Bloody Royal Prints

by Reba White Williams

  Rachel nodded. “I am not surprised. There are those in England who feel that way about the wealth of the Royal Family. Some people do not even think there should be a Monarchy. I, of course, disagree. I am a Royalist and proud of it.”

  Dinah stood up. “I must go, but before I do, two more questions. If Stephanie’s so poor, how can she afford those clothes? And why doesn’t she want to tell you who was in her flat over the weekend?”

  “Designers beg her to wear their clothes. She does not pay for them—they are given to her, and she shows them off. As for who was in her flat: she would not want her friends to think she threw them to the wolves—that is, to the police—if she has to turn to the police about the theft of the prints. I suspect she does not want me to know she spends her time with low-life Eurotrash. I think she is lying about the key, and gives it out indiscriminately. She probably has no idea who was in her flat during the critical period. I shall know better when I see her list.”

  “She’s annoying, but why are you so angry with her?” Dinah asked. “You seem furious.”

  “I do not trust Stephanie. I am not certain we have the full story, or that she is telling the truth about anything. But if those prints are as she describes, and appear in print or on television, they will damage the Monarchy. I admire the Queen, and regret the pain she has suffered because of the behavior of some of her family, and the loathsome press. I will do all I can to make this scandal disappear, even if it means having to spend time with that little fool,” Rachel said.

  “She is a dope, isn’t she?” Dinah said. “Thanks so much for lunch. The crab salad was marvelous, and eating in this lovely room is a treat. Stephanie’s story was interesting. I’m curious about her and her problems. Will you call me tomorrow and tell me the next chapter in the case of the stolen etchings?”

  “Since you have not yet started work, why not join Stephanie and me for coffee, and hear it directly from her?” Rachel said.

  Dinah, with a blank engagement book, was happy to accept. She couldn’t bear hanging around that horrible house, being bullied by those wretched women. Although London was full of fascinating places to visit, she was tired of sightseeing, and didn’t enjoy going around by herself. She longed for a warm, comfortable house where she could read, or write letters, or nap, or cook a delicious meal, without anyone disturbing or harassing her. She longed for friends around her. She missed being in the Greene Gallery, surrounded by people she liked, and who liked her.

  More than anything, she wished Coleman would come to London. Coleman would deal with the impossible people in the awful house. If anyone could persuade Jonathan to fire them, it was Coleman.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Rachel

  Monday, May, London

  Every morning Rachel set aside time to be thankful for her life in London: thankful for the inheritance that made that life possible, that gave her the house and gallery, that gave her the time to write scholarly books on Renaissance jewelry; and thankful for, above all, the recent changes that had restored so much that she had lost.

  Her partner, Simon, had cheated her, stolen from her, and left her impoverished until Heyward Bain, an American billionaire whom she hardly knew, came to her rescue.

  Bain, who believed that he was partly responsible for creating the monster Simon had become, had restored all she had lost. He had managed to banish Simon to Australia, where he could no longer hurt Rachel.

  She could do little to thank Heyward Bain for all he’d done for her, but she was befriending his young relative Dinah Greene, who was in London for several months on a fellowship at the Art Museum of Great Britain. Dinah hadn’t said so, but Rachel thought she was unhappy. Dinah rarely mentioned her husband. Apparently he was submerged in his work, opening a London branch of his financial firm. Dinah’s job at the museum had not yet begun, and she seemed to be lonely and at loose ends.

  Rachel had invited Dinah to tea and lunch, and taken her to several exhibitions. She had enjoyed it. She liked Dinah. The young woman—she was in her early thirties, about ten years younger than Rachel—had lovely manners and a soft Southern voice, and she was very nice to look at, well-dressed in a quiet way. She was also knowledgeable about art, especially American art. Rachel was proud to introduce Dinah to the acquaintances they’d encountered at the museums and galleries.

  Rachel was glad that Dinah had been with her when Princess Stephanie had turned up with her strange story. Rachel neither liked nor trusted Stephanie, and would rather not be involved in her sordid activities. Since she was, it was good that she had a witness, and one who knew prints. Dinah’s expertise might be helpful, if this problem of Stephanie’s turned out to be more than a tall tale to get attention.

  She settled down to some serious thinking.

  She flipped the switch to turn on the electric fireplace, and pulled her chair closer to the glowing faux logs. She missed wood fires—so much more attractive than electric—but the restrictions on their use had cleared the city’s notorious smog, and for that she was grateful. The electric fire, with its softly whirring fan, kept the room warm. London could be chilly and damp any time of the year. The cold troubled Rachel. Her body could not forget, even after more than ten years in England, that as a girl she had lived in hot places in the United States. Oh, well. Her house was well heated, and her closets were filled with warm garments.

  She should work on the book she was writing, about some newly discovered Medici jewelry—she tried to write five pages every day—but Stephanie’s story was disturbing. Why had the little fool produced art potentially embarrassing to the Queen? She must have known it could cause trouble, not only for the Royal Family, but also for herself.

  Something was odd about the theft, and the money the thief—or thieves—demanded. The “or else” was the publication in a rag called Secrets of a print that would embarrass the Queen. Those who’d stolen the prints must know that Stephanie had no money. It would be easy to ascertain her income, or lack of it. Stephanie and her kind had no secrets. The press pursued them like foxes after chickens, and delved into every aspect of their lives. Could the thief possibly think the Palace would buy the prints back?

  Ridiculous. No matter what the tabloids threatened to print, the Palace would not pay blackmail or tolerate extortion. Could this be yet another piece of the unpleasant campaign to damage—even abolish—the British Monarchy? Was it not bad enough that reporters had attacked the Royals for years, egged on by Republicans? Rachel detested the hack who’d written that the Monarchy was “the rotten core of Britain’s decrepit democracy.” The Queen was the rock on which Rachel’s adopted country stood. She would never forget the Queen’s 1992 speech, when she referred to her annus horribilis.

  How could she prevent Stephanie’s foolishness turning into yet another disaster for the Queen? She wished Professor Ransome was here to advise her. He had been dead for twelve years, but she still missed his counsel.

  Rachel had been in her early thirties when she moved to London, armed with the fortune inherited from Ransome, the great Renaissance scholar. She had served him well as housekeeper and factotum. He had been her teacher, her inspiration, her model. After his death, she changed her name to Ransome, and gave his name to the gallery she opened. But she had never implied that he and she were married: Mrs. was a courtesy title, given her by Ransome’s friends, in acknowledgment that the frail old man had lived longer than had been expected because of her care. He had left her everything, even made her his literary executor.

  People speculated about their relationship, but they had not been lovers. Still, she had loved him. Her love was respectful, admiring, grateful. He had depended on her, trusted her, advised her. He would know what she should do about Stephanie and the theft. He would not care about the fate of the girl—she was obviously shallow and stupid—but he would agree that helping Stephanie would help the Queen. He would tell Rachel that solving this problem was her duty.

  Duty aside, having been a part of the investi
gation of two mysteries involving Dinah and Coleman Greene, she might have found it difficult to resist this one, which had landed in her lap. The satisfaction of solving a mystery, like solving any complicated problem, was addictive.

  Before she did anything else, she needed to know more about Stephanie. Her old friend Julia Fitzgerald lived in the Little Palace, where Stephanie also lived. Julia undoubtedly knew Stephanie, and perhaps some of her circle. She would be interested in Stephanie’s story. Rachel picked up the phone and dialed Julia’s number.

  Sure enough, Julia knew Stephanie well. She was intrigued but not surprised by Rachel’s story.

  “She’s an idiotic little creature and she travels with a crowd of brainless Eurotrash,” Julia said. “Come to lunch tomorrow and I’ll tell you all about her and her suitors. She’s very popular—even has a girl-in-waiting—not officially, of course. More of a hanger-on. But I’m not surprised she’s in trouble. Stephanie has flirted with disaster for years.”

  Rachel wanted to see Julia, but she couldn’t accept her invitation. Julia would have to cook the meal after shopping for the ingredients, and paying for them out of her meager income. Rachel could not let that happen.

  “You must let me take you to lunch, since I intend to ask your advice. I shall book a table at The Goring, and collect you in the car tomorrow at 12:45,” Rachel said. The Goring dining room was Julia’s favorite.

  “That’s an offer I can’t refuse,” Julia said.

  “Good. I will see you tomorrow,” Rachel said.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Coleman

  Monday, May, New York

  Coleman, sitting at her desk in the immense office her half-brother, Heyward, had designed for her, wondered if she would ever get used to so much space around her. She was only five feet tall, and felt dwarfed by the high ceilings and the great glass window, with its magnificent view of New York skyscrapers. She missed the snug little office she’d used when she edited ArtSmart. She’d occupied it for years, and it fit her like a much-worn glove.

  She’d done her best to make her giant office feel smaller and more comfortable, by enlarging magazine covers of First Home and ArtSmart to poster size and hanging them every twelve inches on the walls. She bought several tree-like plants to fill in the corners, and discarded the enormous basket the decorators had purchased for Dolly, her tiny dog. Any Maltese would be lost in that basket, and five-pound Dolly ignored it. Dolly spent most of her time in the office in her favorite Kitty Kup underneath Coleman’s desk. These days Coleman was almost always at that desk. She didn’t like being inside all of the time, but the job required it.

  Coleman had completed the reorganization of her new magazine, assisted by the consultants she had hired at the time of the acquisition of First Home. After terminating nearly half of First Home’s underworked and overpaid staff, and combining the magazine’s back office with ArtSmart’s, Coleman had moved the trimmer and more productive First Home staff out of their expensive space and into the CH Holdings building, which she and her half-brother owned, and where ArtSmart had its offices.

  With all the fat stripped away, Coleman was able to assess First Home’s strengths and weaknesses. The gardening department was popular and much admired: It won prizes, attracted lively correspondence from readers, and was a favorite in its field. The young woman who managed it was talented, knowledgeable, and flexible.

  The food department was also a winner. First Home’s chef had grown up in Mississippi and been famous as the head cook in a Jackson restaurant before joining the magazine. Miraculously, he was able to keep the Deep South flavors in his delicious dishes, but reduce the sugar and fat content. Coleman was amused to see that the staff lined up to taste the meals he prepared in the sparkling new test kitchen. The odors floating out of that kitchen were so enticing, Coleman had to struggle not to join the queue.

  That was the good news. On the other hand, the two remaining departments clamored for immediate attention, restructuring, and dismissals.

  She’d had an unpleasant conversation with the young man in charge of architecture, pointing out that the house plans he brought to the magazine were too extreme for the magazine’s audience, and far too expensive. Irate at her criticism, he’d screamed at her, called her names, and, as she’d hoped, threatened to resign. She’d accepted his resignation and seen him ushered out. Today she was on her way to implement her plan for his replacement.

  She took a taxi to the Architects’ Library Club on East Eighty-Seventh Street, where she met with Janet, an old friend, also the librarian and general manager of the club. Coleman had given her friend a brief description of what she had in mind on the telephone. Janet was eager to pin down the details and launch the program Coleman had proposed.

  “I am so excited about your idea,” Janet said. “We have lots of young architects who would be thrilled to have their plans featured in First Home.”

  Coleman smiled. “I’m excited about it, too. As you know, First Home is a monthly. I’d like to have a new plan in every issue, each a design for a first home. Price is important, but the houses should also be attractive, appealing, charming. I suggest that you head a panel of senior architects to choose each winner. The architect you select will receive a financial prize—you should suggest an appropriate amount—in addition to our publishing his or her plan, a story about the design of the house, and an interview with the architect in the magazine. Do you think your judges will expect an honorarium?”

  Janet laughed. “No, they’ll love doing it, especially if you list their names in the magazine every month.”

  “Done!” Coleman said. “Let’s get started today. Can you give me some material on the history of the Architects’ Library Club? We’ll publish an article in First Home about the club, and announce the new program.”

  Coleman returned to her office, confident that the new architecture department would be exactly what First Home needed.

  But the important interior design department was in worse shape than the architecture department, and its problems were more difficult to solve. Its editors were two dowdy women who shared an apartment as well as the job, and who had similar tastes. They were not old, but they acted old, and selected old. Neither was imaginative or creative. They stocked samples of the few materials they used, and used them over and over—for years. Most of what they recommended was too expensive for First Home readers, as well as being unappealing and dated.

  Coleman knew the Drab Drones would have to go, but she didn’t know how to replace them. In the short term, she cut back their territory, turning the decoration of kitchens and dining rooms over to the food team. Patios, porches, and glass sunrooms were now gardening team responsibilities. The department heads had accepted their new assignments—and the accompanying raises—with enthusiasm, while the foolish Drabs didn’t seem troubled by losing a big hunk of their territory. They shrugged off the loss and continued down their unsuccessful paths. Bad as they were, they were all she had. She was stuck with them until she found replacements.

  Coleman knew nothing about interior design. How many times had her cousin Dinah or her friend Debbi suggested she get another apartment, or at least redecorate the one she had? She’d refused, didn’t want the mess, the distraction, the bother. She didn’t tell them she had no idea how to decorate her apartment, and she wasn’t interested in learning. But drastic times called for drastic measures: She had to learn about interior design in order to understand what the department should do, and how it should be managed.

  She had no choice but to plunge in and try to learn all she could as fast as she could. She asked several schools of interior design for catalogues and reading lists, and whether they allowed auditing. They assured her she’d be welcome to audit courses, and sent her videos to watch, piles of paper, and lists of books she should read. She soon found herself walled in by great stacks of magazines and books.

  One of her half-brother’s most welcome additions to the new office building was a magnifi
cent library on the fifty-fifth floor, the floor he shared with Coleman. Like Coleman, Heyward loved books. He’d stocked the library with a huge number of volumes on topics that interested him: paper production, forestry, air pollution, and dozens of other arcane subjects. All the books that First Home and ArtSmart owned were shelved in the library, and generous donations from Heyward had expanded their collections. The library even had a card catalogue: Heyward had commissioned it from a man who still made them.

  The books she was studying would eventually go in the library, but for the moment, she wanted them where she could reach them. She arranged them by subject—Furniture, English; Furniture, French; Frames, picture; Mirrors; Color (paint and wallpaper); and so on.

  She was enjoying her studies and learning, but what she was doing was catch-up. She had to be out in front of the crowd. She needed new ideas, fresh approaches, fashionable materials for the decorating department. How was she to find them? Or identify them?

  She had asked her old friend Zeke for ideas; he was managing ArtSmart, her other magazine, and in touch with much of the art world. He’d referred her to Bethany, his brand-new bride, who was in charge of Dinah’s gallery while Dinah was in England. But while Bethany had marvelous taste in clothes, like Coleman, she’d never paid much attention to interior design.

  “I sympathize with you, and I’ll be happy to go shopping with you anytime, but I don’t know a single decorator,” Bethany said. “I was mighty glad to move into Zeke’s apartment. It’s perfect. I didn’t have to do a thing.”

  Coleman would ask Dinah for advice if she weren’t in London, adjusting to a new country, a new house, and new and important work at the Art Museum of Great Britain. That left Debbi Diamondstein.

  Debbi, whom Heyward had chosen to decorate the offices of First Home and ArtSmart as well as his own office, was Coleman’s publicist, a friend, and aware of everything fashionable, avant-garde. Debbi wasn’t an interior designer except as a favor to her favorite clients, who were also her best friends. The rooms she designed were much admired, and she was sure to come up with some good ideas.