Bloody Royal Prints (3 page)

“How much money did he ask for?” Rachel asked.

“One million pounds, which is absurd. I have no money—only a tiny allowance from a family trust. It takes every penny I have to live,” Stephanie said.

“Tell me exactly where and how the prints were kept,” Rachel ordered.

Dinah was surprised at Rachel's dictatorial manner, and angry expression. She had never seen this side of her friend, even during Rachel's struggles with her vicious assistant, Simon, who'd stolen from her, cheated her, perhaps planned to kill her.

“They were in the safe in my closet—the kind of safe they have in hotels? After I spoke to the man, I opened it, and it was empty.”

“When had you last looked in it?” Rachel asked.

“Friday night before I went to bed, when I put some new works away.”

“So they must have been stolen Saturday, Sunday, or this morning?” Rachel said.

“I suppose so. I was in and out all day Saturday and Sunday—a few friends came for drinks on Saturday, and I gave a little dinner Sunday night. Most people in London go away for Saturday and Sunday, of course, but I was able to round up some friends who, like poor me, are forced to stay in town, unless we are fortunate enough to be invited somewhere.”

“Did you keep other valuables in the safe? Or just the prints?” Rachel asked.

Stephanie shook her head. “Nothing else, just the prints.”

Rachel raised her eyebrows. “What about your jewelry? Wasn't it in the safe?”

“Actually, all I own is costume jewelry. If I need jewelry for an important occasion, I borrow it from a jeweler. I keep my inexpensive bits and pieces in a box in a dresser drawer. Nothing else in my flat was touched, just the safe,” Stephanie said.

“Does the safe work with a combination?” Rachel said.

“Yes, it's my birthday—twenty-one eleven—November twenty-first.”

Dinah and Rachel exchanged glances. Stephanie's birthday celebrations had probably been covered by the press every year since she could toddle. Most of England would know that November 21 was her birthday. Only an airhead would choose such an obvious code.

Dinah wondered what advice Rachel would give the princess. And when. The “when” was increasingly important. She needed to get back to the house of horrors at least an hour before Jonathan arrived for dinner, and before she went home, she had to pick up food for dinner. She had a list she rotated—mostly cold food. Smoked salmon. Sliced ham or roast beef. Roast chicken. Cheese and fruit. Anything to substitute for the ghastly meal Mrs. O'Hara would serve. The cook's dinners were even worse than her breakfasts. O'Hara insisted on serving dishes Jonathan detested—mostly offal, which he couldn't abide, as the cook had been told repeatedly. Every day Dinah had to purchase food that would prevent Jonathan's nightly tirade about Dinah's inability to manage the servants.

When Rachel asked who had a key to Stephanie's flat, the young woman claimed that only the building manager had a key to use in case of emergency. She seemed rattled and hesitant when Rachel wanted to know the names of those who'd visited her flat on the critical days. Dinah thought her reaction suggested that the list would be long, or that she didn't want to disclose the information. When Rachel insisted that she couldn't help Stephanie without the names, the girl reluctantly agreed to compile a list when she could consult her diary.

“Is there anyone in the palace in whom you can confide? Someone who would help you?” Rachel asked.

Stephanie shook her head. “Actually, anyone I told would be forced to take this to the highest level. That would be disastrous for me. Isn't there anything else I can do?” She looked as if she might cry again.

“I suggest you wait until tomorrow, and see if one of the prints appears in that paper you mentioned—
Secrets
, I think you said? If it does, you
must
speak with someone at the palace. Come for coffee tomorrow morning at eight thirty. Bring the newspaper if the photo of the print is in it, and most important, your list of weekend visitors. We then shall see where we stand,” Rachel said.

At last Stephanie left.

Dinah took a long breath. She felt as if she'd listened to that piercing voice and constant use of the word “actually” for weeks. She should get on with her errands, but she was too full of questions.

“Is Stephanie really a princess? I never heard of her before I came to England, but since we've been in London, I've seen her on television several times,” Dinah said.

“Yes, she is very popular with both the public and the media. And, no, she is not a princess, although she is said to be distantly connected to the Windsors—or rather, to the House of Saxe-Coburg and Gotha, as the Windsors were known until 1917. The title ‘princess' began with newspaper stories when she was a child. Stephanie was a pretty little girl—very photogenic. Many pictures of her appeared frequently, and the press christened her the Little Princess, or maybe her family gave her that name. But as she grew older, there were objections in high places to her using the title. Stephanie was annoyed by what she considered interference in her affairs. She had her name changed legally. Her first name is Princess,” Rachel said.

“Good grief, I never heard of such a thing. I wouldn't have thought she had it in her. She seems so—I don't know—feckless?” Dinah said.

“Do not underestimate her. She seems to have inherited some of the famous Victorian grit and stubbornness. Whatever else she is, she is definitely a descendant of Queen Victoria,” Rachel said.

“I'm impressed,” Dinah said.

“Do not be. Queen Victoria's descendants are myriad. Victoria had nine children and thirty-eight grandchildren, including twenty-two granddaughters, five of whom married reigning monarchs. In any case, Stephanie's connection to Queen Victoria does not make her a princess. There are only a handful of designated royals in England. Of course, Europe and Africa are full of princes and princesses and tribes of other royals. There are said to be six or seven hundred surviving Habsburgs, a host of people who call themselves Romanovs, and many more, with various names and titles, from dozens of countries.”

“I had no idea. I've never met a prince or princess in the United States,” Dinah said.

“There must be some who live in New York, or at least visit there. Most of those living in exile, or hoping to someday claim a throne, drift back and forth between London, Paris, and New York. Some are legitimate; some are frauds. There are a few reigning royals who identify themselves by first names only, which may be awkward for the uninformed,” Rachel said. “I understand that when a lady introduced herself to Prime Minister Blair as ‘Beatrix,' he asked her what she did. She was forced to explain that she was the Queen of the Netherlands.”

“Good grief!” said Dinah. “Mr. Blair must have been terribly embarrassed!”

“Perhaps,” Rachel said.

“There's so much I don't know. What is the ‘Little Palace'? And what's a ‘live' palace? Is it one that's empty—just for show?”

Rachel smiled. “I forget that you are an American, and would not necessarily know these things. The Little Palace is the nickname for the building where Stephanie and a number of people like her live—inexpensive for those who can get a flat—almost a grace-and-favor building. The building has exceptional security. I am certain Stephanie's thief is someone she knows. One cannot enter the Little Palace without an invitation and proper identification.”

“What does ‘grace-and-favor' mean?” Dinah asked.

“‘Grace-and-favor' once meant free accommodation by permission of a sovereign or government. Grace-and-favor residents were typically retired members of royal households, or members of the armed forces who had served the country or the Palace. The practice dates back to the eighteenth century, but officially it no longer exists. Still, some people who would once have been given grace-and-favor accommodations pay very little rent—what is called a ‘peppercorn' rent,” Rachel said. “That, I believe, is how the flats at the Little Palace are awarded—almost free. I don't know who manages the building or awards the flats—some charity, I think. I'm sure the building has no connection with the Royal Family.”

Dinah frowned. “But why does Stephanie have a ‘peppercorn' flat? Did someone in her family do something important?”

“I have wondered about that, too,” Rachel said. “I only know what I have read in the papers, which may not be accurate. Her parents, about whom I know nothing, died in an automobile accident when she was an infant. She was brought up by distant relatives. Perhaps one of them is powerful. Someone influential has made it possible for her to live in the Little Palace, and that is surprising, since she was criticized by many important people for changing her name as she did. She was scolded by a Royalist group who are said to handle matters like this by dealing with people they think might embarrass the Palace. Some people call them the ‘Pal Pols'—short for Palace Police. I think they are volunteers, not real police, but they can be difficult. I have never encountered them, but they are said to be unpleasant to those who behave inappropriately.”

Dinah's head was reeling. None of this had been covered in her English history class. “What's a ‘live' palace?” she asked.

“One where the queen or king and their families live. The ‘live' palaces are Buckingham Palace, where the Queen lives during the working week, and Windsor, where she spends weekends, and which she officially occupies for certain functions at Easter and in June. At Christmas and for the month of January, Her Majesty is at Sandringham, her private estate in Norfolk. In August and September, she moves to Balmoral, a property in Scotland Queen Victoria bought in 1852,” said Rachel. “Sandringham and Balmoral are not palaces, of course.”

“Wow! That's a lot of real estate. Taxpayers in the United States complain because they have to support both the White House and Camp David. Some presidents have their own places as well, and the people have to pay for security when the president goes to his ranch, or his beach house or whatever. People say it isn't right for the president to have so many houses when Americans live in poverty, or are homeless,” Dinah said.

Rachel nodded. “I am not surprised. There are those in England who feel that way about the wealth of the Royal Family. Some people do not even think there should be a Monarchy. I, of course, disagree. I am a Royalist and proud of it.”

Dinah stood up. “I must go, but before I do, two more questions. If Stephanie's so poor, how can she afford those clothes? And why doesn't she want to tell you who was in her flat over the weekend?”

“Designers beg her to wear their clothes. She does not pay for them—they are given to her, and she shows them off. As for who was in her flat: she would not want her friends to think she threw them to the wolves—that is, to the police—if she has to turn to the police about the theft of the prints. I suspect she does not want me to know she spends her time with low-life Eurotrash. I think she is lying about the key, and gives it out indiscriminately. She probably has no idea who was in her flat during the critical period. I shall know better when I see her list.”

“She's annoying, but why are you so angry with her?” Dinah asked. “You seem furious.”

“I do not trust Stephanie. I am not certain we have the full story, or that she is telling the truth about anything. But if those prints are as she describes, and appear in print or on television, they will damage the Monarchy. I admire the Queen, and regret the pain she has suffered because of the behavior of some of her family, and the loathsome press. I will do all I can to make this scandal disappear, even if it means having to spend time with that little fool,” Rachel said.

“She
is
a dope, isn't she?” Dinah said. “Thanks so much for lunch. The crab salad was marvelous, and eating in this lovely room is a treat. Stephanie's story was interesting. I'm curious about her and her problems. Will you call me tomorrow and tell me the next chapter in the case of the stolen etchings?”

“Since you have not yet started work, why not join Stephanie and me for coffee, and hear it directly from her?” Rachel said.

Dinah, with a blank engagement book, was happy to accept. She couldn't bear hanging around that horrible house, being bullied by those wretched women. Although London was full of fascinating places to visit, she was tired of sightseeing, and didn't enjoy going around by herself. She longed for a warm, comfortable house where she could read, or write letters, or nap, or cook a delicious meal, without anyone disturbing or harassing her. She longed for friends around her. She missed being in the Greene Gallery, surrounded by people she liked, and who liked her.

More than anything, she wished Coleman would come to London. Coleman would deal with the impossible people in the awful house. If anyone could persuade Jonathan to fire them, it was Coleman.

Monday, May, London

Every morning Rachel set aside time to be thankful for her life in London: thankful for the inheritance that made that life possible, that gave her the house and gallery, that gave her the time to write scholarly books on Renaissance jewelry; and thankful for, above all, the recent changes that had restored so much that she had lost.

Her partner, Simon, had cheated her, stolen from her, and left her impoverished until Heyward Bain, an American billionaire whom she hardly knew, came to her rescue.

Bain, who believed that he was partly responsible for creating the monster Simon had become, had restored all she had lost. He had managed to banish Simon to Australia, where he could no longer hurt Rachel.

She could do little to thank Heyward Bain for all he'd done for her, but she was befriending his young relative Dinah Greene, who was in London for several months on a fellowship at the Art Museum of Great Britain. Dinah hadn't said so, but Rachel thought she was unhappy. Dinah rarely mentioned her husband. Apparently he was submerged in his work, opening a London branch of his financial firm. Dinah's job at the museum had not yet begun, and she seemed to be lonely and at loose ends.