Bloody Royal Prints

by Reba White Williams

  “Yes, I was thrilled when I asked Dinah about flower prints,” Mrs. Forester said. “She had everything I needed—Edna Boies Hopkins, William Seltzer Rice. I was able to buy all the prints you see from Dinah.”

  The photographs of Shell Cottage and Butterfly Cottage were as attractive as the others. Coleman was beginning to get the glimmer of an idea about how she could adapt Mrs. Forester’s concept for First Home readers when she saw Mrs. Forester glance at her watch and realized it was probably past their hostess’s lunchtime.

  Coleman stood up, as did Bethany. Coleman thanked Mrs. Forester and apologized for staying so long. Mrs. Forester brushed off the apology and escorted them to the door. “If I can be of further help, let me know,” she said. “Please give my regards to Dinah.”

  Half an hour later, they were eating delectable clam chowder, and the best grilled swordfish they’d ever tasted. Stuffed after lunch, and longing for a nap in the car on the way back to New York, Bethany decided to forget about the clothes shopping.

  “If you decide to come back up here, count me in,” she said.

  “I’ll be back,” Coleman said. “I want to stay in touch with Mrs. Forester. I’ve decided one aspect of our decorating department will be ‘My Dream House Is a Theme House.’ I’d like to persuade her to become a consultant to First Home. We’ll show our readers how to change a simple little house into a flag cottage, a flower cottage, a butterfly, shell, and more. I think it will be a huge success.”

  Bethany woke up, and they discussed the possibilities, both for First Home and the Greene Gallery, all the way back to New York, bubbling with enthusiasm.

  •••

  Back in her office, Coleman was absorbed in the report Lyn and Mrs. Anderson had put together about the new design department when Heyward called on her private line.

  “I need you to come to London for a couple of weeks. Before you start telling me all the reasons you can’t come, you should know there are important business reasons for you to be here,” he said.

  Coleman hated leaving New York. When anyone suggested she should go out of town, her answer was always the same. “I’m too busy,” she said.

  “Nothing you are doing is as important as what’s going on here. We have some great business opportunities, and you need to meet with Rachel Ransome to discuss the strategy for the art book publishing business.”

  “I’d like to get to know Rachel,” Coleman said. “Maybe she could come here?”

  “No, Rachel can’t come to New York. Her gallery keeps her tied to London. She doesn’t have a Bethany or a Zeke to take over while she’s away. Anyway, I told you: I have business opportunities I want you to look at.”

  “Like what?”

  “The most interesting is Cottage & Castle, an English magazine I think we should buy. The castle part is too grand for us, but you could change that to a kind of ‘my home is my castle’ feeling. And the cottage part would work well with First Home.”

  Coleman perked up. “Is Cottage & Castle anything like Country Life? I love Country Life.”

  “They have qualities in common, but Cottage & Castle is a monthly, not a weekly, and it doesn’t include articles about animals.”

  “Oh, too bad. I read every word in Country Life about badgers and hedgehogs—I just read a great letter in Country Life: ‘Hedgehog Breaches Contract.’”

  “You don’t own a magazine about animals. Stop changing the subject. I need you to come to London. I want your help.”

  “What about Dolly? I’m not leaving her here, and I’m not putting her in quarantine and she’s not flying in the baggage compartment. Bigger dogs than Dolly have died back there,” Coleman said.

  “No, of course not. You’ll fly to Paris with Dolly in her carrier at your feet. I’ll meet the two of you at Charles de Gaulle Airport, and we’ll fly to England together. Don’t worry about anything—I’ll take care of it all. She’ll never leave your side. Lots of dogs like Dolly have flown the way she will, comfortably and safely.”

  Coleman frowned. “What do you mean, ‘dogs like Dolly?’ There are no dogs like Dolly.”

  Heyward took a deep breath, meant for her to hear. He wanted her to know he was struggling to be patient. “Small, well-behaved dogs that can travel in carriers, that are used to being out and about, that are quiet when necessary.”

  “Where would we stay? Most London hotels don’t take dogs, do they? And don’t say I can stay with Dinah and Jonathan. I’d like to stay with Dinah, but Jonathan and I don’t get along all that well when we see too much of each other.”

  “You and Dolly will stay with me. I designed a suite for you in my house. You’ll like it, I promise.”

  “I hear they kidnap dogs for ransom in London. I can’t risk losing Dolly,” she said.

  “Coleman, she’s never out of your sight—how would anyone kidnap her?”

  She sighed. She wasn’t going to be able to avoid this trip, much as she disliked the thought of it. Still, it had bright spots. She’d see Dinah, and she’d meet the legendary Rachel Ransome. There were places in London she wanted to visit. She’d make a list, and insist on doing a few things no one else would think important, like going to Liberty, the classic department store, to look at fabrics.

  “How long do I have to stay?” she asked.

  “I told you: two weeks. I’ve already made your and Dolly’s reservations—she has to go to the vet tomorrow afternoon at five for a special shot, and he’ll fill out her papers, her shot record, and everything she needs. Start packing. You’re leaving Thursday night.”

  “I can’t possibly go that soon,” Coleman argued.

  “It’s a done deal,” Heyward said. “I’ve made appointments for you in London. See you Friday morning in Paris.” He hung up.

  Coleman put her elbows on her desk, and her head in her hands. Double damn. She dreaded the trip. She’d flown very little, and she didn’t like it; she had a problem with heights. But she owed it to Heyward.

  Her private line rang again. This time it was Dinah.

  “Coleman? I’ve got a huge mess here. Could you come over? I need your help. I start work next week and—”

  “Calm down. I’m all but on the way. I’m flying over Thursday night. Heyward’s meeting Dolly and me in Paris. We’ll be in London Friday morning. What’s the problem?”

  “I’m so glad you’re coming. I hate this horrible house, and the cook and the housekeeper are monsters. I’m furious with Jonathan, and I don’t know what to do. I start work at the museum next week, and I feel terrible. I simply cannot cope.”

  “Don’t worry. We’ll sort it out. I’ll see you Friday. Do you want to tell me about it now?” Coleman asked.

  “No. Just come.”

  “Is there anything you need?”

  “No, no. Just come.”

  Coleman hung up and pondered Dinah’s call. Dinah was rarely angry. She was typically calmness itself, unless she was crying over a dead bird or a stray dog. Her problems sounded like a tornado in a teacup. She’d had several conversations with Dinah about the obnoxious servants of the rented London house. Dinah should have been able to bring them into line. Or she or Jonathan should have fired them. Why was the situation upsetting Dinah so much? And why wasn’t Jonathan helping her? And why in the world would servants behave the way Dinah described?

  Maybe they thought they could force Jonathan and Dinah to vacate the house. Could that be what they wanted? If so, why? Dinah was sweet-tempered and agreeable to a fault. Jonathan was demanding, but willing to pay well over the market to get what he wanted, and very generous. It all sounded very odd, but easy to deal with. Before she could turn to Heyward’s projects, she would deal with Dinah’s problems.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Dinah

  Monday, May, London

  The black Mercedes with the uniformed driver behind the wheel was waiting for Dinah when she left Rachel’s gallery. Dinah sighed when she saw it. The sun was shining and the sky was blue. On a day like this
, she would rather walk than be shut up in a car. When it wasn’t pouring rain, London was a wonderful walking city, with its beautiful parks, buildings, elegant shops—but Jonathan wouldn’t hear of her walking anywhere. An English business associate and his wife had recently moved to New York after being violently mugged twice near their Kensington home, and they had impressed Jonathan with their stories.

  After the Hathaways’s arrival in London, Jonathan, over-protective since their wedding the previous June, became obsessed with Dinah’s safety. He insisted she take all sorts of inconvenient precautions. She might have found it easier to tolerate the outdoor rules he established had their living conditions been satisfactory, but they were unbearable. She felt claustrophobic in the car, and miserable in the house.

  Her husband’s preoccupation with the dangers of London had led him to rent, sight unseen, a house in Culross Place, near the U.S. Embassy, where the security was formidable. Large uniformed men carrying submachine guns strolled up and down the block, and Dinah had to show her passport at a checkpoint when she returned to the house, no matter how often she came and went in a single day, even after the guards knew her, her driver, and the car by sight.

  Fortunately, since she spent so much time with him, Dinah liked James, the driver Jonathan had hired. James was happy to answer her questions about the buildings and parks and stores they passed, and he took her wherever she wanted to go. He was amazingly patient with the checkpoint people, and the ever-present guards. Maybe he was afraid of being shot if he didn’t cooperate.

  Londoners joked about the security around the U.S. Embassy, but they hated the guns and the fences and bollards that spoiled beautiful Grosvenor Square. Dinah shared their distaste, and missed the freedom she’d enjoyed in New York. In London, she had little freedom, and, except for Rachel, no friends.

  Where should she go today for food? Her favorite place was Fortnum’s, but she couldn’t go there every day. “Let’s go to Whole Foods,” she said.

  “Yes, madam,” James said.

  Dinah had been thrilled to hear there was a Whole Foods in London, and not very far away. She had found London supermarkets very different from those in New York, and Whole Foods was a store she knew well. But the Whole Foods in London was unlike those she knew in the United States. In some ways it was better: The cheese department was fabulous, as was the produce. Whole Foods offered a large selection of prepared food and a wide range of spices, reflecting London’s diversity. The Kensington High Street store was multistory, and the shopper took an escalator down to the basement to reach the main floor, much like Eli’s in New York. Not much in the way of frozen food or American brands, but a store that was fun and rewarding to visit.

  •••

  She returned to 23 Culross with her groceries, including a cold supper for Jonathan. He preferred a hot meal, but it was the best she could do. She couldn’t get into the kitchen to cook, or even heat food. The women in the kitchen guarded the room. Tonight would feature another boring meal with an irritable husband, and early to bed.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Rachel

  Tuesday, May, London

  By seven, Rachel had dressed and breakfasted, and was at her desk. She planned to work on her book until Dinah and Stephanie arrived at eight thirty. When her private line rang before she had written the first word, she was annoyed. Few people would call her at this hour. She picked up the receiver, expecting a recording trying to sell her something, or a wrong number.

  “Rachel? Julia here. You’re not going to believe this: Princess Stephanie has discovered a man’s body in her bathroom. I think it’s suicide. But, of course, it could be murder. She’s hysterical. The police are on their way. If you can get here before they arrive, I’ll let you in as my guest. If they arrive first, they may close the building to visitors. Once you’re in, you’ll be in a position to know what’s going on.”

  Rachel didn’t hesitate. The death must be connected with the theft of the prints and the extortion. Surely Stephanie wasn’t involved in two sinister and almost simultaneous unrelated events? Since Rachel was committed to helping to solve the first crime, she felt compelled to look into the new one. Maybe she should alert the police to the theft of Stephanie’s prints and blackmail, since the crimes were almost certainly connected. If she was in the Little Palace, she might have an opportunity to speak to the police.

  Her driver wouldn’t arrive until ten, but she would have no difficulty hailing a taxi. She wished she had time to change into something less frivolous. The cream-colored suit she’d put on to wear to lunch with Julia at The Goring was inappropriate for visiting a death scene—too celebratory, too cheerful. Oh well, it couldn’t be helped.

  She slipped on the coat that completed the outfit, tossed her beige carryall over her shoulder, and hurried to the door, pausing to let her maid know where she could be reached, and to send her driver to the Little Palace as soon as he arrived, and wait for her there. She scribbled a note for Miss Manning, her assistant, who would come in at eight, asking her to call Dinah and cancel their coffee date. She would telephone Dinah later.

  At the Little Palace, the doorman and the concierge were as calm as usual. The marble-paved lobby, adorned with tattered and slightly soiled oriental rugs and several enormous arrangements of fading cherry blossoms, showed no signs of disarray, or police activity. The doorman saw Rachel into the elevator to the fourth floor.

  Julia had left the door of her flat ajar, probably to listen for the elevator, and she came out into the hall to greet her. Rachel was startled by Julia’s appearance. Usually carefully dressed, Julia wore droopy beige slacks, a threadbare white cotton shirt, fuzzy blue bedroom slippers with yellow ducks’ heads, and white cotton gloves. She put a gloved finger to her lips.

  “Let me take your coat. I’ll hang it in the closet. You should leave your boots here—they are rather noisy. I’ll put them in the closet with your coat. Let me give you a pair of slippers. We have to be quiet. We’ll slip up the stairs to the fifth floor, and I’ll show you the crime scene,” Julia whispered.

  Rachel suppressed a smile. Julia’s excitement seemed ghoulish, but Rachel could understand it. She and Julia shared a passion for mystery novels, films, and television, but neither of them had ever been close to a criminal investigation, or been near a crime scene. Julia would relish every minute of the experience, as would Rachel. It was sad that someone had died, but the dead man was not someone she knew, and it sounded as if Julia was right—his death was his own choice. In any case, the death seemed unreal, like something out of a book.

  Of course, Julia was like a character in a book. She played up her resemblance to the late Joan Hickson—the actress who had played Miss Marple in the BBC series featuring Dame Agatha Christie’s elderly heroine. Rachel and Julia agreed this was the best adaptation—wearing country tweeds, ruffled silk blouses, dowdy hats, and no make up. Like Hickson, Julia was tiny. She resembled one of Beatrix Potter’s small animals, just as Hickson had. Julia did her best to act like Miss Marple. She sprinkled her otherwise elegant English with expressions she picked up from her favorite books and television. Some of them probably dated back to the 1930s, when Dame Agatha’s books about Miss Marple were new; others were from contemporary novels and programs, and sounded strange coming from Julia.

  Rachel followed Julia up to the fifth floor, which was as quiet as the fourth floor and the lobby. The corridor was empty, but a door stood open.

  “That’s Stephanie’s flat,” Julia whispered.

  “Where is Stephanie?” Rachel asked.

  “Downstairs with her friend Izzy. When around six I heard Stephanie screaming, I ran upstairs to see what was wrong. She was crying and shaking. She said she’d just come home, and found a body in her bathroom. I escorted her to Izzy’s flat on the third floor—Izzy is the girl-in-waiting I mentioned. She tags after Stephanie everywhere, and is willing to put up with her theatrics.

  “After I dropped Stephanie off, I came back up here and
sneaked into her bathroom to see for myself. I had no intention of calling the police on Stephanie’s say-so. She tends to exaggerate and cry wolf—to do anything to get attention. But this time she was quite right. The poor man looks like a waxwork at Madame Tussauds, before they are painted or dyed or whatever it is they do to try to make those figures look human. I’m warning you, the room is a ghastly mess—blood all over the floor—an abattoir, my dear. Would you care to take a look?” Her small, heavy-lidded eyes gleamed with excitement.

  Rachel knew she should not enter that apartment. She’d learned about crime scene contamination from films and television programs. But she could not resist. If it was suicide, no criminal was involved, but the police would investigate, and they might be angry if they learned she had trespassed.

  Nevertheless, she was determined to do it. She felt disoriented, as if she were someone else—perhaps Helen Mirren in Prime Suspect?

  She walked as quietly as she could behind Julia, who tiptoed in her silly slippers through the pale pink entry and sitting room. The rooms were fragrant with the scent of the stargazer lilies in bowls on every tabletop. The pink-flowered chintz curtains were closed, but the rooms were lit by table lamps and Rachel could see that the sofa and chairs were covered in the same chintz as the curtains.

  She followed Julia down a corridor to the open door of the bathroom. When Julia used her gloved hand to widen the opening, Rachel realized why she’d worn gloves: fingerprints! Smart Julia. Good thinking about the gloves and the soundless slippers, too.

  The contrast of all the pink flowers with the bloody corpse was horrific. The bathroom smelled like a badly kept butcher’s shop, mixed with the even worse odor of human waste. Rachel put her hand over her nose and mouth, and held her breath. She’d read that police smeared Vicks VapoRub on their upper lips to block nasty odors at death scenes. She wished she had some, but Vicks was not the sort of thing one carried in a handbag.