Blood Royal (34 page)

“I don’t think they know what to do with you,” Philip said.

“Who? Trent and his learned friend?”

“Everyone—Desai, Trent, Sir Fredic, the judge.”

“Because I’m a woman in their territory.”

“Oh, no, a fossil like General Sir Henry may still believe that women aren’t the intellectual equal of men, but there are too many fine female lawyers for anyone involved with the law to have that Stone Age notion. Besides, British women are every bit as tough to handle as you are. The judge who gets respect all day in court goes home at night to have his wife take him down a notch or two because he forgot her birthday. No, it’s something completely different.”

He paused in the hallway and met her eye.

“I really suspect that their problem is not because you’re a woman, but because you’re such a damn fine lawyer.”

Desai’s next witnesses was a twenty-year staff member of the royal household. He was the servant who offered to announce the princess as she entered the main hall where the party was being held. That put him in a position to observe the princess close up immediately before the shooting. He testified that the princess had been calm and collected when she walked by him.

“In your twenty years in a royal household, have you ever seen a Royal present anything but restraint toward the public?” Marlowe asked on cross.

He admitted that he had not.

Another member of the household, a woman who assisted the princess as a maid the night of the shooting, followed with the same theme, that the princess was calm.

Marlowe asked her, “I notice you told the police that the princess could have swift mood changes—what did you mean?”

“Oh, she’s quite famous for going from one place to another with her moods. She’d be calm one moment, then blow at us, and then laugh hysterically the next. But she was calm that night, she was.”

“At that precise moment you did not observe anger in her face, is that what you mean?”

“She was calm when she killed the prince,” the woman said stubbornly.

“You didn’t see her kill the prince, did you?”

“No, but—”

“And you just testified that she had swift mood changes, didn’t you?”

The woman’s eyes narrowed. “I saw what I saw.”

“You don’t like the princess, do you? I mean, even before the shooting, you didn’t like her, did you?”

The woman shrugged. “She wasn’t well liked by some staff members.”

“By the staff members who supported the prince in his marital disputes with his wife, you mean.”

“We saw how he suffered from her constant mood swings.”

“Did you see how she suffered from the treatment she got from him? Or did the fact you were getting a paycheck signed by the prince blind you to her pain?”

The maid was followed by a police officer. Chief Inspector Arthur Field supervised the crime scene investigation and had taken the princess into custody. He spoke briefly with her after she waived her rights. His theme was the same as the others’, that the princess was calm and collected.

When Desai paused in the questioning to peruse his notes, a bailiff handed Marlowe a folded note with a page attached. The note was a scribble that read,
Sold to the tabs by an informed source.
It was signed,
Your pal Dutton.

She looked up at the spectators’ gallery. Dutton grinned down at her.

The attachment was a poor photocopy of a page from a Preliminary Investigation Report. The page had been filled in by hand. In the block that called for the officer to describe the suspect’s demeanor, the word
hysterical
was written. At the bottom of the page were the initials
AF.

“Your witness,” the judge told her.

Marlowe took a deep breath and stood up, placing the page on her podium.

“I was given a document by the prosecutor, Chief Inspector, called the Final Investigation Report. You were the author of that report?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“And in that report you describe the princess’s demeanor at the time you questioned her as calm?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“And you wrote that report … when? About a week after the incident?”

“Yes, ma’am, that’s correct.”

“And in that report you described the princess’s demeanor following the shooting as calm?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Now, there was another report, wasn’t there? An earlier one?”

The officer visibly tensed.

“Isn’t that correct?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“And in that report, the Preliminary Investigation Report you wrote within hours of the incident, you described the princess’s demeanor as hysterical?”

“What I meant was—”

“What did you write in the report?”

“My lord,” Desai said.

“Give the witness a chance to respond, Miss James,” the judge said.

“Thank you. Chief Inspector, you described her demeanor as hysterical in the earlier report, yes or no?”

“You see—”

“Yes or no, did you describe her as hysterical?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Now please turn to the jury and tell them who instructed you to criminally and fraudulently conceal this fact—”

“My lord!”

“Was it the prosecutor?” Marlowe shouted on the heel of Desai’s plea to the judge.

The judge surprised Marlowe by calling a recess and leaving the bench—without instructing the attorneys to present themselves in his office.

“I thought for sure he’d have me in chains,” Marlowe told Hall.

“He’s disgusted,” Philip Hall told her, “he realizes Desai withheld the original report.”

“Knows it and isn’t going to do anything about it. How the hell do you have a system in which a prosecutor can get away with that? And don’t give me that national security crap.”

He shook his head. “You can’t judge a legal system based upon a trial that is extraordinary.”

She was only pretending shock at the fact that the police and prosecution had buried a report. It was not an uncommon practice in American cases. It was rare for a major case to go to trial in the States where accusations weren’t made that critical information was being concealed from the defense.

“What’s left of Desai’s case?” she asked. “I can’t believe that he’s only going to call the medical examiner and rest.”

“That’s what he told us.”

She looked at the autopsy photos that had been turned over. They showed the entry round of the bullet in the chest area but not the prince’s face. “In terms of the ghastly photos jurors are often shown in murder cases, these are really tame. We don’t even get to see suffering on the prince’s face.”

“I suppose there has been an effort to keep the prince’s face out of the pictures, not show a Royal in a horrid death pose, that sort of thing.”

“Something’s wrong,” she said. She looked up at the gallery. Dutton was gone. Probably not sure she wouldn’t sic the police on him, she thought.

“What do you mean?”

“It’s been too easy. The prosecution’s case has been too tame. I’ve jerked Desai’s leash a few times, but overall, he’s too damn smug. Something’s wrong, I can feel it in my bones. The other shoe hasn’t dropped yet.”

After court, Dutton hung around the courthouse, hoping to catch sight of Marlowe James and maybe let her show her gratitude by buying him a drink and giving him a story. He didn’t see Marlowe come out, but he spotted another familiar face—Keith Willard, the prince’s armorer, the servant who cared for the prince’s gun collection. Willard was one of a long line of “an unnamed but well-placed source inside the palace” who sold tidbits to
Burn
and other trash publications.

He had never really gotten anything really juicy out of the gun handler, but it piqued his interest to see the man at the courthouse, because he wasn’t mentioned in the police reports and wasn’t on the witness list that the prosecution had disclosed.

When Desai came out of the courtroom with Chief Inspector Field, Willard started to approach them. Desai gave him a warning look and a slight shake of his head and kept walking. Willard took the hint and stopped.

Dutton caught the fact that Field said something in an aside to Willard as the police inspector veered over to a drinking fountain.

Willard nodded, spun on his heel, and started for the exit out of the Old Bailey.

What’s that all about?
Dutton asked himself, as he followed Willard. It came as no surprise that Willard would testify—he was the person who took care of the prince’s guns, including the pistol the princess had used to blow a hole in her husband. One would expect that he would be called to the stand to identify the gun as belonging to the prince. But he hadn’t testified for the prosecution so far. And now he was skulking around the courthouse playing at intrigue with the Crown Prosecutor.

“What’s it all about, Alfie?” Dutton sang as he exited the courthouse. He let Willard get halfway to the Underground station before he came up behind him.

“Hello, Keith, haven’t seen you in a long time.”

Concern flashed on Willard’s face. “Piss off, I’m not supposed to talk to reporters.”

“That makes two of us avoiding reporters. I’m on my own now, writing a novel. Say, we should talk—you knew a lot about the prince, didn’t you? You were his executive assistant, eh?”

“I was his armorer and I’m not supposed to talk to reporters.”

“I’m a novelist, don’t you know, and the book won’t come out for a year or two—won’t make much difference then, will it?” He grabbed Willard’s arm and steered him toward a pub. “I need to wet my throat before I hit the tube. You know, Willard, a man like you who was close to the prince should consider a book, too. I could introduce you to my publisher. I’m buying myself a place on the Costa del Sol. You’ve been to the south of Spain? Bet your old lady is crazy about it, all that sun, and it’s not a bad place for men, is it, the women wear nothing but a little sand at those beaches. With your insider information about the prince, I’ll bet you could buy a bloody villa, eh?”

“You’re being sandbagged,” Dutton told Marlowe.

She had no sooner entered her room than the phone rang. And Dutton had the ability to catch her by surprise. “The hotel operator is supposed to screen my calls.”

“I told her I was Anthony Trent.”

“I should call the police.”

“And turn in your friend? Your only
friend.
”

“You are a slimy reporter for a scandal rag.”

“I’m the guy who tipped you off about the police report, remember?”

“Mr. Dutton, I know who you are and what you are, and for certain you don’t do favors without getting blood in return. I appreciate your tip today, it repays me for burglarizing my room and assaulting me. Now let’s just call ourselves even before I yell for the police again.”

“Tsk-tsk, it’s going to be that way, is it? I just thought you might be interested in knowing when you were being had, but I guess you’ll have to read about it after you fall on your face.”

She gripped the phone tighter. The bastard thought he could manipulate her. And he could, she was that desperate. “All right, you tell me what you have and I’ll tell you if it’s worth anything to me.”

“Now, that’s a hell of a deal—I give, you take, I get lost. I thought perhaps we could get together and get to know each other better—”

“I’d rather cuddle up to a snake.”

“And pass information back and forth, give and take, tit for tat, buy and sell.”

“You have nothing I want or need.”

“You’re a smarter girl than that, aren’t you? Did you hear the part where I said you were being sandbagged? Again.”

She sighed. “Talking to you is like having a conversation with the devil. It’s all very tempting, but I know in the end you will want nothing less than my soul. Tell me what you have. If it’s any good, I’ll give you an exclusive first chance I get. You’ll have to trust me.”

He chuckled. “I know Shakespeare’s philosophy about lawyers, but I admit I do have a place in my heart for street lawyers. I’ll be in the hotel lounge. You’ll recognize me, I’m the handsome devil who was feeling you up the other day.”

“How did you get into the hotel?”

“A police officer investigating the attack in your hotel room is always welcomed by the more-than-cooperative hotel personnel.”

*   *   *

S
HE FOUND HIM IN
the lounge. “I’m glad you chose a dark corner.”

“I could learn to love you in the dark, luv. In fact, I already do. I’ve always had a fatal weakness for women who get right down to it and let me know that I am worthless and despicable.”

“What are you trying to sell me, Mr. Dutton?”

“Tony.”

“Let’s get on with this, Mr. Dutton. What do you have?”

“You don’t really understand. I take this personal.”

“Really? I wouldn’t think a tabloid reporter had feelings.”

“Oh, I’m not talking about your insults, those are just defense mechanisms to protect yourself. You are captivated by my sensuous male charisma and are—”

“My God, you’re delusional.”

“But let’s put aside our differences, because we both have the same exact motivation about the princess’s case.”

“Which is?”

“We both want to win. I have something for you. I will put you on your honor as a lawyer for the people and not the muckety-mucks that you will repay me when you can with an exclusive. I want to build a bond of trust between us. I believe that there should be trust besides sex with the woman in my life.”

“Would you mind getting to the point before they come to cart you off?”

“The point is Keith Willard.”

“All right, I’ll bite, who’s Keith Willard?”

He nodded. “I didn’t think you knew. Interesting, very interesting. You have a gun in your case, right? The smoking one the princess used to shoot her husband with.”

“I think you, me, and five billion other people are aware of that.”

“You understand that the prince had a gun collection, that between what he inherited, got as gifts, and bought, his collection was probably the size of the armaments of some small nations.”

“Okay, he had a lot of guns.”