Bloody Royal Prints (16 page)

“Perfect!” Coleman clapped her hands. “Let's call on Mr. Ross.”

Dinah, smiling, climbed into the Mercedes, where she was joined by Dolly and Coleman. James was smiling, too, as he closed the door. Fifteen minutes later they parked in front of Ross & Ross, located in an attractive small building on the west side of Berkeley Square.

“Nice digs,” Coleman said.

“Yes, very,” Dinah agreed.

•••

The exterior of the Ross office was misleading. The civility it implied was false. Inside they encountered pandemonium. A number of men with red hair were wandering around a large room. They had similar features, were obviously related.

“Did you know there were so many?” Coleman asked.

“I heard they were a big clan, but I didn't expect to see so many of them here,” Dinah said.

The room smelled of tobacco, smoke, sweat, and burnt coffee. The men seemed to be talking all at once. The noise level was deafening.

An older man approached them. He was tall and gaunt, and his red hair was graying, as was the ferocious mustache that drooped beneath his enormous nose, which was redder than his hair. “Can I help you?” he said. His expression suggested he did not intend to be helpful.

“We wish to speak with the Mr. Ross who oversees 23 Culross,” Coleman said.

“Do you have an appointment?” the man asked.

“No, but our business with him is urgent.”

“You should tell me,” the large man said.

“We will, but I'm sure he'll want to hear what we have to say, and we don't have a lot of time. This is Mrs. Hathaway. She and her husband are the current tenants of 23 Culross. I am a member of the family. We have fired the servants employed by Mr. Ross—”

“You canna do that,” the large man shouted. “They are not yours to fire. They are Ross employees. I've heard about you: You will na eat good English food. If you want American food, you should have stayed in America. You Yankees are ig'nrant.”

Coleman smiled. “The women you hired—and I cannot say anything good about them—have told us repeatedly that they report to you. Nevertheless, under certain circumstances, we are entitled to rid ourselves of them.”

“No, you cannot. They are valued servants. They come with the house—live there, work there. You canna make them move out.
You
can leave, and good riddance to you, but you will not get your money back. You canna stay in the house without Mrs. O'Hara and Mrs. Malone. They keep the place clean, and keep the tenants like you from stealing.”

The tall man—who was undoubtedly the Mr. Ross who employed the witches—was shouting. His younger relatives—Coleman had counted nine of them—were silent, but they had gathered around him, and nodded in agreement.

Coleman laughed out loud. “You poor old man. You must have never left England, nor even visited London's wonderful restaurants, where one can find delicious food, unlike the garbage Mrs. O'Hara cooks. We live in New York, where every food in the world is served and enjoyed. I pity you if you think Mrs. O'Hara is a good cook.

“I did not come here to discuss food with you. I've brought you photographs showing you how clean your servants keep the house. The kitchen is a pigpen. When were you there last? What kind of landlord or manager are you?”

The old man was making odd noises—mumbles and grumbles and probably foul words. Coleman hoped he didn't have a stroke until after she and Dinah left.

“The Hathaways's contract with you has a malfeasance clause that allows them to terminate anyone who is guilty of a crime. Your beloved servants are being arrested as we speak. I suggest you go to the house and take the responsibility for hiring them—although, if you do, you, too, will probably be arrested. Now you must excuse us. We are on our way to lunch. We stopped by to let you know what we have discovered, and what we have done, as the contract required us to do.”

When they turned to leave, the men deliberately blocked their exit. They moved closer and closer to her and Dinah. Coleman didn't care for their manners, or the way they smelled.

“You lie,” the old man shouted.

He and his young supporters were making Coleman angry. She knew Dinah must be frightened. How dare he call her a liar? She raised her right hand as she had when she'd fired the witches in the kitchen. She'd been taught that it was an effective gesture when chastising the guilty. It had never failed her.

“If you doubt what I have said, call 23 Culross. The police will answer the telephone. My brother, Heyward Bain, is overseeing the arrests, and the removal of the stolen furniture and art. He will not be pleased to learn how you have treated us.”

She looked at the crowd, and noticed that several of the men were drifting away. They must have recognized Heyward's name. But not all of them were moving. She'd take care of that.

“Stand back immediately. Our driver, who is also our bodyguard, is outside the door and armed. If I scream—and I will in a moment—he will come in to escort us out, and if I say ‘shoot,' he will.
NOW MOVE!
”

Everyone except the raving old man moved out of the way, and Coleman and Dinah departed. The old man continued to make strange noises. They could still hear him when they reached the car.

When they were inside the car, Coleman asked James if he carried a gun. When he said he didn't, she laughed. “I didn't think so. It's just as well some people think you do, including some of those we just left. I'm ready for lunch!” she said.

“Excuse me, madam. Did the meeting with Mr. Ross go badly?”

Coleman laughed again. “You could say that.”

“He was horrible, and so were all the other Rosses. He was rude and obnoxious, and so were his younger relatives,” Dinah said.

“They were like a roomful of roosters—all crow and no brains,” Coleman said.

“You've always had the confidence and strength and certainty to do what you just did. I've seen it before. I remember someone saying about you, when we were young, ‘Coleman walks in where angels fear to tread,'” Dinah said.

Coleman laughed. “Angels aren't afraid to tread anywhere. We should all remember that, and try to be like them. Let's go have lunch. I'm starved,” she said.

•••

Dinah asked James to let them out on Duke Street, so they could walk through the side door to the ground floor of Fortnum & Mason, the fabulous store in Piccadilly. They strolled through the aisles, looking at the displays of chocolates and confections, preserves and honey, biscuits and patisserie, and in the rear, a short staircase down to the Fountain Restaurant.

“Looking at and smelling all this candy is making me even hungrier,” Coleman complained.

“Yes, I know—I'm always tempted when I'm here. We could have entered the restaurant by the Jermyn Street door, but I wanted you to see the array of goodies you can buy. Another day I'll take you to the lower ground floor and you can see where I shop for some of the food I've been giving Jonathan for dinner. That floor is where the cheese and wine and meat is.”

“Now that you've tempted and tortured me with candy, where's the restaurant?” Coleman said.

“We're here,” Dinah said, and gave her name to the young woman standing at the bottom of the stairs.

The waitress led them to a snug table for two by the windows, which were decorated with carved wooden birds painted white. She handed them menus, and asked what they'd like to drink.

“Still water and iced tea,” Dinah said.

“I'm really hungry,” Coleman said. “The menu looks great.”

“This is one of my favorite places to eat. Of course, I haven't eaten in many restaurants since we came to London. I could have—I had the time—but I don't like eating alone. I feel comfortable here. As you can see, there are several women eating alone,” Dinah said.

“What do you suggest I order?” Coleman said.

“The Welsh rarebit, with tomato, no bacon, and only one slice of bread,” Dinah said.

“That doesn't sound like much. I'm starved,” Coleman said.

“It's a lot of food, but if you're feeling the absence of greens, order the rocket and parmesan salad, in addition to the rarebit,” Dinah said.

“I'll do as you say, but what is ‘rocket'?”

“It's what we call arugula,” Dinah said.

“While I'm asking, what exactly is a rarebit? I've heard the term for years, but what's in it?”

“There's a waiter taking a rarebit order to that table—look at it on that tray,” Dinah said.

“It looks like a toasted cheese sandwich without the top slice of toast. Is that what it is? If so, forget it. I want something more exciting. I can make a toasted cheese sandwich in my own kitchen. Is there more to Welsh rarebit than bread and cheese?” Coleman asked.

“Oh, yes. The Fountain Welsh rarebit recipe calls for butter, flour, milk, cheddar cheese, Worcestershire sauce, paprika, and English mustard, which is very strong. It has a subtle bite—not enough to make you think you're eating hot peppers, but interesting.”

“Sounds great, I'll go for it,” Coleman said. “But why did you tell me not to order bacon? Bacon, tomato, and cheese sounds delicious.”

“Because you would be disappointed. It's almost impossible to get American bacon here. What they call bacon resembles Canadian bacon or ham, and there's often a lot of fat on it,” Dinah said.

“Oh, okay, I'll go with the rarebit and the salad you recommended. I hope they hurry. Tell me about the restaurant where you ate last night. It's very special, isn't it?” Coleman said.

Dinah lit up. “Oh, yes. The restaurant is called Dinner by Heston Blumenthal. Most of the food is based on ancient English recipes—they put the date next to the dish. I had grilled octopus. The recipe goes back to 1390! It was delicious.”

“How did Jonathan like it?” Coleman asked. Jonathan was a plain meat-and-potatoes man. He wouldn't go near grilled octopus.

Dinah laughed. “He had the filet of Aberdeen Angus and chips, which are fried potatoes—there's another word for your English collection—and he was in heaven. Steak and potatoes are his favorite foods. He didn't care that the dish was dated 1830.”

“And Heyward?” Coleman asked.

“Heyward had chicken cooked with lettuces, circa 1670. He said it was excellent. Then came dessert. We ordered an assortment of desserts. I tasted everything, but Heyward and Jonathan had the cheese and oatcakes. So unadventurous,” Dinah said.

“How do you remember all that? What everybody ate and the dates?” Coleman asked.

“Like you did about the furniture and frames. I'm interested in food and cooking,” Dinah said.

“I know that,” Coleman said. “I remember you standing on a stool in the kitchen at Slocumb Corners, helping Miss Ida cook.”

“I still love cooking,” Dinah said. “Oh, here's our lunch. I ordered iced tea for both of us. I hope that's all right?”

“Please. Iced tea available in the land of hot tea–drinkers? Wonderful! I know you're interested in food and cooking, and you're a marvelous cook, and you're always coming up with new recipes. And that's what I want to talk to you about,” Coleman said. “That's my idea.”

“The idea that forces me to hire a cook?” Dinah asked.

“Yes,” said Coleman. “I want you to write a column or a series of articles on ‘Food and London' for
First Home
. You're going to be here for months, and I'm sure your job at the museum won't take up all your time. You can get to know a lot about the food and the restaurants—you already know the take-out world, you already know there are dishes Americans aren't used to eating, including some they won't eat. If you have a good cook, she will be able to teach you recipes for things you like. You can come up with travelers' tips about where and what to eat in London. I think you'd be a great addition to the magazine.”

Dinah flushed. “Are you serious? You really think I can do it?”

“Absolutely,” Coleman said. “I'll give you a formal proposal in writing with suggested compensation in the next day or two. Will you do it?”

“Oh, yes,” Dinah said. “I'd love to! Now tell me what you think of my first recommendation—your first restaurant in London?”

Coleman took a bite of the rarebit. “Perfect! Let's eat. I need to get home to rest up for tonight.”

When they were in the car again, James said, “I have a message for you, Mrs. Hathaway and Miss Coleman. Lady Jane has heard of your reception at the Ross office, and apologizes for the bad manners of her family. She was appalled to learn about the servants' behavior towards you, and astonished by their criminal activities. She will be at the party at Scott's tonight, and wants to apologize in person.”

Coleman and Dinah exchanged glances.

“How very nice,” Dinah said.

“I don't see how she failed to know about her house being used by criminals,” Coleman said.

“I hope she isn't guilty of anything,” Dinah said.

•••

In her lovely suite in Heyward's house, Coleman took a long soak in the large bathtub, dried off, put on a nightgown, picked up Dolly, and settled down in the oversized bed with its smoothly ironed white sheets and several white coverlets. She set the alarm for six. She wanted plenty of time to dress for the party. Within minutes Dolly fell asleep, and Coleman soon followed.

When the alarm sounded, she got up and took a wake-up shower. Dolly followed her into the bathroom, and cocked her head.

“Yes, I'm going out,” Coleman told Dolly. “Don't worry, that nice Mrs. Carter has invited you to spend the evening with her. She's taking your Kitty Kup to her apartment, right above this one. She'll give you supper and a walk—maybe two. Now, let me show you what I'm wearing tonight.” Dolly watched Coleman's every move, and looked only a little sad when Coleman took her to Mrs. Carter's, and left for the party.