Free Dread Murder by Gwendoline Butler Page A

stripes, with embroidered flowers lurking in the shadows between the stripes. The King’s favourite scent of jasmine and rose hung in the bedroom.
    His two dressers, both men of some muscle as His Majesty was putting on weight, put a hand under each elbow and helped him to the door, out of the bedroom and into his large, well-lit dressing room, which was also a beautifully appointed sitting room.
    While he was the Prince of Wales, and then Prince Regent as his father’s health grew worse, he had bought fine furniture – some antiques, some made especially for him. He had exquisite pieces of furniture made by French cabinet makers; he had developed and indulged in a love of Chinoiserie. His suite of rooms in the Castle was so sumptuous, so rich in their decoration (this was only one of his homes) that there had been riots in the streets because of his debts.
    And as King, George was no less extravagant.
    The dressers helped him to a chair by a small round table, just as another manservant appeared with a tray of coffee. Timing is all-important in Royal circles.
    King George leaned back in his chair. ‘Those roses are the wrong shade of yellow,’ he said petulantly. ‘Get them changed. More white in the yellow, and not so much red.’ One dresser picked up the bowl of roses and, with a bow, departed. The man who had brought in the coffee poured it from the silver pot into a delicate china cup,
then he too bowed and departed. The third stood there until the King waved him away.
    The Royal manners were usually good; gentle and polite to everyone, but they lapsed on occasion. Early morning, after a night with too much claret, was a bad time. ‘Early morning’ with King George often meant, as now, eight o’clock or later in what was the evening for most of his subjects.
    His Majesty drank his coffee, then picked up the delicate silver hand bell on his tray.
    John, his top dresser, came in bearing a pile of newspapers. The King received them with pleasure. ‘Anything interesting, John?’
    â€˜Not in the papers, Your Majesty.’
    â€˜You are a great news bucket, John, so what is there?’
    â€˜A murder in the Theatre tonight … You might have been there yourself, Your Majesty. You did say you’d go up.’
    The old King George III had been a true admirer of the Theatre in Windsor; he went often and usually insisted on his family accompanying him. The present Majesty tried to keep up the habit; although he was more sophisticated than his father, he still went when there was a particular favourite of his performing.
    Miss Fairface was so pretty and beguiling that a visit to see her play, either here or in London, often took place.
    â€˜Not when I discovered it was that Scottish play …don’t care to see a King murdered.’
    â€˜And you were very drunk, and Lady Webberly was
with you. Drunk also. Her ladyship has departed, if that is of interest to you, Sir.’
    â€˜Who was the victim?’ He was interested – or half interested at least.
    â€˜A woman, Your Majesty.’
    â€˜Not Miss Fairface, I trust?’
    â€˜No one you would know, Your Majesty. A woman of the town called Dol.’
    Into the pause, the King spoke sadly: ‘Doll Tearsheet, perhaps?’
    â€˜I don’t think so, Sir.’ John was puzzled.
    The King rose and walked to the window; he drew back the heavy silk which covered the pane. Through the glass he could see that the Great Park lay bathed in moonlight. ‘Get me some claret, John.’
    John bowed and departed, shaking his head. Outside in the antechamber, he met the other two dressers.
    â€˜Is it the black jacket or the deep red to lay out?’ asked one, a pair of dark narrow trousers hanging over one arm. The King’s former love of rich brocades and silks had been changed by Beau Brummell into a quieter elegance.
    John shrugged. ‘Leave it.’
    â€˜How is he