The Last in Line (The Royal Inheritance Series Book 1) (12 page)

CHAPTER TWELVE

RENEE AND CASSANDRA decided to go for the marmalade. Every day a little orange jar had arrived with their breakfast tray of scrambled eggs, a stack of toast, sausages, and bowl of strawberries and blueberries with cream, but they had always gone for butter or strawberry jam on their toast. Today though Renee was determined to make a change and sample everything England had to offer before she was sent home, which she was certain would happen. She spread the orange gel on thickly and took a bite. “Mmm,” she said. So far, marmalade was her favorite thing about England. Cassandra ate three slices with it before getting to her eggs.

Roberts paced the room while they ate and flipped back and forth between the morning news programs. He had arrived early, as full as energy as a boxer before a prize fight, discussing how they could prove that Renee was the better contender. Renee heard little of it. She had dark circles under her eyes because once her anger from the night before had evaporated, she was left feeling weary and unable to sleep. After Cassandra had gone to bed, Renee had locked herself in the bathroom and smoked three more of the cigarettes from the pack the limo driver had given her.

She yawned and pushed aside the little tea pot and poured black coffee into her cup instead.

“Well, there’s nothing solid in the news,” said Roberts. “Although they are noting that you left the Prime Minister’s residence in a rush. And there’s nothing about Bretton yet. That’s good for us.”

“Why is that good?” asked Cassandra, smearing another slice of bread with the marmalade.

“Because the country is still focused on Renee Krebs,” he said.

Indeed, every news program was running a series of photographs: the first photo was the snap of her in front of Buckingham Palace, the second was of her smiling towards the camera as she entered 10 Downing Street, and the third was of her angrily reaching for the limousine door. In sequence they told a story in which commentators and pundits labored to fill in the explanation, none of which was complementary or close to the truth. “As long as they are talking about you and getting to know you, they are becoming accustomed to the idea of you. Everyone is picturing you walking down the length of Westminster in your coronation gown, the crown being set upon your head. They are eager to hear your voice, to know who you are. Right now you are a beautiful mystery.”

“Turn it off,” said Renee.

Roberts switched off the television, but went into the kitchenette to turn on the small set in there. She could hear Rufus’s gruff voice saying “No comment” coming from the set.

Renee sighed and walked to the window. It was a sunny day and Renee wanted nothing more than to go outside and wander the streets of London. She felt trapped in the hotel because only yesterday the street below had been quiet and slow, , but now there was a clogged confusion of television trucks and media personnel jostling to get the best shot of the hotel. There were vans with the logos of British programs, as well as some familiar American ones like CNN, and numerous foreign logos. One said Al-Arabiyya, which sounded spicy like some kind of chili pepper. A black sedan maneuvered through the crush and the noise down below suddenly got much louder. The reporters were shouting at somebody getting out of the car, but she couldn’t hear what they were saying. She caught a glimpse of a bald, pink head bobbing through the sea of reporters to the door of the hotel and had an idea of who had arrived.

“I think Alan Britchford is here,” she called out.

Roberts walked out of the kitchenette. “They’re not wasting much time.”

“What do you mean?”             

Before Roberts could answer there was a tap at the suite door and then Harry poked his head in. “Mr. Alan Britchford is here to see Mrs. Krebs.”

Roberts nodded and Harry allowed the door to swing open. The conservative leader came in smiling. He was wearing a green tartan vest under a tweed coat. “Mrs. Krebs, so good to see you this morning.” He clasped Renee’s hands.

“Mr. Britchford, I’m so sorry I walked out last night. I wasn’t expecting
him
to be there.”

“Neither was I, my dear. Neither was I.” He patted her hand and led her to the sofa. He saw Roberts standing off to the side. “Oh, good morning, Stanley. Is Chase in yet?”

Cassandra giggled. “Your name is Stanley?”

Roberts looked like he had just swallowed something very unpleasant. “Yes, as a matter of fact—children should be seen and not heard—and no, Mr. Chase is not on duty yet.”

“It’s just as well,” said Britchford. “That reaction last night—”

“—Was fully justified,” said Renee. “Bretton showed up at my apartment and then jumped out of my window when someone knocked on my door.”

Britchford gave a little cough into this fist. “In my younger days I was known to jump out of a lady’s window or two when her father arrived home.” His pink cheeks turned even pinker.

“There was no intimate moment,” insisted Renee. “He jumped out of the window to avoid getting caught. Sounds guilty to me.”

“Yeah, it was bollocks,” said Cassandra.

Roberts looked aghast. “A royal lady never uses such language!”

“Bollocks doesn’t sound like bad language to me,” said Cassandra. “I don’t even know what it means, I just heard it on TV.”

Britchford shook his finger. “I’m afraid Stan—I mean Roberts—is right. It’s not a very nice thing to say, but well done on trying to learn the culture!” He high-fived Cassandra.

Renee wanted to steer the conversation back to the situation at hand. “Mr. Britchford, something just isn’t right. Why is Bretton here and why would the Prime Minister even consider him? I’m not saying this because I think I’m the cat’s meow—Lord knows the country deserves better than me—but at least I’ve never been accused of murder!”

Britchford looked troubled. “Yes, there is something funny going on. I’m not sure what Rufus is playing at. If I was the cynical sort, I’d say he’s using Bretton to pry some concessions from either the conservatives or the monarchy. What wouldn’t we give up in order not to have some lunatic as the face of Britain?” He shook his head. “Very troubling, indeed.”

“What should I do in the meantime?” asked Renee. “I can’t keep hiding out in this hotel—I’ll go crazy.”

“You’re right. In fact, I think you should go out of your way to be seen,” said Britchford. He glanced at the window. “Let the people see you. The more they see you, the more they’ll like you and the less leverage Rufus will have.”

It sounded plausible, but Renee was uncomfortable that sides were being taken. If Rufus was trying to pry concessions by backing Bretton, then what was Britchford seeking by backing her? She turned to Roberts. “What do you think?”

Roberts looked uncomfortable being put on the spot. “I think royals are above publicity-seeking,” said Roberts. Britchford was about to protest, but Roberts continued. “But I also think they are above hiding liking timid mice. And if there’s one thing I know about Renee Krebs, it’s that she’s not a mouse. She’s got a metal bat and she’s not afraid to use it.”

Renee appreciated the vote of confidence from Roberts. She walked to the window and opened it. Despite the sun, there was a scent of rain. She breathed it in and then walked forward until she was visibly framed in it. The crowd roared below. She couldn’t distinguish any question, but merely smiled and waved into the barrage of camera flashed, paused a moment, pushed a lock of hair behind her ear, and then closed the window again.

“You’re a natural,” said Britchford with a clap of his hands.

The door opened then and Chase walked in, looking haggard. There were deep purple lines under his eyes. He threw himself onto a white sofa, pulled out his gun and let the magazine fall to his lap. “I don’t trust myself with it,” he said. “I’m so angry I could shoot something and I’m so tired, I’ll probably miss.”

Renee hurried over with a cup of tea.

“Thanks,” said Chase, looking surprised. He drained the cup in a single gulp.

“Are you hungry?”

“Yes, I’m famished.”

“Cassandra, please get Mr. Chase a sandwich and some fruit from the kitchenette,” said Renee and Cassandra skipped off to make a plate. Britchford cleared his throat and Chase started to his feet. “Oh hello. Sorry I didn’t see you there, Mr. Britchford.”

“It was a late night for everyone,” said Britchford. “I imagine it ran even later for you.”

Chase nodded. “I can’t remember what my pillow looks like. But it wasn’t a night wasted. I found out quite a lot. First of all, Bretton approached Rufus and not the other way around.”

“Hardly makes a difference,” muttered Britchford.

“It means that our Prime Minister cannot be accused of nefarious intent,” said Chase, emphasizing the word
our
. “Also, Bretton has an expired passport so we’re still working on how he got here. He must have used an alias. We’re examining footage of airports to see if we can catch him exiting and then trace back to which flight he was on. He is remarkably good at not answering questions. He sits there impervious and merely sips his coffee, looking bored as anything. Anyhow, we’re communicating with the American FBI to pull his complete record and learn more about the charges that were levied against him. His trial was dismissed on a technicality, so it may be up to us to prove it.”

Chase leaned back on the sofa and closed his eyes.

Cassandra shouted from the kitchenette. “Mom! You have to come in here and see this!”

Renee and Chase bolted into the kitchen area. Renee feared there would be a mouse in there, but she found Cassandra staring at the small television set that Roberts had turned on earlier. Roberts and Britchford crowded in the small room also.

“Oh, for the love of Bartholomew,” said Britchford under his breath.

A picture of Bretton was on the television screen.

“New reports suggest that this man, Ammon Bretton of the United States, is in discussions with the government regarding the vacant throne. This comes only one day after the first reports of an American woman being in contention. The woman’s identity is still unknown. Bretton is known to have attended Northeastern University and worked in a variety of professions including as a nursing assistant and cashier…. The government is still mum on the future of the monarchy”—
The screen showed Neville Rufus leaving 10 Downing Street, smiling as he said “No comment.”—“
and reports of dissension in the upper tier of government regarding the future of the crown cannot be confirmed.”

Chase looked furious. “There was a leak.”

“Not from our side, I can assure you!” Britchford said quickly. “There were only twenty people in that room and we’ve all been sworn to secrecy since the first discussions regarding the future of the monarchy. The leak must have come from Rufus. Never trust a liberal, that’s my motto.”

“It could have been a lucky reporter,” suggested Renee.

Chase nodded. “It could be, but they had detailed information on him.” He passed a hand over his eyes. “God, this is all I need on top of the continuing investigation.”

“What investigation?” asked Renee.

“The explosion, of course. What killed everyone at the Grand Reunion.”

“I thought it was a gas leak,” said Renee. “That’s what all the news reports said.”

“The investigation is ongoing.”

Chase refused to say anything more about it and pushed his way out of the kitchenette. Britchford and Roberts discussed strategy for making Renee the only possible candidate. But Renee, who had spent more time gazing at Chase’s face than she cared to admit, could see that his eyes were guarded despite the huge grin when Cassandra unleashed the word “bollocks” on him. There was something he wasn’t revealing.

That was bollocks.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

LIGHT FILTERED THROUGH a grimy window. Threadbare curtains in an ugly brown and yellow floral print fluttered gently as the wind found its way through the cracks in the window casement. There was no heat except for the weak radiance provided by an old space heater that thunked, wheezed and rattled like a mechanic banging on the inside of a car engine, every time she turned it on. It was better to leave it off and not draw the ire of the tenants beneath the little attic apartment, which only qualified as an apartment if you applied the strictest meaning of the term to it. Yes, there was a kitchen if you counted the single burner hotplate, the electric kettle and the portable beer cooler which served as the refrigerator. There was also a utility sink which is where she washed out her tea cup, washed her hands after using the “facilities,” and washed her face and hair since there was no bathtub or shower. There was, however, a toilet in a corner. She had tried to stand up some suitcases and boxes around it to provide a sense of separation between the “lavatory” and the room she lived and slept in. Currently, a roll of toilet paper stood on a Dolce and Gabbana makeup box. The air smelled like a combination of old grease from the fish and chips shop directly below on the street, and nicotine. Not tobacco, which was a pleasant, homey scent and reminded her of her grandfather’s pipe, but the dirty byproduct of cheap cigarettes that had seeped into the wallpaper and discolored it. The former tenant must have smoked like a chimney because she could smell it everywhere. It was like ever present unwanted company. The conditions were not ideal here and she had not left the premises in four days, but the dark and smelly 300 square feet felt like freedom. It was more than she’d had in some time.

A mobile phone buzzed in her pocket.

“Hello?”

“Tina? We’ve got to move.”

“Again? But I just figured out how to make toast.”

“We’re getting worried and there are some new developments. I’ll be there in an hour. You know what to do.”

The line went dead. Tina sighed. She would miss the pigeon that nested beside her drafty window. Sometimes she opened it and pushed out a cracker and watched the bird peck at it.

She opened up the back of her mobile phone and pulled out the sim card. She put it on the table and retrieved a hammer. With a single, precise blow she shattered it into three smaller pieces, and was immediately rewarded with the tenants below banging on her floor with a broom. She ignored it and took the pieces of sim card to the toilet and flushed them down. Then she put on gloves and wiped the rest of the phone free of prints and smashed that into pieces as well. She opened her window and flung the pieces in different directions. Then she wiped down every single item and surface she had touched in her days there. When she was done with that, she saturated a towel with bleach and scrubbed the floors and walls with it.

There would be no trace or scent of her. It would be as if she had never been there. As if she didn’t exist.