The Prince's Secret (The Royal Biography Cozy Mystery Series Book 2) (5 page)

The night of the charity event starts out as magical. I check into the Sheraton, have my makeup and hair done at a spa in Shepherd’s Market, and slip into Margie’s gown. The tailor in Bourton had done a wonderful job; the dress fits like it was made for me.

When a car from the Palace pulls around to collect me, I can’t help feeling that this is my Cinderella moment. Who would have ever expected that I would go from being a woman who was jilted by her partner to a woman who was going to a ball that would be attended by the most famous bachelor in the world?

Of course, it isn’t a date. I am going to the ball as the Prince’s official biographer, to record the events of the evening for posterity.

Still, I can’t help but feel like Cinderella, and Margie has turned out to truly be my fairy godmother.

The car brings me straight to Kensington. The function is taking place around back in the Orangery. This beautiful building, built by Queen Anne to hold her citrus trees, is marked by blissfully large windows, and fine wood paneling painted a bright white. Tonight, the tables are bedecked in white tablecloths as well, topped with enormous crystal vases filled with lilies. Out on the terrace, I hear the band tuning up. An attendant asks my name, checks a list, and then shows me to the royal table. I sit down alone and watch as the guests stroll in, decked out in their finery.

I close my eyes, trying to drink in the ambience. Who would have ever thought I would be here? I open them again, having committed the room to memory. Do I belong here, at this glittering affair? Somehow I don’t think so. And oh, look at that, I’ve creased Margie’s dress mercilessly. I put a lot of effort into trying to straighten out the stubborn wrinkle. When I’m done, I spy the Prince. He enters from the far end of the Orangery, looking so dashing --all decked out in a black suit and white, buttoned-up shirt and…

And Cressida what’s-her-name walks in, dangling from his arm. The warm feeling I felt when I first saw Alex is gone. I watch with a feeling of dread in my stomach as the two of them stroll over to the table. The Prince greets me politely, but he’s not his usual self; he seems aloof. He doesn’t seem happy to see me. Why should he be? I am a white-and-coral nightmare in a badly wrinkled dress.

“Cressida,” he says, turning to the wispy girl on his arm, “I’d like you to meet my biographer, Ms. Rue.”

Cressida, who wears a tasteful floor-length crimson gown, glares at me. “Your dress is very retro,” she states flatly. “Reminds me of something out of the 1950’s.”

There is a silent pause. I’m not sure if I’ve been insulted or praised.

“Cressida is a buyer at Jigsaw,” Alex explains absentmindedly. “She knows all about fashion.” Slowly the Prince and Cressida drift away to talk to a silver-haired couple who greet Cressida with a resounding, “Darling!”

The band begins to play “The Woman in Red,” probably in homage to the gorgeous Cressida, and the room fills to capacity with important and elegant people, many of whom rush over to greet the Prince. Once they have properly greeted Alex, they turn to fawn over the beautiful Cressida.

In short order, two of the Prince’s cousins arrive, Rose and Ava. It must have been a short stroll for them from their apartments here at the Palace. Rose is very friendly. She introduces herself and shakes my hand cordially.

“Sparky tells me you’re great fun. Talks about you often,” she says enthusiastically, and nods in the direction of the Prince. Hmm, Sparky must be the family nickname for Alex.

Still feeling completely out of place, I try to hide by scribbling away madly in a small brown journal I have brought for keeping track of tonight’s events. Waiters wearing tail coats parade around the room with delectable hors d'oeuvres on silver platters. Outside, Tatiana McCamber, famed Scottish opera star, stands on the terrace belting out a tune that must be heard all the way up to Bristol. Couples take to the dance floor. Cressida and the Prince swirl around the ballroom until the first course is served. Finally taking his place at the dinner table next to me, the Prince leans over and whispers, “Did you remember that I wanted to talk to you tonight, after the event is over?”

“I did,” I whisper back and almost add, “I’ve been looking forward to it…” but the Prince’s countenance is so grave that I hold back.

“You remember,” he continues in a low voice, “that I wanted to talk about Albert.”

I look him right in the eye. There’s something dark there, something haunted. I eat my quail eggs in silence. Then, I sit through more hoity-toity courses wondering, what is it? What on earth is bothering the Prince?

After the dinner, Alex dances for hours. Somewhere around midnight, Cressida tries to entice everyone to some discotheque in Piccadilly Square.

“You go without me,” the Prince insists.

For the tiniest of seconds, Cressida flushes red and looks like she is about to make a sharp retort. She must think better of it and instead turns to the Princesses to see if they are game. Rose replies that she is too exhausted, declaring that she is off to bed. Ava, however, appears excited.

“I won’t be out too late if you want to come around to my place later,” Cressida coos loud enough in Alex’s ear for everyone to hear. He doesn’t reply. Instead, he stares past her to the gardens outside. Cressida tosses him a harsh glare. Then, with a “c’mon ole thing,” she and Ava leave, arm in arm.

Soon all the guests have left, and the Prince and I sit alone at the table, watching the musicians out on the terrace pack up their instruments.

“Join me in the garden?” he asks wistfully.

I nod and follow him into the cool night air. Even though it’s late June, I find nighttime in Britain downright chilly.

The Prince heads for an ornate iron gate. Pulling out an electronic key from his pocket, he unlocks it, and we enter a private garden meant just for the residents of Kensington.  He leads onward toward a reflecting pond. It’s all terribly romantic, landscaped with beautiful shrubs and flowers. A sliver of moonlight reflects off of the water. The Prince glances left and right, as if he expects to see Rose or some other member of the Royal Family out strolling with a dog. Convinced we are alone, he sits down on a park bench.

“Lizzie, I’ve been wondering, ever since I met you, if you might help me with something?”

I sink down beside him.

“Of course,” I reply.

“You see, it’s not something I can discuss with most people. The thing is, I’ve been told to keep everything I know about the death of my brother a secret. I’ve tried to discuss it with my parents. My mom still becomes very upset and it never goes well. My parents always insist it is water under the bridge, and to let it all go.”

I nod my head for him to continue.

“You see, Lizzie, the thing is….” His voice breaks off and then he adds quite shockingly, “I fear I am the one who killed Albert.”

Three days later, I am back at my home in the Cotswolds, typing away madly when a flutter of wings outside the front window provides the perfect distraction. I stand up, stretch, and stroll to the window. A small black-and-white striped bird sits on a miniature apple tree in the 25 x 8 foot patch I call my front yard. I watch him bounce from branch to branch with twigs in his mouth helping his mate, a drab looking female, form a nest.

Starting a nest so late in the year? What are these two thinking? What am I thinking? I should be working. Yet I don’t return to my writing. Instead I ruminate about what the Prince told me the other night in the garden.

With regards to the death of his brother, Alex claims that both he and Albert ran into that second story room at his grandmother’s estate on that fateful day. They had dodged around the nanny as soon as she opened the door. Albert ran straight for the open window, Alex close on his heels. The two boys had been fighting all morning, and when Alex saw his brother close to the opening, he reached out with both hands and pushed.

“No, of course you didn’t,” I responded, but he insisted it was true.

“Even if you did push, it was an accident,” I tried to console him, but he shook his head furiously. When he glanced at me briefly, I could see that his jaw was set, and his eyes flashed with an inner intensity.

“It wasn’t an accident,” he persisted. “I was very jealous of my brother. I knew I was second in line. At age four, I was already tired of being second.”

“But you were just a child…”

He held up a hand to silence me.

“I killed my brother. I knew what I was doing when I pushed him out that window. The nanny covered up for me, and guess what happened? The press went after her, and they called her incompetent. There was inquiry after inquiry. The court ruled it an accident, said it happened just like Nanny Margery said --that Albert ran past her, and fell out the window before she had even put a foot in the room. But people didn’t care what the court said; they went crazy. They called Margery worse than incompetent. They said even if it had been an accident she was responsible. It became a witch hunt. A year later, given all the stress of being hounded by the press and having people calling her a murderer, she committed suicide. She covered up for me, and she ended up dead.”

Alex told this story slowly and methodically. I responded with all the things people are supposed to say. I was sincere when I said that there was no way it could be his fault that he was too young to understand what he was doing. No matter how many times I repeated this, nothing changed. Alex kept sitting there with his jaw clenched tight, staring off in the distance.

“I told my parents --I told them, that I was the one who pushed Albert. I told them this right away, within weeks of the accident. You know what they said? They said I remembered it wrong. I did not remember it wrong, Lizzie. Not in any way. I was there. I know what happened.”

He broke off as some frog in a nearby garden struck up a voracious racket. Beside Alex, I sat in silence, my hands folded in my lap until he felt like continuing. This wasn’t a story I wanted to rush.

“After a while my parents told me to forget it. They told me not to mention my version of the story to anyone --not a family member, not a friend, and definitely not a psychiatrist. But when I met you, and found out that you would be doing research about me, I thought maybe, after all these years, I had found someone who could help me.”

Help him? How could I help him? As if reading my mind, he turned and looked me straight in the eye. “You could ask to see all my files.”

“Wh-what files?”

“Buckingham Palace keeps files on all members of the royal family. You have been asking for information about me, right?”

I nod my head. That’s right. I’ve asked Buckingham to send me news articles, photos, notes, letters, emails etc; anything to help me describe what the first six years of the Prince’s life were like so that I could recreate the “true” narrative of his early days.

“Well, all that info they have been sending you is stored in an office in Buckingham. That’s where they keep everything relevant to my life. You could ask for access to all the files. Direct access. You could tell Buckingham that you need to work faster and insist on being admitted to the room that contains all my memorabilia. I know the truth is locked up in there. I know somewhere, someone has written down what I told the police when I was little. There are probably files on Nanny Margery’s depositions as well.”

I stared at him blankly, having never really moved past the phrase, “I killed my brother.” What was Alex asking me to do? Send Buckingham a request to search directly through his files? I’m sure if they wanted me to search through his memorabilia myself, they would have made that offer a long time ago.

Still, I gave the Prince my promise. I told him I would see what I could do. So now, I need to stop procrastinating by watching these tiny, confused birds. I need to get on with things. I shuffle back over to my desk and settle in my chair. With a resigned sigh, I send Alistair an instant message asking for access to all of the Prince’s files.

<> He instant messages back within minutes. <>

That’s a lie. I’ve already asked for all kinds of information about Alex from the time of his birth to age six. I received copious amounts of information for years one, two and three. All sorts of newspaper articles, photos, and diary entries from his relatives have been scanned into the computer and sent to me. But with regards to years four and five of Alex’s life, when the death of Prince Albert was being investigated over and over, the information the Palace sent me has been sparse. It’s like they wanted to gloss over those years. Starting in year six, there was another tidal wave of information shoved my way.

Since this is supposed to be the “official” biography of the Prince, as opposed to the “unofficial” biography of the Prince that came out last year (and was very sordid), I am supposed to stick with the information the Palace gives me. And since they never sent anything about Albert’s accident, I went Googling. Obviously there are a lot of articles on the internet about Albert. I think I’ve read them all, several times. Each time I did, my heart ached for Alex --even now, twenty-five years later the conspiracy theorists are going strong. Despite all the official inquisitions on behalf of various authoritative bodies, including two Prime Ministers and Scotland Yard, there still seems to be two camps of thought. The first believe that Nanny Margery was an evil, insane woman who pushed the child to his death. The second believe Prince Alex was an evil, insane child who pushed the crown Prince to his death.

Instead of responding to Alistair’s instant message, I sit down and review Internet articles about Albert’s death one more time. This time, I dive even deeper into the realm of the conspiracy theories. Some theorists, who wish to prove Nanny Margery was a horrid person, have produced every unsavory picture of her ever taken. It appears that as a teenager she had a lot of fun, occasionally taking off articles of clothing and streaking across parks. Eventually, she grew into a fine, upstanding person who attended university, learned some serious martial arts, and became the world’s most infamous nanny to date.

Feeling as though I’ve seen enough pictures of poor Margery, I shut my computer with a decisive click. How I hate conspiracy theorists. Throughout history, these people have targeted people mercilessly, especially women. I head for my couch and whip my crochet out of my shoulder bag, thinking things through as I finish up a tea cozy I am making with long, white furry yarn. Thirty minutes later, after having pondered how conspiracy theorists tried to ruin women throughout history --like Mary Magdalene (labelled a whore, but probably wasn’t), Joan of Arc (labelled a witch, but definitely wasn’t) -- I produce a lovely tea cozy that resembles a small mountain a minute yak might what to climb.

I set it down on my coffee table and pace my living room, beginning a feminist rant about Mary, Queen of Scots that would make my father, a professor of women’s studies, very proud.

“Take Mary,” I bluster, striding across the room. “Lord Darnley killed her secretary, David Rizzo. What possessed him to do such a thing? Darnley claimed Mary was having an affair with Rizzo, but did he have any evidence? No. He was a cruel, vain man; yet the people of Scotland chose to adopt his narrative and to believe that Mary was an adulteress!” I shout at my imaginary yak.

“And many began to believe that Mary was a bad woman, which is why they did not call for Darnley to be prosecuted for Rizzo’s murder. People thought it was a crime of passion and that Darnley had a right to kill Mary’s lover. And then, of course, things got worse for the Queen. Darnley was mysteriously murdered, and what did Mary do? She married James Hepburn, the Earl of Bothwell straight away. People went crazy, they accused her of being behind the plot to kill Darnley. Yet to date, there is nothing other than the Casket Letters to suggest that Mary had even the faintest idea about Darnley’s murder. And many historians believe the Casket Letters were forged; an attempt by someone to place blame for Darnley’s death squarely on her shoulders. Yet the conspiracy theorists of 16th century Scotland ate it all up with a spoon. They were ready to kill their Queen. Did they look to see who would benefit most from Mary’s demise? No, they didn’t. Did they notice that the person who would benefit the most, Mary’s half-brother James Moray, just so happened to be the one who ‘found’ the Casket Letters. No, they blamed everything on the Queen, and do you know what happened next?”

The imaginary yak does not respond.

“Scotland descended into civil war, that’s what happened. Mary’s own half-brother, Moray, led the rebellion against her. Yes, that’s right, he was the one who conveniently produced the handful of condemning letters. Moray told the Lords of Scotland that they were love letters Mary had written to Bothwell asking him to kill Darnley. To this day, nobody has been able to authenticate the letters, and when Mary’s trial was over and her son, James I of England came to power, the original letters were burned. All very convenient, nice and tidy, so now the truth will never be known.”

I sit down on my couch and chew on a cuticle. I really need to adopt a pet. I can’t keep talking to an imaginary yak. It’s pitiful. It just so happens that I think I know just the right pet. There is this darling tabby cat that comes around and sits in my flower boxes. I’ve started to feed him, and I’ve named him King Stephen.

For a moment I am lost in thoughts about how comforting it will be to have a cat about the place, but then I return to thinking about the Queen of Scots in particular and conspiracy theories against women in general. Poor Queen Mary, and poor Nanny Margery. Centuries later, the witch hunt against women continues. Whatever I do, I have to help Alex get to the bottom of this mystery, I have to get into the office that houses his memorabilia and have a look-around for myself.

Exited by my pep talk, I return to my desk, open up my computer and type a very strongly worded instant message to Alistair.

<>

Off whirls the message and soon a reply comes back.

<>

I slump down low in my computer chair. What am I supposed to do? Sneak into Buckingham Palace and search for room #705? That will never do.

<> I ask. First rule of getting what you want, escalate to a higher authority.

<>

Yes, tiny Yak! Yes! I pick up my cell phone and dial Schnipps. No more instant messaging, I need to talk to my dear friend Rupert in person.