The Prince's Secret (The Royal Biography Cozy Mystery Series Book 2) (2 page)

Fortunately, the woman turns out to be fine. She is dazed but not hurt in any way. Her hatchback, however, has seen better days. Its entire passenger side is smashed.

“Lady Margaret Jones,” the woman presents her hand for me to shake. She is dressed in a tasteful brown suit, with a bright print scarf around her neck.

“What a scoundrel,” I say, with regards to the man who knocked her off the road. Lady Margaret uses stronger language.

“And your car?” I ask as Lady Margaret throws up her hands.

“Men,” I state furiously in response to her gesture.

“Men,” she agrees with a wink. I like this woman. She is old school. Her finely tailored suit looks like it’s from the 40’s. Not the 2040’s but the 1940’s.  How her hosiery and shoes managed to escape the car accident unscathed is beyond me. I look at her hair; not a lock of her greying curls is out of place.

“Can I give you a lift?” I ask.

“That would be lovely.” 

“We should call somebody about your car.”

“Ah yes,” she replies. Just then the hatchback issues a loud hissing noise from the area of the engine. A huge stream of steam escapes from underneath the hood, dissipating quickly in the bright blue Cotswold sky. I give Lady Margaret a sympathetic pat on the back.

Apparently Lady Margaret is a woman of action. She does not stand around and mourn her predicament. Instead, she pulls a phone out of a purse and dials a number. She is a member of a motoring club, and the man on the receiving end of the call promises to send someone immediately.

“Where can I take you?” I ask, half an hour later. A tow man has since hoisted her car out of the ditch, carting it away on the back of his truck to a body shop on the outskirts of Oxford.

“Well, I was on my way to Chipping Norton for lunch with friends. If you could give me a lift, it would be awfully good of you.”

“Right, Chipping Norton it is.” Chipping Norton is in an entirely different direction than the one I’m heading, but after all this woman has been through, I don’t mind. We drive along, still talking in disbelief about how maniacal the truck driver was to try and pass two cars on such a narrow lane. Lady Margaret tells me that as far as she is concerned, civility in England has taken a nosedive.

It doesn’t take long until we reach the town of Chipping Norton. I drop her off at 
The Crown and Horse
, which I find to be a very interesting name for a teashop. Before she exits the car, we exchange cards and she says, “So you’re a historian. I would love to have you over for tea some time --to thank you properly. I believe you would enjoy my humble abode.”

“I’d love that.” I really would. I don’t have any friends in England, other than the Prince and I’m not sure if I should count him as a friend since we have a working relationship. With a polite wave good-bye, I turn the car around and drive back out of town the way I came, past the row of plane trees and stately stone buildings from the era when wool was like gold in this part of England. Even though I’m anxious to return home, I drive prudently on the road toward Morton-in-Marsh not wanting to fall victim to any more accidents.

*****

Once home, it only takes a few hours to unpack all my possessions. Afterwards, hunger causes me to head out to the pub for fish and chips. I eat slowly, feeling exhausted from the plane flight. I stroll back to my cottage in the cool night air admiring the canals formed by the river Rush as it makes its way through town. A short while later I tuck myself in bed with a smile on my face. It’s so good to back. As I revel in the coolness of my new rose-print sheets, my thoughts begin to scatter, my breathing becomes deeper. I fall asleep just as the phone rings.

“Now who is it?” I throw back my duvet with a grumble, swearing that my whole life revolves around that tiny device.

“Lizzie? So glad to hear that you are back on this side of the pond. Now that you’re back from New York, maybe we can make some headway on this biography thing.”

It’s good to hear Alex’s voice. I haven’t talked to the Prince in weeks. Not since we watched that dreadfully boring cricket match at my place.

“All set for the charity ball?” he questions. “It’s in two weeks and it’s black tie.”

“I’ll be set,” I answer and then, trying not to sound completely ignorant, I ask what exactly “black tie” means in this age of casual-khaki Fridays.

“Full length gown for the ladies, that’s really all I know. The event promises to be very dull, full of people who think they know everything about everything. Still, it should raise money for a great charity.”

“If that’s the case, then I can’t wait.”

“Perfect, because we have our own table. It will be my cousins Rose, Ava, and I representing the Windsors. Not sure who else is coming… oh, and my good friend Cressida will be along.”

Cressida?
The
Cressida? The woman with whom the Prince has had an on again-off again love affair for many years? I deflate like a pricked balloon.

“Oh yes, and Alistair says if you pop round to Kensington on Thursday you can see my childhood nursery. Should be such a thrill,” he laughs.

I still haven’t moved beyond his Cressida remark. Why is she coming to a charity event with the Prince?

She’s his date, that’s why, and I’m just tagging along in an official capacity as his biographer.

For the first time since I’ve met him, I no longer feel like speaking to the Prince. True, it’s my job, but tonight I’m too tired. The flight from New York to London was long. Not to mention the fact that I had to drive out of my way to Chipping Norton. And now I have just been informed that despite what I may have been lead to believe, I will not be attending the ball “with” the Prince. No indeed, I am attending the ball so that I can observe what the Prince is like, and write up a nice, charming biography so the world can see that he is a marvelous person of substance.

“I’ll do that. I’ll call Alistair tomorrow to finalize arrangements. I’m sure the nursery will help me understand your childhood better, so I can describe what it was like for the readers.”

“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.

“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.

<>

<>

<>

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.

<> comes another instant message that blips across my screen. Having one doctorate in Ancient History and a second in Medieval British History, I point out to Schnipps that I’m not an expert on 16th century Scotland. I tell Schnipps what he really ought to do is give the book to a scholar of the proper period. Hastily, he responds that since he’s not sure if the Crown legally owns the book, he is keeping everything hush-hush for now. He is only sharing its contents with me because I already know about the existence of the book, and he is hoping something in the diary might help us identify it as an existing object in the Palace’s databases.

<> I type after reading more.

<>>

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.

<Akkadian
,
Eblaite
,
Elamite
,
Hittite
,
Luwian
,
Hattic
,
Hurrian
, and
Urartian
. And my French is passable.>>

This seems to satisfy Schnipps who stops his inquisition. 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.

<> I text back cryptically. In truth, I’m turning the tables on him. Everything with Schnipps seems to be some sort of contest in terms of intelligence, so let’s see if he knows about the four Marys.

<> Schnipps messages back, as obnoxious as the day is long. What do they put in the water in Oxford?

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.

<> I type, hoping he can sense my indignation.

<>

<>

<>

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.

<>

<>

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?