The Prince's Secret (The Royal Biography Cozy Mystery Series Book 2) (8 page)

I drop my fork.

“We’re going to hide? In the cemetery?”

The Prince takes a bite of his bruschetta. “Right. And Lizzie, you should know, we may get locked in for the night.”

“With that maniac poltergeist!” I exclaim in horror, and for the second time today I find myself involuntarily rising out of my seat at a restaurant.

“I thought you didn’t believe in ghosts.”

“Well, I-I don’t.” I confirm, sitting back down and crossing my arms showing my extreme displeasure with his new plan, especially the whole being-locked-up-in-a-16th-century graveyard part.

“Look, Lizzie,” Alex leans in so close that in the amber light of the candle his eyes twinkle mischievously. “If you think about it, it’s the only way.”

At that exact moment, the snooty waiter drops two bowls of farm fresh pea soup on the table, completely unaware that he is serving the Prince of Wales. They hit the table with a bang, and some of the soup sloshes over the side of my bowl.

“How did your friend get in to take the picture of the tombstone, then, if it is locked away?” I ask, picking up my soup spoon. The soup is soft and velvety on the tongue.

“Michael knows the chap who runs the cemetery. Edinburgh is small. All the old timers know each other. And asking to be allowed in to take a picture of a tomb is no big deal, but I can’t very well go and ask that we be allowed to, how did you put it, tap the cherub,” he smirks.

“No, I suppose we can’t.”

“Then I think my plan is the only way.”

“Hmm,” I reply non-committedly.

After a hasty grilled tofu with baby carrots, we pay the bill and set off. A light rain kicks up as we make our way to the cemetery.

Greyfriars Kirkyard always closes an hour before sunset which means tonight it will be open until half past eight. Alex and I queue up for the night time historical tour which departs at ten o’clock.

After we purchase our tickets, we pass time drinking a pint at the local pub, making small talk. Alex shows me a variety of unimpressive magic tricks that he can do with a quarter. “Oh, come on, Liz. You’re really no fun. Do you ever let loose?”

I think about his question. No, I don’t let loose. I am a historian. I have standards to uphold. He pretends to pull another sterling pound from my ear and I yawn. Thankfully, it’s time for the tour to start. A huge crowd assembles at the entrance to Greyfriars. It’s one big noisy, boisterous party. There are over a hundred tourists getting ready for their date with the Mackenzie poltergeist. I glance at the fellow cemetery-goers and notice a large man in a duffle coat staring at me strangely.

Oh God, does he know we are up to no good --the Prince and I? Wait a minute, he appears familiar. I glace at him again, but he has turned away to talk to a bunch of half-drunk cemetery-goers with whom he is friends. They look quite excited about the tour; they hoot and holler and dare the Spirit of Mackenzie to try to attack them.

“Idiots,” Alex sums them up in short order.

“If you have your tickets, hand them to me,” a man in a plaid cap directs, as he heads for the cemetery gate. “I am your historian, Lou, and I will be your guide for the evening.”

Despite having some prejudices about a Scottish historian who simply calls himself “Lou” and who doesn’t announce his credentials, I do what everyone else does, and jostle for a spot in the queue.

After we all hand Lou our tickets, he takes off leading us through the main gates past more recent tombs.

“These are some of the last people to be buried in the cemetery. Their tombs date between the early 1800’s until 1902. Thomas Bilcock,” he points to a grave, “was the last man to be interred here. Then the cemetery was declared full and closed off to further burials,” Lou announces. I can tell by the way the party mood has gone out of the crowd that nobody cares about these more contemporary tombs. They want to get to the good stuff. Bring on the poltergeist!

Still, historian Lou does his job, leading us round to the tombs of some of the rich and famous of the 19th century. A half an hour later, he heads off with long strides, crossing an expanse of pebble-stoned pathways that run between the tombs and leads to a second set of wrought iron gates. You can feel the excitement in the air as Lou unlocks the padlock and we file through. Rising up before us is a circular domed tomb with Greek columns. The marble on the tomb had blackened overtime due to the sooty Industrial Revolution. In the low light, the mausoleum is both impressive and foreboding.

“Here lies the bones of Sir George Mackenzie, also known as bloody Mackenzie. He proceeded over many witch trials. But the man did more than send a bunch of women to their deaths,” he says, as if killing a lot of women isn’t horrible enough. “In his role of Lord Advocate, he heavily prosecuted the Presbyterian Covenanters. Many of his victims are interred over there,” he points to a row of tombs to the west of us. “While he outright sentenced many of them to execution, he had several of them starved to death on order of King Charles II. That is why, I believe, this section of the cemetery is so well-known for its paranormal activity, we have both persecutor and victims within such a small distance of each other. Clearly, in this cemetery, the dead do not rest in peace.”

At this point Alex taps me on the wrist and I almost jump out of my skin.

“Now if you will follow me,” Lou continues at the same time that Alex quite insanely indicates that we should hide behind the mausoleum of Sir Mackenzie. I realize I no longer want to do this. Not any of this. I do not want to hide in a 16th century cemetery at night, thank you very much.

“Come on,” the Prince mouths, and I mouth back, “Heck no.”

“Ah, too late to chicken out now, Lizzie.” He tugs at my coat sleeve, pulling me around the back of the tomb, where we crouch down hidden from sight. It starts to rain more heavily, and I pull my hood tightly around my head. Alex gives me an odd look, almost as if he wants to reach over and pull me close to help keep me warm in the rain.

I give him a harsh look, still angry about everything he said at lunch about women. He glances away and we sit on the ground in silence, shoulder to shoulder. Twenty, thirty minutes pass. We hear the noise of feet on gravel and see the huge mass of tourists return our way. I watch as they file back out of the gate and I feel a small pang of dread as I watch Lou fasten the padlock. That’s it. We’re locked in until morning. Although to be truthful, it wouldn’t take much to scale the stone wall if need be. Then we would be right smack dab in the middle of a street in Edinburgh.

“Okay, now we find her tomb,” Alex says authoritatively and pulls out a small flashlight. At this point I am impressed. Did he pack that in his bag when he left home? The man is prepared.

“This way.” He motions for me to follow. Alex’s friend at the Earnest Ewe sent us directions to the general vicinity of the tomb, so we make our way past the raised tombs of the Covenanters. Soon, we reach a section of tombs that have been encircled with wire grills.

“What the heck?” the Prince asks.

“Ah, I think I know what they are for --to prevent grave robbery in the 18th century.”

“Why?” Alex asks, as we hurry along searching for the Countess’s tomb.

“Because, in the Age of Reason, everybody wanted to study anatomy. How do you think they got their never-ending supply of corpses?”

“Th-that’s …” the Prince screws up his face in disgust, “disrespectful of the dead!” he hisses as we move past the grated section of tombs into what appears to be an even older section of the graveyard. Here the tombs date from the late 1500’s.

“Most definitely,” I agree adamantly before stopping dead in my tracks. Right ahead of us is a small, ornate white marble tomb with a cherub on top. Alex and I look at each other and smile.

I rush over and read the epitaph. “
To my beloved wife, too good for this world
.” A minute later I reach up and tap the cherub with my knuckles.

Hmm, the cherub is substantial, I can’t really tell if it’s hollow. I glance around and spy a stick. That’s it, I’ll use the stick to tap it. With any luck we should be able to hear if the cherub is hollow.

Of all the things I’d never thought I’d do in my life this has to be right up at the top of the list. I rap on the angel softly with the stick. It makes no sound.

“Lizzie, the thing is made out of stone. You’re going to really have to whack it if we are going to hear if it’s hollow.”

Right. Whack it. Unbidden, I am swept back in time. I am up to bat, bases are loaded, the girl from Manitou High School with the mean underarm pitch has just struck out the last batter. It is all up to me. I bring the bat ---I mean stick--- down with a mighty swing.

To my dismay and horror, I knock the head clean off the cherub and it sails in the general direction of the Covenanter’s tombs.

Alex doubles over in laughter.

“Oh God, oh no, what have I done? I’ve desecrated the tomb.”

“Did you see that thing fly, it must have gone twenty feet, and I think I heard it smash to bits.”

“Sweet Baby Sargon, this is a protected cemetery! I’m in big trouble.”

“Yeah, they’ll lock you away for years, Lizzie, I’m sure,” he mocks as he bends over and peers inside the hollow body of the cherub.

“Well, I’ll be,” he mutters and pulls out a wad of paper. No scratch that, he pulls out a wad of rolled up pieces of vellum.

“I’ll be,” I echo as he holds them aloft.

The Prince stuffs the papers in the breast pocket of his sports coat and we make our escape. We decide to head for the gate, to see if there is any way a person on the inside can still exit if it’s padlocked. This is doubtful, but still worth a try before we try to scale the stone wall. We haven’t gone but fifteen feet from the tomb of the Countess when I hear it….a blood curdling cry. It’s like nothing I’ve ever heard before.

The Prince instinctively drops down behind a large tomb, tugging on my pant leg for me to follow.

“What the?” I start to ask, crouching down beside him.

The next moment, I hear a shout and then someone shrieks, “Help me!”

Alex and I exchange looks of astonishment.

“Help me!” the voice wails again.

“The Poltergeist Mackenzie!” I mouth.

“I don’t think so,” Alex mouths back. “Stay calm, Lizzie.”

Suddenly the Prince is creeping along from tomb to tomb heading in the direction of the scream.

What do I do? What do I do? Should I follow him? Has he lost all his marbles, running towards the sound of the shouts in this haunted cemetery in the middle of the night?

I sit down on the ground, and lean my head against the tomb. Fear is pushing me round the bend. I almost feel as if I am going to black out. For a moment, I lose control. I completely freak. Overcome with a feeling that the tomb I am leaning against is opening up (splitting in two right behind me), I open my mouth to scream but nothing comes out. I turn around quickly to stare at the tomb and I swear I see a blackened hand reaching out to grab me. I turn around to flee, but I am unable to move. I am rooted to the spot in fear. A set of fingernails rake down my back and I am so frightened I almost vomit. Not knowing what to do I jump to my feet and flee in the darkness, stumbling about, searching for Alex.

When a firm hand reaches out and grabs my leg, I let out a blood-curdling scream. The hand tugs at me and I hit the ground so hard I have pebbles in my mouth. In sheer panic I try to inch forward on my belly as something rather heavy jumps on my back.

“Shh, Lizzie,” Alex hisses, “stay down.”

I have to stay down, I can’t get up. The Prince of Wales is lying on top of me.

Quickly Alex scrambles over me, and pulls me behind a tomb. I watch as he dials 999 on his cell phone.

For a moment, it’s eerily quiet in the cemetery. I stare Alex in the eye, right before I attack him.

“Stop, Lizzie, ge’off,” he shouts.

“Excuse me,” comes the voice from the other side of the phone.

“Hang up, hang up,” I panic, trying to swipe his phone. “You can’t call the police because there are poltergeist about. The police don’t care and we’ll be arrested for knocking the head off the cherub.”

Oh mercy, I can see the newspapers headlines tomorrow: “
Prince of Wales and Biographer Defile Tomb in Greyfriars Kirkyard!”

If I get out of here without being molested by Sir Mackenzie, I am going to be put in prison. Then I’ll promptly be fired from writing the Prince’s biography for the second time in my life.

“Yes, hello, this is Alex Windsor calling, there is a disturbance at the Greyfriars Kirkyard Send the police, quick.”

“Ow, Lizzie, knock it off,” he protests, trying to fend me off with his free hand.

“Umm, Alex Windsor, as in the Prince of Wales?” the voice one the other end of the phone laughs.

“Yes, I’m not making this up, I am the Prince of Wales. Please send help.”

“Is this a prank?” the voice keeps repeating.

“You can’t call the police because of poltergeist,” I shout.

“Oh, I don’t think that’s why he’s calling the police,” a disembodied voice utters from the darkness.

A scream catches in my throat. Directly above us stands a huge shadow with a hooded face.