Bloody Royal Prints (13 page)

•••

A little after eleven, Dinah and Jonathan walked into the house, laughing. Their laughter died when they encountered the smell of urine, stronger than ever. The witches had retaliated. Jonathan was furious.

“Can't you stop this?” he said.

“I wish I could. I've told them dozens of times not to cook kidneys in this house. I've told them we don't eat them, and that we find the odor unpleasant. They ignore me,” she said.

“Disgusting,” he said.

“I know. I hope I can get some of the smell out before Coleman comes tomorrow.”

“Well, there's nothing to be done tonight. Let's go to bed,” he said.

•••

In bed, Dinah thought about Coleman in London. Life would be more fun, more interesting, with Coleman here. Going to great restaurants was an adventure. She'd like to visit more restaurants. When she was rid of O'Hara, and the smell of cooking kidneys, maybe she'd cook again.

Thursday morning, May, London

Heyward telephoned her at nine on Thursday morning. “May I come by in half an hour for a brief visit? I've learned some things you should know, and I'm tied up most of the day.”

“Of course,” Rachel said. She put aside her papers, closed the door to her office, and went into the library to wait for him. He arrived a few minutes early, looking troubled and rushed.

“Please excuse the early hour. I thought I should tell you right away some of the things I've learned. First, you needn't worry about the Palace Police. They're volunteers and watched carefully to keep them from going too far. No one takes them seriously. Next: your friend Julia is under suspicion and has been frequently investigated because she's a Republican—not in the American sense of the word, meaning a member of a particular political party, but in the English meaning: She's an anti-monarchist,” Heyward said.

“How odd. That does not sound like her,” Rachel said.

“They are not a large group—only fifteen million Republicans in a kingdom of sixty-six million people, and there are many varieties. Some just think the Monarchy is too expensive. Others have all kinds of reasons for their position. But those who are opposed to England's beloved Queen, as you can imagine, are carefully watched,” Heyward said.

“Good heavens! I had no idea. Julia has never hinted at anything like that,” Rachel said.

“You should ask her why she's opposed to the Monarchy, and what she does about it. Does she write letters? Participate in demonstrations? Or is she just a talker? Your name is linked with hers, and it's in your best interest to know exactly where she stands, and whether you can afford her as a friend. You should also ask her about the blood on your clothes.”

“I cannot believe she is violent, or in any way dangerous, or had anything to do with the blood,” Rachel said.

“I hope you're right, but you shouldn't take chances. Meanwhile, you should stay away from the Little Palace, and from Lady Fitzgerald, at least in public.

“You should also avoid Princess Stephanie. Both of those women are too close to the murder at the Little Palace, and they both have bad reputations. I picked up another important scrap of information: The so-called “Little Palace” is run by the Remembrance Society, a charity connected to the Republicans. Most—perhaps all—of the people living in the Little Palace are anti-monarchists, of the stranger kind. They all have a grudge against the Queen, or the throne, or some member of the Royal Family, for a snub or an imagined abuse, usually something silly,” Heyward said.

“I have met only two people who live there—Julia and Princess Stephanie. I would not have dreamed either of them were mixed up in what you describe. Is the murder a part of all this?” Rachel asked.

“It may be, but so far the police haven't discovered the connection. My contacts tell me the Little Palace's inhabitants have always been under observation, but they have been thought of as relatively harmless cranks, until the murder. Someone in that building killed a man, and that changes everything,” he said.

“Yes, I can see that it would,” Rachel said.

“The murder itself is strange. The man whose body you saw didn't die from the wound to his throat. He was dying from an overdose of heroin when his throat was slashed. In a way, he was killed twice. The police are all over the Little Palace and everyone who lives there. They are puzzled and frustrated.”

“I can see why they would be, but the murder has nothing to do with me. Surely no one suspects me of murder?” Rachel said.

Heyward changed the subject. “Back to Lady Fitzgerald,” he said. “I know she's your friend, but the police are interested in her for many reasons, including her association with the murdered man. She says she didn't know him, but she may not be telling the truth. As for the blood on your clothes, that must have happened while you were with her.”

“Oh, I know. But if I start asking her questions, she will think I suspect her of murder, and I do not,” Rachel said. “If she thinks I do, and she is innocent, she will not forgive me.”

“On the other hand, if she's guilty and is trying to incriminate you, you should avoid her,” Heyward said.

“I wish I had never gone to the crime scene when Julia called. In a way I am not surprised about how that poor young man died. The razor always looked like a prop. The way his body lay, the razor, everything about it looked arranged, theatrical. It reminded me of a book I read in which the murdered man also had his throat cut by a razor. Like the man in Stephanie's flat, the murdered man in the book's death was originally thought to be a suicide,” Rachel said.

“Trust your instincts. If anything else about the murder occurs to you, call or e-mail me. Don't discuss it with anyone except me. Anyone could be the killer. Oh, one thing I nearly forgot: you told me Lady Fitzgerald is poor.”

“Yes, she has had to be quite frugal,” Rachel said. “I like to take her out when I can, as a treat.”

“She's far from poor. In fact, she's quite well off,” Heyward said. “She inherited money from her husband, and has invested it successfully. Why did you think she's poor?”

“I do not know. The way she acts, I suppose. She does not have many clothes, and she lives modestly. I would think if she had a lot of money she would live someplace nicer than the Little Palace. She loves flowers—she says she would like to have a garden. There is no way she can have a garden at the Little Palace.”

“She could afford something else. I suspect she likes the other residents. They have a lot in common.” He looked at his watch. “I must go. I'll see you Friday night. By the way, Lady Fitzgerald will be at the dinner Friday night.”

“I do not understand. You tell me to stay away from her, then invite both of us to your party?” Rachel said.

“It won't hurt you to be in a group with her. But you see her on your own a lot—you're too close. As to why I invited her, I want to know what Coleman thinks of her. Coleman has unusually good judgment,” he said.

And I do not
, Rachel thought, when she'd walked him to the door. She didn't like to think he disapproved of her, but she was sure he did.

He was right. She had to ask Julia all those questions, no matter what the consequences. She hoped she wouldn't lose a friend. She had so few. But she'd rather lose Julia than Heyward.

Thursday, May, in transit

After the plane to Paris took off, Coleman reached down and patted Dolly, nestling in her carrier on an old wool dress of Coleman's. When she was sure Dolly was comfortable, Coleman leaned back in her seat and took a deep breath. It seemed as if she'd been running for as long as she could remember.

She glanced at her watch, set for French time. The next seven and a half hours, until eight thirty Friday morning when the plane landed at Charles de Gaulle, were free and clear. There was nothing she must do, and no one could reach her by phone, or drop by her desk for a chat.

She turned down the dinner the flight attendant offered, and got out her Kindle, but she was too tired to read. She should get some rest, but she was too keyed up to sleep.

She found herself thinking about her nonexistent social life. Not long ago, two eligible men were vying to take her out to dinner, lunch, the theater, films. She'd enjoyed their company, and their rivalry for her attention.

Unfortunately, while she was working night and day on
First Home
, her suitors had vanished, and she hadn't even realized they were gone until after she'd made the decision about the decorating department, and had time to think about something other than
First Home
.

The first suitor to depart was Hunt Austin Frederick, Managing Director of Davidson, Douglas, Danbury & Weeks, or DDD&W, the consulting firm where Dinah had been art consultant, suspected of murder, and cleared.

After the scandals that made headlines in the
New York Times
and the
Wall Street Journal
and decimated his staff, Hunt had decided DDD&W couldn't survive in New York. He'd laid off more people—including Mrs. Anderson, who had been his assistant and now worked for Coleman—and moved the firm to Dallas. Hunt's family had lived in Dallas for generations, and was well-known and respected. DDD&W, rechristened Davidson, Frederick & Weeks—DFW—now occupied two floors in a new skyscraper instead of the four floors that had housed the firm in New York. DFW was said to be thriving, and Hunt was as happy as a lark.

Hunt would probably come to New York occasionally on business, and phone Coleman once in a while, but she bet that within a year, he'd marry a Texas beauty half his age, not unlike the first—unfaithful—wife he'd divorced. Oh, well. Coleman liked Hunt—he was fun—but not even her pride was wounded by his defection. They'd never been close enough for any commitment on her part. So much for Hunt.

Jeb Middleton, the attractive superstar investment banker from Charleston, was working seven days a week for Heyward, closing deals, vetting acquisition possibilities, and probably dating a girl in every port and bayou. She hadn't heard from him in weeks. That stung. She'd been smitten, although their relationship hadn't had time to develop, even for a brief fling. She sighed. It had been far too long between flings.

In March she had ended her relationship with Rob, a nice man who was obsessed with marrying her. She'd told him on their first date that she would never marry him or anyone else, but he had refused to believe her. He'd hung around looking hangdog, and begging her to reconsider, but she had no interest in Rob except as a friend, and his moaning and groaning annoyed her. Still, she'd been disconcerted when only two months after their breakup, he had a new girlfriend, and, according to gossip, was wildly happy. So much for the everlasting love and wounded heart that would never heal that Rob claimed he suffered.

Maybe this trip was coming at the perfect time. She might meet someone interesting in London. She knew that most women would be reluctant to become involved with someone who lived so far away, but she wouldn't mind. A part-time lover would suit her better than one who wanted all of her attention all the time. New love or not, she'd help Dinah, work with Heyward, meet Rachel Ransome, and visit a list of places in London she longed to see. Like Liberty, the department store with all the beautiful fabrics . . .

She must have drifted off to sleep. She was awakened by the stir of the crew serving breakfast. She asked for black coffee and a croissant, and an ice cube for Dolly. She gave Dolly a biscuit, and the ice cube, and promised that they were nearly there. Dolly wagged her tail, licked the ice, and settled down to crunch her biscuit. Coleman had nothing to do but wait. They would land in France in less than an hour. Heyward would meet her, and they'd board another plane for the short flight to England. She'd be glad to be on the ground.

•••

Coleman didn't relax until the plane landed at de Gaulle, and even then she was edgy. She felt better when she saw the van that would take her to the part of the airport where smaller planes waited. She knew the van was for her, because several people standing near it were waving to her. She smiled when she saw that one of them was holding a sign: “Welcome, Ms. Greene and Miss Dolly.”

Her bags were removed from the Air France plane and quickly transferred to the waiting smaller plane. One of the people standing by the van asked for her passport, disappeared for a moment or two, returned, and gave it back to her. He patted Dolly, and disappeared again.

She and Dolly were whisked into the cozy back seat of the van, where Heyward waited. The van conveyed them to the plane in minutes, and it took off immediately. When they were settled, Coleman released Dolly from her carrier, and let the little dog climb into her lap. Coleman took a deep breath, relaxed, and looked around at the wood-paneled walls, and the soft chairs and sofa, covered in what appeared to be gray velvet. If it was a synthetic, it was a good one.

“Pretty fancy plane,” she said.

Heyward laughed. “Nothing but the best for you and Dolly,” he said.

“This is great, and they didn't even look at Dolly's papers,” she said.

“No, I told you there was no problem. The French love dogs. I wish we could stay a few days—dogs go everywhere in France. Dolly would have a great time. Anyway, you're almost in England at last. Welcome!” Heyward said.

“Yes, and I confess, I'm excited. The flight to Paris was comfortable, although I didn't sleep much—journey proud, I guess. What happens now?” Coleman asked.

“In a few minutes we'll land in England on the private airstrip on the estate of the Duke of Omnium. He's a business associate, and a good friend. An official will meet us to check your passport and Dolly's papers. When you've been cleared, my driver will take us to my house in London. I know you want to go to Dinah's as soon as possible, but do you want to change first? Freshen up? Have breakfast? You can have something light now, or something more substantial after we arrive, or both.”