The Prince's Secret (The Royal Biography Cozy Mystery Series Book 2)
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“And after you visit the nursery, you can head off to some of London’s finest stores for your ball gown.”
“Right, that’s what I’ll do,” I am all prepared to hang up when the Prince adds, “After the ball, I would like to talk to you about….about what we discussed at your place last time.”
“Why don’t you tell me now?” I press, peeved that I have to attend a ball alongside the coat-hanger thin Cressida.
“No,” he states firmly, “I want to do it in person. And I’m off to Malaysia and Indonesia for the next week. I’ll be on a royal tour, as you know. The first chance I’ll have to see you will be at the ball. It’s going to be at the Orangery, and hopefully we can slip away into the gardens.”
With that comforting thought, the thought of slipping away into the gardens alone with the Prince, I almost forget the fact that he has mentioned his quasi-girlfriend.
I hang up with a smile. Yes, it’s definitely good to be home.
Chapter 3
“Ms. Rue?”
“Mr. Schnipps,” I say, wrestling with my sack of groceries and simultaneously answering my phone. I thought it would be somewhat romantic to walk to the grocery store. It’s not that far, but it’s located on the outskirts of town, which at this time of day, means risking your life as you dash across the intersection between all the tourist buses. After making it across the street alive, the eight blocks to my house, (which would be a merry stroll under normal circumstances) becomes an outright slog as the city streets are so clogged with tourists that I can’t scoot past anyone. Instead, I have to walk behind all the visitors at a turtle’s pace.
“Ms. Rue, we seemed to get cut off yesterday.”
“Hmm,” I murmur as the bottom of my paper bag begins to feel soggy from my defrosting ice-cream.
“Sorry about that, Mr. Schnipps. There was an accident on the road. Everyone’s all right, but I had to jump out and check on the driver ahead of me. ”
“I see. Ms. Rue, I’m still trying to understand how this book that you and the Prince found was hidden in the Victorian collection chest in Mary’s chambers.”
The historian in me likes how he talks about Mary, Queen of Scots, as if she is still living.
“I can’t help you there,” I answer, placing both hands under my bag which is rotting away with each step.
“Curious,” he states, sounding like Mr. Spock from that ancient sci-fi television series. “Well, we’ve been looking at surveillance video of the chamber. We’ve gone back several months, but aren’t able to find the person or persons who placed the book inside the chest.”
“So naturally, you suspect me,” I mutter, perhaps a bit too loudly because a few of the tourists turn around to stare.
“No, no of course not.” I can tell by the way he utters this that he does have some suspicions.
“Don’t you have video of the Prince and I in the chamber on that night?”
This sentence causes even more strangers to turn around, and few of them begin to murmur.
“No, we don’t. We have limited staff while Holyrood is undergoing renovations and we had the surveillance cameras off that night, except at the exits and entrances.”
Now it’s my turn to say a disapproving, “Hmm.”
“But, if I may, I have another question for you,” Schnipps continues.
“Shoot,” I reply. I’m in the home stretch --I can see my cottage from here. My arms are burning, my bag is breaking, I’m not sure I’m going to make it with everything intact. Not to mention that my neck is aching from having to walk with my cell phone wedged between my ear and shoulder.
“I’m wondering if you might take a look at the writing in the book and tell me what you think?” Schnipps questions right as the bag finally gives and all my groceries roll into the street.
“I’ll call you back.” I hang up on him, watching as my ice-cream rolls along the asphalt on its side. It makes it a good ten yards before promptly getting flattened by a passing Volkswagen minibus.
“Perfect,” I say to myself, and wonder if in super-clean Bourton, I am the one who needs to clean my ice-cream out of the street.
*****
These are the Confessions, of I, Mary B. in the year of our lord 1598.
This is how I would translate the first line of the book. Staring at the words that were written so long ago on vellum, I remember that romantic night that the Prince gave me a private tour of Holyrood, and we found this tiny tome with its hand-sewn binding. I let out a sigh remembering how the Prince almost kissed me as we ate a frittata straight out of the pan.
“Mmm, delicious,” I say out loud, and spend a good sixty seconds lost in naughty thoughts.
The clock strikes seven and my daydream swirls away into the void. “Right, need to concentrate,” I tell myself and return to scanning the words in the file Schnipps emailed. Given that we don’t know the origin of this book, or exactly who it belongs to, Schnipps sent me an encoded file. I had to enter a password, and then sign something that says if I tell anybody what I read, I will be punished, whipped or possibly beheaded. I didn’t really read that part because I just checked the, “Yes, I agree,” button and watched in pure delight as the first scanned page of the book popped up on the screen.
Schnipps is right. He said he didn’t think the book was a diary. Instead, it appears to be a written confession. It takes me a while to translate, because it is in 16th century French.
I, Mary of the house of Beaton, and wife of Alexandre Olgilvy of Boyne, am dying of pox. Each day my fever rages and the doctor says it will not be long. But while I am still cognizant, I wish to write down my sins so that I may go to heaven without….
Here there is a smudge. The following words are unintelligible. I’m trying to guess what they might be when Schnipps instant messages me.
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His words make me wonder, how many historical objects are there in the Crown’s possession? There must be thousands of items, given that there are three palaces full of books, art, jewels, tapestries, porcelain, furniture etc., that is passed down from generation to generation. Not to mention, that the Royal Family is constantly receiving new gifts. Only a month ago, a distant relative of the Prince’s returned a small crown to him. It had belonged to Queen Victoria, and on that magical evening when he made me dinner at my place, Alex allowed me to try it on. It’s sacrilegious I know, but Alex actually reached over and placed the crown on my head.
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No, indeed. Schnipps informs me he is a Latin and ancient Greek man, having studied classics at Oxford. When I instant message him that I can’t speak either of those languages, he sends me an impertinent message asking me what kind of historian cannot read the classics.
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This seems to satisfy Schnipps who stops his inqui
sition. How Schnipps became head curator for the Palace without speaking French given what happened in England in 1066 is beyond me. Still, it’s not my business. I should just feel blessed to be allowed to help identify the writer of this mysterious piece of work.
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I hit the next button on my computer screen to read the second page, only to find that I’m at the end of the file.
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I don’t bother to respond. My silence causes Schnipps to become quite gabby, instant messaging me that he felt forced to consult with me about the small brown book against his better judgment because I am a friend of the Prince.
I feel like we’re having a circular discussion. The historian ego inside of me roars to life and I type.
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It would appear I have passed all tests. The game of egos comes to a close for the night, but I continue to sit at my writing desk. Inside, my inner historian is all atwitter, anxiously waiting to read the next few pages of Mary’s confessional.
How long will Rupert Schnipps make me wait?
Chapter 4
My drive to London on Thursday is peaceful, except at one point where I swear I see the same obnoxious truck driver who ran poor Lady Margaret Jones off the road. I crane my neck as the truck passes by in the opposite lane, trying to get a view of the license plate. It’s no use. It’s going so fast that it passes by in a blur.
It takes a while to navigate the horrific London traffic, but when I reach Kensington Palace, I drive around to the designated entrance. The guard checks my identification before opening the electronic gate and admitting me to the private side of Kensington.
Alastair, Alex’s Personal Secretary, greets me as soon as I park my car.
“You made good time this morning,” he says with a smile on his round face. “Would you like a quick tour of the sunken gardens? They’re right this way and not open to the public yet this morning.”
I nod my head. How could I resist? “The tulips are gone,” he adds glumly, “I’m afraid spring is on the wane. But the begonias and geraniums are up.”
The beauty of the sunken gardens, which are as immaculately coiffed as Lady Margaret’s hair, is breath taking. Nobody does gardening like the English. Boxwoods frame a rectangular pond that sports tall grasses in large, round ceramic vases. It’s all tastefully arranged, by a master gardener who is also a master artist. “This way,” calls Alistair. He motions for me to follow him through a doorway into a long hallway with black-and-white marble tiled floors.
“What, no X-ray machine today?” I joke. When I met the Prince for the first time at Buckingham, I was subject to all kinds of searches.
“You’re a friend of the Prince, Ms. Rue. We know you now,” Alistair states plainly, and I do believe this man, who is several inches smaller than me, gives me a good-natured wink.
We walk along the hallway, heading for a large staircase. Unlike most palaces, this one is not chalk-a-block full of portraits. It has a cleaner feel…more stream lined, more modern.
“This way to the apartments of the Royals.” Alistair extends an arm.
“I’m curious, Alistair, why didn’t you go to Indonesia with the Prince?”
“Ah well,” he replies, “I had work to finish. Updating the Prince’s calendars, writing thank you letters, that sort of thing. And, starting tomorrow, I’m on my vacation until the Prince returns from his tour. But not to fear. The Prince is in good hands. He has the King’s personal secretary with him for the duration, and if you think I’m uptight,” he screws up his face, “then just wait until you meet Hollister Schmidt.”
I laugh and hope that I don’t ever have to meet the King’s personal secretary.
“Follow me, please, this way.” He unlocks a door with a printed sign that says, “Royals Only.”
We head down another brightly lit hall, this one with thick yellow carpet underfoot. Halfway down, Alistair pulls out a small keycard that he inserts into a reader mounted on the door. The lock flashes green and he turns the handle.
“Here you are, the royal nursery. Or at least it was the royal nursery until Prince Albert died.” This last part is expressed with such sadness that I wonder how long Alastair has been in the service of Buckingham Palace.
The royal nursery is light, bright and airy, painted in a cheery yellow with two huge windows that overlook private gardens. On a feature wall, the wallpaper is appropriately fussy for a royal British household; it is a small floral print run amok. There are two huge curtains with fancy trim. They’re so long that they puddle on the floor.
“So many beds,” I murmur, eyeing a neat row of six single four-posters, each one looking cushy with large teddy bears taking pride of place.
“Ah yes, well, all the royal children spent their days and nights here until the young Prince died. You see, instead of having individual nurseries, the King, who was the Prince of Wales at the time, and his sister, the Princess Royal, chose to keep their children in this combined nursery. There are doors on each end that lead to their respective apartments. Of course, the King has long since moved to Buckingham and the Princess Royal has moved her apartments elsewhere within Kensington.”
I walk along the row of beds, above each one hang colorful letters spelling out “Albert, Alex, Rose, Ava etc.”
“So the princesses were here too?” I ask, referring to Alex’s cousins.
“They were. Initially each child was in a smaller nursery in their parent’s apartments. But when the children reached age two, they were moved into this combined nursery. It was a wonderful time, Ms. Rue. This nursery was full of laughter. But after Prince Albert died in that tragic accident, well, the nursery wasn’t the same. Queen Amelia, who was Princess of Wales at that time, became very protective of her only remaining son, and moved him back into his parents’ apartment. The girls also moved in with their own parents. They were older, and perhaps it was time for them to have their own rooms. Anyway, this nursery awaits the next generation of royals,” Alistair concludes, misty-eyed.
“You sound both wistful and hopeful as you say that.”
“Well, I am. Four of the five Princesses live here now, each has their own apartments, and Prince Alex is having his apartments enlarged as we speak. I think very soon this nursery may be overflowing with new royal babies and nothing would make me happier.”
I laugh, caught up in his enthusiasm. Where did they find Alistair? He’s a keeper.
“Alistair, what do you mean the Prince is having his apartments enlarged? Won’t he stay at Buckingham with his parents?”
“That’s only a temporary arrangement. Queen Amelia is having his apartment redone. His original apartment here at Kensington was fine for a bachelor. I mean, a few thousand square feet is all right when you are a single man, but we are expecting him to be married soon, so his apartment is being enlarged. They are knocking out walls and such.”
I wonder who he meant when he said, “We are expecting him to be married soon,” so,
I ask.
“Well, everyone,” he blusters. “His parents and I. All of Britain, really. We are ready for the Prince to settle down. The realm needs another heir.”
“Hmm, no pressure there,” I laugh.
“Yes, well, in any event it will be good to have this nursery stocked to the gills with babies again. It’s been sitting here gathering dust ever since we lost poor Prince Albert,” he tsks and I tsk with him, thinking of that poor little prince falling to his death at his grandparent’s house.
I walk along the length of the room and note three doors that open off the south wall of the nursery. I poke my head into the first one. It must have been meant for a full-time guard. There are video monitors all around.
“Ah yes, it’s unfortunate, but when there are royal babies there’s also a royal guard at all hours of the day.”
The next room is large. It resembles a preschool; there are books, puzzles, games, rocking horses and chalkboards. Finger painted artwork hangs overhead. There are small tables for the artists, and some bean bags for snuggling.
“Some of this marvelous art belonged to Prince Alex?” I ask, pointing to the messy paintings.
“There’s work here from all the children.”
I wander past one painting signed, “Bertie,” and feel a tightness in my chest. Albert’s pictures are light, bright and vibrant. Then, I wander past ones done by Alex. They are monochromatic, generally red, and look angry and brooding.
“They still hang here? After all this time?”
“Until the next wave of royals comes through.” Alistair smiles happily, as if he knows something I don’t. “I think we will see a baby or two in the next few years.”
I move on to the third room.
“This is the nanny’s room,” he states. It is a small bedroom with a large rocking chair and its own three piece bathroom.
“Was Nanny Margery the last one to stay here?”