London. 1926. One war is over, another is beginning, and murder is sealed with a kiss.... At midnight she was ravishing: a tall redhead wearing emeralds and a low-cut dress. An hour later, in her room at the Ritz, she was dead, the jewels torn from her bludgeoned body. Thus begins Barbara Cleverly’s ingenious novel, another masterpiece of suspense from the CWA Golden Dagger Award—winning author. With the help of a former comrade-at-arms and a society girl turned constable, Scotland Yard Inspector Joe Sandilands enters into the private world of Dame Beatrice Jagow-Joliffe–a hive of state secrets and sexual extravagance. But as The Dame’s affairs are exposed, the case takes a sudden, strange turn. Because what Sandilands is about to discover are deceptions that go far beyond salacious scandal to betrayals that strike at the heart of a nation . . . and the ruthless heart of a killer. "[The Palace Tiger] places Cleverly in the first rank of historical mystery writers.... It evokes, and in some ways surpasses, the work of Agatha Christie." Barbara Cleverly is the author of five novels of historical suspense, including The Damascened Blade , winner of the CWA Historical Dagger Award, The Last Kashmiri Rose, Ragtime in Simla, The Palace Tiger, and The Bee’s Kiss . She lives in Cambridge, England where she is now at work on the second Laetitia Talbot mystery, which Delta will publish in 2008. Chapter One London, April 1926 "I do all my thinking in the car nowadays. And why? Because, whatever I do or say, I can't get away from blasted Audrey!" A flash of resentment expressed itself in a sharp stab on the accelerator, and the red Chrysler two-seater swept smoothly onwards over the Hog's Back and on to London. "Eight years ago she was innocent, pliable, uninventive but co-operative. And now? Sycophantic, eager to please but having no longer the power of pleasing. She'll have to go! And this time I shan't relent no matter how many damp handkerchiefs she waves before my face. She's completely suffocating me. I should have left her where I found her – second from the right in the chorus of Florodora . "It was a good idea, throwing my luggage in the back and just leaving. I certainly needed to get away, to get away to London . . . to get away from cosy domesticity in the country to the supple hospitality extended by the Ritz. 'Your usual suite?' I like that! I like the purring familiar voice, confidential and knowing, so calming in all this storm and stress. But now – what to look forward to? A dreary evening. Cousin Alfred's fiftieth birthday party. A roomful of people I hardly know. A roomful of dull nieces and nephews. But – you never know your luck! That little girl who's just got herself engaged to the appalling Monty – she might be quite promising. Might be distinctly promising! I can remember everything about her except her name. Jennifer? Jasmine? Sure it began with a J . . . Joanna! Got it! Black hair in a fashionable bob, slender figure. Slanting green eyes. Naughty and knowing green eyes, perhaps? I'm sure I encountered a look of complicity when we met. And any girl cultivated by that louche lounge lizard Montagu Mathurin is bound to have reached a certain level of initiation into the ways of the world. An initiation acquired in an upper room at the Cafe Royal, perhaps. What can she see in him? Much too good for him – she's bound to have realized by now. It mightn't be such a bad evening after all!" Detective Sergeant William Armitage's handsome features contorted briefly in an attempt to stifle a sigh, or was it a yawn? Overtime was always tedious but really, he felt – and resented the feeling – that he was out of place here. He'd rather have been on duty at the dog track. Better still, he could have taken the day off and gone to Wembley for the Cup Final. A northern Derby but worth watching all the same. Still, you had to take what you could get these days. They were cutting down on overtime next week and the old man desperately needed that cataract operation. That didn't come free. Austerity. They were living in times of austerity, they'd been told. The force, just like everyone else, had to tighten its belt. Cut down on unnecessary expenses. "Huh! Try explaining austerity to some of this lot." He ran his eye with disfavour amounting to hatred over the birthday guests assembled in the private dining room of the Ritz. The end of the seemingly interminable speeches had come at last. The old geezer in whose honour they were celebrating fifty years of parasitic idleness risked running into his sixtieth year before his friends and relations had finished queuing up to listen to their own voices telling family jokes and relating embarrassing incidents in the fruitless life of Alfred Joliffe. But now the last cheery lie had been told and welcomed by the receptive audience and they were all knocking back the champagne. And this followed the sherry, the white wine and the red wine with the meal. E