Bloody Royal Prints (14 page)

“I had coffee and a croissant on the plane, and the croissant was so good, I wish I'd asked for two. I'm still hungry, and I need to feed Dolly,” Coleman said.

“We can take care of your breakfast and Dolly's immediately,” he said, and nodded at the young woman in a dark blue pantsuit hovering nearby. A few minutes later, Dolly was on the floor eating her favorite kibble, and Coleman was served a basket of miniature croissants, a tray of butter and jam, and a small pot of black coffee.

She took a bite of the croissant, and a sip of coffee. “Delicious,” she said. “This ought to keep me till lunch. And to answer your other question, I do want to clean up and change at your house.”

“Fine. Speaking of lunch, Dinah is taking you to lunch at The Fountain Restaurant in Fortnum & Mason at one o'clock. She's expecting you at 23 Culross at eleven. I thought she sounded miserable when I spoke to her. What's bothering her? Anything I can do to help?”

“She's having a bad time with the servants in the house they rented. They sound as if they should be fired, but Jonathan won't fire them,” Coleman said.

“What kind of problems does she have?” Heyward asked.

“From what she's told me, I think the servants are trying to force Dinah and Jonathan out of the house. If they are, it's because they have something to hide. I'm guessing they're doing something illegal, like selling drugs or storing stolen goods—could be anything, like furniture or art—until they can get it out of the country, or sell it. They want no witnesses.”

Heyward nodded. “Both could be true. Thefts of art and antiques in England total more than three hundred million pounds a year, second only to the proceeds of crime from drug dealing. What do you want to do about it?”

“I don't know what to look for if they're selling drugs, but I've been studying furniture for
First Home
, and I think I can spot antiques that look too good to be in a rental house. I'll certainly be able to tell whether the house is overstuffed with good furniture. Either could be a sign that the house is being used for stolen antiques. I've read that there are special police assigned to that type of theft in England. How can I reach them?” Coleman asked.

“As soon as you have a hint there's anything illegal going on in that house, call me on my mobile, or let me know if you don't find anything wrong. I'll be waiting for your call. If they're needed, I'll get the right people to the house immediately. Be cautious. Criminals won't hesitate to use violence against a person interfering with their profitable activities.” Heyward said.

“I'll be careful,” Coleman promised.

“Good. Now fasten your seatbelt. We've started the descent to the Duke's landing strip.”

•••

Coleman stared down at the narrow concrete landing strip running through acres of grass surrounded by woodlands. A large hangar and a small stone building were the only buildings in sight. She wanted to ask Heyward how big the Omnium estate was. If the Duke owned a private landing strip, surely he owned a castle, or at least a very large house. It wasn't visible. Could the property be so immense that the castle was too far away to be seen?

The plane landed, and she grabbed her purse, which held her passport and Dolly's papers, and with Dolly under her arm, followed Heyward off the plane. She put Dolly down on the grass, and the little dog vanished behind a nearby shrub. Coleman took a deep breath of fresh air—cool and scented with evergreen and other woodsy smells. After being enclosed in planes and a car for hours, air had never smelled better. She smiled to herself: her first smell of England. She'd make a note in her diary.

Dolly returned and the heavyset man in a khaki uniform who had been waiting outside the plane led them into the stone house. It was sparsely furnished with a desk, a file cabinet, a desk chair, and two metal chairs piled against the wall, presumably for guests. The man didn't suggest that they sit down, but he offered Dolly a bowl of water. The little dog took a big drink, and wagged her tail in thanks.

He asked for their papers, glanced through them, stamped several, smiled, and handed Coleman her passport and Dolly's papers.

“Welcome to England,” he said. “Your car is approaching.”

Coleman turned to look. Sure enough, a Bentley emerged from the woods and rolled up to the plane. The driver got out, and with the help of the man in the khaki uniform, removed her bags from the plane and stowed them in the car's boot. Coleman smiled—she'd never heard an automobile trunk called “the boot”—a new word. Dinah had told her it would take a while to understand English. She'd start a collection of new words.

She looked out the windows on the drive to London, but the car was moving so fast she didn't take in much. The hedges—she'd read that they were called hedgerows in England—were glowing with white blossoms. She'd have liked to stop and look at them, and see if the flowers were scented, but before she knew it, they had arrived at Heyward's house.

•••

Coleman fell in love with Heyward's house as soon as she saw it. The white marble half-circular porch, or portico, supported by white columns, stood out proudly against the rosy brick façade. A white-painted metal railing on the porch roof created a balcony on the second floor. The central window on the third floor gently echoed the curves of the portico.

Evergreen trees in large containers flanked the massive double doors. Shrubbery on both sides of the porch and the brick steps that led up to the little porch would lead the visitor to think Heyward had lived there for years. A semicircular drive allowed the car to pull up in front of the house.

Heyward went ahead to the doors, which had been opened when the car drove up. He ushered Coleman in, followed by Dolly, while what seemed like a crowd of people clustered on the porch, collecting her bags and carrying them up the stairs.

“You can take the elevator up, if you don't want to walk up all those stairs,” Heyward called.

“No, I've been sitting all night. I'd rather walk,” Coleman said.

“Fine. My housekeeper, Mrs. Carter, will show you to your suite.”

Her bedroom was a dream, decorated in shades of green, taken from the hues of the exquisite green-striped wallpaper. The stripes hinted at a trellis, covered with creamy white roses in full blossom. A vase of white tulips stood on the bedside table, and she could smell a faintly spicy scent. She looked for the source, and spotted a silver bowl filled with potpourri on the dressing table. The wool carpet, also green, was softer than the grass it resembled. A white-painted door opened to a sparkling white bathroom, brightened with green towels and green glass accessories.

After Mrs. Carter opened the door to a cedar-lined closet where her clothes would hang, she escorted Coleman back into the hall, and opened another door, revealing a perfectly arranged office in the same shades of green, white, and cream as the bedroom.

“Mr. Bain thought you would prefer an office separated from your bedroom,” Mrs. Carter said.

“He's right,” Coleman said. “Everything is perfect.”

She was reluctant to leave the beautiful suite, but Dinah was waiting. She took a quick shower, changed, grabbed Dolly, and hurried downstairs, where William, Heyward's driver, stood by the Bentley, ready to drive her to 23 Culross.

Friday, May, London

When Julia called to tell her about the second murder, Rachel had a horrible feeling of déjà vu. Everything was the same, except today rain was pouring down, and the air was colder than it had been on Tuesday. She wore a dark red wool suit—she couldn't help thinking blood probably wouldn't show on it, although she would make sure she didn't touch anything—her Burberry raincoat, and Wellingtons. The taxi ride to the Little Palace, the serenity of the building, and Julia's greeting were all exactly as they had been for the first death. Julia was even wearing the same strange apparel—she described it as her detective outfit.

The corpse, another swarthy young man, lay fully clothed on Stephanie's balcony, which was twice as large as Julia's and featured chairs and small metal tables, but no plants or flowers. His clothes—khaki trousers, a white shirt, and loafers—were soaked with rain, and diluted blood had spread all over the tiled floor of the balcony. Like the first man, his throat had been cut—the head nearly severed from the body—and the razor, a twin to the first one—lay near the corpse.

“Who is he?” Rachel asked.

“The Italian lover. His first name is Roberto or Robert. I'll be interested to hear whether he, too, left Stephanie money,” Julia said. “If he did, I'd guess she'll be arrested.”

“I hope Stephanie has an alibi. I think she is a self-centered little fool, but I cannot believe she is a murderer,” Rachel said.

Julia shrugged. “Who knows? Someone killed these men and she knew them both. One of them left her a small fortune. Are you going to stay to talk to the police and the Pal Pols, if they turn up?”

“No, I'm going to go home, sit by the fire, and try to get some work done. Wait a second, there's some trash on the tiles near the body. I hope it didn't come in on my boots.”

Rachel leaned over and, with a Kleenex, picked up what looked like a clump of hair or fur. She put it, wrapped in the Kleenex, in her raincoat pocket.

“You don't think it's a clue, do you?” Julia asked.

“No, I think it's something I tracked in, probably picked up from the taxi floor. I'm in trouble enough without polluting a crime scene.”

“Where will you be the rest of the day in case the police or the Pal Pols ask?”

“I'll be home all day. Why don't you join me for lunch? I'll be ready for a break, and you can update me on anything you learn between now and then.”

Julia accepted with alacrity, as Rachel was sure she would. She planned to confront Julia, as Heyward had suggested. This would be the perfect time. She felt guilty, as if she had set a trap for an innocent animal. But was Julia innocent? She had been quick to blame Stephanie for the murders.

She nearly ran out of the building to her waiting car. She berated herself all the way home. She was furious with herself for having come at Julia's call, after Heyward's warnings about Julia and the Little Palace. She'd have to tell him about the second murder, and what she had done. She'd also tell him about her theory about the crime scenes, which was the reason why she had gone to see the second crime scene. But was her suspicion a good enough reason for ignoring Heyward's advice? She was afraid it wasn't. From now on, she'd do what he told her to do.

Back at home, she called Heyward. She confessed that she had been at the Little Palace. Just as she feared, he was disapproving. He knew about the second murder. He had already heard she had been in the Little Palace and at the crime scene. But when she told him about her thoughts on the murders and the crime scenes, he was interested, and asked her to repeat what she had said.

“As I've told you, I've always thought the first murder looked staged, theatrical. The scene looked arranged. I still think that. I think the use of the razor is a clumsy attempt to make the murder look like suicide. I think someone arranged the scene to look like one in Dorothy L. Sayers's
Have His Carcase
, in which the murdered man also had his throat cut. That murder was also originally thought to be a suicide.

“I knew I was right when I saw the second murder scene. It, too, looked arranged, theatrical. At first, I couldn't think what book it reminded me of. Then I saw a bit of trash on the tiles—I thought I'd tracked it in, so I picked it up, and put it in my coat pocket. When it dried I realized it was gray hair. It was a clue: Whoever is arranging the murder scenes wants us to know what he's doing. This scene was meant to remind us of Edgar Allan Poe's “The Murders in the Rue Morgue.” The throat of one of the victims in that book was cut by a razor although the victim had been strangled to death—twice-murdered like the first man at the Little Palace. I'm guessing this second murder is the same: The poor man died of an overdose before he was ‘killed' with the razor. It was the tuft of gray hair that convinced me. There were locks of gray hair near one of the bodies Poe's story,” she explained.

“What do you think it means? Why would someone do this?” Heyward asked.

“Everyone is aware that both Julia and I are mystery fans, and would probably recognize these scenes. I think the killer is hinting that one or both of us is involved in the deaths,” Rachel said.

“You may be on to something,” Heyward said. “Have you mentioned your theory to anyone else?”

“No, just you,” Rachel said.

“Keep it that way. I'll talk to the appropriate people, and let you know what they say.”

Friday, May, London

Coleman, in a new tangerine wool suit she had designed, a beige silk shirt, and beige suede boots with three-inch heels, her sheared mink coat draped over her shoulders and Dolly in her arms, arrived at 23 Culross at exactly 11
A.M
.

“Welcome!” Dinah said. “I am so glad to see you.”

Coleman hugged Dinah and looked around the foyer, where a magnificent vase of long-stemmed apple blossoms stood on a round table. An oriental rug in faded shades of red and blue covered the polished floor. “This is lovely,” she said.

Dinah led Coleman upstairs to the master bedroom, served her coffee, and showed her the makeshift kitchen she had designed for serving Jonathan breakfast in bed. She invited Coleman to sit in one of the two large overstuffed chairs near the fireplace, sat down opposite her cousin, and started talking. She told Coleman everything, much of which Coleman had already heard. Coleman listened attentively, recognizing Dinah's need to go over it all.

When Dinah finally stopped talking, Coleman nodded.