a mouse. He didn't need to put a finger to his lips: she knew she had to be quiet. They watched as the second woman joined Frau Busch. There was a whispered exchange, and the two figures left the shelter of the Palace to tiptoe across the gravel walk, and then they were on the grass, moving away towards the distant trees.

  "I'm going to follow them," Jim whispered. "You stay here."

  "Not a bit of it! I'm coming with you!"

  "No, you're not," he said. "That other woman is dangerous. She's the one I've been looking for all this time - the assassin. How could I face your mother if anything happened to you? And as if that wasn't enough, Adelaide needs you in good form tomorrow, don't forget. That's your job. This is mine."

  Becky chewed her lip. He was right. Then she gasped and put her hand to her mouth. "Oh! Did you get my message about the Map Room? I left it in your room."

  "I haven't been there for a couple of nights." Jim turned back to the grass. The two figures were nearly out of sight. "Look, there's no time now - I'll lose them. Tell me later."

  He ran to the steps at the centre of the terrace, w
here he paused to check the direction the two figures had taken, and then darted out lightly across the gravel walk and on to the grass beyond. Becky watched, gathering her dark shawl around her, until his shape was lost in the blur of night.

  Keeping low, Jim hurried over the tussocky grass after the two women. There was no point in trying to keep quiet, for the wind was wilder now, driving squadrons and flotillas of battered clouds past the glaring beacon of the moon and lashing the distant trees into a frenzy. Jim loped onwards without taking his eyes off the two dark figures ahead - one tense and urgent, the other trim and birdlike, stepping delicately over the rough ground.

  He found, to his disquiet, that they were heading for that part of the grounds where he'd heard the hideous scream. It was hard to be sure; one clump of trees was very like another, and the ground rose and dipped deceivingly; but it was lighter tonight because of the moon, and presently there was no doubt about it.

  However, Frau Busch, who seemed to be leading the way, moved leftwards a little, changing direction to head for a Palladian bridge that spanned the end of a lake. Jim knew that the water from the lake flowed over an artificial cascade and down into a romantic chasm: a miniature one, set about with cedar trees and a ruined chapel, and ending in a grotto. The two women moved down into the little valley and along beside the stream towards the entrance of the grotto itself.

  The place looked bizarre under the moon. It was bizarre enough in daylight, as Jim knew, having wandered here one afternoon, looking for the source of that scream; he didn't like grottoes at the best of times, finding their shells and grotesqueries ugly and their climate damp, but this one was especially villainous. The entrance to the grotto was formed by the gaping mouth of a weed-fringed giant stone face whose eyes bulged leeringly above, and the rock all around it was studded with distorted images of snakes, frogs, lizards, toads, seemingly extruded from the stone itself. A gap in the clouds let the inconstant moonlight flare down again, the blacks and greys and smudged shadows giving the scene the appearance of a picture from a penny dreadful: The Fatal Grotto, or The Murderer's Quest.

  He crouched in the shadow of the ivy-covered wall of the fake ruin, watching as the two women stopped on the path beside the stream.

  Frau Busch bent among the reeds to pull at a rope. A narrow, punt-like craft, shiny with damp, emerged at the end of it. The old woman clambered swiftly into the boat, the actress stepping after her and sitting down as Frau Busch took the oars. There was the little flare of a match, which settled into the glow of a lantern in the actress's hand; and then they pushed off, and after only a moment or two the current took them, and the boat began to drift in towards the cave.

  Jim cursed and leapt down the slope. When he reached the bank there was no sign of the boat. The great dark mouth of the grotto yawned mockingly as the black water swept silently into it, reflecting the moon in oily swirls and loops of silver. Now what should he do?

  Well, he'd have to follow; but he hadn't thought of a boat, damn it. He moved along the weedy path beside the stream and into the mouth of the grotto itself. The first chamber was dimly visible in the moonlight from outside, but where the path led under an arch it became pitch black. The sound of the wind was fainter in there, the sound of the water louder as it echoed from the rocky roof and walls. The ground underfoot was wet and irregular, certainly muddy and possibly dangerous, for the stream was flowing past only inches away.

  He moved on into the darkness. He would have lit a match, but he didn't want to give himself away. Of all the crazy things to do, plunging into this loathsome hole must rank among the barmiest; if he got lost - if the tunnel forked and he didn't realize...

  Keep your hand on the wall, he thought. It was slimy and cold, and once to his disgust it moved and turned into a toad, making him step back with an exclamation and nearly fall into the stream; but if he kept his hand on the wall all the way in and all the way back, surely he'd find his way out -

  Then a cascade of ice-cold fear fell the length of his spine. From the intense darkness ahead, there came that scream again.

  It was the cry of an imprisoned ghoul; something abominably tortured, in an extremity of pain and despair. It was distorted by the echoing passages it came through, and muffled by the splashing of the water, and he couldn't tell how far away it was, but it was enough to drench him in terror. It put him in mind of the Minotaur, waiting in the pitchy blackness for the next victim to feel his trembling way in to the heart of the maze...

  How long he stood there, with his heart pounding and his skin crawling, he couldn't have told. Eventually, faintly, he gathered his wits, and not a moment too soon: for there was a glimmer on the rocky walls ahead. The boat was returning.

  He looked around quickly for a place to conceal himself. Shadows, darkness everywhere, but there was a deeper shadow than the rest, where a little alcove had been cut out of the rock. It was so shallow that he hadn't even noticed it when he'd felt his way past, but if he pressed himself into it...

  He heard the splash of the oars. There was no time to find anywhere else. He turned his collar up, pulled his cap down to conceal the paleness of his face, put his hand on the pistol in his pocket.

  The splashing came closer. So did the light, and soon it was shining clearly on the water, the wavering flame in the lantern enough to illuminate the whole of the tunnel. Surely they'd seen him?

  He held his breath, watching through half-dosed eyes from under the brim of his cap as the boat moved past him. But neither of the occupants noticed him, for each of them was preoccupied with some intense private emotion. The old woman's face was full of sorrow; the actress's face was hidden by a hood. Once a bitter sob shook her whole body.

  And then they were past. Darkness filled the tunnel again; the sound of the oars diminished.

  "Well, what are you going to do now, you silly devil?" Jim said to himself softly, though he knew the answer.

  He took a deep breath, let it out slowly, and felt for his matches. It didn't matter if he showed a light now; they wouldn't be back. He struck one, took several steps forward, shielding it carefully until it went out, and repeated the process a dozen times or more. Once he heard a splash in the water behind him, and nearly dropped the match in fear, but turned to see the head of a rat swimming away; and once a low, anguished moan that seemed to come from everywhere at once shook him horribly.

  But it told him he was closer, and it was a human voice now, not a ghoul or a demon; and, furthermore, he was becoming convinced with every step he took that he knew whose voice it was.

  Presently he rounded a corner in the tunnel. The water still swirled slowly along on his left, and the path broadened a foot or two. Set into the wall on the right was an iron grating. Bars as thick as Jim's thumb were set securely in the rock itself, and the door in the centre of them was secured by a massive padlock.

  Beyond the grating lay a cell little more than eight feet by eight. Lying on a mattress in the corner, wide awake and terrified, was a ragged figure who looked like an emaciated version of Prince Rudolf; but when he sat up and came closer to the bars, as if drawn by the flare of the match, Jim saw that his guess had been right. There, under the stubble and the dirt but as clearly as in the portrait in the gallery, were the drooping eyelid and the dimpled chin of Rudolf's eldest brother, Prince Leopold, alive.

  "Your Highness," Jim whispered in German, holding up a match.

  The man didn't react. His eyes, bright and feverish, had no understanding in them; it was like looking at an animal.

  "Prince Leopold? It is you, isn't it? Listen, I'm Taylor, you understand? Taylor. I'm going to get you out. Let's have a look at that padlock -"

  But the match went out, and the Prince whimpered and scrambled away in the darkness. There were only three matches left. Jim cursed quietly, and was about to strike the next when there came a sound from further down the tunnel: an echoing noise as of a great iron gate being drawn back, and then there was the sound of heavy boots. Someone was coming.


  The Prince had heard, and was uttering little inarticulate cries. Jim whispered, "Listen, Your Highness! I'm going now, but I'll be back! I'll get you out of here - you understand?"

  Then, with his left hand on the wall of the tunnel, he moved away as quietly as he could. When he'd gone around the first bend he stopped for a moment and looked back. There was a faint gleam on the rough wet wall, but it wasn't moving, and the footsteps had stopped.

  Instead he heard a man's voice saying, not unkindly: "There, there, stop your crying now, old boy. Lutz is back. See? I went up top to stretch my legs and get a breath of air. What's that you're saying? Flame? Fire? No, no, that's the lantern, it won't burn you. Put your head down and go to sleep, go on. You don't want to be awake when Kraus comes on duty..."

  A faint cry of fear; a coarse laugh.

  Jim listened for a little longer, but heard no more. He turned and left the tunnel.

  Half an hour later, as the Palace clock struck one, he was opening the door of his room. His hands and face were filthy, his boots and trousers splashed with mud, his shirt and trousers were clammy and cold, and before he woke the Count he wanted to clean himself up a bit.

  As he shut the door quietly he saw a folded note on the floor. He opened it and read:

  Dear Jim, I felt I must tell you what I heard this afternoon. I don't know what it means, but it worried me; I think it was the furtiveness as much as what they actually said...

  It was Becky's note from the day before, with an account of her unintended eavesdropping in the Map Room. As he read it, Jim sat down slowly; there was no point in calling on the Count after all. Was there no solid ground anywhere? The whole filthy Palace was riddled and rotten with plots and secrecies; it would serve them right if it all came crashing down around their cowardly ears. Except that Adelaide...

  Adelaide was trying to save the lousy place, damn it to hell!

  Jim lit the last of his matches and burnt the note; nothing was safe any more. But if he couldn't go to the Count, he could go to Frau Busch. She'd be back in her room by now.

  He washed his face and changed quickly into dry clothes, put on some rubber-soled shoes, and left his room. The corridor was dark, but he knew his way well enough: along to the stairs at the end, up to the attic floor, and count the doors along to number fourteen.