Queen of Hearts (Royal Spyness Mysteries) (15 page)

F
RIDAY
, A
UGUST
3, 1934

Off to Mr. Goldman’s castle. It should be fun.

In the morning there was a tap on my door. I leaped to open it, expecting it to be Darcy, but instead it was Algie.

“I thought I’d cadge a ride again, old sport,” he said.

“Weren’t you supposed to be on set with the rest of them at six?” I asked, deciding that I now actively disliked him.

“Dash it all, Georgie. A fellow wasn’t raised to go down a coal mine or to milk cows. Or to be on film sets at the crack of dawn. Besides, what kind of script consultation would they need at that ungodly hour?”

“Algie?” I shook my head. “If they actually needed advice on their script do you know anything at all about the Tudors? Are you actually related to them in any way?”

He had the grace to blush. “Well, you know, old thing, most old families can trace links to anybody they like. And I know that Henry the Eighth had eight wives.”

“Six wives,” I said.

“Did he? I thought it was eight.”

I suspected Algie wouldn’t last long at his post. But at that moment my thoughts were turned elsewhere as I saw Darcy coming toward us. Algie frowned. “What’s that O’Mara chap doing here?”

“Coming with us to the studio, since he happens to be my young man and he’s come all this way to see me. Isn’t that romantic?”

Algie was still frowning. “I thought they didn’t allow visitors on the set,” he muttered.

“Darcy doesn’t need to be on the set, but I do want him to come to the castle with me.”

“What oh,” Darcy called, coming up to us. He frowned as he noticed Algie. “Broxley-Foggett, isn’t it? Didn’t you vomit all over the quad when you first came up to Oxford? Right in front of the master too?”

Algie winced at the memory.

“What are you doing out here?” Darcy asked, staring at Algie so that they looked like two aggressive dogs who had just met.

“He’s the script consultant and expert on the Tudors,” I said.

“The Tudors? In what way?”

“Well, you know, old chap, family history and all that.”

“If anyone should be an expert then it’s me. My great great great and many more greats grandmother was Henry the Eighth’s sister.”

“We’ll mention that when you meet Mr. Goldman,” I said, slipping my arm through his. “It will be a good feather in your cap.”

“I say, won’t that make him want to chuck me out?” Algie asked.

“Probably. Unless your great great and many greats grandfather was Henry the Eighth himself,” I said, giving Darcy a grin. “I’ll summon the car.”

We rode to the studio in uncomfortable silence. Algie was clearly put out by Darcy’s appearance and I wondered if he might have secret designs on me. I remembered the unpleasant kiss on the boat. We reached the studio, sneaked in and stood in darkness near the door to watch Stella, Juan and Mummy in a particularly tense scene. Stella looked anything but an eighteen-year-old virgin. Juan kept stumbling over his words and Mr. Goldman was about to explode.

“Take a break,” he said at last. “Get a coffee. Snort some cocaine. Anything to get this goddamned scene finished.”

He came stalking toward us and stopped short when he saw Darcy. I braced myself for another explosion when he said, “And who is this?”

“The honorable Darcy O’Mara, son of Lord Kilhenny and my young man,” I said. “What’s more, a direct descendent of Henry the Eighth’s sister.”

“Is he?” He was prowling around Darcy as if he were a new and fascinating antique. “Interesting. That look—real aristocratic. He may be just what I’m looking for right now. Can you act, young man?”

“Act? I’ve never tried,” Darcy said, looking amused. “Apart from acting as if I were fascinated at boring dinner parties.”

Goldman threw back his head and roared with laughter. “Did you hear that voice? And those looks. Just what we need. Young man, I’m going to make you a star. Come with me.”

He dragged the surprised Darcy across the set to where Stella was having makeup reapplied, Mummy was sipping a coffee and Juan was sulking. “Look what I found, ladies,” Cy exclaimed. “He’s what we need for Don Alonso. A real thoroughbred aristocrat. You can’t fake breeding.”

“But what about Juan?” Stella demanded. “You can’t just throw him out after bringing him all this way.”

“I’m not throwing him out. I think the boy will be a big star someday, but he needs polishing. Whereas one look at this guy tells me he’ll be a natural.”

“I can’t believe—” Stella began when she saw Darcy. I saw her eyes widen, then she smiled. “I can see what you mean, Cy. He might be just what we’re looking for.” She held out her hand. “Well, hello. I’m Stella.”

“Of course you are. Only someone in the middle of the Amazon jungle wouldn’t recognize you. I’m Darcy O’Mara,” Darcy said.

“Aren’t you sweet? I’m delighted to meet you,” Stella said. She was doing everything but physically throwing herself at him. Juan clearly had been forgotten. I felt myself bristling, but tried to remind myself that Darcy had to play up to Stella at the moment.

“And me? You tell me that I am no longer in your picture?” Juan said, stepping forward now, dark eyes flashing. “You do not want me?”

“It’s that accent. The way you slur your words. That girly lisp,” Goldman said.

Juan’s eyes flashed even more dangerously. “You insult my mother tongue, my country? You call me girly? I come from the land of bullfighters. Of men who are men.”

“You still lisp,” Goldman said. “It’s an accent that won’t go down well with the ladies in the theaters.”

“Then I will leave and go home now.”

“You’re not going anywhere,” Mr. Goldman said.

“You think you can stop me?”

“You bet your sweet life I can. You signed a contract, remember. You belong to Golden Pictures just like Stella and Craig do. When I say ‘jump,’ they jump.” He thumped Juan on the shoulder. “Don’t worry. We’ll have a part written in for you. We’ll give you some exposure. Work with a voice coach. But you, young man”—he turned back to Darcy—“I want you for my Don Alonso. Come up to the castle with us this weekend and we’ll go through the script with you.”

“I say, that’s jolly decent of you. Thank you very much,” Darcy said. I glanced at him with amusement. He really could act. He’d discarded any trace of Irish accent and was trying to sound like a typical young English aristocrat directly descended from Henry VIII.

I started to wonder. Did he really want to act in Mr. Goldman’s epic? Did he really want to sign a contract with Golden Studios and be stuck in Hollywood, or was he just glad he’d found a way to be invited to the castle? I didn’t have a chance to ask him as Stella and Mr. Goldman swept him away and I was left alone in the darkness.

I didn’t have another chance to see him until we were in a motorcar being driven to Alhambra Two, Mr. Goldman’s castle. Mr. Goldman announced that he didn’t like taking drivers from the studio because then he’d have to pay them to hang around all weekend with nothing to do and we were perfectly capable of driving ourselves. We went in three cars with Ronnie driving Mr. Goldman and Stella, Craig driving Algie and Juan, and Darcy driving Mummy, her maid and myself. Mummy was astonished that nobody else was bringing a personal servant and that her maid would have to ride with us.

“One can have too much of this equality, darling,” she said. “Just think, if I’d stayed with Homer Clegg, I’d have had to do everything for myself too—and probably muck out horses and round up cattle.” She shuddered. “Of course Stella and Cy both grew up on the wrong side of the tracks. Those little girls were as poor as church mice when I first met them in the theater. Their father was a Spanish waiter who deserted the family.”

I smiled to myself as I climbed into the car beside Darcy. Mummy too had grown up on the wrong side of the tracks. She had been born in a two-up, two-down row house, daughter of a Cockney policeman. But that past had been conveniently obliterated in her mind.

Once we were under way I turned to Darcy with the question I was dying to ask. “Are you really going to play that part in Mr. Goldman’s film?”

He was staring straight ahead, navigating the unfamiliar road and driving on the wrong side. “Why not? You don’t think I’ve got what it takes to be a film star?”

“I’m sure you have. It’s just that . . .” What could I say? That I was scared he’d be a roaring success and would stay in Hollywood and have other women throw themselves at him? When I tried to form those thoughts into words they sounded petty and juvenile. I shook my head. “No, of course if you really want to, I’m sure you’ll be brilliant. Star of the film.”

Darcy grinned. The drive was spectacular, out on the road that hugged the Pacific Ocean. Steep golden sandstone cliffs rose to our right, blue water and white surf on the left. The colors were overwhelmingly bright and in spite of all the tension of the last few days I began to look forward to this latest adventure, especially now that Darcy was beside me. After a few miles we left the paved road and began to climb into the hills up a narrow canyon. The dirt road twisted and turned until we came to a high wire fence with barbed wire around the top. A gate, similarly topped with barbed wire, barred our way.

“It looks like a prison,” Mummy muttered to me. “Do you think we’ll be allowed out again for good behavior?”

“When have you ever behaved well?” I turned to tease.

“Naughty child. You should spank her, Darcy.”

“Now that’s a thought,” Darcy quipped back.

There was a small gatehouse built in the Spanish style. A man came out of this and the gate swung open. The gatekeeper saluted Mr. Goldman as his car sailed past. He kept saluting as we followed. We continued on, up a steep winding track between hills of parched golden grass, dotted with oak trees and scrub, until suddenly the landscape became more obviously cultivated with shade trees, flowering oleanders and bougainvillea, even rosebushes. Among the trees I caught glimpses of small cottages and wondered if the description of a castle had just been Mr. Goldman’s private tease.

Then we came to a gravel forecourt, with a fountain in it, just like an English country estate, and behind it—for once I was justified in saying “golly.” My mother muttered not quite such a polite word. Above us, perched on a bluff, loomed a huge edifice—a cross between Moorish castle and Gothic fantasy with medieval turrets, domes of bright blue tiles, archways, balconies. The front façade was sparking white marble, while other parts were made of rough stone, to resemble a medieval castle. The white stone glowed pink in the early evening sun.

To the left of the castle was an enormous swimming pool, its clear blue waters sparkling in the pale light. It was edged by a line of Greek columns and arches. Classical statues stood between the columns and were dotted around the forecourt.

“No expense spared here,” Darcy muttered. “It looks as if he’s pillaged the Acropolis for this lot.”

Darcy parked the motorcar next to the others in front of a vast garage. As I climbed out I was greeted by the most heavenly smell—the herby scents of vegetation mingled with the sweeter perfumes of a thousand rosebushes and tinged with the fresh salty breeze from the ocean, which lay far below us, sparkling in sunshine. This really was a fantasy paradise. And to add to the illusion I spotted something moving among the trees in the parkland, and for a second I thought my eyes were playing tricks on me. No deer or cows but striped animals. They really were zebras. I blinked and stared again. And could that actually be a giraffe among those oak trees? Then I remembered that the wild animals had been mentioned in our conversations on the ship. I hadn’t taken them seriously then.

“Oh my God. It’s a bloody zoo,” my mother exclaimed as she exited from the motor. “You don’t think there are any lions, do you? I’m not leaving the house.”

“I shouldn’t be at all surprised,” Darcy said. “He probably feeds them with guests who have outstayed their welcome.”

Cy Goldman was standing on the steps waiting to greet us. “Welcome to my humble abode,” he said in his big voice. “I hope you enjoy your stay here. Feel free to use any of the facilities—swimming pool, gymnasium, riding stables—all at your disposal. And now I’d like you to come and get your keys. My guests never stay in the main house. Too much closeness for me. That’s why I had the guest cottages built on the grounds. So let’s see. Claire honey, you don’t mind sharing a cottage with your daughter, do you? I’ve put you in Honeysuckle Hall—my English-style cottage—so that you feel at home.” He held out a key to her. “And you young guys—Juan, Darcy, Ronnie and you—what’s your name.” He pointed at Algie, making it quite clear that he hadn’t expected Algie to come along. “There’s plenty of room for you all in the Hacienda. That’s the low Spanish-style building just behind the main house. Ronnie will show you the way.” He held out a key to Ronnie.

“Craig, I wouldn’t insult you by putting you with lesser mortals, so you get one of the poolside suites. Stella, it might be wiser if you took the other, seeing that Mrs. Goldman will be arriving soon.”

“I don’t see why I shouldn’t have my usual room in the house, Cy,” she said, staring at him defiantly. “I come here more often than she does and all my things are there. Don’t worry, I won’t try to climb into bed with you, I promise.”