Chapter Twenty-Five #2
“What’s the point of these?” says Gia, also flinching away from the first file and digging into the next.
I discard it as well, picking another from the bottom of the pile instead.
This one includes an incident report from the shooting at Sandringham, as well as stills from security footage and, most intriguingly, a roundup of Ben’s whereabouts that day—and the twenty-four hours beforehand.
“Evangeline?” prompts Singh, and I clear my throat, setting the second file aside and opening a third. The Windsor fire.
“These are the incidents we think are connected to Ben, aren’t they?” I say, and Singh nods.
“Heavily redacted in some cases, and I’ve spared you details you don’t need to bother with. But yes,” he adds. “These are all separate incidents that we believe Prince Benedict may have had a hand in.”
Gia’s eyes widen. “Including—wait, including Rosie’s death?”
Maisie slips her hand into Gia’s as I explain what happened that night, and why Kit and I are both convinced Ben had something to do with it.
“But we don’t have proof,” I say, gesturing to the files.
“That’s the problem with all of this. We have enough theories to put Ben away for about a hundred lifetimes, and enough tenuous connections to not look completely delusional, but—”
“But there is no solid evidence connecting him to any of these crimes,” says Singh.
“And though Evangeline has been targeted several times by His Royal Highness, she does not know him well enough to guess the hows and whys of these crimes, including the connections he may have had to pull them off without dirtying his own hands.”
“And that’s why we’re here?” says Maisie, still scratching Snickers. “To pool our knowledge?”
“Yes,” I say, glancing sidelong at Kit. I expect him to look stricken, but while there’s a furrow in his brow, he looks every bit as determined as I feel. “We can’t trust anyone else. We know Ben is working with Dylan Baxter, and he was working with John Phillip Michaels—”
“The terrorist?” says Gia, her voice rising as she looks again to Maisie, who grimaces. “Wait, really?”
“Really,” she mutters. “And we know Ben’s responsible for setting the fire at Windsor, too. Or that he at least blackmailed Rosie and someone else into doing it for him.”
Gia’s mouth drops open, and the string of curses that escapes her is so delightfully vile that my respect for her triples.
“That would be this file,” says Singh, opening the one on the Windsor fire.
“And a solid place to start, considering we still haven’t figured out who the other accomplice was.
I’ve compiled a list of all staff members on duty during that time period, though of course you would all be the ones to ask for details. ”
I scan my copy of the names, but while I recognize some of them, most are a mystery to me. “Were any of them crossmatched to the list of Fox Rex members we got from Oxford?” I say, and Singh shakes his head.
“An excellent theory, but no. No member of the palace staff was found on Michaels’s list.”
“Damn,” I mutter. So much for making this easy.
“That doesn’t mean His Royal Highness didn’t have something on a member of staff he was able to use against them, however,” adds Singh. “So please consider the possibilities carefully.”
I scan it again. I recognize my housekeepers, a few of the footmen I joke around with when they’re not being sticks in the mud, and of course the PPOs who follow us around constantly.
But my depth of knowledge about what goes on in the castle when the royal family isn’t around is shallower than a puddle on a sunny day, and I’m useless.
“Does anything stand out to you?” I say to Maisie, and though she still doesn’t seem pleased that I have the audacity to speak to her, she does at least shuffle through her papers until she finds the document.
“The number of staff was limited then, because of the bombing,” she says, dropping a kiss onto Snickers’s head without her gaze wavering. “And it would’ve been someone who had access to the royal apartments, which also reduces the possibilities. There’s Jenkins, of course—”
“He was at the hospital with Alexander,” I say, shooting my father a look, as if he could possibly corroborate this.
“Naturally,” says Alexander. “And I trust Jenkins with my life.”
“Then there’s Fitz,” says Gia, glancing over Maisie’s shoulder. “I always thought he was a weasel.”
“Tibby thinks he’s incompetent,” I offer. “But I’m also pretty sure she thinks everyone is incompetent.”
Maisie sniffs. “I like that he’s incompetent.
It gives me a reason to have a go at him.
What?” she adds when I blink at her. “Mummy says I have to find a discreet way to express my less…gracious sentiments, and therapy is far too much of a risk. Could you imagine the stories they could sell if I actually told a therapist the truth?”
I roll my eyes. “We can put Fitz down as a ‘maybe.’ It’s not Tibby.”
“Oh?” says Maisie, eyebrow raised. “And how can you be so sure?”
“Because if she wanted to kill me, she could’ve done it about a hundred times by now. And made it look like Kit was responsible.”
Kit sits up straighter. “Right. Remind me never to get on Tibby’s bad side,” he mumbles, raking his fingers through his hair.
“I don’t recognize many names on the list, but whoever it is, what we do know is that, between Rosie and Michaels, Ben is tying up loose ends.
Whoever aided him with the fire will be targeted, and soon. ”
“Unless…” Maisie pauses, and both she and Snickers tilt their heads at exactly the same angle at exactly the same time. “Unless they already have been.”
“What do you mean?” says Singh, immediately opening his laptop.
“My housekeeper’s assistant,” she says. “I think her name was…Molly? Polly? Dolly? No—here it is, Holly McIntyre. She was there that week, possibly even that day. I remember because she helped me clean up a broken vase. But I didn’t see her after we got back from Balmoral, and my housekeeper told me it was because Dolly—Holly was in a car accident.
Her brakes were tampered with by an ex, supposedly, and she had a spinal injury, so she couldn’t work anymore.
I had Fitz send flowers, of course, but I didn’t think anything of it at the time.
Except that men are terrible and don’t deserve women, naturally. ”
Singh types a quick note into his computer. “I’ll look into it immediately. There may be CCTV footage of the accident, or even the tampering, if they weren’t careful.”
“What about footage from the morning Rosie died?” I blurt, and everyone turns to look at me—even Singh, fingers still poised above the keyboard. “She went for a jog around the park with Snickers, and she thought she was being followed. I know the CCTV footage from that night was a bust, but maybe—”
“I’ll make it a priority,” says Singh. “I believe someone from my team spoke to her after the incident, but concluded there wasn’t a threat at the time.”
“We called in an independent security team to help,” says Kit, and he pulls out his mobile. “I’ve got the number here. They ought to be able to give you further details.”
“And Victor Stephens spoke to her, too,” I say, gripping the document so hard I wrinkle the page. “He might know something.”
“On it,” promises Singh, and he looks around the room again. “This should be enough to keep me busy for now. Look through these files as soon as you can, and if anything comes up—I mean anything at all—contact me directly, day or night.”
“Thank you, Agent Singh,” says Alexander. He rises slowly, and they exchange a firm handshake. “The moment you have any news, please let Jenkins know. While the last thing we want is to implicate a member of our own family—”
“The last thing we want,” corrects Maisie, “is for a member of this family to try to kill the rest of us.”
Alexander’s grim smile falters. “I will not allow it to happen again. Is that understood?” he says to Singh. “No matter what it takes, I will protect my family at all costs.”
“Understood,” says Singh, and he offers me a small nod before gathering his laptop and hurrying out the door, leaving us to pore over the files in search of a spark that might, for once, start a fire we control.