The Prince's Secret (The Royal Biography Cozy Mystery Series Book 2) (4 page)

The following day, I am working on the first three chapters of the Prince’s biography when I take a small break and turn on the television.

There’s the Prince in Indonesia, or somewhere, wearing a basket for a hat. Inside the basket is a snake. Some spry old man, wearing a basket with a snake on his own head, is teaching the Prince how to do a fancy dance, yet neither the Prince nor the snakes look very happy about any of it.

Then, the British press goes on to talk about the aging population of Britain, and how nobody seems to be dying anymore, so everyone is outliving their pensions. This piece sounds very dire --plague-of-locust-dire-- and the reporter drones on saying that if all the merry older folk who no longer contribute to the economy don’t die soon, they will eat Britain out of house and home.

She doesn’t exactly put it in those words, but that’s the gist.

What an awful report to run on the BBC, which, let’s face it, is mostly watched by people of a certain age. And by the number of people driving around London in their BMW’s and their M-Class Mercedes, people in Britain aren’t dying of hunger. Most of the country appears extremely well-off, in my opinion.

I reach up to turn off the television when the broadcast switches to a shot of graveyards. By now, I think every person over the age of 55 must have turned off the television. What are they suggesting? Going from discussing the elderly to shots of graveyards?

“BBC1 has uncovered a rash of grave robberies in the last few weeks, especially in the Cotswolds area, but also on the outskirts of York. Grave robberies are also prominent throughout Scotland.”

Grave robbers? That sounds positively ghoulish. I lean into the television to hear more when my cell phone rings.

“These aren’t your traditional grave robbers, that is to say they aren’t after anything in the grave, but rather they are taking historical tombstones…”

“How dare they!” I shout indignantly, ignoring my phone. It rings again. Perhaps it’s the Prince. Perhaps he has finished his snake dance and is calling to talk about the upcoming charity event.

“Hello?” I answer my phone as cheerily as possible.

“Hello, Ms. Rue?”

“Yes?”

“This is Lady Margaret Jones. Well…that sounds a bit snobbish. My friends call me Margie.”

Lady Margaret Jones? That poor, older woman who got run off the road by the manic truck driver? Oh, I hope she isn’t watching the BBC right now. She might feel terribly put out by the latest reports.

“How are you?” I reply, sounding very upbeat.

“I am very well, and I would like to invite you over to my place. We’ll have a proper tea, you know, as a thank you for all your help the other day. It was terribly nice of you to drive me to Chipping Norton. Will you come?” Margie adds.

“I’d love to. What time?”

“Around four,” she answers, and I ask her for her address. She reminds me that it was on her card, then adds, “But it’s easier just to follow the signs for Blenheim.”

“Oh, you’re in Woodstock?”

“No, no, I’m in Blenheim House proper. Please talk to the person at the ticket office, I’ll leave your name with them. They’ll bring you up to the second floor. See you tomorrow, then.”

She rings off before I can even shut my mouth. Lady Margaret Jones lives in Blenheim? I never even looked at the card she gave me. In a flurry of keys, ticket stubs, wallet, and coin purse, I fling stuff out of my bag, searching for the card Lady Margaret handed me the other day. Sure enough, her residence is listed as Blenheim. 

I’m still standing agog staring at the card, like a human fly catcher, when the phone rings again.

“Lizzie?” The Prince’s voice is all warm and inviting.

“Did you get the snake off your head?” I defy anybody to ask that question without sounding like a hillbilly.

“Did you get a dress for the ball?” he responds, like Prince Charming might. Any normal person would be absolutely delighted that the Prince of Wales is worried about such a thing, but suddenly I feel a hotness in my cheeks. How can I tell the Prince that I am too fat for all the posh shops in London?

“Of course, I did,” I lie, “And it’s absolutely stunning. Wait until you see me, I cut quite a figure.”

It is not right that posh shops haven’t embraced the full-figured woman. It is not right that, yet again, I had a salad for lunch. I’ve been unbelievably good about eating healthy the last few days, and I even went to see the local doctor. If I am going to try to lose weight, then I’m going to do so responsibly.

It was sheer embarrassment in the doctor’s office when the doctor kept yelling to his very hard-of-hearing, elderly nurse (who is clearly not a locust, because she has kept working well into her golden years) that I needed to be seen by a weight control specialist in Bristol.

It was very embarrassing because there were about twenty people in the waiting area, and she kept shouting, “HUH?” and the doctor kept shouting, “YOU KNOW, THE OBESITY CLINIC!” and pointing at me.

I left the place red in the face, although the doctor did say that I am not technically obese, but an obesity clinic is the only safe place to go if one is serious about losing weight. When the nurse finally handed me a referral, I ran out of the place as fast as my feet could carry me.

I put the whole horrible event behind me as I barrel down the road heading for Blenheim Palace --home to the Dukes and Duchess of Marlborough, and the birthplace of Winston Churchill.

It’s not a long drive from Bourton to Woodstock and twenty minutes later I’m pulling into the carpark at Blenheim. I hurry around to the absolutely massive courtyard. I’m not sure how many soccer fields could fit in here…twenty, thirty? The size of Blenheim and its surroundings are staggering. At the ticket office, I show identification. They ring for a woman in a navy suit who introduces herself with the rather serious moniker of “The Director.”

The Director undoes the hook on a section of velvet rope, allowing me into a back hallway. I can’t believe my luck as I follow her along an empty wing to a door that is marked, “Staff Only.” She swings open the door and we enter Blenheim’s dazzling main entryway which is packed with summer tourists.

“First time to Blenheim?” the Director asks pleasantly.

“No actually, I came here as a kid with my parents.”

“Then you know the family, or what’s left of them, lives on the second floor.”

I nod my head and the Director leads me around more velvet ropes to the grand staircase. Once we reach the second floor, she knocks on the first door on the left, and we enter a modern receiving room. Here, two impeccably dressed elderly ladies sit sipping tea.

“Ah, this is your guest?” surmises a woman who is much older than Margie.

“This is her,” replies Lady Margaret Jones, standing up to greet me.

“You’re an angel of the road,” declares the older woman, while Margie directs me over to sit on a poof of golden damask. She takes a seat in a wingchair beside me, and motions to a small table.

“Eat, eat,” Margie and the elderly woman invite pointing to a smorgasbord of food.

“I’m not hungry,” I lie, but my stomach betrays me by grumbling loudly.

“Oh, but of course, before we have tea, allow me to introduce the two of you. Ms. Trudy Rue, may I present her Grace, the Duchess of Marlborough.”

The Duchess waves a hand and tells me to call her Violet.

“Thank you both for inviting me to your lovely home.”

“No, no,” replies Margie, shaking her head of silver curls, “Not my house. It belongs to my sister.” She points at Violet. “I live here at her largess. Despite my impressive name, I am almost penniless.”

“Oh now Margie, you still have the Mi-6 pension.”

What? An Mi-6 pension? I watch as Margie shoots Violet the evil eye. For a moment neither of them speak, while I stuff my face full of tea cakes --I’m so hungry.

Clearly not intimidated by Margie, Violet straightens out the string of pearls she wears around her neck and questions, “What? Why do you care who knows? You left there over thirty years ago, and we’re still not allowed to talk about what you did for a living?”

“Yes, I worked for the SIS, and that is all I’m going to say about it,” Margie answers, folding her hands in her lap.

The next hour is a glorious one, spent talking to these two interesting woman, and eating everything in sight. Somehow the subject turns to my biography of the Prince.

“He’s such a marvelous lad,” Violet sighs, “Since I have no family and am the last of my line,” --this part is declared in the dramatic tone of Henry VIII being presented with another disappointing daughter-- “and since this estate will be inherited by that wretched child, my niece, I recently presented Prince Alex with my greatest possession, a crown which was made for Victoria Regina herself.”

I stop in the middle of my tiny egg-salad sandwich. “What?”

“I gave the Prince, who is a distant relative of mine, one of my greatest treasures. I gave him a crown I inherited that once belonged to Queen Victoria. I thought it should return to his family and be given to whomever he marries. I felt very strongly that something so precious needed to return to the next in line for the throne,” she laughs. “You should have seen it, it was stunning.”

I did see it, I want to tell her. I wore it on my head while I watched part of a cricket match with the Prince. So this is the woman the Prince visited that day before coming over to my place in Bourton and cooking me dinner. What a coincidence!

I down the rest of my sandwich, and decide to stay quiet about Victoria’s crown. Somehow I don’t think Violet would be pleased to know that Alex encouraged me to wear it. I gobble more pastries, drink more tea and, quite unexpectedly, find myself telling these two ladies about my embarrassing trip to the stores in London. Then I tell them about the whole wretched back-and-forth shouting of “She needs to see an obesity specialist!” on behalf of the doctor and nurse.

Margie and Violet, who both are so slight you could knock them over with a feather, look aghast.

“So much for feminism,” Violet harrumphs, “when a fine looking gal like yourself who carries her weight well cannot enter a shop in London and find a dress in her size.”

“Exactly what size are you, dear?” asks Margie.

“14,” I lie.

“Well, perhaps 16,” I add.

“Let’s see in the old British sizing that would be about a size 20.”

Goodness, the old British sizing makes me sound monstrously large, I console myself with another tiny sandwich.

Margie, however, hastens to her feet as if struck by a wonderful thought. “I have just the thing,” she cries.

“Oh, that beautiful dress you wore at my wedding?” Violet asks Margie. “Yes, you were much larger back then,” she cackles.

“Oh no, I couldn’t…I couldn’t possibly.”

But I did, a few hours later, I leave Blenheim with a decadently embroidered gown. It is made of coral and white lace, with a tight bodice and a full skirt. It needs to be altered slightly so that it will fit correctly. Unbelievably, it used to be Margie’s. I tried to tell her that I couldn’t possibly take her gown, but she seemed delighted that it might be worn again at a fashionable event.

“Return it with a bunch of pictures,” she told me, and then called for The Director, who showed me out.