The Prince and I: A Romantic Mystery (The Royal Biography Cozy Mystery Series Book 1) (10 page)

I find Jack alone in a corner. He’s wearing tweed again. He wants to know what kind of tea I want. I wave him off.

“How’s Marianne?” I ask

“Well,” he mumbles and shifts uncomfortably on the gold sofa. I plop down next to him in a wing chair and wait with bated breath.

“The inquiry is quite extensive. The detectives allowed her to go home last night, but they said they could call her back at any moment. She’s a little unnerved, poor thing.”

She’s not the only feeling that way
, I think, as the waiter comes by and sets down a pot of Darjeeling.

“I’m sorry, but I’m not sure I understand what’s going on at the ministry?” I raise a curious brow.

“Quite right,” he explains with a twinkle in his eye, “It appears to be a bit of dirty politics. A kind of scandal the Labour Party hasn’t seen in, well, frankly I can’t remember anything of this type happening to Labour. It looks like the Minister of Public Works was on the take. You see, recently the Prime Minister pushed through a bill called “the Restitution of Victorian, Edwardian and Georgian Architecture to Modern Day London.” It was a controversial bill. Basically, all buildings built after 1950 that don’t meet the architectural aesthetics of those periods have to be redone. They have to be torn down and rebuilt, so that London has unified architecture, more like Paris or Rome. In recent years, it has been impossible to build anything that doesn’t meet these aesthetics, but in the late 1960’s and the 1970’s they put up a lot of different architecture. All those buildings have to go. And as you can imagine, it is quite an expense for the people who own them.”

I nod my head.

“Anyway, in order to get an exemption from the law, you have to file for a permit. And guess which ministry doles out the permits.”

“The Ministry of Public Works?”

“Right you are. Even though they are called Public Works, they are the ones issuing these permits to the private sector. Given the expense of having to tear down a building and trying to replace it with one that meets the architectural standards, well,” he shakes his head, “let’s just say that businesses have been desperate to receive extensions, and it appears they have been willing to pay under the table to get them. Finally some companies complained to Scotland Yard, saying that in order to get a permit they were required to pay an extra fee.”

“A kickback,” I hazard.

“Right, a kickback. Companies have been wiring their kickback to Swiss bank accounts. The names on the accounts turned out to be fraudulent and although the paper trail is difficult to follow, the accounts all seem to belong to people who worked directly for the Minister of Public Works. Although they couldn’t track it directly back to Minister Wilkes, Scotland Yard has been monitoring her bank accounts and also examining her lifestyle. The Public Works Minister seems to be outliving her finances by quite a bit. That’s what this is all about. And many people claim, as you already know, that this goes all the way up to Prime Minister Morton. Anyway, that’s what Marianne’s caught up in, even though she is an innocent.”

“It sounds huge,” I muse. My stomach grumbles as the waiter places a plate of Danishes in front of us. They look delicious, but my stress level is so high, I can’t bring myself to eat.

“Perhaps larger than we even know,” Jack responds, “Marianne told me she thinks this whole scheme may have been why the Prime Minister pushed for the passage of the law in the first place. Anyway, I wanted to come by this morning to tell you I’m sorry I ran off so fast last night.”

“What?” I cut him off, almost overturning my tea cup. What did he just say? He thinks this may be why Prime Minister Morton passed the law in the first place?

“Dear Trudy, what do you think of all of us? Here you are, a historian from New York and all of a sudden we are talking about such serious matters. Let’s not worry about the government. How about a proper dinner tonight at a proper restauran
t
—
“

“I need to talk to Marianne,” I say firmly.

Jack looks shocked.

“What…why?”

“I need to talk to her in a public place.”

“But why would you need to talk to Marianne?”

“I need to talk to someone in Public Works about these.” I reach into my handbag and pull out the pictures of the Minister of Public Works with Pierre. I thrust them at Jack.

“Why on earth do you have photos of Shanika Wilkes with the Prime Minister’s ex-husband?”

Now I am the one who is shocked. Pierre is the Prime Minister’s ex-husband? Jack stares at me and I stare back as if we are both waiting for the other one to drop a new bombshell. Jack gives me a who-the-heck-are-you look and I return one right back. Then I show him the handwritten letter from the mysterious E. and he goes ash gray, as if he is having a heart attack.

I watch him intently as he dials Marianne with a shaky hand. They speak in such low voices that I can’t understand what they’re saying. A minute later he stands up to leave. He appears hurt and sad and, if I may use a very American expression, positively freaked.

“Meet us at the cafeteria in the British Museum in an hour,” he mumbles, “it’s close to where Marianne lives. I think it’s better if we go there separately, because I have no idea who you are, or how you could be in possession of this note. Don’t worry about the check, I’ll get it.” Gruffly, he stands up and moves off to settle the tab with the waiter.

Thinking that my life is becoming stranger with each passing second, I immediately call the Cotswolds police. I tell them about the pictures I have of Mrs. Wilkes and Pierre, and ask if they have made any headway on the case.

“We haven’t,” a police officer named Torrance Mach tells me. There’s something in his voice that makes me think he isn’t telling me the whole truth. I inform him that I am about to go to a meeting with an employee of the Minister of Public Works. This causes Torrance to break his silence. “Ms. Rue a bit of prudence is best exercised in this case. We’ve been in contact with the NYPD and we have some concerns.”

“Go on,” I urge.

“Right, well, the death of your friend Sean McKenzie has been investigated by the FBI.”

“What?” I ask.

“Yes, the NYPD no longer believe Mr. Mc Kenzie was killed by a random person. They believe it was professional hit.”

Okay, that part I already knew. I urge him to continue.

“Ms. Rue, do you know that somebody ransacked the office of your editor on the night of the murder outside your cottage in Bourton?”

“Yes, I am aware of that.”

“Right, well, we believe that the burglar in your cottage was searching for something in particular. We also believe that the people who ransacked your editor’s office the same night on the other side of the Atlantic were looking for the same thing. You have to understand, based on what we know, and what we have just been told, all of this appears orchestrated by someone very powerful. Now you tell me that Mr. McKenzie was in possession of pictures of the Minister of Public Works with the Prime Minister’s ex-husband. Well, I’m beginning to put two and two together, but I’m going to need to see a copy of those pictures you have. If you fax them to me, we’ll make sure to get a copy to the detective in New York, and whoever else needs them.”

“Of course,” I say, nodding my head.

“In the meanwhile, I don’t think going to a meeting with a woman you barely know at the British Museum and showing her these pictures sounds like a good idea at all.”

I don’t respond.

“If you are set on this course of events, then please program my direct number into your cell.”

Torrance Mach gives me his number, and I type it into my cell right away. I don’t have time to fax the papers properly, so I take a picture of each one with my cell phone and send them to his way.

Once I’ve finished, I make my way to the tube station.

Twenty minutes later I walk up the beautiful steps of the British Museum. With my heels click-clacking on the marble tile, I enter the Great Court. Usually, the tessellated ceiling that soars overhead takes my breath away. Today, however, I pay no attention to the grandeur of this space. In a no-nonsense fashion, I make my way to the cafeteria where I spy Marianne and Jack sitting alone in a corner of the room. It’s still early for lunch, but there are plenty of people about. If Jack and Marianne are going to kill me, they picked a pretty public place to do it.

Quickly, I slump down into an orange-laminated cafeteria chair at their table and say, “Well.”

“Tell her,” Jack demands in a rough voice. Marianne doesn’t respond at first. She sits still as a rabbit, looking scared. Irritated, Jack reaches out and jostles her shoulder.

“I knew your ex…” she says in a small voice.

“What?” I ask. My stomach does a summersault. Good heavens, are Marianne and Jack some kind of agents who ran into me accidentally-on-purpose that morning at the Canadian Memorial?

Marianne stares at me. Her mascara is smudged.

“Tell her everything you told me.” Jack’s tone is laced with anger.

“I knew Sean. I was in love with him. I met him when he was working on the biography of the Prime Minister. We spent a lot of time together.”

“When?” I ask in a dead serious voice.

“Before he met Tatum.”

Oh Lord, I think I’m going to be sick. Sean was seeing yet another woman.

“I asked him to break up with you. He said he would,”

Ow, I feel like I’ve been slapped.

“I see.” I stare down at my shaking hands. “And were you ever with him at his cottage in Bourton?”

“Yes,” she mumbles.

Right. Mental note to self - throw out all the sheets at the cottage. Better yet, I’ll pile them in the fireplace and set them ablaze.

“I was there with him once. He had a picture of the two of you propped up on his desk. I was insanely jealous. I cut out your head.”

I don’t reply. I just glare at her as if she is insane. Did she kill Sean?

“I was angry,” Marianne continues, “Sean was using me, using me to spy on meetings between the Public Works Minister and Pierre St. Clair.”

“I-I don’t understand.”

“While working on the biography of the Prime Minister, Sean got wind of something untoward happening in the building permits department at the Ministry. That’s how I met him. I believe Sean only wanted to be with me because he knew I worked in Mrs. Wilkes’ office after regular hours. You see, Minister Wilkes’ regular assistant, Autumn, was eight-months pregnant and she was working short days. When Autumn went home in the early afternoon, I would take over for her until Minister Wilkes left for the evening.”

“And?” I ask when she pauses.

“And anyway, Sean fixed me up with a spy camera, one that you can put in a handbag. All you have to do is cut a tiny hole in your handbag and insert the camera. And voila, I got him the proof he needed, proof that the Public Works Minister and Pierre were having a lot of late night meetings.”

“You took those pictures….and you cut out the picture of my head. So that makes you the mysterious E.,” I say slowly, trying to assimilate all this bizarre information.

“My sister is Elena Marianne Preston and I swear I had nothing to do with any of this. I had no idea that Marianne was stalking you that day she ran you down in Green Park,” Jack insists looking quite unnerved.

“I wasn’t stalking you. I-I heard about Sean’s death. It was all over the press here because of his biography of the Prime Minister. Anyway, I also read the Schnellings’ press release. It was public knowledge that you were taking over the biography of Prince Alex.”

Jack glances at me with sad eyes as Marianne says this. Poor man, we have both lied to him. I lied to Jack about writing a biography of Emma of Normandy instead of the Prince, and Marianne has lied to him about everything else.

“I know Schnellings’ authors stay at the Park Lane. I spent many nights there with Sean, after all,” she mutters and stares down at her shoes.

Jack clears his throat.

“Anyway, in the press release that named you as the new author, it gave the date of your first interview with the Prince. I was circling around Green Park waiting to catch a glimpse of you that morning. I knew you would probably be coming out of the hotel at any time. I actually took the day off to watch for you, and I invited Jack along for an extended ride in Green Park. I figured you would probably walk to Buckingham. I mean, it’s just right across the park. It took a while to find you. Jack and I had been circling around and around for a while. Jack wanted to go home. He didn’t know why I wanted to keep riding along the same part of the park over and over. We were just about to leave when I couldn’t believe my eyes. I saw you standing there, by the Canadian Memorial. I’m ashamed to admit it, but I felt this rage come over me. I aimed for you and ran you down.”

Jack tsks and looks away.

“I’m sorry. I guess I had it bad. I was…I mean, I am, even now, still in love with Sean.” Marianne blushes scarlet.

“So let me see if I’ve got this straight. You were helping Sean?”

Marianne nods.

“And he knew there was something happening at the department of Public Works. And he believed it was connected to the Prime Minister and so….and so…he basically seduced you.” I swallow hard. “In order to get information.”

Jack turns an ugly shade of gray at the word “seduce.”

“Yes, yes that’s it. He found out because he was constantly with the Prime Minister and he saw her ex, Pierre St. Claire, come and go to her office. Sean believed that Pierre was the go-between Wilkes and Morton. They were all in on the kickback scheme together. Sean was going to bust the story wide open. All he needed was some proof and some pictures. I thought I was doing the right thing. I thought I had the pictures to show that Mrs. Wilkes, Pierre St. Claire and the Prime Minister were in cahoots. But after I sent the photos to Sean, I never heard anything. Sean never leaked the story. So one night, I called him. I believe it was right before he left you for Tatum and…”

I roll my eyes when she says, “Left you for Tatum.” I can’t help it. It still hurts.

“And, then something changed. Sean told me he had showed the pictures directly to Pierre St. Claire and that they had come to a financial arrangement. He told me if I informed anyone about the photos, Pierre would have me killed.”

Jack tsks again and I feel the room spinning. “Sean was blackmailing Pierre?”

“He was,” Marianne sighs, “And for several months, I’ve been scared for my life. I wondered if you knew anything when you arrived. From the little I saw of you when I ran you over on my bike, it seemed like you didn’t know anything. It seemed like you were just concentrating on writing your biography of the Prince. So…”

“So?” I ask.

“Nothing, that’s it. That’s the entire story. And you must know that Jack knew nothing about any of this. Not until today”

Jack looks extremely grave.

“I had no idea the two of you would meet up again, in the park, and that he would ask you out.”

Yes, it’s all quite ironic, I think darkly. Quite ironic that my ex’s lover’s brother would ask me out on a date.

“So you can imagine my shock when you showed me those photos, Trudy,” Jack begins in a low voice, “when I saw they were signed with a flourishing
E
, I immediately recognized the handwriting. I couldn’t understand, how was it possible that you had pictures that were signed by my sister? I had no idea what was going on. I felt like I was in the Twilight Zone. As unbelievable as this whole strange sequence of events is, ladies, I believe we all need to go together to the police.”

I nod at this. “If you give me a second, I am sure I’ll be able to bring them to us,” I say, and dial Torrance Mach’s phone number with a shaky finger.