The Prince and I: A Romantic Mystery (The Royal Biography Cozy Mystery Series Book 1) (2 page)

Chapter
2

Apparently, there are many protocols one must follow when going to Buckingham. Meg explains them to me two weeks later, but I’m not able to retain much. After finding Sean murdered, my insomnia increased exponentially. At night, I close my eyes but I don’t sleep.

“You’re not supposed to show the King or Queen the back of your body,” Meg informs me, holding up a wagging finger like some expert in royal etiquette. “Only the front, so you have to walk backwards out of a room if you are presented to royalty.”

Walk backwards out of a room?

“Time is limited, so make the most of it,” Meg says, the she drops into something resembling a curtsey. “Like this.” Crossing her legs, she bends down into a strange squat. I eye her suspiciously. I may not know much about the current royal family, but I’m pretty sure this is not the correct way to curtsey.

“Are you paying attention, Trudy? This is important.”

I’m not paying attention. I’m having a lot of trouble concentrating. Everywhere I look, I see Sean face down in a pool of his own blood. The police called me; they said Sean was shot about 15 minutes before I found him. They said the killer must have used a silencer because no one, not even Leanne, heard the shot.

A few hours after I leave Meg’s office, I am on a flight bound for Heathrow. Modern technology has shaved a whole hour off the route since my father used to travel to London to give lectures. It’s now a four and half hour flight, which is just long enough to be extremely annoying, but not long enough to get any rest.

I sit down in my first class pod. In effect, I am taking Sean’s place in every way. This ticket was meant for him. I feel both sad and guilty about this state of events. My guilt increases further as I glance about the first class cabin. Sean and I used to refer to these seats as “The MacDaddy Seats.” When I was writing about Sargon and Ashurbanipal, I was always in the back of the plane. There was never enough room for my long legs. Today I stow my legs comfortably, fasten my seat belt, and pull out the thick folder marked, “Prince Alexander of the House of Windsor.” Meg told me to scrutinize every paper in the folder. The first item is written in bright red ink and titled, “List of Questions You Are Not Allowed to Ask the Prince.” The list is a mile long, with the first sentence underlined three times, “Do not ask Prince about his relationships with women. Period
.”

I snort. Who would want to know about the Prince’s relationship with women? The man has not even produced progeny. He’s not like Henry I, who had over 21 illegitimate children, but lost his only male heir when the White Ship went down in 1120. Now that’s fascinating stuff. What has the modern day Prince done? He’s not even married yet and he’s what 30? 31?

I flip to the next page in the file. It’s a picture of Prince Alex. For a moment, my mouth drops open; the man is stunning, a British knockout. Great head of hair, blue eyes, and a smile that goes on and on, like the Atlantic.

“Peanuts?” the flight attendant asks, startling me.

“Ah, the return of peanuts to air travel. Once upon a time they were a staple on all flights, did you know?” I ask him. The flight attendant doesn’t respond. Full of factoids, I continue, “Did you know they almost disappeared completely from air travel at the turn of the millennium?”

The flight attendant looks stymied. Obviously, he’s not a man for trivia. He hands me my peanuts and moves on to the gentleman ahead of me.

“Well, they did,” I sputter, responding to my own question, “because people used to have deadly allergies to them. But now that modern medicine has cured nut allergies, everyone can enjoy the tiny wonder that is the peanut,” I continue and pull at the little notch on top of my bag which optimistically reads “Open Here.”

Exhausted, I decide to worry about the Prince’s file later. I close the manila folder and slip it back into my bag. Then I return to trying to open my peanuts. It’s tricky. I have completely ripped off the little notched part that read “Open Here,” but darn if the bag isn’t still firmly sealed.

As I continue to struggle with my peanut bag, the hapless King Stephen springs to mind. After my string of Singaporean successes, Meg asked me to write “more modern” biographies.

“Don’t get me wrong, scholars and academics praise your Babylonian and Assyrian works, but,” here she hesitated, “they don’t really sell with the general public.”

Who cares if they sell with the general public
, I think. It’s not like the books cost Schnellings a fortune to produce. They only paid me a measly amount for each one. And if I remember correctly,
Sargon, the Original Moses
sold what, 40,000 copies? Wait, now that I am running the numbers in my head, perhaps I understand Meg’s point; Sean’s biography of the Prime Minister has sold over three million copies worldwide and is still going strong.

“You want me to do something more modern, you say? Like something on Empress Mathilde? Although really, that woman’s been studied to death. Not sure how much original research there is left to do there,” I had said, responding to Meg’s suggestion.

At that point, Meg gave me one of her patented, I-am-so-done-with-writers look. She flared her nostrils and stared at me over the tops of her glasses.

“Who the hell is Empress Mathilde?”

Who the hell is Empress Mathilde? The woman who ruined King Stephen’s life. The woman who inherited a man’s throne when the White Ship went down
, I think, as I continue to struggle with my peanut bag.

“Ladies and gentleman the plane is preparing for takeoff. Please return you tray tables and seats to their upright position. For our first class passengers, we will be serving a full dinner the moment we achieve cruising altitude.”

The roar of the engines and the force with which my body is thrown back against the chair during takeoff makes me sleepy. I close my eyes, and in my mind, I picture King Stephen, sitting in a tent somewhere in the countryside. He is completely ignoring the pleas and petitions of the English people, allowing England to slide into chaos as he chases Empress Mathilde and her army around the countryside.

He was a good man. He didn’t play dirty and that was his problem. He should never have allowed Mathilde safe passage after she returned to the English shores.

“Do you mind?” a lady sitting in her own first class pod next to me asks sharply. “I’m trying to watch a movie.” She jabs at her screen.

“Sorry, did I say that out loud?”

“You did. You were mumbling some insanely boring thing. And trust me, lady, nobody wants to hear it,” she grunts, appearing very uptight in her black Channel suit and Hermes scarf, which is tied in a choke-hold around her neck.

Hmm, nobody wants to hear it, and nobody wants to read it either. Nobody cares about King Stephen. Just like nobody but the extremely well-educated Singaporeans care about Sargon or Ashurbanipal.  Maybe Meg is right. She said I was out of touch with both the modern world and the modern reader. It’s true. I am out of touch. I never watch TV or read magazines. And damn it, I still can’t open my peanut bag. In desperation I begin to skewer the bag with my finger nails. A minute later I give up and try ripping it open with my teeth.

The flight attendant returns, throws me a vexed look, and actually reaches out to pull the bag from my mouth. “Give me that,” he demands in such a grave tone that I think I may be in danger of losing my first class privileges for behaving in such an uncivilized manner.

He grabs both sides of the peanut bag authoritatively and pulls.

“Voila.” He hands the open bag back to me. “Would you like anything to drink? A mimosa or some champagne or something?”

I choose to enjoy my relaxing meal with orange juice. After dinner the Hermes Scarf Lady falls fast asleep, having downed several glasses of champagne. She snores loudly as I pull out my crotchet from my bag and began to work on a tea cozy. I love the yarn I have chosen; it is a lovely pinkish maroon. In addition the thread also has a furry texture to it. Ah, so pretty…

“MERCIFUL HEAVENS!” the woman with the Hermes scarf cries when the plane experiences turbulence and she wakes with a jolt. “WHAT IN GOD’S NAME IS THAT - A WOMB?”

All eyes turn to my pink tea cozy which is sitting on my food tray.

“It’s um…a tea cozy,” I mumble.

“It’s hideous,” the woman makes a gagging noise, and then turns away from me, falling back asleep.

Maybe now is not a good time for crafts. I put my crochet away in my bag and close my eyes, trying to avoid the glances of those who keep sneaking peaks to see if the “womb” is still on my tray. Since I’ve taken my Ambien, I should be able to fall asleep. I pull the United Airlines blanket tight around me hoping to get some rest, but my mind is on overdrive. It is fixated on the hapless King Stephen, sitting in a tent with his men-at-arms, trying to figure out how to beat Mathilde’s forces on the battle field. Stephen was too soft. He was not of this world. I picture his face perfectly, every contour and every detail. A moment later the face morphs and Sean’s icy blue eyes stare back at me.

At the airport, I decide to forgo the new high-tech mode of transportations from downtown London to Heathrow. His Majesty’s Government has built a giant, human tube that works by suction. They claim it is fast. They also claim that you cannot tell, as you sit blissfully still in your chair, that you are being Hoovered along to the center of London. Not wanting to be sucked into oblivion, I glance around for a more conventional way to reach the city.

“Tube-Tube ticket, dear,” a hawker calls as I pass by. Since the London metro has long been known by the nickname “The Tube” they call this new mode of transportation “The Tube-Tube.” I want to tell her that redundancy is always ridiculous, but I don’t. I simply head outside to the taxi queue.

“London is changing for the better,” my driver explains as we wind our way through the stop-and-go traffic. “They are bringing down all these God-forsaken 1970’s buildings.” He points at an ugly, tall glass building.  “They all have to come down within the next few years, and only classic architecture can replace them, by order of the Prime Minister.”

He smiles at me in his rearview mirror. I wonder what he means by classic architecture. Greek? Roman? Victorian? I decide I’m too tired to care.

My taxi pulls up to the Sheraton Park Lane thirty minutes later. When I step out of the car and glance up at the familiar building, my heart sinks. This is the same hotel Sean and I stayed in while researching Ashurbanipal. It is located only a few metro stops from the British Museum where we spent days pouring through archives that contain the last remaining cuneiform texts from the King’s great library at Nineveh. Those were the good old days, when Sean and I spent long nights tucked away in some corner office reading clay tablets. Occasionally we would leave the cramped offices at the British Museum to take in a very late night dinner in Shepherd’s Market. Then we would go back to our hotel room, sleep in late the next morning and start the process all over again.

In the lobby, I make my way past the concierge, who’s dressed in full uniform. He tilts his top hat in welcome. I pull my roll-along over to the reception desk where I exchange pleasantries with the woman behind the desk. She asks me if I want Starwood points, or a credit for high tea on Sunday?

High tea at the Park Lane? It’s a wonderful affair in the beautifully appointed Palm Court. Yet I’m not quite sure what I will be doing on Sunday, so I reluctantly choose the points. All checked in, Elaine, for that’s what the young woman’s name tag reads, hands me my room key. I give my bag to the bellboy and take the steps to the third floor. The room the hotel gives me today is much larger than the one Sean and I used to stay in. This one has a large desk and a sitting area to one side, and a king size bed on the other. The five-piece bathroom is as big as my apartment in Manhattan.

I sink onto the bed. I know what they say about jet lag. They say one should try to remain awake until its dark. I ignore this advice. I haven’t slept in days. I take a hot shower, comb out my hair, put on my comfy pajamas and slip between the sheets, where for the first time in weeks, I fall into a deep sleep.

Somewhere in the middle of the afternoon, a man named Alistair rings my cell and asks me if I want a car sent over “from the Palace” for my morning meeting with the Prince.

“No, no,” I mumble sleepily, “I’ll walk.”

“Very good. The Prince has a full day tomorrow, so we’ll see you at six a.m. sharp. Please give your name to the guard at the East entrance.”

“Hmm, yes, yum, yum,” I mumble and fall back to sleep.

Before the sun has even risen, I make my way across Green Park. Buckingham Palace is smack dab on the other side. I never found the time to read the notes on the Prince or write up questions. I may be the least prepared woman in the world for an interview with the future King of England.

Once the Palace comes into view my heart thumps in my chest. The Prince’s personal assistant, Alistair, rang me at half past four this morning to make sure I would arrive on time, and to ask once again if I would like a car to pick me up.

“No thank you. I’m perfectly capable of crossing the park on my own. No need for a car,” I replied firmly.

Arriving at Buckingham, I circle around to the side entrance as instructed. I give my name to the man at the guardhouse who looks it up on a sheet and asks to see identification.

“Alright, it’s written here that I’m to ring for the Prince’s personal secretary when you arrive. Just a moment,” the guard says. He picks up the handle of a bright red phone and dials a few numbers. Five minutes later, the sharply-dressed Alistair comes out of a side door of the palace. I watch him walk with quick steps across the courtyard, his black shoes making a clickety-click noise. He greets me with a handshake and then admonishes me saying, “It is most irregular to have someone walk up to the gate rather than being driven through.”

I ignore his remarks. I am too busy gawking as we walk across the courtyard of the most famous palace in the world.

“This way please,” Alistair motions to a door that leads inside. I follow him to an entrance that resembles a county clerk’s office. There’s an X-ray machine for my large, over-the-shoulder bag and another larger machine for me. I have to stand in the Human X-ray Machine with my legs spread and my arms held high, as if I am under arrest. As undignified as this is, things get worse when I exit the machine and am immediately frisked by a security woman who seems as tall and as burly as King Kong. I picture her climbing to the top of Buckingham Palace and knocking enemy planes out of the sky with her fist. I am glad when she finishes and allows me to pass. Onward we go, with Alistair leading me along a corridor that is cold and sterile. We pass tiny offices housing security guards watching live feeds from both inside and outside the Palace. I feel a stab of disappointment. Am I going to have to meet the Prince in one of these horrible little rooms? Won’t I be allowed to see the grandeur that is Buckingham?

“Right this way.” Alistair motions again, and I follow him up a short flight of stairs.

“Oh, wow,” I gush as we enter a great hall, two-stories high with lush red carpet. The walls are painted a cream color with a series of gilded fretwork. This room is long and full of alcoves that run between enormous windows. Large ferns and topiaries rest on marble bases. White alabaster statues fill niches that are bathed in warm light. All in all, it’s as grand as anyone could imagine.

“It’s magnificent,” I whisper. Alistair stares at me, and by the expression on his face, I can tell he’s not impressed. He gives me the onceover and then sneers, as if he thinks I might not be up to the job. What? Is there something wrong with the way I look? I am dressed as per Meg’s instructions. I wear a black pants suit and a pale pink scarf. I carry a very respectable, no nonsense over-the-shoulder bag with all my files. I also have on Danskin flats that scream “Sensible! Level-headed!”

“Yes, I am sure even a writer of your caliber would have trouble finding adjectives to describe the Palace,” Alistair replies to my continual gasps of “Wow, would you look at that!”

I drift along the hallway, drawn to the light of a great open space ahead. I’m pretty sure it’s the Grand Staircase that I’ve seen in many movies. But three-quarters of the way up the hall, Alistair stops me.

“Right in here.” He pushes open an enormous door that leads to a round, wood-paneled office. On the walls are life-size oil paintings of members of the royal family. Based on what they are wearing, I would place them all in the 19th century.

“Yes, they are impressive, aren’t they? These are portraits of the relatives of Queen Victoria. They were moved here from the Grand Staircase when Queen Elizabeth II died. Shall I introduce you around?”

I stare at him for a moment. Does he mean to introduce me to the portraits, as if they are real, living people?

“Of course,” I reply a second later. Alistair proudly guides me around introducing me to George III and Queen Charlotte, Victoria’s grandparents. He also introduces me to the Queen’s predecessor, her Uncle William IV and his wife Queen Adelaide.

Adelaide stares out at me sweet-faced and temperate, in a solemn black dress with sheer sleeves.

“She is doomed, poor dear creature, to be my wife,” I utter in a low, guttural voice.

“Beg pardon?” Alistair sputters, eyes widening in alarm.

“It’s what her husband, King William IV, wrote when she agreed to marry him. He was a bit of rogue, you know? He had all those illegitimate children and he was on the spot, wasn’t he, to produce an heir. Which of course, he never did,” I offer cheerfully.

“Oh, yes. My, you do know your history,” Alistair replies, seeming both relieved that I wasn’t simply sputtering nonsense, and also somewhat taken aback that an American would know so much about British history.

“Well, I know my history up to Queen Victoria, and after that, I never had much interest in the royal family.”

“Oh no? Why is that?” asks a bemused voice behind us. I swivel around to see the Prince of Wales, heir to the throne, coming through the doorway wearing a huge smile.

Alistair makes an “ahem” noise, clearing his throat. “Your Royal Highness, I didn’t see you come in.”

“Not a problem, Alistair. Could you ring for some tea? Better yet, you might have to go down to the kitchens and fetch it yourself. Not sure anyone else is in this early. I’m sure you agree we should greet our American guest with something more than a handshake at this hour.” The Prince glances at me with a flash of dark eyes. Then he adds, “Tea or coffee? Your choice. I wouldn’t want to force our British ways on you. Oh, and can I entice you to have something for breakfast, perhaps? I’m not a breakfast person myself but you must be famished coming here at this dreadful hour.”

With his crop of unruly hair and contagious smile, the Prince is charming. There’s no getting around it. He holds out a hand to shake mine. Briefly, I wonder if I should drop into a curtsey. The Prince grips my hand firmly and locks eyes with me. I feel a little sad when he finally releases it.

“Ms. Rue, can you please tell me how you prefer to be addressed?” he asks. In my mind I hear, “Ms. Rue, can you please tell me how you prefer to be undressed.”

Why does my mind do things like this? Sometimes it is as if it is a completely separate entity -- just spitting out random, dirty thoughts.

I begin to flush and then I remember the curtsey. Crossing my legs, I begin to dip down.

“Oh no, no, no,” both Alistair and the Prince cry.

“You’re an American Ms. Rue, no need for…” Alistair flourishes his hands in my direction, “whatever that was.”

“A curtsey,” I reply.

“No curtsies, please,” Alistair snaps.

“But I thought it was the proper thing to do in front of a Prince.”

“Only if you are British,” Alistair chides.

“Now, back to my question, how should I address you?” the Prince repeats.

“Address me,” I say slowly repeating the words while Alistair stares at me, appalled, as if he knows what I am thinking.

“Yes, you know, do you prefer Trudy or Ms. Rue?”

“Oh, um….” There is a long silence and finally I utter, “Lizzie.”

There’s another long silence.

“Lizzie?” the Prince asks, “Is that what your parents call you?”

“No.”

“Your friends?”

“No, but you asked me what I preferred and I have always liked the name Lizzie.”

“Right then,” Alistair interrupts, “I’ll go fetch the tea, if that’s good for you, Ms. Rue?” I nod and Alistair looks relieved to steal away.

“Well, I love the name, Lizzie. It’s a charming name. Please have a seat at the desk, Lizzie. I know they told you no electronic devices, but I’m sure you would like to take notes as I speak about my extremely exciting life,” the Prince says with a facetious smile. “And please feel free to call me Alex --no Prince, no your Royal Highness, no Sir. We are going to be spending some time together and that warrants first names, don’t you think?”

I give the prince the onceover. He is wearing a white linen shirt with the sleeves rolled up and Levi’s. Dressed like that, he could be any other man in the world, yet he is the heir to the British throne. And may I add, he is absolutely glorious as he settles into a squashy chair.

“Lizzie…” I repeat, almost inaudible.

“Of course, I shall call you Lizzie” he replies, startled that I have repeated my preferred name.