Bloody Royal Prints

by Reba White Williams

  “Oh, no, I want to see the badgers,” Coleman said. “I wish I could wash up, though. That man was filthy. He smelled so bad, I was nearly sick. I want to try to get his dirt off my face and hands.”

  “There’s a hut near where the badgers live. You can clean up in there. Come on, let’s go.” He put his arm around her shoulders, and pulled her close. “We shouldn’t talk anymore,” he said softly. “We must be very quiet. They have excellent hearing.”

  Coleman had been genuinely frightened by the gypsy’s attack, and was glad of Tony’s support. If Tony had not appeared, she was sure the man would have raped her. She wondered what would happen to her attacker. She hoped he would be put in jail, so he couldn’t attack anyone else.

  •••

  “We’ll go in the hut the back way,” Tony said. “After you clean up, we’ll sit in the chairs inside the hut, and look out through the windows at them. We can’t talk in the hut—the badgers would hear us. Save your questions. I’ll explain everything later when we go to the pub.”

  They tiptoed into a small room, with a bathroom near the back door. Coleman darted in and scrubbed her face, her hands, and the bare skin she could reach with a minty soap she found on a nearby shelf. There was also a bottle of germicide. She used it to wash her hands again and again. She could still feel his hand over her mouth. She wished she had mouthwash or mints, but no such luck. She rinsed her mouth with cold water, and tiptoed back into the little room.

  Tony pointed to a chair facing the window, and she sat down. Soft lights were scattered among the trees, illuminating a clearing. A large black-and-white badger, looking as handsome as in the pictures she’d seen—sort of like a panda cousin—was eating something on the ground. Several smaller badgers were munching near the big one, a little closer to the woods, as if they were shy.

  What glorious animals! Seeing hedgehogs—holding them—and watching badgers, all on the same night. What a marvelous experience.

  She turned, beaming at Tony. He asked softly, “Had enough? Ready to go?”

  She nodded and they slipped out the way they had entered.

  •••

  Tony drove up to the pub with a prominent gold-and-red sign: “Duke’s Inn.”

  “Picture-postcard perfect! Both quaint and inviting,” Coleman said.

  Exterior lights revealed an appealing mixture of stone, dark wood beam, and white plaster building—two or three buildings connected—crowned with a thatched roof. The interior was charming, with low ceilings, exposed wood beams, and a worn wood floor. Ancient farming implements—wood and rusted iron—hung on the white walls. She looked at Tony, a question in her eyes.

  Tony said, “The pub is very old. It’s named for an ancestor, and the decorations reflect my family’s forever interest in agriculture.”

  He steered them to a small table near a fireplace, where a few lumps of coal and a couple of logs smoldered, radiating heat. Coleman warmed her hands, and glancing around, asked, “Why is this place empty? It’s so attractive, I’d think it would be packed.”

  “It’s Sunday night,” Tony explained. “Sunday lunch is the big meal here, and the Duke’s Inn is always overflowing midday Sunday until early afternoon. Everyone nearby and even people from far away turn up for roast beef, roast potatoes, Yorkshire pudding, and a delectable sweet. After that heavy lunch, people stay home Sunday night, eat lightly, and go to bed early. There’ll be a limited menu tonight, but they always have their signature cottage pie, which is what we came for,” he said.

  “Dinah has raved about cottage pie. I’m dying to try it. I’ve never tasted one. I think the only kind of main-dish pie I’ve ever eaten is chicken pie.”

  “You have a treat in store, but first, refreshment. Come to the bar with me,” he said.

  The pub keeper touched his forehead, and offered a friendly, “What’ll it be, Gov?”

  “A half pint of Duke’s, and a cider for my guest, please,” Tony said.

  Coleman gave him a quizzical look, and Tony admitted, “Yes, we have a local ale named for the family. It’s the patriotic thing for me to order. The cider is nonalcoholic. And, yes, that gesture is traditional, and somewhat embarrassing.”

  When they returned to the table, and smelled the freshly baked bread the waitress had just put on the table, Coleman realized she was starving. Split pea soup, garnished with bacon bits—ideal for a chilly evening—arrived as soon as they sat down. It was delicious, and warm. The cottage pie was even better, with mashed potatoes—browned on top, making a light crust—piled on top of a small casserole dish of hot beef chunks, chopped carrots, and onions, swimming in thick gravy.

  “Just as Dinah told me: it is fabulous,” Coleman said, after her last bite. “Why don’t we have this in New York? There’s nothing special about the ingredients.”

  “I don’t know,” Tony said. “Cooking isn’t one of my skills.”

  “I’ve eaten every bite,” Coleman said.

  “In England, you haven’t finished a meal here without a sweet or cheese. Which do you want?” Tony said.

  “I don’t think I could eat either,” she said.

  “How about some coffee?”

  “How about a cup of hot chocolate?” she asked.

  “As you wish. Tell me, has the hedgehog and badger experience been what you expected?” he asked.

  “Oh, yes, wonderful. I have a lot of questions, though.”

  “Please, ask anything you want.”

  “I read hedgehogs were like porcupines, covered with spines that would hurt anyone who touched the creatures. I’ve been puzzled because Beatrix Potter’s hedgehog was a pet, and liked to sleep on her knee.”

  “Yes, a hedgehog has six or seven thousand spines all over its back. The spines are everywhere except underneath. That’s why you have to pick them up the way you did,” he explained.

  “Do most people have hedgehogs in their gardens?” Coleman asked.

  “No, but a lot do. They’re gardeners’ friends because they eat slugs and caterpillars and other threats to plants. People will say ‘my hedgehog,’ but hedgehogs don’t belong to anyone—they are free spirits. I’ve read that a hedgehog might visit as many as seven gardens in a single night.”

  “They’re so cute. I’d love to have one or more. I don’t have a garden, but I plan to have one, and it would be fun to have hedgehogs in it,” she said.

  “You could do that, if you stay in England. You can’t take one to the States, but it’s fairly easy to attract them here,” Tony said.

  Coleman looked at him, startled.

  “I can’t stay longer than two weeks,” she said.

  “Why?” Tony asked. “Dinah’s here and Heyward’s here. Aren’t they your family?”

  “Yes, but I have a business to run. That’s why I’m in London—to look into buying another magazine. Heyward and I have an appointment with the owner. I’m also supposed to be working with Rachel Ransome on a project, but as you know, she’s been caught in a web of suspicion, and we haven’t spent as much time together as I’d planned.”

  “I still don’t see why you can’t live here. You could manage the magazines from here. Others have done it,” Tony said.

  Coleman shook her head. “I couldn’t.”

  “This conversation is not over,” he said. “Do you have any other questions?”

  “No more on hedgehogs, but a lot about badgers,” she said.

  He laughed. “Go ahead. You have badgers in the States, don’t you?”

  “I guess so: Wisconsin is called the Badger State. I’ve never seen one, but I don’t think they’re like yours.”

  “I think you’re right,” Tony said. “I don’t think you have our badger problem. We have a real conflict. Farmers—cattle raisers—are convinced badgers carry a disease that causes bovine tuberculosis. Last year thirty-seven thousand cattle were slaughtered, at a cost of one hundred million pounds, to prevent the spread of the plague. Farmers want the badgers removed, permanently. Environmentali
sts want the badger protected as a native animal. It’s hard to know what’s right.”

  “But what about your badgers, or should I say the Duke’s badgers? Are they in danger of being killed?” Coleman asked.

  Tony said, “They’re our badgers—they are a family charge. They’re protected. All of our land is posted. Our badgers have been in the family for generations, always in the same area. They’re territorial; they typically live in social groups of four to seven animals, in defined territorial boundaries. We protect them and supplement their natural diet—moles and mice and voles and such—with corn and sunflower seeds.”

  “But what about your cattle?”

  “This may sound extreme, but we vaccinate our badgers. It’s not easy, and it’s expensive. Catching shy creatures that live in holes in the ground, and only come out at night, is difficult, and as you can imagine, they have no desire to be vaccinated. But we, and others dedicated to the preservation of this lovely animal, do it.”

  “How?” Coleman asked.

  “You saw tonight how they all came out? They knew we were offering them a treat—peanuts. They could smell them. They love peanuts. We use peanuts to entice them when we need to give them shots. When they come out for them, a quick grab by our groundskeepers, a quick shot, and no more bovine TB,” Tony said.

  “That’s fascinating. I hadn’t read anything about vaccinating them. Why don’t more people do it?”

  “Expensive. Trouble. There are other ways to avoid killing them, including the way the cattle are handled, but most farmers don’t like having their ways challenged, so lots of badgers die every day.”

  “Oh, that’s so sad,” Coleman said.

  He looked at her. “Are you really interested in this? Farming stuff?

  “Yes, of course,” she said.

  “You’re very different from the way I pictured you when Heyward told me you were coming to London.”

  She smiled. “What did you think I’d be like?” she asked.

  “Oh, New York-y. No interest in country things—citified,” he said.

  She laughed. “I grew up in the country. Maybe I’ll tell you about it someday. But not tonight. I’m too tired,” she said.

  “Oh, sorry. Let’s go.”

  A few minutes later, they were in the car, speeding toward London. Coleman nodded off, and didn’t wake until they pulled into the drive at Heyward’s house.

  •••

  When Tony kissed her goodnight, she no longer had the slightest doubt about his sexual interest in her. He held her body tightly against his, and kissed her with unmistakable passion. His desire for her was overwhelming, and the strength of her response was almost frightening. When he put her down—she was so much shorter than he that his embrace had lifted her off the floor—she could barely stand. He must have said goodnight, and she hoped she’d replied, but she wasn’t sure of anything. Was this what being drunk felt like? She had never had a sip of alcohol in her life, and tonight was no exception. Was she drunk on love?

  She was unsteady and staggering slightly when she passed the door to Heyward’s office. She tried to be quiet. She was in no shape for a late-night chat.

  But he heard her and called out, “Did you have a good time?”

  “Oh, yes. Hedgehogs, badgers, a cottage pie at a pub,” she said, and to herself, “And the best kiss I’ve ever had.”

  “Good. Sleep well. I’ll see you tomorrow. Here’s Dolly,” Heyward said. The little dog ran out to meet her. Coleman picked her up, and tucked her under her right arm. She needed her left arm to hold on to the banister when she walked up the stairs.

  In her bedroom she threw off her clothes, pulled on a gown, and fell into bed, exhausted, and weak, overwhelmed with passion—hers and his. She was asleep in minutes.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  Rachel

  Monday morning, May, London

  She got up, dressed, and went downstairs. She’d work on the book this morning, and try to put poor Stephanie out of her mind. She was determined to help other unfortunate girls, but it would not be the same.

  An hour later, she was annoyed when Eileen tapped on the door of her office. She had left standing orders that no one should disturb her during the precious morning hours when she wrote.

  “What is it?” she asked, trying not to sound irritated.

  “I’m sorry to disturb you, madam, but when I went upstairs to change the sheets in the guest room, I found this paper under the mattress. The lady who was up there crying must have left it.”

  “Let me see it.” It was a piece of the stationery kept in the desk drawer for guests to use. Stephanie must have found it, and the pen with it. Rachel stared at the few words, blurred by tears.

  J and I will kill me—they boss the drugs. Killed my men. Will do me now. Princess Stephanie.

  “Oh my God, we sent that lamb to her slaughterers. I’ll have to get in touch with the authorities. You’ll have to testify and say where you found this note,” Rachel said.

  She called Heyward, who—thank God—was available. “I have something terrible to tell you,” Rachel said. “Stephanie left a note here. I’m going to read it to you.” She read the horrifying note to Heyward, who said he’d be right over with one of the detectives. Rachel sat down to wait. Eileen was still hovering.

  “What is it?” Rachel asked.

  “Madam, when I took the woman upstairs to get Miss Princess, she searched that room—looked under pillows, wanted to know if Miss Princess had a purse or a bag with her. Miss Princess had put the paper I found way down under all the covers and sheets, and under the mattress. Then she remade the bed, or the woman would have found the note.”

  “Stephanie was a lot smarter than we gave her credit for. Her note will make sure her killers are punished. Nothing can bring her back, but she’s helped put away two murderers.”

  “Yes, madam. The doorbell is ringing. Shall I answer it?”

  “Yes, go ahead.” It would be Heyward and the detective.

  Rachel, who never cried, wiped her eyes with the handkerchief she always carried. I helped kill that girl, she thought. I won’t let her down. There are other Stephanies out there I can help.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  Dinah

  Monday morning, May, London

  Dinah was nervous about her return to the Art Museum of Great Britain. She had felt snubbed by her new associates on her first visit, and she expected the same cool treatment today. But then she had been vulnerable to their slights, and despondent about her living situation. Today she was a different person. If the work at the museum proved to be a bore—well, she’d been bored before. She’d do what she had to do, finish up, and go on to something else, like her new food project. If the people were unfriendly, she’d manage. She intended to make friends in the food world, and the art and antique world, and if the print people didn’t like her, so what?

  She dressed carefully, wanting to look businesslike, but not like an American showoff. She had a feeling that was how they thought of her.

  The day was beautiful, but still chilly. She put on a gray-blue wool suit, with a blue silk blouse, gray suede boots, and a gray and blue scarf. She thought she had achieved the perfect look, but she was afraid it wouldn’t help. The people she had to work with didn’t want her there. They probably didn’t pay attention to clothes, either.

  She went out to the waiting car, and got in, thinking she should probably forget commuting to the museum with a driver, and take a bus or something to seem less like a one percenter, but Jonathan would have a fit, and she didn’t want to. She was used to the car, and her few experiences on the Tube or on crowded buses had been awful. She arrived at the museum and braced herself for a cold welcome, if not outright hostility.

  “I’ll call when I know what time I’ll want to leave,” she said.

  “Yes, madam,” James said. “I’ll be here.”

  To her astonishment, Lucy, the Keeper of American Prints—not curator but keeper, another
word for Coleman’s collection—greeted her warmly. Lucy had been stiff, formal, and off-putting at their previous meeting. She still looked like an uptight librarian in her Harry Potter glasses and plain black dress, but her manner was totally different. She showed Dinah the small office that would be hers, and handed her a stack of paper.

  “Here’s a list of the gift prints, and a list of our few duplicates, and another list of all our American prints—not many, as you’ll see. I suspect there are catalogues raisonnés and other sources for most of the prints, but you’ll find we have very few American books. Expensive, as you know.”

  Dinah nodded. She did indeed know.

  “When you’ve had a look, maybe you could tell me what we should do about the sources—buy, borrow, or . . . ?” Lucy asked.

  “Of course,” Dinah said, thinking she’d help with this problem.

  “The room where we make coffee and tea is two doors down on your left; the ladies’ room is in the opposite direction. I’ve arranged lunch in the restaurant upstairs for a few of us. Will one o’clock suit you?”

  Dinah had the same feeling she’d had when James had whisked her off to the florist—as if she’d been caught in a strong but warm and friendly wind.

  “Lunch at one is fine,” Dinah said.

  “If you have any questions between now and lunch, call me—you’ll find a phone directory on your desk, or drop by. I’m across the hall,” Lucy said, and departed.

  Dinah took off her coat, and hung it on the hook behind the door. The weather in the museum had changed. The ice had melted. Why, she didn’t know, but she was grateful for it. She sat down at the desk, and got to work.

  Her most interesting challenge was the black-backed color prints, all woodcuts. The donated collection included four of these mysterious works by Gustave Baumann, Anna Taylor, Margaret Patterson, and William Seltzer Rice. She had always been interested in those works, and had planned to study them, but had never got around to it. She’d have to put together some information about them for this project. The big question: what had inspired the handful of prints of colorful flowers against a black background? Patterson had made some as early as 1915, almost surely in Provincetown, when that seaside village was becoming an arts colony. It was populated largely by women artists who’d gone to Paris early in the century, but had fled back to America, mainly to Provincetown, with the start of the world war. Anna Taylor had worked in Provincetown, too, but later. Her black-backed prints were made in the 1930s.