Bloody Royal Prints (11 page)

Before she could comment, he turned again, and they were in a delightful mews. The small houses were identical, white with green shutters and green doors, but every garden was unique. Each was a riot of spring color, with blossoming pink and white trees, and beds filled with bright flowers. The flowers were of many varieties, and every garden had an individual feature. In one, an old-fashioned swing hung from a tree branch; in another a fountain tinkled. Chirping birds clustered around a bird tray in one garden, and in still another she could see bright-colored fish in a lily pool. She longed to stroll up and down the street, and admire each garden.

“Oh, this is so lovely. I wish Jonathan had rented a sweet little house like one of these,” she said.

James stopped the car in front of the house at the far end of the mews, where pink and white tulips bloomed in the green window boxes, and the flower beds were even lovelier than the others she had admired. He opened the car door for her, smiling. “We've arrived,” he said.

“This can't be the florist's,” she protested. “It's someone's home.”

“Just wait, madam,” James said, and rang the bell.

A smiling young woman in faded jeans, boots, and a raggedy blue sweater, opened the door. “James! What a nice surprise,” she said. “Please come in.” Her curly red hair was pulled back into a ponytail, but curls escaped on her forehead, and dirt smudged a cheek. She held garden gloves in her hand.

“Lady Jane, this is Mrs. Hathaway. She and her husband are leasing 23 Culross,” James said.

“How do you do, Mrs. Hathaway,” Lady Jane said. “Have you come for flowers for the house? I'm so glad. That house cries out for flowers. I have some of the vases from Number 23 in the little cottage. Come with me, and I'll show you around.”

Dinah was confused. Was this lady the florist? She looked young—maybe early twenties—and despite her disreputable clothes, every inch a lady. She had a lovely lilting speaking voice. Was she English? Who was she? And how did she happen to have vases from 23 Culross Place?

They walked through the little house, decorated in delicate pastels—the palest blue lavender, yellow, and green. Floral paintings hung on the pale yellow walls, and needlepoint-covered pillows on the chairs and sofas featured flowers of all kinds. The house smelled of a delicate floral scent she didn't recognize. Dinah longed to slow down and look at everything, and to inquire about the scent, but she forgot the house when they reached the rear wall, composed of glass doors. She could see the garden that lay beyond, and could hardly wait to step outside. Lady Jane opened the doors, and Dinah followed her into the garden.

She had arrived in fairyland, not Oz. The garden, fenced and hedged to screen out nearby buildings and unattractive views, was enormous. Blossoming trees were arranged in small groves; beds of flowers in every color, alive with butterflies, dotted the field, divided by narrow gravel paths. Here and there birds bathed and drank at fountains. A small greenhouse and a smaller cottage stood near the back hedge. Dinah breathed deeply. The air smelled of the recently trimmed grass and a medley of blossoms. Birds sang and bees hummed.

Dinah, dazzled, followed Lady Jane. In no time, James was loading the car with vases full of roses and lilies from the greenhouse, and larger vases of tall branches of forsythia and apple blossoms, from the blooming trees and shrubs. Dinah barely had room in the back seat to sit among the flowers, and was drunk with their perfume.

She longed to question James about Lady Jane, but within minutes they were back at the house. Dinah was glowing with happiness when they pulled up in front of 23 Culross. James stood by her side, both of them with armfuls of flowers, when the heavy oak doors opened.

Her heart sank when she saw O'Hara and Malone. O'Hara's face was red and swollen, like a malevolent balloon. Malone wasn't as red, but she looked just as angry. They might burst with rage. They blocked the door, their bulk making it impossible to enter.

“
I
do the flowers,” Mrs. O'Hara screamed. “I don't want all that dirt in the house. We'll have leaves and petals everywhere. And where'd you get them vases? They were stolen from here.”

James pushed past her and set his vases down on a marble-topped table. Dinah slipped in behind him. She'd never seen Mrs. O'Hara and Mrs. Malone so angry. They terrified her. She was glad James was with her. He spoke loudly over Mrs. O'Hara's screeching.

“O'Hara, you know the flowers are not your responsibility. The mistress of the house has always selected and arranged the flowers. I gave Mrs. Hathaway a copy of the lease. She now knows exactly what your duties are. You can't lie to her anymore. As for the vases, you know very well that Lady Jane took them with her when she left the house. She's lent them to Mrs. Hathaway, and if anything happens to these vases, you and Malone will pay dearly.

“As for petals and leaves on the floor, they will be an improvement over the filth you've allowed to build up here, Malone. You call yourself a housekeeper! More like a house wrecker. Franklin was appalled when he saw how you're treating the house.”

“We'll see about this,” Mrs. O'Hara shouted. “Mr. Ross makes the decisions here. Not these Americans, certainly not the likes of you, James Taylor. What have you done with all the furniture? The place is empty. If you've stolen anything, we'll see how long you're here, Mrs. Hathaway. You'll find yourselves on the street.”

Relying on James to keep them from attacking her, Dinah put her vases down beside his, and stood up straight. She said as firmly as she could: “Mr. Hathaway and I plan to entertain here, and the house was too cluttered and dirty to invite anyone into it. Not only was this floor crowded and fussy, neither beautiful nor comfortable, it was also filthy. Everything is upstairs. With less furniture, perhaps you and the cleaning woman can take better care of the house, Mrs. Malone.

“I've photographed every room as it was, and I've photographed each object in its new location. I've annotated the inventory with the new locations of every item, and I've commented on conditions. Some of the furniture needs restoration. I also have pictures of the filth, showing how you kept the house, and how it looks now that it's been cleaned. We'll be living here for several months, and I'm determined to make the house livable and attractive, and to see that its contents are secure. Feel free to call Mr. Ross at the agency and complain, but I assure you that nothing I have done is forbidden by the lease.”

She spoke bravely, but her mouth was dry. Jonathan would think her fear of the women was irrational, but she knew they were dangerous. She was sure they would retaliate for her actions. She was terrified of what they might do. She kept wishing Coleman were in London. Coleman would know how to deal with these women.

The men were leaving, and she was feeling forlorn, frightened, and exhausted, when Hamilton approached and offered to stay for the evening and deal with dinner and after-dinner cleanup.

“I suggest you go upstairs and rest, then change for dinner. Leave everything to me.”

“Oh, I'd love to,” Dinah said. “Thank you.”

She ran upstairs, locked herself in her bathroom, and filled a tub with warm water and the freesia-scented bath salts Jonathan had ordered for her. She was still worried about retaliation from the witches, but for the moment, she was triumphant.

She felt like a new person after her bath and rest, and when Jonathan came home, she was sitting in the drawing room, in a long blue dress he loved. He was delighted with the transformation of the drawing room, the dining room, and the sitting room, and relieved that none of the furniture in the library had been moved. That room had been cleaned, but his books and papers had not been disturbed.

He commented on the beautiful proportions of the rooms, visible now that the clutter had been removed. He admired the flowers and the vases, was interested in her description of Lady Jane and her flower garden, and was intrigued when he heard that the vases had once been at 23 Culross. He was happier to find his wife looking as she did in New York when he came home from work.

He was also pleased with dinner, as was Dinah. Hamilton had prepared a delicious mushroom soup, and brought in excellent roast chicken and spicy rice from a restaurant he'd told Dinah was Portuguese.

The main course was followed by a delicious salad of Brussels sprouts, flakes of Parmigiano-Reggiano, walnuts, and a lemon-juice dressing.

Hamilton served the meal unobtrusively. After the salad, he brought in a cheese tray, which featured some of Jonathan's favorites. He paired the appropriate wines with every course.

Jonathan was delighted by the food and service. Dinah took advantage of his good mood by telling him about Hamilton—how he had once been butler at 23 Culross Place, and that James knew him well and recommended him to replace Connell.

Jonathan looked up from his Stilton. “Is he available now? Can he come right away?”

“Oh, yes. James says he can start tomorrow.”

“Hire him,” Jonathan said. “I'm tired of waiting for Ross to find someone.”

Dinah smiled. “I'll see to it,” she said. “And I'll let Ross know we've found a butler, so he can stop his search.”

Before she went upstairs, she went in the kitchen to tell Hamilton he was hired, and she'd see him tomorrow. Dinah, relieved to have found an ally, slept better than she had in weeks.

Wednesday, May, London

The day of Rachel and Julia's lunch date at The Goring had arrived: Rachel called for Julia at twelve thirty. Julia looked very English in a lavender tweed suit. Rachel smiled to herself. She was wearing a purple dress. She wondered if they had chosen those clothes as homage to the royalty who often appeared at The Goring. New by English standards, The Goring—a hotel and restaurant—opened in 1910, toward the end of the Edwardian period.

In the car they chatted of nothing in particular, and when seated in the serene dining room of the elegant hotel, Julia was silent. She looked around her, smiling. Rachel knew how Julia felt. When so many restaurants reinvented themselves monthly, or disappeared completely, The Goring dining room, with its gold-colored curtains, spotless white linen tablecloths, impeccable service, and muted voices, was a dependable island of civility. The dining room seemed remote from murder, blackmail, and scandal.

Asked if they desired an aperitif, they ordered sherry, and for their lunch, lobster omelets and green salads, with a glass of Chablis for each of them.

After the sherry was served, and Julia had taken a sip, she said in a soft voice, “I have news. According to the police, Ivan was murdered. Someone else cut his throat: The razor was found near his left hand, but he was right-handed. And Stephanie was wrong about him being killed elsewhere. He was killed where we saw him, in her bathroom.”

“I am not surprised that he was murdered. It was always a possibility. Rather an inept murderer, wouldn't you say? So messy, and imagine making that mistake with the razor. How do you know? Did the police tell you?” Rachel said.

“No, but the police gossip with the doormen and the concierge, and they can't resist telling people in the building what they've learned. And that's not all: They say Ivan left all his money—apparently quite a lot—to Stephanie,” Julia said.

“My word!” Rachel said. “It is fortunate that she has an alibi, is it not?”

“If it stands up. She claims she was staying with an American at the Connaught. I've never seen her with an American, and I thought I knew all of her followers,” Julia said.

“We always thought that if Ivan was murdered, he was probably killed by a rival. Who are the other contenders for Stephanie's hand?” Rachel asked.

“Besides the mysterious American, a tall, blond German, rather arrogant, but handsome. An Italian almost as dark as Ivan, and a Spaniard, also dark, with that unmistakable Habsburg jaw. Those are the only ones I've seen,” Julia said. “I hadn't thought Ivan was murdered, but now that we know he
was
, I'd put my money on the German as the killer.”

“I do not doubt that you know best. Now, let me tell you
my
news.” Rachel repeated what she had learned about the Pal Pols's Irish conspiracy theory, including their belief that both she and Julia were involved in some kind of Irish rebellion.

Julia laughed so hard, heads turned. Those who lunched at the elegant Goring were unused to loud laughter.

“Why is that amusing?” Rachel asked. “My attorney is quite concerned.”

“I'm sorry. It's just that my late and unlamented husband, despite his Irish name, was so English, you could barely understand a word he said. He nearly choked on his plummy accent. He worshipped all things English. He even died a very English death—broke his neck chasing a fox. Perhaps someone in his family was Irish way back, but if so, the genes didn't survive. I got to know the entire tribe, and they were all English to the bone. Remind me to show you my husband's scrapbooks, and you'll see what I mean. I don't think the Pal Pols will find satisfaction climbing
that
family tree. I hope they waste a lot of time checking on my in-laws, who will snub them mightily, given half a chance,” Julia said.

“I hope they leave us alone,” Rachel said. “On another topic: what is happening with Stephanie and the missing prints? I saw the etching in
Secrets
—a nude, but not very explicit. I would like to know what she is doing about her problems. The next image could be more damaging.”

Julia shrugged. “She acts as if she's forgotten about the prints and the threats. She's been preoccupied with Ivan's death, and her inheritance, but you'd think she'd give some thought to the theft.”

“I have doubted her story from the beginning. I have wondered if she pretended the prints were stolen, and if it was she who sent the print to
Secrets
,” Rachel said.