She felt like a new person after her bath and rest, and when Jonathan came home, she was sitting in the drawing room, in a long blue dress he loved. He was delighted with the transformation of the drawing room, the dining room, and the sitting room, and relieved that none of the furniture in the library had been moved. That room had been cleaned, but his books and papers had not been disturbed.
He commented on the beautiful proportions of the rooms, visible now that the clutter had been removed. He admired the flowers and the vases, was interested in her description of Lady Jane and her flower garden, and was intrigued when he heard that the vases had once been at 23 Culross. He was happier to find his wife looking as she did in New York when he came home from work.
He was also pleased with dinner, as was Dinah. Hamilton had prepared a delicious mushroom soup, and brought in excellent roast chicken and spicy rice from a restaurant he’d told Dinah was Portuguese.
The main course was followed by a delicious salad of Brussels sprouts, flakes of Parmigiano-Reggiano, walnuts, and a lemon-juice dressing.
Hamilton served the meal unobtrusively. After the salad, he brought in a cheese tray, which featured some of Jonathan’s favorites. He paired the appropriate wines with every course.
Jonathan was delighted by the food and service. Dinah took advantage of his good mood by telling him about Hamilton—how he had once been butler at 23 Culross Place, and that James knew him well and recommended him to replace Connell.
Jonathan looked up from his Stilton. “Is he available now? Can he come right away?”
“Oh, yes. James says he can start tomorrow.”
“Hire him,” Jonathan said. “I’m tired of waiting for Ross to find someone.”
Dinah smiled. “I’ll see to it,” she said. “And I’ll let Ross know we’ve found a butler, so he can stop his search.”
Before she went upstairs, she went in the kitchen to tell Hamilton he was hired, and she’d see him tomorrow. Dinah, relieved to have found an ally, slept better than she had in weeks.
CHAPTER TEN
Rachel
Wednesday, May, London
The day of Rachel and Julia’s lunch date at The Goring had arrived: Rachel called for Julia at twelve thirty. Julia looked very English in a lavender tweed suit. Rachel smiled to herself. She was wearing a purple dress. She wondered if they had chosen those clothes as homage to the royalty who often appeared at The Goring. New by English standards, The Goring—a hotel and restaurant—opened in 1910, toward the end of the Edwardian period.
In the car they chatted of nothing in particular, and when seated in the serene dining room of the elegant hotel, Julia was silent. She looked around her, smiling. Rachel knew how Julia felt. When so many restaurants reinvented themselves monthly, or disappeared completely, The Goring dining room, with its gold-colored curtains, spotless white linen tablecloths, impeccable service, and muted voices, was a dependable island of civility. The dining room seemed remote from murder, blackmail, and scandal.
Asked if they desired an aperitif, they ordered sherry, and for their lunch, lobster omelets and green salads, with a glass of Chablis for each of them.
After the sherry was served, and Julia had taken a sip, she said in a soft voice, “I have news. According to the police, Ivan was murdered. Someone else cut his throat: The razor was found near his left hand, but he was right-handed. And Stephanie was wrong about him being killed elsewhere. He was killed where we saw him, in her bathroom.”
“I am not surprised that he was murdered. It was always a possibility. Rather an inept murderer, wouldn’t you say? So messy, and imagine making that mistake with the razor. How do you know? Did the police tell you?” Rachel said.
“No, but the police gossip with the doormen and the concierge, and they can’t resist telling people in the building what they’ve learned. And that’s not all: They say Ivan left all his money—apparently quite a lot—to Stephanie,” Julia said.
“My word!” Rachel said. “It is fortunate that she has an alibi, is it not?”
“If it stands up. She claims she was staying with an American at the Connaught. I’ve never seen her with an American, and I thought I knew all of her followers,” Julia said.
“We always thought that if Ivan was murdered, he was probably killed by a rival. Who are the other contenders for Stephanie’s hand?” Rachel asked.
“Besides the mysterious American, a tall, blond German, rather arrogant, but handsome. An Italian almost as dark as Ivan, and a Spaniard, also dark, with that unmistakable Habsburg jaw. Those are the only ones I’ve seen,” Julia said. “I hadn’t thought Ivan was murdered, but now that we know he was, I’d put my money on the German as the killer.”
“I do not doubt that you know best. Now, let me tell you my news.” Rachel repeated what she had learned about the Pal Pols’s Irish conspiracy theory, including their belief that both she and Julia were involved in some kind of Irish rebellion.
Julia laughed so hard, heads turned. Those who lunched at the elegant Goring were unused to loud laughter.
“Why is that amusing?” Rachel asked. “My attorney is quite concerned.”
“I’m sorry. It’s just that my late and unlamented husband, despite his Irish name, was so English, you could barely understand a word he said. He nearly choked on his plummy accent. He worshipped all things English. He even died a very English death—broke his neck chasing a fox. Perhaps someone in his family was Irish way back, but if so, the genes didn’t survive. I got to know the entire tribe, and they were all English to the bone. Remind me to show you my husband’s scrapbooks, and you’ll see what I mean. I don’t think the Pal Pols will find satisfaction climbing that family tree. I hope they waste a lot of time checking on my in-laws, who will snub them mightily, given half a chance,” Julia said.
“I hope they leave us alone,” Rachel said. “On another topic: what is happening with Stephanie and the missing prints? I saw the etching in Secrets—a nude, but not very explicit. I would like to know what she is doing about her problems. The next image could be more damaging.”
Julia shrugged. “She acts as if she’s forgotten about the prints and the threats. She’s been preoccupied with Ivan’s death, and her inheritance, but you’d think she’d give some thought to the theft.”
“I have doubted her story from the beginning. I have wondered if she pretended the prints were stolen, and if it was she who sent the print to Secrets,” Rachel said.
“Why would she do that?” Julia asked.
“I suspect she needs money badly, and hopes to collect the blackmail money for her own use, although I cannot imagine who she thinks will pay it,” said Rachel. “Do you think she inherited enough to make it unnecessary to go through with the extortion?”
“I haven’t the foggiest,” Julia said. “But I’m sure we’ll hear something soon. She can’t keep anything to herself. If I learn anything, I’ll let you know.”
The waiter arrived with their omelets, and while he was serving them, they stopped talking and finished their sherry. When the waiter left, Julia said, “I’ve been meaning to ask you: You know Heyward Bain, don’t you?”
“Yes, he is my great benefactor, and a good friend,” Rachel said. “As I think you know, my former partner, Simon, left me in a terrible financial situation. Heyward sorted it for me—took care of everything.”
“My dear!” said Julia. “You are fortunate to have such a friend.”
“Indeed. Why did you ask about him?”
“Well, he’s famous now that he’s building an empire in London, but what put him in my mind is a bit in the paper that says he’s coming to London,” Julia said. “He may already be here.”
“He is? I am so very glad. He has been on my mind,” Rachel said.
“I’m glad to bring good news. Before we leave the subject of your friends, did I hear you tell the Pal Pols that you have a friend living at 23 Culross Place?”
“Yes, do you know the house?” Rachel asked.
“Why? What’s wrong with the house?”
“It has an unhappy history, and it is said to be a bad-luck house. It’s owned by Lady Jane Ross. Jane Ross comes from a line of Scots whose ancestry goes back to the twelfth century. The family was once wealthy, with a magnificent castle in Scotland, and properties all over England. But the wars took their toll, and Jane is the last of her branch of Rosses. It was important that she marry well, to a man who could help her manage what was left of the estate.
“When she married Lord Augustine, a much older man and a distant cousin, everyone thought she’d made a good choice, but the marriage was a disaster. Augustine was a drinker, a gambler, a womanizer, a cad. He went through everything she owned faster than you would think possible, and piled up huge debts. He drowned in a boating accident—drunk at the time, people say—unfortunately too late to save much of her fortune. There were rumors that Jane’s governess, who lived with them even after her marriage, had managed to hide some of the estate’s greatest treasures, but she died of a heart attack before Lord Augustine did, without telling Jane what she had done with the treasures, if she did anything. It could be just a silly rumor.
“Be that as it may, Jane was left very badly off. By the time everything was sold, and all the debtors paid, she had almost no money. She was left with 23 Culross Place, which she rents out, and she had enough left to establish herself as a florist. Unfortunately, she was also left with a tribe of hangers-on—all her Ross relatives—harassing her, asking for money. They’re infamous—lazy, good-for-nothing layabouts. One or another of them gets picked up drunk and makes the news all the time. They see her as the senior person in the clan who should take care of them,” Julia said.
“But why is the house bad luck?” Rachel asked. “And why do people leave?”
“Stephanie said the house is haunted, perhaps by Lord Augustine. She says people who have rented the house claim they hear noises in the night, and can’t sleep. I don’t know how she knows all that, but it’s true that after a few days, the tenants leave,” Julia said.
“Dinah has not mentioned ghosts nor, indeed, any problems, but I sense she is not happy there,” Rachel said. “I do not believe in ghosts, but I do think some houses have an evil atmosphere. I hope she and her husband do not stay if there is anything seriously wrong with the place.”
•••
Back at home, an e-mail from Stephanie awaited Rachel:
The thief gave me an extension to get the money when he heard about Ivan’s death. But he called this morning to tell me he knows I inherited money, and he wants it. He says I can borrow against the legacy, and get cash right away. It’s not nearly as much as he originally asked for—I think he wants my legacy as partial payment. There’s another print in today’s Secrets. I don’t know what to do. What do you advise?
Rachel didn’t want to talk to or meet with Stephanie. She e-mailed her reply:
Stephanie:
It is time to talk to the police. I urge you to take the whole story to them, but first hire a lawyer. The theft of the prints and the extortion scheme could be connected to Ivan’s murder. You may find yourself in serious trouble if you do not tell the police.
She’d like to think that Stephanie would follow her advice, but the girl was a fool, and unpredictable. Rachel could do nothing for the moment. She sent her driver to buy a copy of Secrets. She wanted to see the image. She was tired of Stephanie, and wished she’d never met her. But Rachel feared the consequences if she brushed the girl off.
The second print showed a Degas-like nude stepping out of a tub. The woman was wrapped in towels, carefully draped. Like the first print, it was relatively harmless, but it was slightly more revealing than the first print.
Rachel wished she had someone to advise her. She didn’t think George was up to unraveling the web in which she was entangled. His was a sheltered life.
When the maid came in to let her know Mr. Bain was on the telephone, it was as if her prayers had been answered. He had called to invite her to a dinner on Friday night to welcome his sister, Coleman, to London. He apologized for the lateness of the invitation. Rachel barely heard him. She accepted his invitation, and seized the opportunity to ask him if he could come to see her as soon as possible, explaining that she had serious problems and needed his advice. Would he come for tea this afternoon, or a drink this evening?
“Of course,” he said. “I’ll be with you in half an hour, unless that’s too soon?”
“No, no, the sooner, the better,” she said.
She was in her usual chair in the library when the maid ushered him in. She rose to greet him. He was as she remembered him: handsome, exquisitely attired, with beautiful manners, and an air of easy confidence.
When they were seated, and he’d declined sherry or tea, he said, “How can I help you?”
“It’s a long story, but I’ll try to make it as brief as I can. It began when Princess Stephanie came to see me. Do you know who I mean?”
He nodded, and she went on to describe Stephanie’s story, Julia’s telephone call, the body in Stephanie’s bathroom, the Palace Police and their hostility, and the blood on her clothes.
She told him about George’s discovery of why the Palace Police were hostile, the appearance in Secrets of the prints featuring nearly nude women, and Julia’s report that the man in Stephanie’s bathroom had been murdered.
When she finally stopped talking, she took a deep breath and waited for his response. Would he think she was silly or exaggerating?
His expression was serious. “I can see why you are distressed,” he said. “I’m certain I can assist you with some of these issues. Let me see what I can do. I’ll be in touch tomorrow and let you know what I have accomplished.”
When he left, she leaned back in her chair and allowed herself to enjoy the comfort she had felt when she heard that he would help her.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Dinah
Thursday morning, May, London
Dinah went through her usual upstairs morning ritual, but Hamilton, who had arrived at five A.M., served downstairs breakfast. It was exactly what Jonathan wanted. Even the smell of fat frying and urine, which usually lingered no matter how many scented candles she burned, was nearly absent.
Jonathan was enjoying Hamilton’s excellent service, and was basking in what he saw as Dinah’s capitulation about the need for servants. He was wearing an “I told you so” smile. He didn’t know that 23 Culross was a battleground, and Dinah had a powerful new ally. Where were her enemies? The kitchen was quiet; normally she’d hear them slurping up the greasy breakfast ostensibly prepared for Jonathan and Dinah. Hamilton must be able to control them. How?
After breakfast and Jonathan’s departure, Hamilton explained that he’d told them Dinah was “giving them the day off,” as she had the night before, and he had added a bribe to make them take it.
“I thought you needed a holiday, madam,” he said.
“Oh, wonderful! When will they be back?” Dinah asked.
“Not until after dinner tonight, madam.”
“That’s such good news. We can get the house ready for my cousin Coleman—she’ll be here tomorrow morning at eleven.”
“Will she be staying here, madam?”
“No, she’ll stay at her brother’s house. But I want her to see everything here. We won’t clean the kitchen—just leave it the way it always is—filthy—but everywhere else should be perfect.”
“Of course, madam.”
“We’re going out to dinner tonight, so you’re on your own. Is there anything we should do about the witches?” Dinah asked
“I’m going to work on that smell. I have some things I can try,” he said.
“Oh, it would be wonderful if you could make it go away,” Dinah said.
W
ith Hamilton’s help, the day rushed by. By late afternoon the house looked clean and fresh, and miraculously, Hamilton had been able to subdue, if not erase, the terrible odor.
Dinah, feeling cheerful, went upstairs to bathe and dress. She decided to wear a navy blue wool suit, with a lighter blue silk shirt, dark blue Manolo Blahniks, and a gold necklace, earrings, and bracelet set that Jonathan had given her to the restaurant. She was ready to go with time to spare. She used the time to choose the dress she’d wear Friday night. She wanted to look her best at Heyward’s party for Coleman, her first opportunity since the move to London to wear an evening dress.
•••
Heyward had invited Jonathan and Dinah to join him at Dinner by Heston Blumenthal in the Mandarin Oriental Hotel. It was thought by some to be the best restaurant in London, and was said to be the most interesting. Dinah was looking forward to it. It would be her first visit to a famous London restaurant. Jonathan would enjoy the evening because he liked to talk to Heyward, although he might not be wild about the food. The food was adventurous, and Jonathan preferred the tried and true.
Heyward’s welcome party for Coleman would be at Scott’s, another restaurant Dinah longed to visit. Scott’s was famous for its seafood. Even Jonathan would like their food.
After finding their way through the hotel to the strangely named restaurant, and passing the glass-enclosed kitchen where chefs were hard at work, they were seated by a large window overlooking Hyde Park. In the early twilight—days were getting longer—Dinah could see the rose garden and a group of riders trotting on Hyde Park’s famous Rotten Row. Whatever the kitchen produced didn’t matter. The view was grand, and after only a quick glance at the menu, she knew she’d enjoy her meal.
While Dinah gazed across at the park and studied the menu, Heyward and Jonathan exchanged stories about their new business ventures.
“I’ve made several trips to Beijing. I have some plans to address their horrendous air-pollution problem,” Heyward said. “I think some of the techniques I’ve used at home to suppress the bad odors from paper plants can help the Chinese. But it will take a large capital investment.”
Bloody Royal Prints Page 9