Bloody Royal Prints (26 page)

She had arrived on Friday. She'd only been here three days, but it seemed like weeks. She'd had fun at the welcome party (except for watching Jeb and Stephanie) and she had enjoyed her two evenings with Tony. But the rest of her time in London had been grim. She was happy that she'd rid Dinah of her demons, but dealing with the situation at 23 Culross and the Rosses had been an unpleasant experience. Dolly's disappearance had been ghastly. Even her fairly distant involvement with the murders was awful. She'd had far too much contact with, and knowledge about, criminals since arriving in London.

Now that Rachel was cleared of suspicion, surely Coleman could return to the list of things she wanted to do, which included learning all about
Cottage & Castle
, and discussing the art book project with Rachel.

Just as important (or maybe more important, if she was honest with herself) was her original to-do list:

1. The nightingale
   
2. Bluebells
   
3. Shopping for hats and fabrics
   
4. Museums, especially the Victoria and Albert
   
5. Theater?
   
6. Have fun!
   

She decided to declare her independence from crime and criminals, and to an extent, her family, if they continued to stay involved with the dark side. She was taking charge of her life starting today, and she planned to make her visit to London rewarding, and, above all, fun.

She took the material on
Cottage & Castle
Heyward had given her out of her briefcase, and found the name and the phone number of Kathleen Mann, the editor and owner of the magazine.

A few minutes later she was speaking to Ms. Mann, and had made a date to meet with her at the office of
Cottage & Castle
Wednesday morning at ten.

She'd made a start, and a good one. She'd rescue this day, which had begun with crime news. She changed into a light green dress and matching jacket, and asked Mrs. Carter if she would keep Dolly for a few hours—maybe longer. Mrs. Carter had fallen in love with Dolly, and was happy to take care of her.

She planned to head out to Chapeau, the store on New Bond Street, where the great hats were. After hats, she'd go to Hatchards and buy books—mysteries set in England. Maybe she'd go back to Fortnum's and eat at the bar. Have fun! She wouldn't have Heyward's car, but that was just fine. She'd longed to ride in a London taxi. Dinah had ridden in one during her first visit to London and had enjoyed it.

Half an hour later, having left Dolly with Mrs. Carter, who was tossing a ball for the little dog to chase, Coleman was on her way.

•••

The cab ride was uneventful, and a little like films she'd seen. She was glad London still had some of the old-fashioned, boxy, black square cabs. She was also pleased that some of the red telephone boxes had survived. Maybe no one used them, but they were a London symbol; they should always be preserved.

The cab dropped her outside the door of Chapeau. The inside of the store looked just as she'd thought it would: big, airy, high ceilings, and lots of gorgeous hats. She'd seen similar hats in
Majesty
. Tall with feathers or other decorations. Huge and round. Odd shapes, all kinds of colors. She wandered around looking at all of them, and spotted two she wanted to try on. That was when she checked their prices. She gulped. Each cost more than five hundred dollars. She wouldn't dream of paying that much for a hat. To make sure she wasn't missing anything she liked that might be available for a lower price, she checked a few more price tags. Good heavens, there wasn't a hat in the store that cost less than five hundred dollars. So much for Chapeau. She left the store, and thought about walking to Hatchards. She changed her mind after looking at her street map. Too far to walk.

She hailed a cab and asked the driver to take her to the corner of Piccadilly and Duke Streets, where James had dropped her and Dinah her first day in London. She knew how to get to Hatchards and Fortnum's from that spot, and she was excited at being out and about in London alone.

•••

It was nearly six when Coleman arrived back at Heyward's house, in a taxi packed with books and goodies from Fortnum's. She was more than ready to sit down. She wasn't surprised to see Tony's car in Heyward's driveway, or to hear from the butler that Tony and Heyward were having drinks in the library. The butler relieved her of her bags of books, and said that he'd have them taken to her room.

Coleman took the elevator upstairs, and went straight to her immaculate bathroom. She washed her face and hands, put on lipstick, brushed her hair, and collected Dolly from Mrs. Carter, before she joined the men in the library. They rose to greet her when she walked in the room. “Welcome home! Have a seat,” Heyward said. Tony smiled, and blew her a kiss.

She was glad to see that the men looked cheerful. She wasn't in the mood to discuss dark subjects. She hoped they wouldn't talk about Stephanie or the murderers. She'd had enough of those topics.

“Would you like a drink?” Heyward asked. “Mrs. Carter had the kitchen make lemonade for you. I tasted it—it's delicious.”

“I'd love it,” she said.

“Have you been shopping?” Tony asked.

“Yes. Books—lots of books,” she said.

“I thought you were off to buy hats,” Heyward said. “I was hoping you'd model some.”

“No, too expensive,” she said.

“Let me buy you a hat, or hats,” Tony said.

“I was about to say the same thing,” Heyward said.

“No, thanks. I bought a how-to book, and I'm going to make my own hats if I can't find anything I like at a decent price,” Coleman said.

Tony looked at her. “You never cease to amaze me,” he said. “Here are two men trying to give you expensive hats, and you're rejecting our gifts, going to become a hat maker? Why?”

She laughed. “Growing up poor. Having to be thrifty. Unwilling to waste money,” she said.

“Have you opened the package I left for you this morning?” Tony asked. “I warn you, it's time-sensitive.”

“No, I'll open it now,” Coleman said. “It's in the dining room.”

She was back in a few minutes, unwrapping as she walked. “Oh, great! It's CDs of nightingales singing. Can we play it in here?” she asked Heyward.

“Of course.” He put the top CD in the sound system, and a powerful and melodious song flooded the room. When it was over, Coleman felt dazed, but she couldn't wait to hear the second CD. When she heard it—the magnificent song with RAF bombers in the background taking off to bomb Germany—tears came to her eyes. She couldn't help thinking of how many of the boys in those planes didn't return. Was the CD contrasting the beautiful song of the bird with the horror of war? Whatever its intent, the recording was very moving.

“Wow,” she said.

“I wanted you to hear those CDs before we hear the living bird tomorrow. You should know what to listen for. Speaking of tomorrow, I must leave you two, and go do a few chores since I'll be out of my office all day tomorrow. Have a nice evening. I'll see you tomorrow at eight,” he said, and was gone.

Like it or not, she had to ask Heyward about his day. “How did everything go? Did Julia and Isobel talk?” she asked.

“Those two women couldn't wait to pour the blame on each other. Some of it was interesting, but most of it was tiresome or horrible. Do you want to hear?”

“Now that the story has ended, I'd like the answers to some questions: Why did they kill Stephanie's boyfriends?” she asked.

“Both men were buying drugs from Stephanie, and they had both figured out who the bosses were. They wanted in: They wanted a share of the money. Julia got them full of booze, and gave them lethal shots. Isobel cut their throats and arranged the literary scenes, to lead the police to think of Julia and Rachel, rather than herself and Stephanie. Julia would have alibis and they'd fix it all on Rachel. I think Julia would have eventually killed Isobel, unless Isobel killed her first. Julia gave the death shot to Stephanie. Had enough?”

“Horrible stuff. Were they tied into the Ross crowd or Dinah's witches?”

“I don't think anyone knows, and maybe we'll never know,” he said.

She shook her head. “That poor girl,” she said.

“Here's some good news about Jane Ross: The lawyers have managed to tie up the little money she has so tight her greedy relatives can't get it away from her. And James, Dinah's driver, is one of our spies, and has been working undercover, trying to find out if she was guilty of anything. Since she's been cleared, he has put aside his role, and explained all to Jane. I hear he and Jane may be an item. That's good news, too: He'll help keep her safe from her relatives.”

“How nice to hear some people are innocent, and may live happily ever after,” Coleman said.

“I agree. Are you interested in dinner?” Heyward asked.

“Yes, I'm hungry again. If I stay in London much longer, I'll be very fat.”

“Never mind. Tonight we'll eat lightly—I ordered shrimp and lobster salads. We'll turn in early. You look tired.”

“I am. I'll be glad for an early night,” she said.

Tuesday, Nightingale Day, London

Tony, who acted just as he had the night before and on their previous outings, picked her up at eight on Tuesday morning. They whizzed off with scarcely a word exchanged, while he concentrated on the London rush-hour traffic. When they were out of London, and she thought it was safe to talk to him, she asked, “Where are we going?”

“We're taking a two-hour drive to the Minsmere nature reserve. It's a lovely place, half a mile from the North Sea, very wooded, and partly surrounded by marsh. We'll meet Jack, our guide, there.”

“Why do we need a guide? And why do we have to go so far? Aren't there nightingales in London? And if we want to hear it sing, why are we going during the day? Don't they sing at night?”

Tony looked amused. “Did you think nightingales sing in Berkeley Square? Nightingales like thickets and woods. If a nightingale was ever in London, it was years and years ago. It's too crowded and the parks are too well kept and tidy these days to tempt nightingales. The nightingales don't stay very long in England. They migrate to warmer countries. Jack had to call all over England to see if he could locate one for us to see. He learned there were still three nesting in different locations in Minsmere. He's sure at least one of them is still there—at least it was there yesterday. We may have to do a lot of walking to find the bird, but it will be a beautiful walk. We'll probably see bluebells.”

“Tell me more about nightingales,” she said.

“They only sing when they are mating or nesting. They can sing either at night or during the day. They're small brown birds, hard to see, and they hide their nests. We'd probably never see the nest or the bird if Jack wasn't with us to point it out. I have binoculars, but he'll have to show us where to look.”

•••

Tony parked the car outside the entry to Minsmere. Jack, a tall, thin man with longish hair and a beard was waiting by a battered and ancient Land Rover. He led the way into the reserve, walking slowly, and pausing frequently to listen. Almost as soon as they began their walk, they entered a small glade, deep in the shade of a dense grove of trees. The floor of the glade was covered with bluebells, a deeper blue than the Spanish bluebells Coleman had seen in American gardens. Coleman thought they were exquisite, but Tony was unimpressed.

“Wait till you see acres of bluebells. You don't see them at their best in small patches like this,” Tony said.

In the first site Jack took them to, where he'd been told a nightingale had a nest, the nest was there, but it was empty. Jack said that meant the babies could fly, and they'd all left England. At the second place, the nightingale was at home, but it wasn't singing. The tiny brown bird, about the size of a wren, was perched on a twig in a dense thicket near the road. As Tony had said, Coleman probably wouldn't have seen it without Jack pointing out the bird, and, farther back, a tiny nest.

Shortly after they arrived, a school bus full of little boys shouting and yelling and making an enormous amount of noise passed them. “That's it for the nightingale,” Coleman thought, when suddenly the bird exploded into gorgeous song. Long after the bus had disappeared, the bird was still singing. Its song was so loud, it was hard to believe a tiny bird was producing it, but they were watching the little creature, and every note was his.

“It's responding to the noise those kids in the bus made,” Jack explained. “We think the bird sings to frighten off potential threats to its nest by anything noisy. A nightingale will sing when it hears a lot of noise. The bird believes the song we all love and think is so beautiful is threatening. You heard the CD with the planes? Some people think the bird was trying to scare the noisy planes away.”

The song was magnificent, but indescribable, even more wonderful than the CDs. They stood for nearly an hour listening, while Jack taped the bird's song for Coleman to take home, and Tony took pictures of Coleman listening, and staring at the bird. Coleman was enraptured, hypnotized. When Tony asked if she was ready to go, she realized only her feet and legs were tired of standing. If she'd had a chair, she could have listened to the bird sing all day. Reluctantly, she followed the men back to the cars.

“This was unforgettable,” she told Jack. “Thank you.”

In the car, she felt dazzled, almost dizzy, but she came to her senses long enough to ask Tony where they were headed.

“Another pub—plainer than the one we went to Sunday night. But they do a typical English lunch you should try. They serve it all day. We'll be there in twenty minutes. There's water and lemonade in the cooler in the back seat, if you want something to drink.”

“I am thirsty, thanks. I'll have some water.”