Bloody Royal Prints (2 page)

Jonathan was somewhat appeased when he saw his cereal, but annoyed by the lack of blueberries and skim milk. Again he blamed Dinah. He gagged on the gray drink Mrs. O'Hara described as coffee.

“Is there no good coffee to be had in England?” he asked. “Order it from New York, if you have to.”

“London has dozens of Starbucks,” Dinah said. “They must sell the same coffee here as in New York. I'll buy some today.”

Once Dinah knew what she had to do, she set about doing it. After she bought the coffeemaker, she took it into the kitchen and explained to Mrs. O'Hara how it worked. The cook ignored it, and sneered at the juicer and the oranges Dinah bought. When Dinah left freshly squeezed orange juice in the refrigerator overnight, however, it disappeared. That was when she bought the refrigerator, where she also kept oranges and orange juice, skim milk and blueberries. She learned to keep her bathroom-kitchen locked, but that meant the cleaning woman couldn't get in her bathroom, and Dinah had to clean it.

After his early breakfast, Jonathan showered and dressed, which gave Dinah time to run downstairs, remove the greasy buffet—the same spread appeared every morning—and set out Jonathan's cereal, with blueberries and skim milk. Since everything was exactly as he wanted it, he congratulated Dinah on having finally given Mrs. O'Hara the appropriate instructions. She didn't tell him what she had to do to make sure his morning began exactly as he wanted.

Dinah knew that what she was doing was ridiculous, but having a major scene every morning would be far worse. If only she could dismiss the cook, and hire someone else, or if Jonathan would let her do the cooking herself. But once Jonathan made up his mind, he was immovable, and he insisted that she manage the servants who came with the house. She was doing her best to make him happy and prevent scenes. Her inconvenience was the price of peace.

Jonathan didn't come home for lunch, and Dinah made sure she was out of the house at lunchtime. But dinner, like breakfast, had been a nightmare, featuring inedible food and a tantrum by Jonathan, until Dinah had started bringing in takeout of one kind or another, and substituting it for the dinner Mrs. O'Hara prepared. She became an expert on takeout. Indian, Chinese, Thai, French, Italian, Spanish, Japanese, Moroccan, Korean, Turkish, Vietnamese, and many more varieties were available, but unfortunately Jonathan did not care for exotic food. Harrods, Fortnum & Mason, Whole Foods, Marks & Spencer, and the wonderful markets—Borough Market was a favorite—enabled her to keep him happy with the familiar foods he preferred.

Monday, May, London

The only sunny spot in Dinah's dreary London existence was her friendship with Rachel Ransome. Dinah had liked Rachel when they'd met during Dinah's brief visit to London in January, and with frequent overseas phone conversations and e-mails, their friendship had grown. Dinah hadn't realized how much the art dealer's hospitality would mean to her in London. She knew no one else in England, except, of course, Jonathan, and her cousin Coleman's half-brother, Heyward Bain. But Heyward was always on a plane headed to Dubai or Beijing or some other exotic faraway place for his mysterious business activities.

Jonathan worked even longer hours than he had in New York. He was in his new office all day and sometimes well into the night. He joined her for dinner every night, but often went back to the office after dinner. Dinah wished they could go to some of the great restaurants in London, but he said he was too busy.

Nothing was going well. She hadn't started the work at the museum that had brought her to London, but she had met the people with whom she'd be working. They had been polite, but distant. No one had suggested a get-acquainted lunch, or seemed interested in her. She'd heard that the English were standoffish, but by American standards, the museum crowd was cold and unfriendly. Her fellowship required her to catalogue a large collection of American prints the museum had received as a gift. Did the museum staff resent her being invited to do this? She had no idea, and knew no one with whom she could discuss the problem.

Rachel's invitations to visit an art gallery, or to join her for lunch or tea, helped stave off Dinah's loneliness and her frustration with her domestic situation. She didn't discuss her house and servants problems with Rachel; it was good to forget them for an hour or so.

At lunch with Rachel, she had almost forgotten how miserable she was. They had finished their crab salad and lemon tart, and were sipping coffee by the gas fire in Rachel's library when the maid, looking flustered, announced that Princess Stephanie was in the gallery, and wished to speak with Rachel.

“She says it's a ‘matter of life and death,' madam. Shall I show her in here?”

“Yes, please,” Rachel said, and turned to Dinah. “You do not mind, do you? I doubt that whatever she wants is quite that important—she tends to be overly dramatic—but she would not trouble me with a trivial matter.”

“Of course I don't mind. Do you know her well?” Dinah asked.

Rachel shook her head. “Not at all. She comes into the gallery to look at paintings or jewelry occasionally—” She broke off, and stood while the maid ushered in a slender blonde, exquisitely dressed, and well-sprayed with Joy.

Dinah, following Rachel's example, also rose. She didn't know the protocol for greeting a princess, especially a very young one. She'd heard Princess Stephanie interviewed on television, and knew that she was in her twenties, ten years younger than Dinah, and probably twenty years younger than Rachel.

“Oh dear, you have a visitor—I'm so sorry—I should have rung, but I was so upset, I didn't think.” The young woman appeared to be on the verge of tears.

Dinah, feeling de trop, said, “I should be going, Rachel—”

Rachel held up her hand. “Stephanie, may I present Dinah Greene? Dinah is an old friend. She owns a print gallery in New York, and is in London on a Samuel Palmer Fellowship, cataloguing a major gift of American prints to the Art Museum of Great Britain. You may speak freely in front of her.”

The young woman turned to Dinah. “Please call me Stephanie. May I call you Dinah? It's actually about a problem involving prints that I've come here today. Perhaps you'll remain with us a little longer? I'd be most grateful. It's confidential, but I'm sure I can trust a friend of Mrs. Ransome's. I need help desperately.”

The young woman's cotton-candy pink lipstick was smeared, and a lock of ash-blonde hair had straggled loose from its chignon. On television, she looked meticulously groomed. Whatever her problem, it was serious enough for her to make an appearance looking less than perfect.

Her blue eyes, like those of the late Princess Diana, were her best feature, but they were an even brighter shade of blue, so vivid that Dinah suspected tinted contacts. Her high-pitched voice was grating, as was her tendency to end her remarks on an upward note. Every statement sounded like a shrill question.

Still, Dinah was fascinated by an up-close view of a princess, even a minor one with an annoying voice. She was also intrigued by the young woman's story. What could she have to do with prints?

“Yes, please call me Dinah. I'll be happy to stay if you think I can help,” Dinah said.

“Please sit down,” Rachel said.

Stephanie smiled weakly. “Thank you,” she said. She perched on the edge of a chair until Rachel returned to her seat by the fire.

Dinah sat opposite Rachel, feeling as if she were in church. Up, down, up. At least she didn't have to kneel or curtsey.

“I expect you know that Queen Victoria and Prince Albert made etchings?” Stephanie said, looking at Rachel.

“Certainly,” Rachel said.

Dinah nodded. Dinah owned Prince Albert's etching of the Queen's Cairn terrier,
Islay
, and Queen Victoria's etching of the Prince's greyhound,
Eos
. The miniature prints were a gift from Jonathan. Framed in antique brass, they stood on the mantle in their New York living room.

Thinking about that living room, Dinah felt a wave of homesickness. She wished she'd brought the Victorian prints to London. They'd be a pleasant reminder of home in the depressing sitting room of their rented house. She must stop thinking about that hateful house. She forced herself to concentrate on what Stephanie was saying.

“Over the years, many of our family have engaged in some form of art as a hobby—painting, mostly—but I knew about Queen Victoria's printmaking and thought it would be fun to etch. So I learned how—it's not very difficult—well, actually, it's awfully difficult to make a really good etching—but anyway, I've made a lot. And the thing is, they've been stolen,” she said, tears rolling down her cheeks.

Rachel frowned. “I do not understand why you are telling me this. The Ransome Gallery does not deal in prints. No one is likely to try to sell them to me, if that is what you wished to discuss.”

“No, no. I wasn't actually thinking anyone would try to
sell
them to you. But I understand you have assisted with investigations involving prints—identified the criminals?”

“I have been able to assist friends in the United States with a few art-related problems, but my role has been minor. Dinah has done a great deal more detecting than I,” Rachel said.

“I see,” Stephanie said. She turned to Dinah again. “Will
you
help me?”

Dinah was curious to learn more, especially why this theft was “a matter of life and death.”

“I'll try,” she said.

“Would you like coffee?” Rachel asked Stephanie, ringing for the maid.

“Oh yes, please, black. Thank you.”

The maid served Stephanie, and refilled Dinah's and Rachel's cups. When the door closed behind her, the young woman continued.

“The images in the Queen's and Prince Albert's prints were
very
proper—their dogs, the children, copies of pictures from their collections—that sort of thing? They were private, kept under lock and key at Windsor.”

Rachel nodded. “But despite all that security, about sixty of them were stolen from the man who printed for Their Highnesses. The thieves prepared and circulated a sales catalogue of the prints. Prince Albert was furious and, in 1848, took the matter to court. Prince Albert won, of course, and the catalogues were destroyed and the sale prevented,” she said.

Stephanie nodded. “Since then, if we—that is, those with a connection to the throne—make etchings, we are not allowed to have them printed outside the palace. Actually, that means outside wherever we live, since hardly any of us live in a ‘live' palace. But most of us are housed in approved and secure quarters. As I think you know, Mrs. Ransome, I live in a flat in what is nicknamed the Little Palace.” Stephanie looked at Dinah. “It's not a palace at all; it's a modern building. Calling it a palace is a bit of a joke: It is a very un-palacey palace. I print my etchings on an old-fashioned hand press in my spare bedroom. I make only a few impressions, and when they're done, I lock them in the safe in my flat. But someone stole them—every one.” She broke into tears again, took a handkerchief from a pale blue bag the exact shade of her suit and shoes, and blotted her wet cheeks.

Dinah was fascinated by Princess Stephanie's clothes and puzzled by her distraught manner. Why all the fuss? Even if the plates as well as the prints were stolen, why would it matter? This woman wasn't a professional artist whose livelihood depended on selling prints. She was an amateur—a hobbyist—and from the look of her, rich.

Dinah was not warming to Princess Stephanie. The young woman was so artificial, so Barbie-dollish. Her every gesture seemed rehearsed. She cried without disturbing her mascara, and she didn't smear her foundation when she dried her tears. That required practice. Her clothes were too perfect, matchy-matchy. Even her white handkerchief was embroidered with her initials in pale blue. Could one buy lingerie that color-matched designer outfits? If so, Dinah was sure Her Highness was wearing a pale blue thong.

Dinah looked at her watch. At this rate, Stephanie's story was going to take all afternoon, and so far, it was boring.

Rachel must have thought so, too. She intervened, her tone stern. “Stephanie, please control yourself, and come to the point. Why has this theft upset you so much?”

“Well, you see, sometimes I draw from life. There are a number of people in the Little Palace connected in one way or another with the Royal Family. And they—we—occasionally have royal visitors. I sketched them when they were relaxed, not posing. Perhaps they didn't know I was drawing them. Sometimes I photographed them and worked from the photos. Actually, in my prints, people are often engaged in private activities, casually dressed, or in—uh—dishabille.”

Rachel looked horrified. “Are any of these etchings of nudes? Behaving inappropriately? Surely not engaged in sexual activities?” she asked.

The girl nodded, tears pouring down her face. “I'm afraid so. Actually, some people may describe a few as pornographic. I don't think they are—they're works of art. But others may see them differently.”

Dinah now understood why the theft of the prints was catastrophic. The young Royals' inappropriate dress or lack of dress, and the paparazzi's constant spying on the Royal Family, had led to scandal, and had left the press hungry for more. They would feast on Stephanie's etchings.

Rachel frowned. “I agree that you have a serious problem. Stop that whining and tell us exactly what happened. When did you discover that the etchings were missing?”

Her words acted like a splash of cold water in the girl's face. Stephanie stopped crying, and replied, if not calmly, at least comprehensibly.

“This morning. Actually, I didn't know they were gone until a man rang me. He says he has the prints, and won't return them unless I give him money. If I don't pay, they'll appear in the newspapers. As proof that he has them, tomorrow one of them will appear in
Secrets
, that dreadful scandal sheet.”