Bloody Royal Prints (25 page)

Coleman looked at him, startled.

“I can't stay longer than two weeks,” she said.

“Why?” Tony asked. “Dinah's here and Heyward's here. Aren't they your family?”

“Yes, but I have a business to run. That's why I'm in London—to look into buying another magazine. Heyward and I have an appointment with the owner. I'm also supposed to be working with Rachel Ransome on a project, but as you know, she's been caught in a web of suspicion, and we haven't spent as much time together as I'd planned.”

“I still don't see why you can't live here. You could manage the magazines from here. Others have done it,” Tony said.

Coleman shook her head. “I couldn't.”

“This conversation is not over,” he said. “Do you have any other questions?”

“No more on hedgehogs, but a lot about badgers,” she said.

He laughed. “Go ahead. You have badgers in the States, don't you?”

“I guess so: Wisconsin is called the Badger State. I've never seen one, but I don't think they're like yours.”

“I think you're right,” Tony said. “I don't think you have our badger problem. We have a real conflict. Farmers—cattle raisers—are convinced badgers carry a disease that causes bovine tuberculosis. Last year thirty-seven thousand cattle were slaughtered, at a cost of one hundred million pounds, to prevent the spread of the plague. Farmers want the badgers removed, permanently. Environmentalists want the badger protected as a native animal. It's hard to know what's right.”

“But what about your badgers, or should I say the Duke's badgers? Are they in danger of being killed?” Coleman asked.

Tony said, “They're our badgers—they are a family charge. They're protected. All of our land is posted. Our badgers have been in the family for generations, always in the same area. They're territorial; they typically live in social groups of four to seven animals, in defined territorial boundaries. We protect them and supplement their natural diet—moles and mice and voles and such—with corn and sunflower seeds.”

“But what about your cattle?”

“This may sound extreme, but we vaccinate our badgers. It's not easy, and it's expensive. Catching shy creatures that live in holes in the ground, and only come out at night, is difficult, and as you can imagine, they have no desire to be vaccinated. But we, and others dedicated to the preservation of this lovely animal, do it.”

“How?” Coleman asked.

“You saw tonight how they all came out? They knew we were offering them a treat—peanuts. They could smell them. They love peanuts. We use peanuts to entice them when we need to give them shots. When they come out for them, a quick grab by our groundskeepers, a quick shot, and no more bovine TB,” Tony said.

“That's fascinating. I hadn't read anything about vaccinating them. Why don't more people do it?”

“Expensive. Trouble. There are other ways to avoid killing them, including the way the cattle are handled, but most farmers don't like having their ways challenged, so lots of badgers die every day.”

“Oh, that's so sad,” Coleman said.

He looked at her. “Are you really interested in this? Farming stuff?

“Yes, of course,” she said.

“You're very different from the way I pictured you when Heyward told me you were coming to London.”

She smiled. “What did you think I'd be like?” she asked.

“Oh, New York-y. No interest in country things—citified,” he said.

She laughed. “I grew up in the country. Maybe I'll tell you about it someday. But not tonight. I'm too tired,” she said.

“Oh, sorry. Let's go.”

A few minutes later, they were in the car, speeding toward London. Coleman nodded off, and didn't wake until they pulled into the drive at Heyward's house.

•••

When Tony kissed her goodnight, she no longer had the slightest doubt about his sexual interest in her. He held her body tightly against his, and kissed her with unmistakable passion. His desire for her was overwhelming, and the strength of her response was almost frightening. When he put her down—she was so much shorter than he that his embrace had lifted her off the floor—she could barely stand. He must have said goodnight, and she hoped she'd replied, but she wasn't sure of anything. Was this what being drunk felt like? She had never had a sip of alcohol in her life, and tonight was no exception. Was she drunk on love?

She was unsteady and staggering slightly when she passed the door to Heyward's office. She tried to be quiet. She was in no shape for a late-night chat.

But he heard her and called out, “Did you have a good time?”

“Oh, yes. Hedgehogs, badgers, a cottage pie at a pub,” she said, and to herself, “And the best kiss I've ever had.”

“Good. Sleep well. I'll see you tomorrow. Here's Dolly,” Heyward said. The little dog ran out to meet her. Coleman picked her up, and tucked her under her right arm. She needed her left arm to hold on to the banister when she walked up the stairs.

In her bedroom she threw off her clothes, pulled on a gown, and fell into bed, exhausted, and weak, overwhelmed with passion—hers and his. She was asleep in minutes.

Monday morning, May, London

She got up, dressed, and went downstairs. She'd work on the book this morning, and try to put poor Stephanie out of her mind. She was determined to help other unfortunate girls, but it would not be the same.

An hour later, she was annoyed when Eileen tapped on the door of her office. She had left standing orders that no one should disturb her during the precious morning hours when she wrote.

“What is it?” she asked, trying not to sound irritated.

“I'm sorry to disturb you, madam, but when I went upstairs to change the sheets in the guest room, I found this paper under the mattress. The lady who was up there crying must have left it.”

“Let me see it.” It was a piece of the stationery kept in the desk drawer for guests to use. Stephanie must have found it, and the pen with it. Rachel stared at the few words, blurred by tears.

J and I will kill me—they boss the drugs. Killed my men. Will do me now. Princess Stephanie
.

“Oh my God, we sent that lamb to her slaughterers. I'll have to get in touch with the authorities. You'll have to testify and say where you found this note,” Rachel said.

She called Heyward, who—thank God—was available. “I have something terrible to tell you,” Rachel said. “Stephanie left a note here. I'm going to read it to you.” She read the horrifying note to Heyward, who said he'd be right over with one of the detectives. Rachel sat down to wait. Eileen was still hovering.

“What is it?” Rachel asked.

“Madam, when I took the woman upstairs to get Miss Princess, she searched that room—looked under pillows, wanted to know if Miss Princess had a purse or a bag with her. Miss Princess had put the paper I found way down under all the covers and sheets, and under the mattress. Then she remade the bed, or the woman would have found the note.”

“Stephanie was a lot smarter than we gave her credit for. Her note will make sure her killers are punished. Nothing can bring her back, but she's helped put away two murderers.”

“Yes, madam. The doorbell is ringing. Shall I answer it?”

“Yes, go ahead.” It would be Heyward and the detective.

Rachel, who never cried, wiped her eyes with the handkerchief she always carried.
I helped kill that girl
, she thought.
I won't let her down. There are other Stephanies out there I can help
.

Monday morning, May, London

Dinah was nervous about her return to the Art Museum of Great Britain. She had felt snubbed by her new associates on her first visit, and she expected the same cool treatment today. But then she had been vulnerable to their slights, and despondent about her living situation. Today she was a different person. If the work at the museum proved to be a bore—well, she'd been bored before. She'd do what she had to do, finish up, and go on to something else, like her new food project. If the people were unfriendly, she'd manage. She intended to make friends in the food world, and the art and antique world, and if the print people didn't like her, so what?

She dressed carefully, wanting to look businesslike, but not like an American showoff. She had a feeling that was how they thought of her.

The day was beautiful, but still chilly. She put on a gray-blue wool suit, with a blue silk blouse, gray suede boots, and a gray and blue scarf. She thought she had achieved the perfect look, but she was afraid it wouldn't help. The people she had to work with didn't want her there. They probably didn't pay attention to clothes, either.

She went out to the waiting car, and got in, thinking she should probably forget commuting to the museum with a driver, and take a bus or something to seem less like a one percenter, but Jonathan would have a fit, and she didn't want to. She was used to the car, and her few experiences on the Tube or on crowded buses had been awful. She arrived at the museum and braced herself for a cold welcome, if not outright hostility.

“I'll call when I know what time I'll want to leave,” she said.

“Yes, madam,” James said. “I'll be here.”

To her astonishment, Lucy, the Keeper of American Prints—not curator but keeper, another word for Coleman's collection—greeted her warmly. Lucy had been stiff, formal, and off-putting at their previous meeting. She still looked like an uptight librarian in her Harry Potter glasses and plain black dress, but her manner was totally different. She showed Dinah the small office that would be hers, and handed her a stack of paper.

“Here's a list of the gift prints, and a list of our few duplicates, and another list of all our American prints—not many, as you'll see. I suspect there are catalogues raisonnés and other sources for most of the prints, but you'll find we have very few American books. Expensive, as you know.”

Dinah nodded. She did indeed know.

“When you've had a look, maybe you could tell me what we should do about the sources—buy, borrow, or . . . ?” Lucy asked.

“Of course,” Dinah said, thinking she'd help with this problem.

“The room where we make coffee and tea is two doors down on your left; the ladies' room is in the opposite direction. I've arranged lunch in the restaurant upstairs for a few of us. Will one o'clock suit you?”

Dinah had the same feeling she'd had when James had whisked her off to the florist—as if she'd been caught in a strong but warm and friendly wind.

“Lunch at one is fine,” Dinah said.

“If you have any questions between now and lunch, call me—you'll find a phone directory on your desk, or drop by. I'm across the hall,” Lucy said, and departed.

Dinah took off her coat, and hung it on the hook behind the door. The weather in the museum had changed. The ice had melted. Why, she didn't know, but she was grateful for it. She sat down at the desk, and got to work.

Her most interesting challenge was the black-backed color prints, all woodcuts. The donated collection included four of these mysterious works by Gustave Baumann, Anna Taylor, Margaret Patterson, and William Seltzer Rice. She had always been interested in those works, and had planned to study them, but had never got around to it. She'd have to put together some information about them for this project. The big question: what had inspired the handful of prints of colorful flowers against a black background? Patterson had made some as early as 1915, almost surely in Provincetown, when that seaside village was becoming an arts colony. It was populated largely by women artists who'd gone to Paris early in the century, but had fled back to America, mainly to Provincetown, with the start of the world war. Anna Taylor had worked in Provincetown, too, but later. Her black-backed prints were made in the 1930s.

Were they inspired by the exquisite paper mosaics or collages Mrs. Delany had made in England in the eighteenth century? Maybe, but doubtful. The Delany collages were in the British Museum. They were beautiful and might inspire any artist to place colorful flowers against black—it made the colors brighter. But there was no record of the Provincetown artists being in London, and why would there be? Paris was the center, and London a backwater, of modernist art in the early twentieth century, or so it was believed at the time. Could the American artists have seen Delany's work elsewhere? No, her collages stayed in England—the first exhibition in the United States had been at the Morgan Library in 1986. And there was no book published about them until just a few decades ago, long after these prints were made.

Compounding this mystery was the work by Rice and Baumann. They lived in the West, California and Santa Fe. Baumann passed through Provincetown early in his career, but the black-backed floral Dinah held was dated 1952. Rice was never in Provincetown or Paris or London. Where had his inspiration come from? And what about Baumann?

It would be great to be able to tie all this American work to Mrs. Delany, but there was no probable link. Could there have been another source—or sources—that inspired them? She didn't think she would be able to solve this problem quickly.

It was a great relief to be absorbed in interesting work, and to put Stephanie's death out of her mind. She had met the young woman three times, and disliked her every time. Dinah couldn't feel much about her death, except sadness that the girl had such a terrible life. Still, her knowledge of Stephanie's life and death hovered like a black cloud at the back of her mind. Only concentrating on something else would chase the cloud away.

Monday, May, London

Coleman settled down for some serious thinking. She was glad she had some time to herself. She was looking forward to seeing and hearing a nightingale, but would seeing Tony again be uncomfortable? After that passionate goodnight embrace, they couldn't go back to their easy companionship, could they? Would she want to? What did she want? Although it was hard to do, she put the subject of Tony aside and took out her calendar.