Bloody Royal Prints

by Reba White Williams

  They moved across the room, where Coleman again used the flashlight to point out details. “I’m pretty sure these are Pre-Raphaelite designs. The frame manufacturer incorporated geometric forms—triangles, circles, and squares in the design on this one. I’d guess the frame was made about 1855. This one is in Rossetti’s ‘thumb-mark pattern.’ And this one, carved in wood, looks like whoever made the frame was trying to imitate Grinling Gibbons. Hard to do, time consuming, and expensive. These frames are amazing. How many paintings are upstairs?” Coleman asked.

  “Maybe twenty. How do you know so much about frames?” Dinah said.

  “The same answer: I studied them for First Home. It’s a fascinating specialty in the art world. Could you have someone bring the paintings down here, where they can be easily examined?”

  “Sure. James and Franklin can do it. Where do you want them?”

  “On the floor in the dining room, leaning against the wall,” Coleman said. “Let’s go upstairs and take a look at the furniture before you have the paintings brought down.”

  Dinah led the way, and with only a glance in each of the rooms, Coleman knew that the furniture was valuable. None of the paintings was accessible, so she couldn’t get a good look at them, but even from a distance the frames were impressive. She should call Heyward. He’d be waiting to hear from her. She reached him immediately.

  “Heyward, it’s just as we thought—this place is full of valuable antiques. They must be stolen: Dinah says the woman who owns the house has financial problems. I’m sure she’d have sold the furniture if she owned it. In addition to the furniture, I think there may be more than twenty valuable paintings here. This is a big find, much bigger than I anticipated. I think it’s time for you to send in the art and antiques cops. Send a painting specialist, too. I’ve had all the pictures put in the dining room to make it easy to look at them. I’d like to examine them myself, but I think it should be done by an expert.

  “Please urge the police to come right away. The news that we’ve discovered stolen goods in this house will spread fast. Dinah and I are on the way to the kitchen to dismiss the servants. They’ll soon be in touch with their masters. I’ll call you again after we’re rid of them, and before we leave here.”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Coleman and Dinah

  Friday, May, London

  Coleman, with Dolly under her left arm and Dinah beside her, walked into the kitchen and looked around.

  Mrs. O’Hara, Mrs. Malone, and two other women were sitting at the table slurping up their elevenses, which appeared to be a huge assortment of sweets. Coleman spotted a fruitcake, cookies, and two pies, as well as bowls full of something topped with mountains of whipped cream.

  Mrs. O’Hara stood up when she saw Coleman. “Get that dog out of my kitchen,” she ordered.

  “I certainly will. She’s a very valuable animal, and she could sicken from the filth in this room. I’ve never seen anything so disgusting.” Coleman was taking pictures of the kitchen and its occupants with her iPhone while she spoke. When she had finished, she stood still, staring at the women. Mrs. O’Hara had turned purple, and looked as if she were about to scream at Coleman, or physically attack her. But before she could make a sound, or move, Coleman transformed herself into a different person. She stood up tall, deepened and sharpened her soft voice, and radiated authority.

  “Stand up, both of you, and remain standing, as you should when the mistress of the house enters the room,” she ordered. “Now that you are on your feet, listen to me carefully. Go upstairs, pack your things, and leave this house immediately. I do not want to have to repeat myself: Go! You will be very sorry if you don’t.”

  She held up her right hand. “And don’t bother telling me that you report only to Mr. Ross. We are on the way to see Mr. Ross, with photographs of this filthy kitchen, and ‘before’ pictures of the drawing room and living room, when they were so dirty, because you weren’t doing your jobs. We’ll show him pictures of you sitting around stuffing yourselves—as you are today—rather than working. When he has heard all we have to say, he will apologize for burdening the Hathaways with the likes of you, especially when he’s told that the house is full of stolen antique furniture and paintings, and that you are a part of the criminal ring that brought them here.

  “After we see Mr. Ross, we are going out for lunch. When we return, you will have left this house. Do not take anything with you that isn’t yours. We have an inventory of every item. I am sure crimes have been committed here—theft, at the very least, but possibly far worse. The police will be here in minutes. They will search this house and fingerprint everything in it. You will be arrested if they find you here.”

  Coleman turned and strolled out of the kitchen. Dinah, with a big smile on her face, followed her.

  “How’d you get so big and bossy?” Dinah asked.

  “Practice. I’ve had to fire a fair number of people in the last year or so,” Coleman said.

  “How can you be sure the police will come so quickly?” Dinah asked.

  “On the plane from Paris, I told Heyward I thought there had to be a reason the servants were behaving as they were. The logical explanation was that they wanted you to move out. I thought they might be doing something they needed to hide: drugs? Stolen goods? Now that I’ve seen the furniture and the picture frames, I’m sure they’re hiding stolen antique furniture and art. I just spoke to Heyward—you heard what I said. He’ll do the rest. I promised to call him again when we were leaving the house. I should do that now,” Coleman said. She took out her cell phone.

  “Heyward? The witches have been evicted, and Dinah and I are headed to see Mr. Ross, and then to lunch. Please call Jonathan, let him know what’s going on. Tell him Dinah and I are going out to lunch to celebrate. Make sure he knows the women working here are criminals.” She smiled at Dinah, who smiled back, and pretended to clap her hands.

  “I’m sending your car and driver back to your house. We’re using Dinah’s car. James, her driver, will take care of Dolly while we eat. After lunch, I’m coming home to take a nap. I need some beauty sleep before the party.”

  Coleman hung up, and turned to Dinah. “Now that I’ve told the old bats to pack up and get out, you should call James and ask him to rehire—what was his name?”

  “Franklin,” said Dinah.

  “Yes, Franklin, to join your butler—Hamilton?”

  Dinah nodded.

  “They can watch the women leave, and make sure they don’t try to steal the paintings or other portable items,” Coleman said. “James can call Franklin while he is driving us to meet with Mr. Ross. You should also ask James how many other people are needed to run his house. Obviously, you need a cook.”

  “I’d rather do it myself,” Dinah protested.

  Coleman shook her head. “No, Jonathan’s right. You should have a cook—a good English cook. You’re going to be very busy when you start work. Anyway, I want to talk to you about a project I have in mind. You’ll need a cook.”

  Dinah looked mystified, but cheerful.

  “I’m ready to go, but I want you to change clothes,” Coleman said. “I bet you’ve been wearing black every day. Am I right?”

  Dinah nodded. “I’ve been too miserable to care what I wore. Black suited my mood.”

  “Well, it’s time to change into something more cheerful.”

  Dinah laughed. “Okay. I’ll be back in fifteen minutes.”

  She reappeared in a lemon-yellow dress with a matching jacket, looking like a ray of sunshine. “Will this do?” she asked.

  “Perfect!” Coleman clapped her hands. “Let’s call on Mr. Ross.”

  Dinah, smiling, climbed into the Mercedes, where she was joined by Dolly and Coleman. James was smiling, too, as he closed the door. Fifteen minutes later they parked in front of Ross & Ross, located in an attractive small building on the west side of Berkeley Square.

  “Nice digs,” Coleman said.

  “Yes, very,” Dinah a
greed.

  •••

  The exterior of the Ross office was misleading. The civility it implied was false. Inside they encountered pandemonium. A number of men with red hair were wandering around a large room. They had similar features, were obviously related.

  “Did you know there were so many?” Coleman asked.

  “I heard they were a big clan, but I didn’t expect to see so many of them here,” Dinah said.

  The room smelled of tobacco, smoke, sweat, and burnt coffee. The men seemed to be talking all at once. The noise level was deafening.

  An older man approached them. He was tall and gaunt, and his red hair was graying, as was the ferocious mustache that drooped beneath his enormous nose, which was redder than his hair. “Can I help you?” he said. His expression suggested he did not intend to be helpful.

  “We wish to speak with the Mr. Ross who oversees 23 Culross,” Coleman said.

  “Do you have an appointment?” the man asked.

  “No, but our business with him is urgent.”

  “You should tell me,” the large man said.

  “We will, but I’m sure he’ll want to hear what we have to say, and we don’t have a lot of time. This is Mrs. Hathaway. She and her husband are the current tenants of 23 Culross. I am a member of the family. We have fired the servants employed by Mr. Ross—”

  “You canna do that,” the large man shouted. “They are not yours to fire. They are Ross employees. I’ve heard about you: You will na eat good English food. If you want American food, you should have stayed in America. You Yankees are ig’nrant.”

  Coleman smiled. “The women you hired—and I cannot say anything good about them—have told us repeatedly that they report to you. Nevertheless, under certain circumstances, we are entitled to rid ourselves of them.”

  “No, you cannot. They are valued servants. They come with the house—live there, work there. You canna make them move out. You can leave, and good riddance to you, but you will not get your money back. You canna stay in the house without Mrs. O’Hara and Mrs. Malone. They keep the place clean, and keep the tenants like you from stealing.”

  The tall man—who was undoubtedly the Mr. Ross who employed the witches—was shouting. His younger relatives—Coleman had counted nine of them—were silent, but they had gathered around him, and nodded in agreement.

  Coleman laughed out loud. “You poor old man. You must have never left England, nor even visited London’s wonderful restaurants, where one can find delicious food, unlike the garbage Mrs. O’Hara cooks. We live in New York, where every food in the world is served and enjoyed. I pity you if you think Mrs. O’Hara is a good cook.

  “I did not come here to discuss food with you. I’ve brought you photographs showing you how clean your servants keep the house. The kitchen is a pigpen. When were you there last? What kind of landlord or manager are you?”

  The old man was making odd noises—mumbles and grumbles and probably foul words. Coleman hoped he didn’t have a stroke until after she and Dinah left.

  “The Hathaways’s contract with you has a malfeasance clause that allows them to terminate anyone who is guilty of a crime. Your beloved servants are being arrested as we speak. I suggest you go to the house and take the responsibility for hiring them—although, if you do, you, too, will probably be arrested. Now you must excuse us. We are on our way to lunch. We stopped by to let you know what we have discovered, and what we have done, as the contract required us to do.”

  When they turned to leave, the men deliberately blocked their exit. They moved closer and closer to her and Dinah. Coleman didn’t care for their manners, or the way they smelled.

  “You lie,” the old man shouted.

  He and his young supporters were making Coleman angry. She knew Dinah must be frightened. How dare he call her a liar? She raised her right hand as she had when she’d fired the witches in the kitchen. She’d been taught that it was an effective gesture when chastising the guilty. It had never failed her.

  “If you doubt what I have said, call 23 Culross. The police will answer the telephone. My brother, Heyward Bain, is overseeing the arrests, and the removal of the stolen furniture and art. He will not be pleased to learn how you have treated us.”

  She looked at the crowd, and noticed that several of the men were drifting away. They must have recognized Heyward’s name. But not all of them were moving. She’d take care of that.

  “Stand back immediately. Our driver, who is also our bodyguard, is outside the door and armed. If I scream—and I will in a moment—he will come in to escort us out, and if I say ‘shoot,’ he will. NOW MOVE!”

  Everyone except the raving old man moved out of the way, and Coleman and Dinah departed. The old man continued to make strange noises. They could still hear him when they reached the car.

  When they were inside the car, Coleman asked James if he carried a gun. When he said he didn’t, she laughed. “I didn’t think so. It’s just as well some people think you do, including some of those we just left. I’m ready for lunch!” she said.

  “Excuse me, madam. Did the meeting with Mr. Ross go badly?”

  Coleman laughed again. “You could say that.”

  “He was horrible, and so were all the other Rosses. He was rude and obnoxious, and so were his younger relatives,” Dinah said.

  “They were like a roomful of roosters—all crow and no brains,” Coleman said.

  “You’ve always had the confidence and strength and certainty to do what you just did. I’ve seen it before. I remember someone saying about you, when we were young, ‘Coleman walks in where angels fear to tread,’” Dinah said.

  Coleman laughed. “Angels aren’t afraid to tread anywhere. We should all remember that, and try to be like them. Let’s go have lunch. I’m starved,” she said.

  •••

  Dinah asked James to let them out on Duke Street, so they could walk through the side door to the ground floor of Fortnum & Mason, the fabulous store in Piccadilly. They strolled through the aisles, looking at the displays of chocolates and confections, preserves and honey, biscuits and patisserie, and in the rear, a short staircase down to the Fountain Restaurant.

  “Looking at and smelling all this candy is making me even hungrier,” Coleman complained.

  “Yes, I know—I’m always tempted when I’m here. We could have entered the restaurant by the Jermyn Street door, but I wanted you to see the array of goodies you can buy. Another day I’ll take you to the lower ground floor and you can see where I shop for some of the food I’ve been giving Jonathan for dinner. That floor is where the cheese and wine and meat is.”

  “Now that you’ve tempted and tortured me with candy, where’s the restaurant?” Coleman said.

  “We’re here,” Dinah said, and gave her name to the young woman standing at the bottom of the stairs.

  The waitress led them to a snug table for two by the windows, which were decorated with carved wooden birds painted white. She handed them menus, and asked what they’d like to drink.

  “Still water and iced tea,” Dinah said.

  “I’m really hungry,” Coleman said. “The menu looks great.”

  “This is one of my favorite places to eat. Of course, I haven’t eaten in many restaurants since we came to London. I could have—I had the time—but I don’t like eating alone. I feel comfortable here. As you can see, there are several women eating alone,” Dinah said.

  “What do you suggest I order?” Coleman said.

  “The Welsh rarebit, with tomato, no bacon, and only one slice of bread,” Dinah said.

  “That doesn’t sound like much. I’m starved,” Coleman said.

  “It’s a lot of food, but if you’re feeling the absence of greens, order the rocket and parmesan salad, in addition to the rarebit,” Dinah said.

  “I’ll do as you say, but what is ‘rocket’?”

  “It’s what we call arugula,” Dinah said.

  “While I’m asking, what exactly is a rarebit? I’ve
heard the term for years, but what’s in it?”

  “There’s a waiter taking a rarebit order to that table—look at it on that tray,” Dinah said.

  “It looks like a toasted cheese sandwich without the top slice of toast. Is that what it is? If so, forget it. I want something more exciting. I can make a toasted cheese sandwich in my own kitchen. Is there more to Welsh rarebit than bread and cheese?” Coleman asked.

  “Oh, yes. The Fountain Welsh rarebit recipe calls for butter, flour, milk, cheddar cheese, Worcestershire sauce, paprika, and English mustard, which is very strong. It has a subtle bite—not enough to make you think you’re eating hot peppers, but interesting.”

  “Sounds great, I’ll go for it,” Coleman said. “But why did you tell me not to order bacon? Bacon, tomato, and cheese sounds delicious.”

  “Because you would be disappointed. It’s almost impossible to get American bacon here. What they call bacon resembles Canadian bacon or ham, and there’s often a lot of fat on it,” Dinah said.

  “Oh, okay, I’ll go with the rarebit and the salad you recommended. I hope they hurry. Tell me about the restaurant where you ate last night. It’s very special, isn’t it?” Coleman said.

  Dinah lit up. “Oh, yes. The restaurant is called Dinner by Heston Blumenthal. Most of the food is based on ancient English recipes—they put the date next to the dish. I had grilled octopus. The recipe goes back to 1390! It was delicious.”

  “How did Jonathan like it?” Coleman asked. Jonathan was a plain meat-and-potatoes man. He wouldn’t go near grilled octopus.

  Dinah laughed. “He had the filet of Aberdeen Angus and chips, which are fried potatoes—there’s another word for your English collection—and he was in heaven. Steak and potatoes are his favorite foods. He didn’t care that the dish was dated 1830.”

  “And Heyward?” Coleman asked.

  “Heyward had chicken cooked with lettuces, circa 1670. He said it was excellent. Then came dessert. We ordered an assortment of desserts. I tasted everything, but Heyward and Jonathan had the cheese and oatcakes. So unadventurous,” Dinah said.