Bloody Royal Prints (9 page)

“I asked an associate for help. He did a fair amount of research on ‘Palace Police,' but found nothing. No organization called ‘Palace Police' is listed anywhere,” he said. “This is like something out of an American spy film.”

Rachel frowned. “I did not even look at their cards. But if we do not know how to reach them, how will I recover my passport?”

“I have it,” he said. He took it out of his briefcase and handed it to her.

“How did you manage to get it back?” Rachel asked.

“I told them I would telephone the American Ambassador and explain that they had seized your passport and refused to return it, so you must have a new one. They returned it by messenger. I don't think they care to be involved with a U.S. government official,” said George. “That tells us something, but I'm not sure what.”

“Were you able to determine why they are so hostile to me?” Rachel asked.

“All they would say is that you keep ‘bad company,' and that ‘birds of a feather will gather together.'”

“But that is absurd. I do not ‘keep company' or ‘gather.' I see few people. Hardly anyone, in fact,” Rachel said.

“Yes, I know that. I explained it to them. They asked for a list of the people you see frequently. Would you be willing to put together a list?”

“I suppose so, although I cannot give them a client list. Anyway, Miss Manning sees most of the clients,” Rachel said.

“Forget about your clients for the moment,” George said. “Tell me whom you have seen recently.”

“In the last three weeks, other than those in my household, I saw you and the others in the party that attended the play at the Royal Shakespeare Theatre Tuesday night. I have seen Julia and Dinah Greene Hathaway and Princess Stephanie. I see my publisher and my editor occasionally, and my banker once a month. I frequent various libraries and museums, so I see librarians and curators. I go to bookstores, so I know people who work in them. Once in a while, when he's in London, I see Heyward Bain. I have no family, and few friends.”

George sighed. “I'll give them your list, but they must be looking for something or someone else. The associations you mention are too harmless to provoke these men. I can't imagine why they suspect you, or why they are so hostile, but I find them disturbing, even frightening,” he said.

“Are they like the Ku Klux Klan in the United States?” Rachel asked. “Ignorant, but dangerous?”

“I sincerely hope they are not violent like the KKK. But like the Klan, they are anonymous, and one mistrusts those who hide behind anonymity.” He stood up. “My office has queries out to many sources. I should know later today why they suspect you, and of what.”

“Will you come for a drink later to tell me what you have learned?” Rachel asked.

“Yes, of course. I'll be here by six. I hope I have something useful to report.”

•••

Rachel returned to her desk and her manuscript, but she couldn't concentrate. All she could think about were problems: the blood on her clothes; the death of the young man in Stephanie's bathroom; Stephanie's foolishness, and the trouble her behavior might cause; and the hostility of the Palace Police. Would George be able to help her with any of these difficulties? Should she tell him about the blood on her clothes?

She was so perturbed, she decided to turn to an old favorite that always soothed her: Jane Austen's
Pride and Prejudice
. She'd put away her papers and lose herself in the trials and troubles of Elizabeth and Darcy.

•••

George arrived promptly at six. He looked exhausted and even more worried than he had earlier.

She offered him tea or sherry, but he shook his head. “After the day I've had, I need something stronger. Whisky, I think. May I pour my own?”

“Certainly,” Rachel said.

He poured himself a large drink from the bottle of Macallan on the drinks tray, and took a swallow.

“Well, I've learned why these people are suspicious of you,” he said. “They believe you support a group in Northern Ireland that uses violence to sabotage the peace process—Republicans, fighting for a united Ireland.”

Rachel frowned. “Where did you come by that absurd information?” she asked.

“The intelligence came from a high-level government agency. Government organizations are always watching extremists, especially those willing to kill to achieve their objectives. And other organizations watch the watchers,” George said.

“Do these high-placed persons believe this nonsense about me?” Rachel asked.

“I have no idea what anyone other than the Palace Police believes. They are all that concern us for the moment. They are obsessed with a few recent episodes of violence in Northern Ireland, and are afraid that the violence will overflow into England, as it did in the 1970s,” he said.

“I can understand why they might be worried, but why am I a suspect? I have never been to Ireland. I do not know anyone from Ireland. I don't have the faintest interest in Ireland, not even any Irish clients,” Rachel said.

“The police concerned with Irish terrorism keep a special watch on Americans living in England, especially those with Boston connections, and most especially those with Irish relations or ancestors. Surely you know that rich Bostonians supported the IRA for decades?” George said. “As for not knowing anyone from Ireland, they claim that you know an unusually large number of people from that wretched country.”

“Good heavens!” Rachel said. “How is that possible?”

“Your household is decidedly Irish. Your maid and your housekeeper are from Ireland, as are your cook and your chauffeur. And Miss Manning's mother was Irish,” he said.

“I had no idea,” Rachel said. “Everyone but Miss Manning came to me through the same agency. Miss Manning was recommended by the minister of my church—which is Anglican, by the way, not Catholic. I have never discussed Miss Manning's family with her. I can only suppose the agency I used has a positive bias toward the Irish, but I did not know that, and I did not inquire about their ethnic backgrounds—or their politics—or their religion before I hired them. They came with impeccable references. I trust them all, especially Miss Manning.”

“How did you choose the agency you used?” George asked. “It is
very
pro-Irish, and the Palace Police think you selected that agency to make sure you hired servants with Irish backgrounds.”

“I can scarcely remember how I came to use the agency, it all happened so long ago. But I'm almost sure the referral came from my banker. You know him. His English roots go back to the Norman Conquest.”

George nodded. “He's definitely a Royalist. As for your friends,” he continued, “Dinah Greene is married to Jonathan Hathaway, who is from Boston, as was your former partner, Simon Fanshawe-Davies. Your friend Lady Fitzgerald has an Irish name. The owner of the bookstore where you met her is David Griffith. Griffith is an Irish name associated with violence: Arthur Griffith founded Sinn Féin, which argued for total independence from Britain, and was at the heart of the early rebellions. Heyward Bain is suspect, because no one is able to learn anything about his past. What do you know about him?” George asked.

“I know that his family was from North and South Carolina. I understand that he is highly regarded by many people and organizations in the United States, including the U.S. government. Dinah says he is vouched for by Daniel Winthrop, a very influential American—a Bostonian, but one with whom I believe no one can find fault. Mr. Winthrop can also vouch for Dinah's husband, Jonathan Hathaway, whose family has been in America since the 1600s. I believe Jonathan Hathaway is a member of every aristocratic organization in the United States, and I do not believe any of his ancestors were Irish. Dinah Greene is also from North Carolina. Her family is Presbyterian. She told me her ancestors left Scotland and England in the 1700s to go to America. I understand that Mr. Bain and Mr. Hathaway are very well connected in England.”

“We'll confirm all that you've told me, and pass it on to the appropriate authorities. But then there's you, Rachel. You could be what is called Black Irish, given your black hair and dark eyes. And you came to London from Boston, and they can't find out much about you,” George said.

“Black Irish? What is that? I never heard the term.”

“It goes back to the Spanish Armada,” George said. “When the British Navy—and a big storm—defeated the Spanish fleet in 1588, some disabled Spanish ships were blown around the top of Scotland, and landed in Ireland. Many sailors stayed there. That's why a small minority of Irish folk have dark eyes and hair.”

Rachel laughed. “I was left on the doorstep of an orphanage in Oklahoma when I was a newborn infant. Those in charge decided I was an American Indian because of my hair, eyes, and skin, and because Oklahoma swarms with Indians. ‘American Indian' is how I am described on my earliest documents. It has never mattered, since I was indubitably born in the United States.”

“I see. I'll also turn this information over to the agency watching the Palace Police.”

“I hope that they will process it, and tell the wretched Pal Pols where they have erred,” Rachel said.

“Are you going to tell Lady Fitzgerald about their suspicions?” George asked.

“Yes. I think she will be as surprised as I am to find that I am suspected on so little evidence. She will doubtless be equally surprised to learn that she, too, is a suspect.”

“Perhaps,” he said. “But Lady Fitzgerald has a colorful reputation, and may be more accustomed than you are to being suspected of crime.”

Rachel waited for him to elaborate, but he stood up, as if the subject was closed.

“Excuse me,” George said. “I'm due at my club to dine with an old friend. I'll call you tomorrow.”

Rachel remained by the fire, thinking about all he had said, and about the blood on her clothes. She had not been this perturbed since Heyward Bain banished Simon to Australia. She had a great deal to ponder. Her last thoughts before going upstairs to bed were of the print that had appeared in
Secrets
. Such prints would continue to appear. No one would pay to have them stopped.

Tuesday, May, London

James was waiting in the car outside as he did every morning. Dinah had looked forward to going to Rachel's, and had been disappointed when early Tuesday morning Rachel cancelled their coffee date. She was left with nothing to do and a strong desire to be out of the house. James would take her wherever she wanted to go.

Sometimes he took her to a museum or an art gallery. She'd devoted half a day to exploring Harrods. She often went to Hatchards and skimmed the books she pulled from shelves, often buying one or more. Today was especially bleak because she'd counted on hearing more from Princess Stephanie. She could at least get the paper where the print was supposed to appear.

“James, could we go to a newsstand and pick up today's
Secrets
?”

“Certainly, madam.”

Five minutes later she was staring at a reclining nude, her back to the viewer. Not very revealing, and a boringly familiar image. She had expected something spicier.

Her little variation in behavior was refreshing—pathetic that going to a newsstand was an adventure—and made her want to do something else new and interesting. She didn't like eating in restaurants by herself or going to the theater alone, but today she was determined to get out of the house and out of her rut. She'd try a new place for lunch, and see a matinee—unusual for a Tuesday in London, but some shows were so popular there were extra performances. It would be the first play she'd seen in London.

Her day out was a disaster. The highly recommended museum restaurant she chose was packed with children and so noisy she didn't stay to finish her chicken salad. Her theater choice was bad. The play was political, and composed of dialogue among a group of men, each with an incomprehensible accent. She left at intermission and decided she might as well shop for that night's dinner. She asked James to take her to Fortnum & Mason, where she treated herself to tea and chocolate cake to make up for no lunch and the disappointing play. Then she went to the food hall to shop for dinner.

An hour and a half later, her arms full of shopping bags, she opened the door of 23, and nearly fainted at the odor that enveloped her: urine. O'Hara was cooking kidneys, one of Jonathan's pet hates. Dinah had repeatedly told her not to cook kidneys because of the odor. Jonathan would be beside himself. One of his tantrums would be the end of a perfect day.

Dinah put her packages down and ran upstairs to get a dozen of the scented candles she used when the house was filled with unpleasant cooking odors. She distributed them around the rooms, lighting them as she went. After she arranged the roses and lilies and jasmine she'd bought the day before, and set the bowls in appropriate places, she hurried to the kitchen.

As usual, the witches were sitting at the table, drinking cups of tea, their all-day activity.

“Mrs. O'Hara, I've told you repeatedly—we do not eat kidneys, and we cannot abide that smell. It makes us ill. Please remove whatever you're cooking from the oven. Mr. Hathaway will be furious if he comes home to that smell.”

“I'm cooking a delicious nourishing steak and kidney pie,” Mrs. O'Hara snapped. “I'm serving it for dinner tonight—”

Something inside Dinah exploded. She grabbed the hot pads from the counter, opened the oven, and took out the pie. She dumped it into the sink, and turned on the water and the disposal. Mrs. O'Hara glared at her, her face scarlet with rage.

“That's a disgrace, that is, wasting good food,” Mrs. O'Hara said.

“Since I pay the bills, that's no concern of yours. Have you even looked at Mr. Hathaway's list of preferences?” Dinah asked. “On it are the foods we like, and also the foods we don't like. We both detest kidneys. Why do you continue to serve these repellent foods we cannot eat?”