First published in Great Britain 2018

by Egmont UK Limited

The Yellow Building, 1 Nicholas Road, London W11 4AN

Text copyright © 2018 Katherine Woodfine

Illustrations copyright © 2018 Karl James Mountford

The moral rights of the author and illustrators have been asserted

First e-book edition 2018

978 1 4052 8704 3

Ebook ISBN 978 1 7803 1798 4

www.egmont.co.uk

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

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To all the readers who asked

for more of Sophie and Lil

CONTENTS

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

PART I

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

PART II

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

PART III

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

PART IV

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

PART V

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR

CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE

PART VI

CHAPTER TWENTY SIX

AUTHOR’S NOTE

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

Back series promotional page

CHAPTER ONE

PART I

‘Arnovia is as pretty as a picture postcard. It feels rather like we have gone back in time to another century. We arrived yesterday by train, travelling through a tunnel that cuts through the mountains: Papa told me it is the longest railway tunnel in Europe.

Arnovia itself is a tiny country, sandwiched in between Germany, Switzerland and Austria-Hungary. We are staying in the capital, Elffburg, on the banks of the River Elff, in lodgings close to the Royal Palace. This morning we saw the Royal Family drive out in their carriage – quite a spectacle!

Papa says that his business here will be complete in three days, and then he has promised me a trip into Arnovia’s wild countryside. Until then I believe I shall be perfectly happy trying all the cakes in the city’s wonderful cake shops, which are as famous as the glorious mountains I can see in the distance . . .’

– From the diary of Alice Grayson

CHAPTER ONE

Wilderstein Castle, Arnovia

Anna knew that there was something strange about the new governess.

She’d had the odd feeling that something wasn’t quite right about Miss Carter from the first day she’d arrived in the schoolroom. She’d been dressed exactly as you’d expect a governess to be: spectacles, sensible shoes, hair in a neat bun. But as she’d glanced around, taking them all in – the Countess, her pouchy face patched scarlet with rouge and white with powder, the Count with his bristling moustache and his head as pink and shiny as a boiled ham, and of course, herself and Alex – Anna had thought at once that she didn’t really seem like a governess at all.

To begin with, Miss Carter was young and pretty. Their last governess had seemed at least a hundred years old. She’d had grey hair and a bonnet with a drooping black feather in it, and Alex had made up stories about how she was really a wicked witch, who lived in a cottage in the woods and kidnapped little children. But Miss Carter did not look like a witch, or not that kind of witch, anyway. Her clothes were neat and plain, but there was a sort of glamour about her. Her voice was smooth as cream as she held out a hand in the English way and said: ‘You must be Princess Anna. How do you do?’

Anna winced as she shook hands. Miss Carter had begun all wrong: she ought to have addressed Anna as ‘Your Highness’ but, more importantly, she ought to have greeted Alex first. Anna might be the eldest, but royal etiquette dictated that Alex came first in everything. The Countess pursed her lips, already displeased, but of course Alex didn’t care a bit, he just smiled and shook Miss Carter’s hand too. The new governess smiled back at him, and for a brief, flashing moment, she seemed somehow familiar. Then the moment was gone and Miss Carter was a stranger again, smiling a rather too-wide, too-white smile. It was a Cheshire Cat grin, all sugar and charm, whilst her dark eyes flitted about the room as though she was looking for something.

‘Rather a peculiar choice, isn’t she?’ Anna overheard the Count say to the Countess later. They were in their private sitting room, but his voice rumbled out of the open window, on to the terrace where Anna could hear every word.

‘Hmmm,’ said the Countess. It was amazing how she could fill such a small sound with so much disapproval, Anna thought. ‘You know what Leopold is like. But she does at least come with solid academic qualifications.’ There was the rustling of paper – that must be the letter that Grandfather had sent about Miss Carter. ‘He says that she speaks German, French and Italian. And she knows all the best English schools. I suppose he thinks she will help to prepare Alexander.’

The Count grunted in reluctant agreement, but her words made Anna feel cold inside. Alex was eleven now, and she knew that very soon he would be sent away to boarding school in England. Going away to school was what boys in their family always did: it was what their father had done, and Grandfather before him, and no doubt his father and grandfather before that. The Countess said that English schools were the best, and of course Alex must have the best of everything. For he was the Crown Prince of Arnovia, next in line to the throne after Grandfather, and that meant that one day he would be King.

Anna, on the other hand, would not be going away to school. Not to England, nor to anywhere else for that matter. Although she was thirteen – two whole years older than Alex – in Arnovia, girls could not inherit the throne. It was always the eldest boy who was Crown Prince, and heir to the kingdom. Anna was a princess, but a princess’s education was not considered to be very important. When Alex went away to school, she would be left here. Left behind, she thought now, with nothing but more coaching from the Countess in deportment and etiquette, to prepare her for a future of attending balls and making polite conversation, which was all that anyone expected of a princess.

That was what the Countess meant now, when she said: ‘Leopold says that the governess is musical, and can dance. That could be useful to Anna.’

‘But she’s so young!’ protested the Count. ‘She must be scarcely out of the schoolroom herself !’

The pages rustled again, and then the Countess said: ‘Well perhaps that is no bad thing, Rudolf.’ Her voice was as precise as the tick of the ancient clock that had been passed down from generations of long-ago Wildersteins. ‘Considering everything, a young girl may be easier to manage . . .’ Then her voice dropped lower, and Anna could hear no more.

She walked slowly back along the terrace, taking care that her feet did not make more than the quietest scrunching sound on the gravel. Anna knew that princesses were not supposed to listen in at windows, or to eavesdrop on private conversations, or to do what Alex affectionately called sticking their noses where they didn’t belong. If she were caught by the Countess, Anna knew she would be sentenced to even more time sitting at the hard back-board, embroidering the crest of the Royal House of Wilderstein on yet another handkerchief. There were few things Anna hated more than embroidery; and worse still, while she sewed, she’d have to listen to one of the Countess’s lectures about their family’s proud history. Though, of course, the Countess didn’t think the lecture was a punishment. In fact, she probably thought she was giving Anna a delightful treat.

‘The Royal House of Wilderstein has a most distinguished heritage,’ she would begin grandly. Her jewellery would tinkle as she moved to and fro in a waft of lavender water and scented face-powder, the train of her brocade gown trailing across the floor. ‘Our family dates back to 1314, with the heroic King Otto the Wise of Arnovia . . .’ Anna had heard the lectures so many times she thought she could probably quote them in her sleep.

Family history and tradition were impossible to escape here. In the ballroom, generations of her own ancestors seemed to watch her from the oil paintings that hung on the walls. There was King Otto the Wise himself, shown in a dramatic battle scene, brandishing his sword aloft. There was the Count, in full military dress, wearing a helmet with spikes on it and holding a sabre. There was the Countess as a young woman, in a vast, fearsomely ruffled gown.

Anna’s own face was amongst them too. On Alex’s last birthday, Grandfather had sent a photographer to the castle to take portraits of each of them, which now hung side by side in small oval frames. But they were not very good pictures; somehow the photographer had managed to make them both look even smaller and paler than they actually were. Alex did not look at all like a future King: instead he was mouse-like, blinking short-sighted dark eyes, a rogue tuft of hair sticking up at the back of his head. As for herself, while princesses in fairy tales were usually radiantly beautiful, she was anything but. Instead she looked uncomfortable in the formal black velvet frock with the stiff collar that the Countess liked, her hair hanging straight and smooth over her shoulders, very dark against the white of her cheeks.

Their photographs hung beside the vast framed portrait of their mother and father, which was surrounded by sombre black curtains. Until Anna was four, the children had lived with their parents and Grandfather in the Royal Palace in Elffburg – but then their parents had died.

Assassination was the proper word for what had happened to them. It hissed like a snake, tracing along her spine.

An assassination, Grandfather said, was when someone – often a royal someone – was murdered in a sudden or secret way, for political reasons. In this case, some people who opposed the monarchy had thrown a bomb at their parents’ carriage when they had been travelling home from the opera. They had both been killed at once.

The assassination had caused an uproar, with riots on the city streets. The children had been whisked away to safety in the mountains, under the careful supervision of the King’s cousin, the Count von Wilderstein and his wife, the Countess. Even when the danger had passed, they had remained at Wilderstein Castle. The air was supposed to be healthier for Alex, who had asthma and suffered from fits of wheezing. ‘Up here, I know you are safe,’ said Grandfather.

His eyes were heavy when he talked about their parents, his voice husky and sad. People whispered about what had happened in hushed voices, saying it was a terrible tragedy. But the truth was that Anna and Alex didn’t really miss their mother and father because they couldn’t really remember them. Anna sometimes stood and looked at their portrait, but even when she searched her memory, willing herself to conjure them to life in her mind, she couldn’t. They were strangers: just paint and canvas. No more than an old portrait in a tarnished gold frame.

Grandfather, on the other hand, was very real indeed. He spent most of his time in Elffburg, busy with his royal duties, but once or twice a year, he’d arrange for them to visit him. These trips seemed to Anna to belong to a different world, in which she wore a white dress with a green sash and Alex a smart uniform. Grandfather would take them out on official visits all around the city: they’d go to the huge old cathedral dedicated to St Anna, the patron saint of Arnovia for whom Anna herself was named. They’d take a boat trip along the River Elff, or drive in the royal carriage down the narrow streets of colourful houses, where the warm smell of chocolate would drift from the open door of a little konditorei selling delicious cakes. In Elffburg the sky always seemed to be blue, and wherever they went, people smiled and waved the green-and-white Arnovian flag; officials bowed low; the head konditor rushed out to present them with the speciality of the house. It was wonderful and strange, like being in a dream.

Anna sometimes let herself imagine what it would be like if they lived in Elffburg with Grandfather all the time. But she knew that wouldn’t happen, at least not until they were quite grown up. Grandfather was much too busy to have time for them; he preferred to keep them here, in the mountains, under the Countess’s watchful eye.

At least he visited them often. Whenever he came, he’d bring presents – boxes of chocolates tied with ribbons, or sometimes things for them to read. For Alex, he’d bring magazines about theatre stars, or programmes from the latest production at Arnovia’s Royal Theatre. For Anna, he’d bring storybooks, most especially English school stories. Ever since she’d read The Fortunes of Beryl, a splendid story about a girl who travelled from South America to England, to go to a wonderful boarding school, she’d been entranced by these kinds of books. She might not be able to go away to school herself, but at least she could get lost in marvellous tales of bold schoolgirls who played hockey and tennis, and had all kinds of thrilling adventures, which usually ended in them becoming Head Girl, or at the very least the heroine of the Fourth Form.

The Countess did not really approve of Anna’s storybooks, which she considered unsuitable reading for a princess; nor of Alex’s magazines, which she said were ‘inappropriate’ and ‘frivolous’. Unlike the Countess though, the new governess didn’t seem to mind in the least what they read. She’d grinned at the sight of The Fortunes of Beryl and Anna had even seen her flicking through Alex’s theatre magazines herself, once or twice, when she thought that nobody else was watching. It was almost as though Miss Carter didn’t really care about what was appropriate for a princess and the future King of Arnovia, Anna thought with a frown.

What was even more puzzling, although she was supposed to be preparing Alex for school, she didn’t seem to care very much about lessons either. She had a habit of letting them slide: ‘That’s enough arithmetic for one day,’ she’d say, pushing the textbook away as if she was as bored of it as they were. Instead, she’d let them act out plays, which Alex loved more than anything else. She helped them rehearse some scenes from Shakespeare’s The Tempest to perform for the Count and Countess, even making them costumes – sticking silver-paper stars on to an old curtain so that Alex could dress as the magician, Prospero, and carefully cutting wings out of cardboard for Anna to wear to play the part of his magical servant, Ariel. She seemed to understand what acting meant to Alex, who was quite different when he was performing, or making up a story. He could roar and rant as the mighty Prospero in a way he never could as his ordinary, timid self.

Other times she’d read aloud, or play games with them – Hide-and-Seek, or Stuck-in-the-Mud, or their favourite, Murder in the Dark. She played just as enthusiastically as Alex and Anna did themselves: when it was her turn to be ‘murdered’ she died with such horrifying groans and moans that even Alex was impressed.

It ought to have been fun, but there was something about it all that made Anna feel uneasy. She didn’t like the way that Miss Carter always seemed to be there. Their previous governesses had been attentive, but Miss Carter never left them alone for so much as a moment. For Anna, who was used to being able to slip about the castle by herself, it felt stifling to have the governess always with them, suggesting she read them a story or that they all played a jolly game. After all, Anna was thirteen years old, not a child to be coddled and amused.

Alex, on the other hand, seemed to relish Miss Carter’s company. He spent hours listening to her talk about the school he’d be going to in the autumn. ‘My brother went to the same school, and he told me all about it,’ she’d begin, before embarking on complicated explanations of what the boys ate, their games, their lessons and the pranks they played on the schoolmasters. Alex hung on to every word whilst Anna fidgeted resentfully beside him. It was bad enough that Alex would get to go away and live in the wonderful world of school she’d read about – that enchanted realm of satchels and swimming baths, and delightful unknown things like ‘chemistry labs’ and ‘gymnasiums’ – without having to hear every detail of his new life, before he was even gone.

‘I don’t know why you’re being so funny about her,’ Alex said, on a rare moment when they were alone. They were in the castle grounds, throwing a ball for the Count’s dog, a rather sorrowful-looking long-haired dachshund that Alex had nicknamed Würstchen, because he was exactly the same shape as the fat sausages the Count always ate for breakfast. ‘I thought you loved all that boarding-school stuff. Besides, I think Miss Carter’s marvellous. She’s by far the best governess we’ve ever had.’

Now he was even starting to sound like her, thought Anna irritably. Couldn’t he see that there was something odd about the way Miss Carter was always hanging around them? And what kind of governess didn’t care about lessons? The only time she ever made them do any work was when the Countess appeared in the schoolroom – then suddenly it was all grammar and arithmetic and history dates. But as soon as the door had closed, she’d be back to acting out plays.

Alone with Miss Carter in the schoolroom, Anna studied the governess carefully from behind her copy of The School by the Sea. The two heroines, Mops and Jean, were having a most thrilling adventure in the middle of the night, but somehow she couldn’t fix her attention on their exploits. Why was Miss Carter working so hard to make them like her? Why did she sometimes have that odd, wary look on her face, like a fox on the prowl?

Just then, there was a sharp tap on the school-room door and Miss Carter sat upright, suddenly alert. But it was only Karl, one of the footmen.

‘A telegram for you, Miss Carter,’ he announced, offering her a silver tray. Karl was one of the children’s great friends, and he paused to flash Anna a quick grin before performing a bow, and withdrawing politely again.

Miss Carter had already ripped open the envelope. As she glanced at the telegram, Anna saw a frown flit over her face, but then she said cheerfully: ‘Oh, how nice – a message from an old friend.’ She got to her feet, pushing the telegram into her pocket and out of sight before Anna could see it. ‘Excuse me for a moment – I’m going to go and telephone through a reply.’

‘Is everything all right?’ Anna asked at once.

‘Oh, yes, of course – quite all right,’ said Miss Carter blithely. But she went out of the room in a hurry, so distracted that she forgot the spectacles she always wore for reading and writing, leaving them lying beside Anna on the table. Without really thinking about what she was doing, Anna picked up the governess’s spectacles and tried them on. As soon as she did so, she realised something very surprising.

They were not real spectacles.

The lenses were quite plain, ordinary glass.

She dropped the spectacles back on to the table as though they had burned her fingers. Why would a person wear pretend spectacles – spectacles that clearly they did not really need? It was as though Miss Carter were wearing a disguise, or a costume. As though she were merely dressing up as a governess, and acting the part.

The thought electrified her, as though a flash of something had run through her. Now she was quite sure of it. There was something very strange about the new governess, and Anna was determined that she would find out exactly what it was.

CHAPTER TWO

Victoria Station, London, England

‘Read all about it! Preparations under way for the coronation of His Majesty George V! Read all about it! Arnovia faces new pressure from Germany! Grand Aerial Tour to launch in Paris! Read all about it! ’

It was going to be another scorcher, thought the newspaper-seller, wiping his forehead with a handkerchief. It was not yet ten o’clock, but already the streets outside Victoria railway station were hot and dusty, and he was thinking longingly of a glass of cold beer. ‘Thank you kindly, guv’nor,’ he muttered, without really paying attention to the thin man in grey who took a copy of The Daily Picture and handed over a ha’penny before shuffling on in the direction of the station entrance.

The thin man’s jacket was grey, his hat was grey, and the hair that could be seen beneath it was grey too. Even his face – if the newspaper-seller had noticed it – had a greyish tinge. But neither the newspaper-seller nor anyone else gave the man a second glance as he crossed the busy station concourse, heading in the direction of the Left Luggage Office. It was the grey man’s special gift, his ability to move through crowds unseen.

As it happened though, there was one person at Victoria station who was looking out for the grey man. Not far away from the newspaper-seller, a girl with a blue parasol was making her way sedately into the station. The girl knew a great deal about the grey man. She knew that if anyone had asked him – that policeman over there, talking to a station porter, perhaps – he would have said his name was Dr Frederick Muller, which was the name on the identity papers he carried in the pocket of his grey jacket. She knew that those papers stated that he was a scholar from Hamburg University, who wrote learned articles about museums for a German magazine. She knew too that the papers were a clever forgery, and that the grey man had never been near Hamburg University in his life.

She watched him closely as he made his way between the people: porters sweating under the weight of heavy luggage; ladies in shady hats, up to London for a day’s shopping; a huddle of tourists, poring over a Bradshaw’s Railway Guide. Not one of them noticed the grey man, but the girl’s eyes followed him keenly.

As the grey man drew near the Left Luggage Office, she went briskly in the same direction. Seeing a young lady approach, he doffed his hat with a courteous but unremarkable bow, and held the door open for her, keeping his head down. Her frilly skirt swished forward as she tip-tapped ahead of him into the office.

The Left Luggage Office was busy and the grey man slid invisibly through the hustle and bustle to join the queue behind a smart gentleman in a bowler hat. Rummaging in her handbag as if she were looking for her ticket, the girl stepped quickly into the queue behind him. He was staring down at the newspaper in his hand, as if quite absorbed in an article of the kind that would have interested Dr Muller – a write up of a new exhibit at the British Museum.

When it was his turn to approach the counter, the ruddy-faced fellow on duty barely glanced at him as he handed over the ticket. ‘Right you are, sir! Just a moment!’ he said cheerfully, disappearing to the shelves where the parcels were stored.

The grey man waited. His shoulders had stiffened slightly and for the first time, the girl thought she could detect signs of unease. He leaned forward, turning his grey hat over in his hands. She tried to imagine what he was thinking. Was he wondering why the fellow was taking so long? Was he wondering if his contact could be trusted – whether he had delivered the parcel as promised, or whether he’d simply taken the money and run? Was he thinking of Ziegler, watching and waiting in faraway Berlin? But then – there it was! The fellow was returning, and in his hands was a small rectangular parcel, wrapped in brown paper and tied with string.

‘Here you are, sir.’

The girl’s breath quickened as the parcel was placed into the grey man’s hands. It looked heavy: there must be at least four of the books inside. She could not allow them to fall into Ziegler’s possession.

The grey man’s face did not reveal even a shadow of excitement. He remained bland and ordinary as he said a polite ‘thank you’, wished the fellow ‘good day’ and turned to go, the parcel tucked under his arm.

The girl stepped swiftly after him. She must not lose him now; she had to get her hands on that parcel. But even as she did so, the fellow on duty called out: ‘Excuse me, sir, stop there!’

The grey man froze.

‘Now then, sir. Don’t you rush off in such a hurry. You’ve forgotten your hat!’ said the fellow cheerfully, as he held the grey man’s hat out towards him.

The grey man beamed back at him. ‘So very kind,’ he flustered.

How foolish, how unexpectedly amateur of him to have forgotten his hat like that, the girl marvelled! Yet as he set down the parcel for a moment to reach into his pocket for two-pence to press into the fellow’s hand, it came to her that perhaps it was not so very stupid after all. He was playing the part of scholarly Dr Muller to perfection, she realised. Leaving his hat behind was exactly the sort of thing that a man like Dr Muller would do. He would be forgetful and absent-minded, distracted by the research he was doing in London’s museums. He was quite beyond suspicion – the kind of man who could not even remember his own hat.

All the same, he had played right into her hands. As the grey man bowed and smiled, she stepped forward, swept up the package from where he had set it down, and was gone in an instant, before he or anyone else had realised she was there.

The office door swung open before her. Behind, she heard a voice cry: ‘My . . . my parcel!’

‘Your parcel, sir?’

‘It’s gone!’

She did not stay to hear any more. The station concourse was large and she knew the grey man would soon be on her trail. She made her way through the crowds walking briskly, but not so fast as to draw attention to herself. She weaved between a porter with a pile of trunks and a man with a luncheon basket, making for the station exit. Behind her, she knew that the grey man was following. As she stepped outside, she dared to glance back over her shoulder: yes, there he was, speeding through the crowds. He was gaining on her, and she knew exactly what he would be thinking. She’d heard it plenty of times before. A young girl – all alone! He’d be certain that she’d be easy to overpower, or outwit.

‘Hey, mister, watch where you’re going!’ she heard the newspaper-seller call out indignantly as the grey man sprinted out of the railway station and down the steps behind her, shoving his way past the barrow of newspapers. He was no longer concerned about being quiet or anonymous, the shuffling Dr Muller quite forgotten now. Ziegler must want this parcel very badly indeed. She tried to hold her nerve, to keep walking, lengthening her stride, going a little faster now, but not too fast. She wanted him uncertain. She mustn’t give anything away.

She moved steadily onwards, towards the row of station cabs. Behind her, the grey man dodged a delivery boy on a bicycle with an angry yell. She had stopped beside a cab; she had nodded to the driver; the door was open; she was stepping up inside –

The grey man leaped forward and just as she was about to clamber into the cab, he grabbed her by the arm and wrenched her back. His fingers bit into her skin.

She stared up at him, widening her eyes. She knew exactly what he was seeing: a young lady, daintily dressed, with white gloves and a parasol and a straw hat decorated with forget-me-nots. She let out a little gasp of alarm. ‘Sir, I beg you, let go of me at once!’ she cried out in a faint voice.

The cab driver had seen what was happening. ‘Here, what d’you think you’re playing at?’ he demanded angrily. ‘D’you know this fellow, miss? Leave go of her at once or I’ll yell for the constable.’

But the grey man ignored him completely. ‘The package . . . give me the package,’ he hissed.

‘The . . . the package?’ she gaped back at him.

‘Give it to me now! Or it will be the worse for you!’

‘But . . . but I don’t have a package,’ she said with a confused gasp, making her eyes wide and fearful. ‘I only have this.’

She thrust forward the object she was holding and the grey man gawped at it for a moment. It was not a brown-paper parcel at all, but a large blue-and-gold hat-box, marked with the name of London’s most fashionable department store. Startled, he let go of her, and she took the opportunity to scramble up into the cab, taking the hat-box with her.

‘You want to watch yourself, mate,’ the cab driver was admonishing him. ‘You can’t go round accosting young ladies like that!’

But the grey man wasn’t listening. She could see that he was furious with himself for chasing after a perfectly ordinary girl – a young English miss, collecting something as innocent as a new hat – whilst somehow the enemy had tricked him, swiping his precious parcel from under his nose. His face darkened with anger. He had lost the parcel he had worked so hard to obtain. He had failed Ziegler. He cursed aloud.

‘That’s enough of that kind of language,’ the cab driver told him. He looked down at the girl: ‘Don’t you worry, miss. You’re safe now. Just you sit tight and I’ll see you home.’

He shook his head one last time as he drove away at a smart pace, leaving the grey man standing empty-handed, glaring furiously after them.

CHAPTER THREE

London

Inside the cab, the girl settled herself back comfortably against the seat.

‘So . . . where to?’ asked the driver, a young, good-looking fellow, with curly hair showing from beneath his cap.

‘The Inns of Court,’ she said, pulling the hat-box on to her knee and taking off the lid. ‘I expect the Bureau will want to see this straight away.’

‘All right, but let’s go the long way round,’ said the driver, reflectively. ‘You never know. That fellow might have some pals around who could still be watching us.’

‘Good scheme,’ agreed his passenger. Beneath some filmy tissue paper, she had unearthed from the hat-box a small, rectangular parcel, wrapped in brown paper. She weighed it in her hands.

‘What d’you reckon it is?’ asked the driver.

‘Probably Navy weapons manuals or signal books. Something highly confidential, at any rate.’

‘Something our old friend Ziegler would very much want to get his sticky hands on?’

‘Absolutely. That fellow was one of his agents. He’d paid someone in the Navy to steal these for him.’

‘And I s’pose he had to give him a tidy sum to get him to do that? No wonder he looked like he’d lost a shilling and found a sixpence.’ The driver grinned. ‘Unlucky for him – and old Ziegler too – that we just happened to be passing through the station, Soph.’

‘Oh, jolly unlucky,’ she agreed, smiling cheerfully back.

Sophie Taylor knew she had plenty to be cheerful about. Their assignment had gone like clockwork; the stolen package was safe; and it was very pleasant to be driving through town with Joe on a beautiful summer morning. The London Season was in full swing and, although it was still early, the day already had an air of gaiety about it. The long period of court mourning after the sad death of King Edward VII the previous year had come to an end, and now the city had cast off its sombre greys and mauves, and burst into summer colour, just like the new Queen Mary, who had been seen strolling in Richmond Park wearing a yellow hat with blue feathers. Clerks were strolling to work in their shirt-sleeves; flower-sellers were offering baskets of summer blooms on the street corners; and even London’s hansom cabs had been arrayed in brightly coloured tassels. As they drove through the park, she saw that people were reclining in the green-and-white sixpenny deckchairs, and that children had taken off their shoes and stockings to paddle in the lake.

Out on to the busy streets beyond, already thronged with buses and bicycles, the air was hot and shimmering, thick with the smell of horses and hay and motor-car fumes. Some people might have found it too hot, or too loud, or too crowded, but this was Sophie’s London, and she loved every buzzing, electric inch of it.

Now, she gazed out of the window as they rumbled along Piccadilly, past the Royal Academy, past the Ritz Hotel, and past the magnificent Sinclair’s department store, where doors were opening to the morning’s shoppers, and the uniformed doorman recognised them and tipped his hat.

Sophie knew that inside, on the first floor of the great building, the Taylor & Rose team – her team – would already be hard at work. Since their detective agency had first opened its doors two years ago, they had gained an excellent reputation, and were rarely short of clients. Now that they had expanded their offices and taken on more staff, Sophie could leave the others to deal with the day-to-day cases, whilst she concentrated her efforts on their most unusual client.

She had been working for this particular client for six months now, and she felt that she was getting rather good at intercepting telegrams, retrieving parcels and monitoring suspicious characters on their behalf. Working on assignments like this one, she felt a little thrill knowing that the people around her on London’s crowded streets couldn’t possibly have guessed that she was not an ordinary girl, but a government agent, doing vital work for the Secret Service Bureau.

Of course, most people didn’t know that the Secret Service Bureau existed. It had been set up by senior government officials to conduct highly confidential intelligence work. It was terribly mysterious: even Sophie herself wasn’t quite sure what all of the Bureau’s official work involved. What she did know was that a lot of it was concerned with what she had learned to call espionage – in other words, spies.

Although everyone seemed to be talking about the growing threat from Germany, and the Kaiser’s new warships, what the ordinary people around her on the streets of London didn’t know was that a network of enemy agents had already been established in Britain. The brilliant German spymaster, Ziegler, had been recruiting spies whose job it was to collect secret information to pass back to the German government. It was part of the Bureau’s job to stop them and, as one of their agents, that made it Sophie’s job too.

She grinned to herself. Three or four years ago, even the idea of working for a living would have been impossible to imagine, never mind doing a job like this. She’d certainly come a long way from her old life of piano lessons and pretty frocks. Now she was a detective, a businesswoman, and a government secret agent. She was a girl who knew how to crack a safe and pick a lock and throw a punch; a girl who had been taught to shoot a pistol by legendary New York detective Ada Pickering. She had found a missing diamond, had recovered two priceless paintings by the famous artist Benedetto Casselli, and had even helped to foil a plot to assassinate the King. She had outwitted the notorious villain who called himself ‘the Baron’ and, in doing so, had saved London from disaster. Not too shabby for someone who had only just turned seventeen.

It was strange now, to look back on the person she had been when Papa had died and she’d first been alone in London. Then the city had seemed like such a vast and lonely and frightening place. Now it felt familiar and friendly, full of places and people she knew. Most of all, of course, there were her friends – Joe and Billy, and all the other members of the Loyal Order of Lions, the organisation to which her parents had once belonged. The Order were sworn to work against the Baron’s sinister secret society, the Fraternitas Draconum, who had been responsible for the murder of both Sophie’s parents. Even though they were gone, keeping the society alive made her feel closer to them. Not that the society had needed to do very much lately – after all, they’d heard nothing of the Fraternitas since the Baron’s death, over a year ago. But just the same, Sophie was glad it was there. Being part of the Order felt almost like being part of a family. She was very grateful to have a circle of friends she knew she could count on, no matter what.

But as she hopped down from the cab outside the Inns of Court, she acknowledged to herself that even with the support of her friends, life wasn’t always entirely straightforward. Despite the success of Taylor & Rose, there were still plenty of people who did not care for the idea of young ladies being detectives. And running the agency was jolly hard work, especially without her best friend and business partner at her side.

Nothing seemed quite right without Lil. Certainly nothing was anywhere near as much fun.

Almost as though he had read her thoughts, Joe leaned out of the cab window and asked: ‘Reckon you can find out how she’s getting on?’

Sophie smiled up at him. She knew that he missed Lil too. ‘I’ll ask,’ she promised. ‘I might be a while – shall I meet you back at the office later?’ He nodded and she gave him a quick wave goodbye, before she turned and went under the archway and inside.

In the cool, echoing hallway, the sleepy concierge was sitting exactly as usual behind his desk. ‘Mr Clarke, is it, miss?’ he asked.

‘Yes please.’

‘Second floor and to the right,’ he instructed, exactly as if he hadn’t seen her here at least once a week for the last six months.

Following his instructions, Sophie made her way up the stairs. At the top was a door marked with a small printed card that read simply: CLARKE & SONS SHIPPING AGENTS. She knocked, and when a voice inside called out: ‘Come in!’ she stepped inside the headquarters of the Secret Service Bureau.

CHAPTER FOUR

Secret Service Bureau HQ, London

‘Oh, it’s you,’ said a sardonic voice.

Captain Carruthers was lounging in his chair, his shirt collar slightly open, his feet resting on the desk beside the typewriter, as he flipped through a stack of reports. ‘What do you want?’

‘I’m here to see the Chief,’ Sophie said shortly. She usually thought of herself as rather a polite person, but Captain Carruthers was always so rude that it was difficult to be anything but rude back.

‘Oh, well then, go through – you know where he is,’ said Carruthers, waving her away without bothering to look up from his papers.

Swallowing down her annoyance, Sophie crossed the room to the door that led to C’s office.

‘C’ was a code-name, of course. She didn’t know what it stood for – perhaps C for Chief, as they often called him, or C for Commander, or even C for Clarke the Shipping Agent, though that seemed unlikely. Lil sometimes joked: ‘I say, I wonder what happened to A and B?’ but Sophie had noticed she never said it to his face. Even Lil was rather in awe of C.

Now, as Sophie always did when she stepped into C’s office, she found herself looking around, thinking of all the secret business that must take place here. Not that there was anything especially mysterious or clandestine about the room itself – in many ways, it looked exactly like the ordinary shipping agent’s office it pretended to be. There was a big desk, stacked all over with piles of papers; a map of the world, dotted with pins; and a big bookcase crammed with fat leather-bound books. At the centre of it all was C himself, busily writing letters in his characteristic green-ink scrawl. To all intents and purposes, he too could have been a perfectly ordinary shipping agent. He looked like any affable older gentleman, with a gold watch chain and the traces of what Sophie suspected was his breakfast boiled egg on his shirt front.

The only thing that was unusual about C’s office was that there was a very large wind-up gramophone playing on a table in the corner, and C was humming along to the melody as he worked. Sophie knew very little about C, besides the fact that he ate soft-boiled eggs for breakfast, but she did know he had a passion for music. She had grown accustomed to having a musical accompaniment to their meetings. Today, she noted, it was Mozart’s Magic Flute Overture that could be heard drifting from the gramophone.

‘Ah, Miss Taylor! Delightful to see you. Well, well, and what have we here?’ C rubbed his palms together in anticipation, as Sophie placed the box on the desk in front of him. ‘Oh, splendid!’ he said to himself as he lifted the lid, pulling away the brown paper with the air of a child with a birthday present. ‘Aha! Code books . . . Signalling manual . . . Ah, yes, this one does look rather important . . . Carruthers!’ he called out in a louder voice.

After a moment’s pause, his assistant slouched in. He looked as surly as always, although C didn’t seem to notice. ‘Take these and check through them for me, there’s a good fellow, and telephone through to Admiral Stevens and let him know we have them. I rather think he might be worried about what’s become of them. Excellent work, Miss Taylor!’

Carruthers accepted the parcel without saying anything, tossing Sophie a bad-tempered glance as he strode back out of the room.

‘Now, tell me, who was Ziegler’s agent this time? The fellow calling himself Dr Muller, was he one of our old friends?’

Sophie shook her head. ‘I’ve not come across him before.’ She described the thin grey man, whilst C scribbled a few notes on the back of an envelope. ‘He wasn’t at all happy to have lost the parcel,’ she finished up.

‘I’m sure he wasn’t,’ said C, with a chuckle. ‘Well, I daresay we’ll meet him again before long. Now, I have a new assignment for you. Not parcels this time, but something rather different, which I think you may find interesting.’

He pushed a folder across the desk towards her, printed with the name PROFESSOR BLAXLAND in large black letters. Flipping it open, she saw several densely typed sheets of paper: lying on top was a photograph of a handsome, well-dressed, middle-aged man. Scribbled beneath the photograph were the words SSB AGENT.

‘This man works for the Bureau?’ she asked, picking up the photograph to look at it more closely.

‘Yes, in a way. Not in the same capacity as you, Miss Taylor, but as what you might perhaps term a consultant. Professor Blaxland had a specific area of expertise that was very useful to us. He was a language specialist, teaching at the Sorbonne in Paris, with a particular interest in codes and ciphers.’

Sophie looked up from the picture. ‘Was ?’

‘I am sorry to say that two days ago, Professor Blaxland was murdered.’ The Chief ’s plump, good-natured face looked sombre as he went on: ‘He was shot in his apartment, in the fifth arrondissement of Paris. It appears to have been a burglary gone wrong – his apartment had been broken into and the intruders were going through his possessions, when he returned and surprised them. The thieves shot him and escaped. However . . .’ C fell silent for a moment, leaving a heavy pause hanging in the air before he continued: ‘My fear is that Blaxland may have been deliberately targeted, and the murder set up to appear like a burglary.’

‘But who would do that, and why?’ asked Sophie.

‘That is exactly what I want you to find out. I am sending you to Paris, Miss Taylor. You leave on tomorrow morning’s boat-train.’

Sophie stared at him, taken aback. Paris? Following suspects; intercepting parcels; trailing Ziegler’s spies through the London streets she knew – she could do all that quite easily. But investigating a murder in an unknown foreign city was something else altogether. Why would the Chief send her on an assignment like that when he had plenty of more experienced and well-travelled detectives working for him – tough former Scotland Yard men, and seasoned private investigators like her friend Mr McDermott?

But C answered her question before she had chance to ask it: ‘You’ll be going undercover, of course, as Miss Celia Blaxland, the Professor’s niece.’ He pushed another folder across the desk towards her and opened it, tapping the photograph that lay on top. Sophie leaned forward to see a portrait of a fair-haired girl of about eighteen years old. ‘As you’ll see from the dossier, she is rather a wealthy young lady. She hasn’t seen her uncle for several years, but she is his only close living relative, so the authorities will not be at all surprised to see her – or, that is to say, to see you. I’d suggest you begin by meeting with his solicitor to find out as much as you can about what happened. It would also be worth talking to his friends and colleagues at the Sorbonne.’

Sophie looked from the Chief, to the photograph, and back again. She had so many questions it was difficult to know where to start. ‘But why the need to send someone undercover?’ she asked at last. ‘Couldn’t the French authorities investigate through official channels?’

C tapped his pen thoughtfully against the desk in time to the music. ‘Blaxland worked for us on the quiet, and I’d rather we kept it that way. I’d prefer our investigation to go unnoticed by either the French or the German authorities, and by the newspapers too, for that matter. With that in mind, you’ll need to be discreet, Miss Taylor. Stay on your guard and, whatever you do, don’t reveal who you really are.’

‘What about the real Miss Blaxland, won’t she turn up and give the game away?’

C shook his head. ‘We’ll take care of that. What I need you to do is to find out what happened to Blaxland. Did someone deliberately orchestrate his death, and if so who and why? Of course, my suspicions may be quite misplaced. It’s perfectly possible that Blaxland’s death was no more than the unfortunate consequence of an ordinary robbery – in which case, your job will be a straightforward one. But Blaxland was an unusual man with remarkable skills, engaged in top-secret work for our government. There is a clear possibility that his death may be the work of our enemies.’ For a moment there was silence but for the crackly sound of the music coming from the gramophone – the singing of the strings and the silvery notes of the flute – then the Chief continued: ‘I won’t mince words with you, Miss Taylor. This could be a matter of national security. If you do find evidence that Blaxland was murdered by our enemies, you will likely be in danger yourself. In that event, you must leave Paris and return to London at once and report to me, do you understand?’

Sophie nodded, and C went on: ‘Familiarise yourself with the contents of these folders. They include your instructions, and all the information you’ll need. Your train leaves from Victoria first thing tomorrow morning.’

The overture came to an end with three long notes, and Sophie realised she was being dismissed. She hastily scooped up the two folders, as he added:

‘Oh, one last thing. Miss Blaxland of course travels with a chaperone – normally, I believe, she has a lady’s maid to accompany her. You’ll need to arrange for someone to go with you in that capacity. I’m sure one of your quick-witted young ladies will do the job. Well, very best of luck. Farewell, or I suppose I ought to say au revoir.’

He smiled and turned away to fiddle with the gramophone, but Sophie paused at the door. She was still trying to make sense of all that C had told her, but in spite of that, she had to ask: ‘I . . . I don’t suppose there’s any news of Lil?’

She knew she wasn’t really supposed to ask. When they’d first agreed to work for the Bureau, they’d been told that their work would be top secret; and Lil’s current assignment was especially confidential. Even Sophie hadn’t been allowed to know where Lil was going or what she was doing. All she had been told was that Lil would be away for some weeks – perhaps months – and that she would have no way of keeping in touch. Sophie had sometimes imagined her sleeping in a tent in a desert; trekking through wild jungles; or even sunning herself on the deck of a steam-boat on a faraway ocean. Now she added, feeling rather foolish: ‘I just wondered if she was all right.’

C shook his head. ‘I’m afraid I can’t tell you anything.’ Her impatience must have showed on her face because he added more gently: ‘Not because I won’t, but because I can’t. I haven’t heard anything from her for a little while, you see. It’s not always easy for her to get reports through. Though last time I did hear from her, she was perfectly well and in high spirits as usual. Your friend is a very courageous young woman.’ He nodded her a brisk goodbye: ‘Bon voyage, Miss Taylor. Good hunting.’

Carruthers was typing very fast and very loudly when Sophie closed the office door behind her.

‘So we’re off to Paris, are we? How nice.’

‘It’s not a holiday,’ said Sophie tightly, wishing Carruthers didn’t always succeed in irritating her. ‘It’s an assignment.’

‘Oh, I know all about it. Someone has to prepare all those reports and dossiers, you know. Though I must admit I couldn’t quite believe it when I heard they were sending you undercover as Celia Blaxland.’ He snorted sarcastically. ‘Good luck!’

‘The Chief seemed to think I’d manage perfectly well. Good morning to you, Captain,’ and before he could say anything else, she swept out of the room.

She didn’t have time for Carruthers now. Her mind was whirling, and she knew she had to gather herself. She had a lot to do if she was to be on a train to Paris first thing tomorrow morning.

Paris! It was a daunting thought, but there was a spark of excitement too. Her mind darted at once to thoughts of artists and writers, the sumptuous outfits created by designer César Chevalier, grand boulevards, splendid architecture, delicious food . . . She’d never travelled abroad before, although she knew that her parents had been all over the world. Paris made her think especially of her mother, who had spent time there as a young girl: Sophie had read all about it in her mother’s old diaries, which she had inherited. She thought it would be rather wonderful to follow in her mother’s footsteps, although of course she wouldn’t have much time for sight-seeing. As she had told Carruthers, this would be no holiday: she had a murder to investigate.

The thought of that made her feel suddenly tight with nerves. She knew she was a good detective, but she’d never taken on a case like this before. If only Lil were here, she’d have made the assignment seem fun and exciting – an adventure in a foreign city. Lil was an actress, and the idea of going undercover in some extraordinary role never daunted her in the slightest. But now Lil was miles away – who-knew-where – and Sophie would have to manage this by herself.

For a moment, she saw Carruthers’ sneering face again, and then heard the Chief say: ‘Your friend is a very courageous young woman.’ Was the implication that she herself was not? But surely that wasn’t fair: her mind flashed at once through scenes of underground passageways and rooftops and standing in an empty office, face to face with the Baron himself. But that had been different, she realised. Then she’d always had Lil by her side.

As she came out into the street and flagged down a cab, she told herself she was being silly. There was no reason at all that she couldn’t handle this just as well as anyone else. She oughtn’t to let Carruthers rattle her; the Chief had faith in her, or he wouldn’t have given her the job.

‘Sinclair’s department store, please,’ she said to the cab driver as she clambered inside.

‘Off to do a spot of shopping, miss? And very nice too.’

Sophie didn’t bother to correct him. She was fairly certain that the cab driver wouldn’t believe her if she explained that she wasn’t going shopping at all, but that in fact the young girl with the blue parasol was the coproprietor of Taylor & Rose detective agency, and even now making arrangements to embark on a secret undercover mission.

A secret undercover mission! Well, there was no turning back now, she thought. She’d told the Chief she would do it, and after all, it was hardly likely that there were any other young ladies working for the Secret Service Bureau who could go undercover as Celia Blaxland.

Besides, it was not as though she’d be entirely alone, Sophie reminded herself. The Chief had said that Miss Blaxland was always accompanied by a lady’s maid. Before she did anything else, she should make sure that she would be too, and luckily she knew exactly the person she wanted to help her.

CHAPTER FIVE

Taylor & Rose Detective Agency Sinclair’s Department Store, London

‘No. No chance whatsoever. Absolutely not,’ declared Tilly at once. ‘Look around you! I’m far too busy!’

Sophie obediently glanced around Tilly’s workshop, though in fact, calling it a ‘workshop’ made it sound a good deal grander than it actually was. In reality, the little office that Tilly had claimed at Taylor & Rose was scarcely bigger than a large cupboard. But Tilly had been adamant that she must have a place of her own to work, no matter how small it might be. She was a student at University College London, and had a passion for all things mechanical and scientific. When she wasn’t studying, she provided Taylor & Rose with a good deal of technical help with everything from developing photographs to testing for fingerprints. She had even invented several useful and unusual devices to help them in their detective work.

Tilly was presently taking a course in chemistry, which went some way to explaining why the table in front of her was covered with a jumble of glass bottles, jars and test tubes. Behind her, shelves were crammed with thick books, stacks of papers and a framed photograph of Madame Curie, the French scientist who was Tilly’s greatest hero. In the midst of all this was Tilly herself – a tall, brown-skinned girl with a lot of curly black hair. She was wearing a large apron over her frock, and what looked like a pair of old motoring goggles on her head, and her hands were placed firmly on her hips.

‘I’ve got an examination in two weeks. I can’t just go haring off to Paris at the drop of a hat to be a lady’s maid !’ she insisted.

‘I know it’s rather a lot to ask. But this assignment is for the Secret Service Bureau. It’s jolly important – the Chief said it could be a matter of national security.’

‘Surely one of the others could go instead?’

‘But no one else would be nearly as good at this assignment as you. Miss Blaxland is a terribly wealthy young lady. You know exactly what someone like her would be like – you could help me to impersonate her. And you know you’d be able to play the role of her lady’s maid to perfection.’ It was true – though Tilly was now a London student, it was not long since she’d been working as a maid in a grand country house. What was more, Sophie knew that she was practical, sensible and extremely clever – exactly the person she needed to help her solve this case. ‘If you can’t come, I suppose I’ll have to ask one of the others. But I do wish you would come with me. It’s a very important assignment, and I’d really value your help.’

Tilly’s face softened a little. ‘It’s not that I don’t want to help, Sophie. You know I’d do anything for Taylor & Rose. It’s just . . . would I really have to be a lady’s maid? Honestly, I can’t bear the thought of going back to doing nothing but saying “yes, ma’am” and “no, ma’am” and fussing with hair and petticoats.’

‘I promise you wouldn’t have to think about so much as a single petticoat,’ said Sophie gravely. ‘You have my word on that. You’ll only need to pretend to be a lady’s maid when we’re in company. The rest of the time you’ll be working with me to solve the case.’

Tilly said nothing, but Sophie could see she was wavering. ‘Besides, it would give you the chance to see Paris, and the Sorbonne – isn’t that where Madame Curie studied?’ Remembering something she’d read in the morning newspaper, she added hurriedly: ‘And there’s that big air race too starting in a few days, isn’t there? The Grand Aerial Tour of Europe. You might be able to go and see all those new aeroplanes.’ Sophie knew that Tilly was fascinated by the new flying-machine technology, though personally she couldn’t think of anything worse than flying in an aeroplane. The thought of someone launching themselves into the air in a fragile-looking craft like those she’d seen in the newspapers made her feel queasy. But she knew Tilly would love to have the chance to see the latest aeroplanes up close.

‘Well, all right then,’ said Tilly at last. ‘I suppose I could manage, as long as it really is only a few days. And as long as I can bring my chemistry books so I can prepare for my examination,’ she added hastily.

Sophie grinned in relief. As far as she was concerned, Tilly could bring all the books she wanted, just as long as she’d be there to help her go undercover to investigate a murder in an unknown city.

After agreeing their plans for the following morning, she closed the door, leaving Tilly to finish her work. As she emerged into the small reception area of the Taylor & Rose office, Sophie felt a familiar glow of pride. This was their place – the place that she and Lil had built together. There were the pictures they’d chosen on the walls; a vase of Lil’s favourite roses on a table; the sound of voices and the cheerful trill of a telephone bell. Two or three people were sitting waiting for appointments, whilst at the reception desk, a business-like young lady, with glossy black hair and a blouse with a neat bow at the neck sat busily typing. Mei Lim was the youngest member of the Taylor & Rose team, and acted as their receptionist. She looked up at once and smiled as Sophie came in. ‘Oh, there you are. These letters have come for you.’

Sophie took the stack of letters then glanced quickly around at the people sitting fanning themselves or sipping tea. ‘Come into my office for a minute,’ she said in a low voice to Mei. ‘I’ve got something to tell you.’

Mei got up at once, looking most intrigued, and followed Sophie through into the room that she and Lil used as their office. It was a very comfortable place, with a big window looking down on to the street below, and two desks positioned companionably opposite each other – Lil’s currently rather bare and looking most unusually tidy.

‘Did everything go well today?’ asked Mei eagerly, the second that the door closed behind them.

‘It did,’ said Sophie, taking off her hat and hanging up the blue parasol beside it. ‘Everything went very well indeed. But the Chief has given me a new assignment. I’m going away tomorrow, and Tilly’s coming with me. We may be away for as much as a week.’

‘A week!’ exclaimed Mei, her eyes wide. ‘But . . . how will we manage without you?’

‘You’ll be fine,’ said Sophie, going over to her desk. ‘Billy and Joe will be here, and I know that between you, you’ll look after everything beautifully.’

‘But . . . but we’ve got our meeting of the Order on Thursday,’ Mei protested. ‘It won’t be right without you and Tilly, and without Lil.’

‘It can’t be helped. You’ll have to have the meeting without us,’ said Sophie, though she said it a little sadly. The members of the Loyal Order of Lions were all very busy, and without even the smallest glimpse of the Fraternitas Draconum to concern them their meetings had become increasingly few and far between. But Sophie always loved their friendly gatherings in the Lims’ cosy kitchen, sitting around the big table in the glow of the lamp-light, and she would be very sorry indeed to miss this one. The Pendletons would be back from their honeymoon in Italy, she remembered, and Mei’s brother Song had promised to bake a special cake to celebrate her seventeenth birthday.

But there was no time to dwell on missing the meeting now. If she was to be on the train to Paris the next morning, there were a great deal of preparations to be made. Very soon, Mei had hurried off with a long list of tasks, whilst Sophie settled down at her desk. There was plenty of urgent business to deal with – letters requiring replies, accounts to balance, and artwork to check for a new advertisement. Putting things in order was soothing, and once she’d attended to her work, and felt satisfied that everything was in place, she was ready to turn her attention to Paris.

She went in search of Billy, who she soon found at his own desk, busy with several important-looking ledgers. Like Joe, Billy Parker had been part of the Taylor & Rose team from the start, and now kept their office running in perfect order. She wasted no time in explaining her mission, and a short while later, the two of them were on their way to the Sinclair’s Ladies’ Fashions Department.

As usual, Sinclair’s was busy with shoppers: gentlemen in white flannels and striped jackets, ladies in summer frocks, and groups lingering to listen to the band in the Entrance Hall, who were playing one of the latest Ragtime tunes. As Sophie left the office, she noticed several shoppers pausing to look curiously at the gold sign for Taylor & Rose, or even trying to peep through the glass to see what was happening in the office within. That was quite usual, of course. After all a detective agency in a department store was rather an extraordinary thing, especially one run by young ladies. But then again, Sinclair’s was anything but an ordinary shop. It was a department store of dreams: a place that you could buy more or less anything, from the finest rose and violet creams, to the very latest Paris hat. You could dine on fashionable dishes like lobster a l’americaine or peach Melba ice-cream sundaes in the Marble Court Restaurant; you could visit the famous concierge, who would work his magic to secure you a suite at the city’s best hotel, or tickets to a new West End show; or you could have your hair perfectly Marcel-waved by London’s most elegant hairdresser. Was it any wonder that, if you wanted, you could hire a detective too?

Billy wasn’t paying any attention to the shoppers. He was busy adding things to his carefully organised list. He had a list for every occasion, and was never very far away from a well-sharpened pencil and a notebook. ‘Let’s see . . . magnifying glass . . . fan . . . eau de cologne . . .’ he muttered to himself, as Sophie contemplated a selection of gowns, reflecting, not for the first time, just how convenient it was to have the support and backing of the owner of Sinclair’s, Mr Edward Sinclair himself. If Sinclair’s was no ordinary store, then Mr Sinclair was certainly no ordinary store owner: he had himself worked undercover for both the British and American governments. He was one of the few people who knew about their work for the Secret Service Bureau, and had given them free rein to take whatever supplies they needed from Sinclair’s when they were working on Bureau business.

‘. . . pen-knife. Ball of string . . . oh, and mackintosh squares, of course,’ Billy murmured, scribbling them all down.

Sophie grinned. ‘Mackintosh squares?’ she repeated. ‘Don’t you think that’s going a bit far? We’re not going into the wilderness, you know.’

‘Well, it’s always good to be prepared,’ said Billy rather indignantly.

‘Look – what do you think of this for Miss Blaxland?’ asked Sophie, pointing to a grey tailor-made outfit. ‘And perhaps that hat with the roses?’

Billy screwed up his face. ‘No. That won’t do at all. It’s too plain, and besides it’s last year’s. Miss Blaxland is very well-off, isn’t she? She’s bound to have the very latest thing.’ He pointed to a sumptuous midnight-blue travelling suit, new in from Maison Chevalier. ‘That’s more like it. With the hat with the plumes and the net veil.’

Sophie took the hat and tried it on uncertainly. Her face in the mirror looked back at her, very small and rather doubtful. Even knowing that Tilly would be coming too, a fluttering feeling of nervousness was growing in her stomach about the new assignment.

Billy seemed to know how she felt. He gently tweaked the hat into the right position. ‘There. Perfect. You can do this, Sophie,’ he said quietly. ‘I know you can.’

An hour or two later, the things were all packed neatly into two large trunks from the store’s Luggage Department. Once Billy had checked the list twice, and then insisted on checking it just once more to be sure; and once Sophie had made certain he had everything he would need to take charge of Taylor & Rose while she was away, she was at last ready to go. It felt very peculiar to be saying goodbye to Billy and Mei, and to be closing the office door.

‘Well, I suppose I’ll see you next week, when you get back,’ said Billy casually. He grinned at her, but then suddenly looked anxious. ‘You will take care, won’t you?’ To Sophie’s surprise, he gave her a sudden hug. ‘Good luck. Be safe.’ he said in a gruff voice.

‘I will,’ she promised him.

But as she walked out of the great doors of Sinclair’s amongst the shoppers, Sophie reflected that she was not sure she really wished to be safe any longer. Safe made her think of the person she had been before – a china doll, dressed in finery and kept on the nursery shelf. Yes, she was nervous about the assignment, but there was no doubt about it, there was a smouldering feeling of excitement too.

In the carriage on the way to collect Tilly the next morning, she took out the first volume of her mother’s diaries – the notebook in which she had written about her travels in Europe, and especially her visit to Paris. She hadn’t been able to resist slipping it into her pocket as she left, and now her hand closed around the well-known, worn shape of it: she remembered something that her mother had written. I do believe I have a taste for adventure. There it was again – that thrill of recognition. A feeling that told her this was what she was meant to do.

Fewer than twenty-four hours after she’d tricked the grey man at the Left Luggage Office, Sophie once more crossed the concourse at Victoria station. But the girl with the frilly dress and parasol had vanished. Now she was Miss Celia Blaxland, an elegant, sophisticated young lady. Her dark blue skirts swished; beneath her large plumed hat, her hair was piled high, and pearl earrings dangled from her ears. Behind her came a smart lady’s maid, carefully carrying a little fur in case her mistress should feel chilly on the journey, and last of all a station porter, pushing a trolley piled high with trunks.

As she approached the first-class Pullman carriage, her heart was thumping. A uniformed attendant bowed low and extended a hand to help her inside, and Sophie was aboard the express train to Paris.

Although she didn’t know it, somewhere further down the platform, a thin grey man carrying papers bearing the name of Dr Frederick Muller was getting aboard the train too.

PART II

‘We have travelled by ship, by carriage, by donkey and even once on the backs of camels! But my favourite journeys of all are those by train. The very smell of the smoke, the rattling of the carriage, the chatter of our fellow passengers, all seem to promise romance and adventure.’

– From the diary of Alice Grayson

CHAPTER SIX

Wilderstein Castle, Arnovia

Anna held her breath as she crept along the hall, towards the governess’s bedroom. It was past midnight and the castle was whisper-quiet, the passageway made strange with shadows. In the dark, the antlers of the stuffed animal heads on the wall, the rusting suit of armour, even the painted shield with the arms of the Royal House of Wilderstein seemed to shift into new and sinister shapes.

A long, thin crack of yellow light was visible at the bedroom door and Anna moved towards it, her bare feet soft on the chilly stone flags. She felt excited. She knew that she was not supposed to be out of bed late at night, creeping around the castle, but it was rather thrilling to be slipping along the passageway in the dark in her nightgown, without even her bedroom slippers. It was absolutely the kind of thing that the heroines of the Fourth Form would do, even if it meant breaking the rules.

There were certainly plenty of rules at Wilderstein Castle. The Countess’s favourite words were discipline and decorum, and each day was the same, following an exact pattern. The day began with the ringing of the gong for breakfast at eight o’clock sharp, and ended with the chime of the bedtime bell, which meant that Alex and Anna must go to bed. Sometimes Anna felt that she was no more than a tiny cog in the Countess’s giant machine: a kind of musical box, where the Countess turned the handle, and spinning on top in time to the music was Alex. Not the real Alex she knew, but the Alex who would one day become King, shining out light like a golden star.

They all moved in time to the Countess’s tune: even the Count was bound by her strict timetable. Left to his own devices, Anna knew he would have been quite happy pottering about the castle, tinkering with his latest hobby – butterfly collecting, or motor cars, or more recently, his new-found passion for flying machines. Instead, the Countess insisted that each day at precisely the same time, the Count took Alex into the castle grounds for what they called ‘drills’ – a series of physical exercises inspired by his army training, which Alex simply loathed. This would be followed by a discussion of weapons and military strategy; the Count would give a detailed explanation of battle manoeuvres, or test Alex to see if he could correctly distinguish between a sabre and an épee. Alex, who couldn’t care less about broadswords and battle-axes, would return to the schoolroom pink-faced and wheezing, whilst the Count hurried back to his workshop to pore over the plans of aeroplanes.

Meanwhile, Anna’s morning always began with time at the back-board to improve her posture, whilst the Countess lectured her on royal etiquette and the importance of decorum. ‘As the Princess of Arnovia, you are an ambassador for your country and the House of Wilderstein wherever you go,’ she proclaimed. ‘You must never forget that.’ The Countess had many such maxims, most of which were about what princesses did and did not do: Princesses do not run. Princesses do not slam doors. A princess should not be inquisitive. Princesses do not lose their temper. A princess must never raise her voice. Now, Anna added in her head: A princess should not sneak about the castle at night in order to spy on her governess.

One of the many things that had struck her as odd about Miss Carter was her lack of interest in rules and discipline, and what princesses did or did not do. She had no sort of a timetable: one morning she’d let them read poetry aloud, the next she’d take them into the grounds for what she called a ‘nature ramble’. She hardly ever scolded them, except when she heard them speaking German. Then: ‘In English, please!’ she’d say at once. That made sense, Anna thought, for Miss Carter was supposed to be preparing Alex for his English school. And anyway, neither of them really minded speaking English. Although most Arnovian people spoke German, they usually spoke at least one other language as well, and Grandfather had always especially liked Anna and Alex to speak English, because of the strong relationship between Arnovia and Britain, and because their own grandmother had been an English princess. What was strange though was that Miss Carter barely ever spoke a word of German herself, except for the occasional bitte or danke. Anna had heard the Countess say that Miss Carter was fluent in several languages, but when Bianca, the Countess’s Italian maid, had tried to talk to her about some laundry, Anna had been certain she didn’t have any idea what Bianca had said.

It was yet another puzzling thing for Anna to add to her list. She was certain that the governess was up to something, and that was why she was here, creeping towards her bedroom door at night.

Some people might have thought twice about spying, but Anna didn’t. She liked to know things, and she had a talent for finding things out, especially the things she wasn’t really supposed to know. She was the one who had discovered the old secret passage in the castle cellars that no one else knew about; and she was the one who had found out about the secret love affair going on between Bianca and the Count’s valet. She had an uncomfortable suspicion that the heroines of the Fourth Form might have thought this kind of thing ‘sneaking’ or ‘dishonourable’, but she pushed that thought away as she peeped, feeling rather thrilled, through the door into Miss Carter’s bedroom.

Like many of the rooms in Wilderstein Castle, the governess’s bedroom was quite bare and cold. The stone walls were hung with crossed swords and tapestries of hunting or battle scenes – wild pigs being gored with pikes, and people in helmets hitting each other with swords. Miss Carter did not look like she belonged at all, sitting beneath one of the tapestries, writing a letter. The governess seemed quite different in a dressing gown, with her hair falling loose over her shoulders in long, snaking curls. She was not wearing her spectacles again, Anna realised, stepping a little closer, hardly daring to breathe.

She watched intently as Miss Carter put down her pen, tucked her letter into an envelope, and then got up and went over to the bed. Anna expected to see her turn back the covers, but instead, she bent down and reached under the bed, drawing something out from beneath it. Anna saw that it was a small leather attaché case, rather battered and stuck all over with luggage labels. As she watched, Miss Carter unlocked the case with a little key which hung on a chain around her neck.

Anna leaned forward, eager to see what was inside, but to her enormous annoyance, she could see only the back of Miss Carter’s head. The governess was taking something out of the case – a small object, which she dropped into her dressing-gown pocket. Then she locked the case, pushed it back underneath the bed, and made for the door.

Almost tripping over her nightgown in her haste, Anna scrambled back down the passage. From a safe spot behind the rusting suit of armour, she watched breathlessly as Miss Carter padded out of her room and down the hallway. Where on earth was she going at this time of night? She hurried silently after her, feeling more thrilled than ever. To her astonishment, she saw the governess’s dark figure approach the door of the Count and Countess’s sitting room, and then go swiftly inside.

Anna scampered quickly down the hall, creeping as close to the sitting-room door as she dared. The door had been left ajar: inside, the room was quite dark, but Miss Carter had lit a small lamp, and as Anna peered in, she saw that it had cast out a circle of light, illuminating her like an actress on a stage.

As Anna watched, she saw Miss Carter open the Count’s desk, and begin rifling through his letters and papers. The governess’s lips were moving as though she was muttering to herself, though Anna couldn’t hear what she was saying. After a few moments she took out a single sheet of paper, and laid it flat on the desk under the light.

Anna stared and stared as the governess took out the object she’d dropped into her dressing-gown pocket. It was small and round, and looked rather like a silver watch. But as Anna watched, she held it close to the paper. There was a loud, distinct click. Miss Carter wound the watch and held it out again. Click went the watch, the mechanism loud in the night. Except it wasn’t a watch at all, Anna realised. It was a camera. The governess was photographing private papers from inside the Count’s desk!

She let out a little gasp of surprise, and Miss Carter looked up sharply. She couldn’t see Anna standing in the dark of the hallway, but at once she turned out the lamp, plunging the room into blackness. Frightened now, Anna darted as quickly as she could back along the passageway. But before she could reach the safety of her room, she collided with someone coming the other way, someone tall and solid. She looked up in alarm to see that she’d slammed into a footman, a new one, whom she’d never spoken to before. He looked down at her with an unpleasant sneer on his face.

‘Why are you here, running about in the dark?’ he hissed. ‘You ought to be more careful by yourself at night, Princess.’

Anna stepped back at once, alarmed. Footmen never spoke to her like that – they always bowed respectfully and addressed her as ‘Your Highness’. They certainly would never say ‘Princess’ in that contemptuous way. She was so surprised she couldn’t say a word: meanwhile, the footman only gave a mocking little snigger.

Just then, to Anna’s enormous relief, Karl appeared around a corner. ‘Your Highness! What are you doing out of bed in the cold, and without any bedroom slippers? Whatever would Her Ladyship say?’ he clucked. He gave the new footman a doubtful look. ‘You can go – I’ll take care of Her Highness,’ he informed him. Then, more reassuringly to Anna: ‘Come along. Back into bed for you.’

But even when Karl had brought Anna back to her own bedroom, and she was tucked up safely in her own bed again, sleep felt very far away. There was no doubt about it, she thought as she lay wide awake in the dark. There were strange things happening at Wilderstein Castle. Strangest of all, she was now quite sure that the new English governess was a spy.

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