The Prince's Secret (The Royal Biography Cozy Mystery Series Book 2) (9 page)

“Hang up the phone,” the voice commands.

“Hello, sir?” the voice comes from the other side of Alex’s phone, “are you all right?”

“Hang up the phone!” the voice commands again.

“THE POLTERGEIST MACKENZIE!” I shout and launch myself like a coiled viper. “Run, Alex, run.” I scream. Somewhere in the night I hear a gun shot. This is my first clue that perhaps I’m not fighting the supernatural. I glance at the figure whose face I have just tried to gouge --it’s the man I saw at the entrance! Somehow I have entangled our bodies, so that we both fall backward over the top of a tomb. All the time I hit, kick, scratch and fight dirty.

It suddenly dawns on me. I know where I saw this guy before. He’s the truck driver I saw in the Cotswolds! The one who ran Lady Jones off the road, but what in name of Croesus is he doing up here in Scotland?

Then I hear another shot, and the Prince yells. “Get down, Lizzie.”

In the dark, I hear the wail of a police siren. By biting his hand like a rabid dog, I free myself from the manic truck-driver. In an instant the Prince and I are off again, running in the dead of night, trying not to trip over tombs. Another shot rings out and the Prince tackles me to the ground, flattening me like a pancake. This time I go down so hard I let out a huge “oof.” “This way, Lizzie,” he commands and we crouch low behind a tomb. From fifty yards ahead, we hear a cacophony of male voices.

“Would you stop? You’re going to shoot one of us.”

“Hurry up!”

“Drop it! Let’s go --the police are on the way.”

I see one of the men staggering under the weight of a headstone and then I get it. These men are wrecking the graves! From our position in hiding, we watch as the five black-hooded men make their way to the gate. One of them pulls out a pair of wire cutters from underneath his coat and snips the lock. Then they slip through the gate carrying off tombstones and other ornamentation from the 16th century.

“They’re stealing the headstones!” I whisper to Alex. “I heard about this on the news. They sell them to collectors.”

Inside me, it is as if a fire has been lit. “They are looting antiquities!” I hiss at Alex. “Well, relatively modern antiquities, but anyway, they must be stopped.”

Not too far away, we hear the wail of sirens.

“The police!” I cry triumphantly, but the sirens do not grow louder.

“They’re stuck in traffic,” Alex whispers.

That’s it. It’s up to me to stop these men. They cannot get away with looting tombstones.

“Lizzie, bloody hell,” the Prince curses wildly as I sprint off, deftly maneuvering around tombs.

“You stay put!” I shout to him. I’m already in trouble. The last thing I need to do is get the Prince of Wales killed.

When Alex tackled me, it hurt so bad I thought he had broken my rib. As I try to pursue the man, the pain intensifies and I let out a moaning noise.

The men don’t turn around to see what is behind them. My moaning is so unnatural that they drop their stones and flee as one man shouts something about the revenge of the Covenanters.

I follow them, moaning all the way to the cemetery entrance. In a flash, the men are out of sight, around the stone wall. From a carpark nearby, I hear the sound of a truck engine. I make it to the road just in time to see the men flash by. My jaw drops --it is the same truck I have seen several times before down in the Cotswolds.

This time I make out the license plate clearly as the truck slows down at an intersection.

I’ve got it! I’ve got the license plate number.

I stand there, like a ghostly specter, as a dozen police cars come careening around the corner and screech to a halt right at my feet. That’s when the pain in my chest becomes so overwhelming that I fall flat on my face.

Two days later, the Prince and I find ourselves finally making our way across Scotland, heading for Northern Ireland.

It has been a wild past few days. I’ve spent most of it in the hospital. Turns out Alex bruised a couple of my ribs when he tackled me.

“Okay, you made me look ten times, there are no fingernail marks on your back, Lizzie. You imagined that part,” Alex had informed me back in the hospital, lifting up the back of my pajama shirt to do as I requested.

How could that be? I know what I saw. I saw that blackened hand reaching from the grave.

In any event, the hospital was bedlam. The reporters arrived in full-force. Inside my hospital room the police detectives traipsed in and out at all hours of the day, asking all sorts of questions:

What were the Prince and I doing in the graveyard after it was closed?

“
Prince and Biographer Chase Down Tomb Robbers!
” the London Times wrote.

“That is precisely what we were doing,” I responded every time a different detective, asked me the question.

According to his Highness, the Prince of Wales, was tipped off by his biographer that Greyfriars Kirkyard was going to be the next target of the tomb thieves. Royal Biographer, Trudy Rue, became suspicious of a truck she had often seen near her home in Bourton-on-the-Water. Following the truck to Scotland, Ms. Rue worried that the robbers were going after the famous 16th century grave stones in Greyfriars Kirkyard. Not knowing what else to do, she called Prince Alex, who happened to be visiting friends nearby. Police know now that these thieves are the same ones that have stolen headstones in cemeteries throughout the Cotswolds, around York, and also throughout Scotland. It was originally thought that these were random acts of violence by youth, but Scotland Yard detectives have long suspected this was all part of an underground market for stolen headstones and other tomb ornamentation.

Although the men initially fled the scene in the truck, Ms. Rue was able to give police the license plate number and the truck was stopped as it tried to cross the border. Five suspects were arrested. All five have ties to organized crime.”

I cringed reading all the lies we told, although I kept wondering, who would buy someone else’s headstone?

“Avid Black Market for 16th Century and Earlier Tombstones Fueled by Billionaire Collectors in the United States and China,”
read the Daily Express answering my question the following day.

“Well, I would have never thought people would collect such things. I know a lot about the black market for ancient antiquities. It’s alive and thriving and can make a peasant in a backwards place like the tribal lands of Afghanistan a millionaire overnight, but tombstone collecting, that’s a new one. I feel ashamed of my fellow billionaire countrymen, although truth is I have nothing in common with the mega elite of any country,” I sniffed when I read the article out loud. Alex, who was trying to catch a few “zzzz’s” in the chair beside my bed, just mumbled “hmm” and shifted onto his side, falling back asleep.

From reading the newspapers and watching TV over the last few days, it appears the country is both riveted and divided that the Prince would, at the request of his (nutty) biographer, lock himself up in Greyfriars Kirkyard to try to catch the thieves.

“
Our Hero
,” wrote the Sun displaying a beaming photo of the Prince, looking smashing as he was photographed with Edinburgh police next to the recovered headstones.

“
He’s Balmy!
’ wrote the Mirror. “
Prince off playing Batman at behest of bossy biographer. The Edinburgh police chief is looking into whether or not to bring criminal charges against Prince Alex, who actually admits to hiding out in Greyfriars Kirkyard at the request of his biographer, who tipped him off about the robbery.”

“We weren’t sure that they were the actual thieves,” Prince Alex told news reporters in a press conference. “All we knew was that the truck was the same one Ms. Rue had seen in the Cotswolds. She put two and two together at the last minute and called me. I was on vacation in Scotland, not that far away, and so I thought I would drive over and see for myself what was happening. It really was a last minute decision to join the tour and follow the men into the cemetery in hopes of catching them in the act.”

But what kind of man follows a biographer with a hunch?

“Fool for Love! Smitten Prince Follows New Love-of-his-Life into Peril
,” wrote another tabloid.

“Fool for Love?” My brow knit together tightly as I read that title. The Prince was still taking refuge in my hospital room, although the Palace rang him continuously, demanding he return at once to Buckingham.

“You must come home now,” Alistair’s voice boomed out of Alex’s phone the last time he answered it. Alistair sounded uncharacteristically irritated. “Either you return to the Palace now, or we’re going to come and get you. We are in damage control here, damage control! Polls show that people are divided as to whether or not to thank you for protecting the honor of the dead, or to have you incarcerated for sneaking into a protected monument.”

“That’s it,” Alex had had enough. He switched off his cell and announced, “If we are going to Northern Ireland, we need to leave tonight. We have to slip out undetected.”

“But the doctors haven’t signed my release papers yet,” I wheezed. It still hurt to talk.

“Alright then, Lizzie, I’m going to have to go without you.”

“Oh no, you can’t leave me here. There’s no way.”

“Well, if you’re sure…”

“I’m positive. What time do we leave?”

As soon as the nurse was done taking my vitals and left the room, I put on clothes. Alex grabbed my bag and we snuck out the back stairs after visiting hours were over. Walking caused my pain to flair up. I had to take it slow. Once out on the street, we were picked up by Michael, the owner of the Earnest Ewe. He drove to the outskirts of town, not far from his pub. The he pulled over, and hopped out leaving us with the car.

“It’s all yours, bring her back safe,” he said.

“He’s loaning us the car?”

“He is,” Alex replied. “We can’t take your rental. The Palace would track us down in minutes. Michael will keep it safe at the Earnest Ewe while we’re away.”

With a look of great concentration on his face, as if we were on the most important mission of his life, the Prince put the small 15th-generation Ford Escape into first and we rocketed off into the night. We were heading for the sea port of Troon, where we slept in the car until the ferry service opened at dawn.

Now it’s the next morning, the sun has risen warm and gold over the seaport and Alex wakes up, gives me an unreadable look and starts the engine. On this truly fine July morning, we are the first car on the boat heading for Larne in Northern Ireland.

They say that because of the “Troubles” Northern Ireland remained wild and relatively unspoiled. Before the peace treaty at the turn of the century, the Catholics and Protestants waged a very uncivil war against each other, leaving over 3,000 dead. During that time, companies didn’t invest in the tiny country, so now after years of peace, Northern Ireland is a green gem, a tourist paradise of beautiful scenery and chic little towns.

We leave Larne and follow the coast northwards to Portstewart. In a country half the size of Delaware, it takes very little time to reach our destination. It’s not even nine o’clock when we drive into the seaside resort of about 7,000 residents.

Alex parks Michael’s car right in front of #555 High Street, but instead of hopping out of the car enthusiastically, Alex sits unmoving at the wheel. Heavens, he doesn’t want to do this. He’s miserable.

“Come on.” I motion for him to get out of the car. “Whatever happens, it will be alright.”

We knock gently on the door of a small cottage that is painted in a high-gloss red. Then we stand there, listening to cars pass behind us. Nobody comes to the door.

“Maybe she’s at work?” I venture.

“Maybe she no longer lives here. Maybe she moved or died,” Alex adds solemnly.

Abruptly the door swings opens, and a women in a black wool skirt and purple mock turtleneck stares out at us. Beside me, I hear the Prince gasp.

“Yes?” the woman asks, with an uptight expression.

“Agnes Tannebaum?” I ask, and the woman stiffens. At that same moment, the Prince removes his wig.

“You look so much like your sister,” Alex murmurs. “For a moment, I thought you were Nanny Margery.

“Your Royal Highness?” the woman hazards, her face registering disbelief and alarm. For a moment she appears torn, as if she wants to shut the door in our faces. She glances again at the Prince and her gaze seems to soften.

“Quick!” she motions. “Come in.”

She ushers us into a dark sitting room. I recognize her as a fellow crochet enthusiast. Everywhere there are crocheted doilies.

The woman closes the door behind her and leans into it.

“Ms. Tannebaum,” Alex starts in.

“There’s no one here by that name,” the woman snaps and Alex stops speaking. “My name is Mabel Raince and I would appreciate it if that is how you would address me.”

“Of course,” Alex answers.

“I’m not sure what you’re doing here, or how you found me. Scotland Yard said no one would ever find me.”

“So you are Margery Tannebaum’s sister?” I ask, just to confirm.

“I was. Or rather Agnes was,” she says shortly. “I no longer associate with those names.” She shoots daggers at me.

We stand there in that dark, small living room engulfed in an odd silence, not knowing what to say. The woman does not ask us to sit, indeed she crosses her arms, letting us know we’re not welcome.

“Ms. Raince,” the Prince says quietly and once again the woman’s expression softens, “I’ve come to tell you how terribly sorry I am for what happened to your sister. I have felt eternally guilty about her suicide.”

Mable turns her eyes on the ceiling as if she is trying to hold back a tear.

“That is very kind.” The words catch in her throat. “But there was no need to come all this way.”

“Please,” Alex beseeches. I glance over at him. He looks more than miserable, he looks tortured. He’s been waiting for answers all his life, and will this woman have any to give? Alex must be wondering the same thing, as he grows paler by the second.

“I need to ask you if Margery ever talked to you about Albert’s death?” he finally asks.

The woman’s head snaps around. “And I need to ask you to leave, now,” is all she replies.

By his expression, I can tell Alex is shocked. I doubt anyone has ever asked him to leave in his entire life.

“I have nothing to say. Margery told me nothing, other than it was an accident. It was not her fault.”

“No, it was not. It was my fault,” Alex murmurs. Now it is Mabel who registers shock.

“Why would you say such a thing?” she cries.

“I pushed him, I know it.”

“You didn’t push him. There was an inquiry. Nobody pushed him. It was all an accident, except of course…” she breaks off, whatever she was going to say she has decided against it.

“Except of course, the part about his grandmother leaving the window in the playroom wide open. Why didn’t anybody ever talk about that? That’s what I always wondered,” she says at last.

“What?” the Prince asks.

“Hmm, yes, that part was never in the papers, was it? No, they were too busy blaming my poor sister, calling her a murderer. But if anybody was at fault for the little Prince’s death, it was his grandmother. Who keeps a window open with no screens on the second floor of a playroom? The Palace worked night and day to keep that part out of the papers. They were happy when the press was focused on my sister rather than on the dotty old-grandmother whom they wanted to protect by sweeping everything under the rug.”

“But I pushed him,” Alex repeats, as if in a trance.

Mabel’s head snaps round. “That’s garbage, that is. There was speculation about that. People are cruel. You were little, you just picked up on that speculation. You did nothing. I’m sure of it.”

“But how can you be if you and Margery never talked about it?” Alex asks.

“I just am. My sister did nothing wrong. I’ve hidden away for years and for what? For nothing? My sister did nothing wrong. I’ve done nothing wrong, yet my family received death threats. I’m sorry I can’t help you more, but I think it’s best you leave.”

I glance at a picture in a silver frame on the woman’s upright piano. It’s a picture of Mabel and a man with two children.

Mabel follows my gaze. “Yes, it’s worked out alright for me here. Nobody but my husband knows my original identity. Now please, I’ve asked you to go.”

Before we leave, I scribble my name, address and telephone number down on a piece of paper and hand it to her, “If you ever want to get a private message to the Prince, you can give it to me.”

Alex’s face is expressionless. He remains stoic, even as we bid Mabel goodbye. She shuts the door tight behind us. I’m sure she feels betrayed. After all, Scotland Yard probably told her that nobody would ever trace her. She has a lot of reasons to be upset; she lost her family and her life after an accident that had absolutely nothing to do with her.

It’s a long drive from Portstewart back to Edinburgh with a Prince who simply stares straight ahead in silence. We drive to Larne and take the ferry. As it plods its way from Northern Ireland to Scotland, I retrieve a couple sandwiches from the food vendor. I eat them both, because Alex isn’t hungry. When the ferry docks, Alex drives expeditiously to Edinburgh, gripping the steering wheel hard, not saying a word. By the time we reach the outskirts of the city, it’s going on nine p.m.

“We can’t make it all the way home,” Alex says, breaking his silence.

“Are you thinking we ought to stay at the Earnest Ewe?”

“You ought to stay there, I’ll go to Holyrood.”

“But then the Palace will know where you are?”

He smiles for the first time today. “It’s okay. It’s time for me to go home. I have a lot of explaining to do. I should tell my mother everything.”

“Everything?” I ask.

“Well, not exactly everything,” he smirks and I can tell that although he has been silent this whole trip, he seems to be feeling better. It’s as if something inside him has changed. He looks tired, yes, but the sadness in his eyes seems to have disappeared.

“Oh,” he adds, as he drops me off at the Ewe. “Happy reading, I’ll see you in the morning. Don’t forget I still need a ride back to my car at your place tomorrow.” Then he hands me the pages of vellum that we retrieved from inside the cherub.