The Prince's Secret (The Royal Biography Cozy Mystery Series Book 2) (3 page)

My drive to London on Thursday is peaceful, except at one point where I swear I see the same obnoxious truck driver who ran poor Lady Margaret Jones off the road. I crane my neck as the truck passes by in the opposite lane, trying to get a view of the license plate. It’s no use. It’s going so fast that it passes by in a blur.

It takes a while to navigate the horrific London traffic, but when I reach Kensington Palace, I drive around to the designated entrance. The guard checks my identification before opening the electronic gate and admitting me to the private side of Kensington.

Alastair, Alex’s Personal Secretary, greets me as soon as I park my car.

“You made good time this morning,” he says with a smile on his round face. “Would you like a quick tour of the sunken gardens? They’re right this way and not open to the public yet this morning.”

I nod my head. How could I resist? “The tulips are gone,” he adds glumly, “I’m afraid spring is on the wane. But the begonias and geraniums are up.”

The beauty of the sunken gardens, which are as immaculately coiffed as Lady Margaret’s hair, is breath taking. Nobody does gardening like the English. Boxwoods frame a rectangular pond that sports tall grasses in large, round ceramic vases. It’s all tastefully arranged, by a master gardener who is also a master artist. “This way,” calls Alistair. He motions for me to follow him through a doorway into a long hallway with black-and-white marble tiled floors.

“What, no X-ray machine today?” I joke. When I met the Prince for the first time at Buckingham, I was subject to all kinds of searches.

“You’re a friend of the Prince, Ms. Rue. We know you now,” Alistair states plainly, and I do believe this man, who is several inches smaller than me, gives me a good-natured wink.

We walk along the hallway, heading for a large staircase. Unlike most palaces, this one is not chalk-a-block full of portraits. It has a cleaner feel…more stream lined, more modern.

“This way to the apartments of the Royals.” Alistair extends an arm.

“I’m curious, Alistair, why didn’t you go to Indonesia with the Prince?”

“Ah well,” he replies, “I had work to finish. Updating the Prince’s calendars, writing thank you letters, that sort of thing. And, starting tomorrow, I’m on my vacation until the Prince returns from his tour. But not to fear. The Prince is in good hands. He has the King’s personal secretary with him for the duration, and if you think I’m uptight,” he screws up his face, “then just wait until you meet Hollister Schmidt.”

I laugh and hope that I don’t ever have to meet the King’s personal secretary.

“Follow me, please, this way.” He unlocks a door with a printed sign that says, “Royals Only.”

We head down another brightly lit hall, this one with thick yellow carpet underfoot. Halfway down, Alistair pulls out a small keycard that he inserts into a reader mounted on the door. The lock flashes green and he turns the handle.

“Here you are, the royal nursery. Or at least it was the royal nursery until Prince Albert died.” This last part is expressed with such sadness that I wonder how long Alastair has been in the service of Buckingham Palace.

The royal nursery is light, bright and airy, painted in a cheery yellow with two huge windows that overlook private gardens. On a feature wall, the wallpaper is appropriately fussy for a royal British household; it is a small floral print run amok. There are two huge curtains with fancy trim. They’re so long that they puddle on the floor.

“So many beds,” I murmur, eyeing a neat row of six single four-posters, each one looking cushy with large teddy bears taking pride of place.

“Ah yes, well, all the royal children spent their days and nights here until the young Prince died. You see, instead of having individual nurseries, the King, who was the Prince of Wales at the time, and his sister, the Princess Royal, chose to keep their children in this combined nursery. There are doors on each end that lead to their respective apartments. Of course, the King has long since moved to Buckingham and the Princess Royal has moved her apartments elsewhere within Kensington.”

I walk along the row of beds, above each one hang colorful letters spelling out “Albert, Alex, Rose, Ava etc.”

“So the princesses were here too?” I ask, referring to Alex’s cousins.

“They were. Initially each child was in a smaller nursery in their parent’s apartments. But when the children reached age two, they were moved into this combined nursery. It was a wonderful time, Ms. Rue. This nursery was full of laughter. But after Prince Albert died in that tragic accident, well, the nursery wasn’t the same. Queen Amelia, who was Princess of Wales at that time, became very protective of her only remaining son, and moved him back into his parents’ apartment. The girls also moved in with their own parents. They were older, and perhaps it was time for them to have their own rooms. Anyway, this nursery awaits the next generation of royals,” Alistair concludes, misty-eyed.

“You sound both wistful and hopeful as you say that.”

“Well, I am. Four of the five Princesses live here now, each has their own apartments, and Prince Alex is having his apartments enlarged as we speak. I think very soon this nursery may be overflowing with new royal babies and nothing would make me happier.”

I laugh, caught up in his enthusiasm. Where did they find Alistair? He’s a keeper.

“Alistair, what do you mean the Prince is having his apartments enlarged? Won’t he stay at Buckingham with his parents?”

“That’s only a temporary arrangement. Queen Amelia is having his apartment redone. His original apartment here at Kensington was fine for a bachelor. I mean, a few thousand square feet is all right when you are a single man, but we are expecting him to be married soon, so his apartment is being enlarged. They are knocking out walls and such.”

I wonder who he meant when he said, “
We
are expecting him to be married soon,” so, I ask.

“Well, everyone,” he blusters. “His parents and I. All of Britain, really. We are ready for the Prince to settle down. The realm needs another heir.”

“Hmm, no pressure there,” I laugh.

“Yes, well, in any event it will be good to have this nursery stocked to the gills with babies again. It’s been sitting here gathering dust ever since we lost poor Prince Albert,” he tsks and I tsk with him, thinking of that poor little prince falling to his death at his grandparent’s house.

I walk along the length of the room and note three doors that open off the south wall of the nursery. I poke my head into the first one. It must have been meant for a full-time guard. There are video monitors all around.

“Ah yes, it’s unfortunate, but when there are royal babies there’s also a royal guard at all hours of the day.”

The next room is large. It resembles a preschool; there are books, puzzles, games, rocking horses and chalkboards. Finger painted artwork hangs overhead. There are small tables for the artists, and some bean bags for snuggling.

“Some of this marvelous art belonged to Prince Alex?” I ask, pointing to the messy paintings.

“There’s work here from all the children.”

I wander past one painting signed, “Bertie,” and feel a tightness in my chest. Albert’s pictures are light, bright and vibrant. Then, I wander past ones done by Alex. They are monochromatic, generally red, and look angry and brooding.

“They still hang here? After all this time?”

“Until the next wave of royals comes through.” Alistair smiles happily, as if he knows something I don’t. “I think we will see a baby or two in the next few years.”

I move on to the third room.

“This is the nanny’s room,” he states. It is a small bedroom with a large rocking chair and its own three piece bathroom.

“Was Nanny Margery the last one to stay here?”

“Actually, she was. After Nanny Margery…” --he clears his throat and looks sad-- “…left the service of the Palace, we only had part time nannies. No one has slept in this room in a long time.”

Poor Nanny Margery. She was the young woman who was taking care of the princes the day that Albert died. She had been watching the two young boys at their maternal grandmother’s estate outside London. When she opened the door to the playroom, young Albert rushed in. He dodged around her and raced towards an open second story window. A moment later he fell to his death.

Turns out Alex was the only other witness to his brother’s accident. It happened when he was four. There was a long inquisition. Even though Scotland Yard ruled it an accident, so many people blamed the nanny for what happened that she ended up taking her own life one year later.

When I last saw the Prince at my place, while we were watching the cricket match on TV, he told me that there was something he wanted to discuss with me about his brother, but he didn’t want to talk about it right away. He wanted to wait. I had just been through quite a shock, the murder of my ex, and another related murder that took place outside of my cottage in the Cotswolds. The Prince thought it would be too much to add to my burdens by talking about his memories of Albert’s death at that time.

“Well, that’s about it. I believe you’ve seen everything, Ms. Rue.” Finished with our tour of the nursery. Alistair shows me to a door that dumps me right onto the streets of London.

“Happy shopping,” he twitters. “Remember to call me when you wish to retrieve your car from the Kensington carpark. I’m leaving promptly at four o’clock. You’ll need to have found your beautiful ball gown by then.”

“Wish me luck,” I call, strolling out into the street.

“I wish you the best,” he responds, and closes the door behind me.

It’s so nice of Alistair to allow me to keep the car at Kensington while I shop for a dress for the upcoming charity event.

I feel like royalty myself as I make my way to a store in Coventry Garden called,
The
High Life
. It comes recommended by the Palace as a great place for formal wear.

“I know the Princesses shop there,” Alistair informed me while we were chatting away back in the nursery.

In the window of the shop is a short wine-colored dress with a 1920’s fringe around the bottom, and another dress, this one black, also very 1920’s looking.

“Too short,” I think to myself and open the door. The shop’s track lighting is warm and inviting. Each dress is displayed like the masterpiece it is on wooden stands. I find a form fitting dress that would be perfect. I can imagine myself wearing it as I enter the party, swathed from head to toe in black lace.

I scan through the rack of dresses at the back of the store remembering that the global fashion industry recently standardized sizing and for whatever reason, adopted the American numbering system. I search through the sizes -- 0, 2, 4, 6, 8. Wait a minute, I can’t find the black lace dress in a size larger than 8. That can’t be. I return to the front of the store, and look for another dress. I spy a gorgeous coral gown nearby. It too is a lacy sheath with an edgy, knotted-front on one side. I swallow hard when I see the price tag, $800. I’m sure my editor Meg is going to have a fit when I put this on the Schnellings’ company credit card, but I don’t care. It is very practical for a ball gown. I’m positive I can use it again.

I return to the racks and begin searching through sizes. Unbelievably, this dress stops at size 6. What the heck?

“Excuse me,” I call to a stick-like sales attendant who, I swear, needs to eat a donut and drink a milkshake right now or she might be blown over by the lightest of breezes.

“Yes,” she sneers and gives me the onceover.

“I’m looking for something in a size 14.”

The sales attendant stares at me incredulously.

“We don’t serve your size.”

“What?”

“We don’t serve your size,” she says again, and this time her expression changes from disinterest to belligerence.

“All these beautiful gowns in this store and there’s not one in my size?”

A second sales attendant, equally thin, sidles up to the first one, and mumbles, “What’s the matter?”

“She’s a size 14,” the first attendant responds. The second attendant looks me up and down and murmurs, “Oh?” as if I am the most unfortunate creature she has ever seen.

What happened to the “Women’s Revolution” of the 2050’s, I wonder, where women declared that we shouldn’t be judged by how we look? Quite clearly, I am being judged, and rejected, because I am big-boned.

“So you don’t have anything over size 8?”

The stick thin women look back at me as if I asked when the next shuttle to Mars departs. Finally one of them speaks, “well, we can’t carry
all
sizes.” Her colleague nods praying-mantis style at the wisdom of this statement. My face turning red from embarrassment, I beat a path to the door and fling it open.

That’s it --I must begin a diet. I need to stop shoving whatever is convenient in my mouth, and start eating healthy. My head flooding with thoughts of food and dieting causes my stomach to rumble. On the other side of the street is a lovely conservatory-style restaurant. I make my way over, promising that the diet starts now. A doorman opens the door for me (how swanky!) and I enter the restaurant which is beautiful, with all kinds of tastefully up-lit ferns placed around the room. I pick out the scrawniest, healthiest salad on the menu and leave with my stomach growling even louder than before. Then it’s back out into the means streets of London in search of the elusive evening gown in size 14.

Well, if I’m being truthful, I may need a size 16, but only if I want to be able to breathe.

*****

Am I reading this correctly?
I ask myself several hours later, after returning home from London. I take off my glasses and rub my eyes. Schnipps has sent the next few pages of Mary Beaton’s confessional.

I, Mary Beaton, do on this day, the first of February 1589, declare that when I was 15, I became the mistress of Lord Bothwell. I was forever faithful to him, and did undertake campaigns against my own Mistress due to my undying love for my dear Jamie.

When I type “Mary Beaton” into Google, it confirms that she was one of the four little girls named Mary (hence the term “the four Marys”) who accompanied the young Queen of Scots across the channel to France for the Queen’s betrothal to Francis II. 

I read on. Schnipps has sent me the next 15 pages with a request that I send him a translation as soon as possible. The pages begin with Mary Beaton describing how she met the dastardly James Hepburn, 4th Earl of Bothwell, and how they maintained a relationship off and on until the time of his marriage to Queen Mary. Several times she pauses her narrative to describe how her love for Bothwell caused her to carry out an outrageous act against her mistress. But she does not go into detail about what exactly this act was, at least not in the pages I’ve read so far.

Mary Beaton’s undying love for James Hepburn causes me to scratch my head. I find it hard to believe that anyone could love the Earl of Bothwell, who seemed incapable of maintaining any sort of upstanding, monogamous relationship. I know I shouldn’t judge him by modern standards, but I do. Bothwell had wives and mistresses tucked away all over different corners of Europe.

“Oh, Mary, you should have had more sense,” I sigh as I read her enthusiastic description of Bothwell’s charms. My reading is interrupted when an instant message blips across my screen.

<> Schnipps asks, even though it is well past midnight.

<>

<> Schnipps replies.

Perhaps I like Schnipps more because he called Bothwell a scoundrel. James Hepburn was most likely a murderer, an adulterer, and a rapist. If Mary, Queen of Scots had one downfall, it was her taste in men. In the same chamber where the Prince and I found this book, Mary’s second husband, Lord Darnley and his henchmen brutally killed Mary’s secretary, David Rizzio. Lord Darnley was jealous of Rizzio, accusing him of being Mary’s lover. Most historians don’t believe there really was anything between Mary and Rizzio, yet a part of me hopes, for Mary’s sake, that Rizzio was her paramour; she obtained so little satisfaction from the other men in her life.

In my exhausted state, I picture Mary on some modern talk show with some famous shrink, and I can hear the audience telling her to kick the murderer Lord Darnley to the curb. Of course, a modern day audience would also be shouting for justice for Rizzio. Unfortunately there wasn’t any. 16th century Scotland was not about to imprison a Lord for a crime of passion. Especially not a Lord who had a claim of his own to the English throne. Lord Darnley went on, living his life as if nothing had happened, as if he weren’t married to a woman who despised him. A woman who may very well have conspired with another man to be rid of him. And the man she conspired with was James Hepburn, Earl of Bothwell. Mary and Bothwell may have resorted to murder. On Feb 9th, 1567, someone blew up Darnley’s residence. The culprits placed barrels of gun powder under the room in which he was sleeping and set a fire. The bodies of Darnley and his servant were found in the fields near the house in which they had been residing. Examination of the bodies proved they were either smothered or strangled before the explosion. Now, why would someone kill them first and then blow up the residence? It would appear that blowing up the house where Darnley lived was a ruse to cover the murderers’ tracks.

Three months after Darnley was murdered, Bothwell obtained a divorce for his wife on grounds that he had been seducing the servants. Subsequently, Mary and Bothwell entered into the holy union of matrimony. The Scots were scandalized. The whole affair led to Mary’s undoing. She became immensely unpopular as Queen, and Scotland soon descended into civil war. Mary’s half-brother, James Moray, headed up a rebellion and sent her fleeing to England, to beg Queen Elizabeth I for mercy.

All of this drama is what I love about history. Modern detectives solve modern mysteries, but we historians glue together pieces of the puzzle to solve old intrigues --and the mystery of who really killed Darnley is huge. Historians still haven’t definitively answered whether or not Mary, Queen of Scots was involved.

<> Schnipps messages.

<>

<> Is it just me, or does this message sound especially gleeful for the extremely dry Mr. Schnipps?

I finish reading the last of the 15 pages, which are mostly an endless description about the color of Bothwell’s eyes. If anything will put me to sleep, it’s some enamored woman ruminating about a man’s eye color. I shut down my computer, turn out my desk lamp, and head upstairs to bed. Outside there is a soft wind blowing, and a gentle rain begins to fall, pit pat, pit pat, on my cottage roof.