The Prince's Secret: The Royal Biography Mystery Series, #2

Chapter 1

How many secrets have been covered up in the name of the crown? The Prince’s tale has been hard to hear. I argued with him as he told me his story, telling him that there was no way his version of events could be correct.

The prince is many things—handsome, kind, generous, but he is not now, nor ever has been, a killer.

I breathe in and out, taking deep breaths as the cold of the stone bench underneath me seeps through my white, lacy gown. Just acquiring the gown was a minor miracle. Apparently I am too large for London’s posh fashion houses. I was saved when a true fairy godmother stepped in and now look at me, I am Cinderella, sitting in a private garden at Kensington, all alone after the ball. I stare down at shoes that glitter on my feet. They’re pink confections with a low heel and a diamond pattern that covers the toes. Like my makeup and my up-do, they have cost a small fortune, allowing me to play the part of the well-heeled.

Reluctantly I stand up and head for the black iron gate that opens onto a busy London street. A few minutes later, I am on the platform at the tube station where people sneak uneasy glances at me in my ball gown. After a short subway ride, I emerge from the Underground and walk three blocks to my hotel. The Sheraton Park Lane is my home away from home in London. It’s a stately madam, rising five stories high. The hotel is quite impressive in its own right, standing proud and tall across from Green Park. I stare up at the building, but I don’t really take it in. I am lost in thought, daydreaming about how it was only a month ago that the Prince and I were sitting in the living room of my cottage in the Cotswold, eating dinner and laughing over a game of cricket on the TV.

As I pull open the hotel door, a drop of rain hits me on the nose. At least one thing has worked in my favor tonight; Mother Nature held back the deluge until I returned to the hotel. I stand in the lobby for a few minutes watching as the drops begin to descend en masse. Then, feeling like some new weight is pressing down on me, I head to bed and sleep fitfully.

The next morning, I check out of the hotel early. By half past eight, I’m already heading back to my cottage in Bourton-on-the-Water. I want to be alone. I wish I could return to a time before I knew the Prince’s secret, but that would be impossible.

What I need is some rest and relaxation in my garden. It’s June and the rose bushes are in full bloom. I need to prune back one particularly aggressive bush that has scrambled across the front of my house, dotting the façade here and there with pink petals as it heads for my roof. Perhaps after some time in the garden with a good pair of pruning shears, my head will clear and I’ll be able to answer the question the Prince asked me; namely, will I help him to discover the truth about his brother’s death?

A driver behind me honks politely as the light overhead turns green. I press down on the accelerator and drive forward turning onto the motorway in the direction of Oxford.

*****

Two weeks before I learn the Prince’s secret, I find myself on the narrow lane that leads through the Cotswold to Bourton with all my possessions packed into my large BMW rental car. I’ve spent the last two weeks in New York cleaning out my apartment. If I can help it, I don’t intend to call New York my home ever again.

While in Manhattan packing up my possessions, I went to the arraignment of the man and woman who killed my ex-boyfriend. Pierre St. Clair and Maggie Delvers are accused of masterminding and carrying out the murder of Sean McKenzie. They stood proud and defiant as they were charged with several counts of felony. They also pleaded not guilty, but I knew better. They killed Sean to keep him silent. After working on the biography of the British Prime Minister, Sean discovered a system of kickbacks that were fattening up the bank books of the Minister of Public Works and her minions. The kickback system may have also been fattening up the bank books of Prime Minister Morton, who in the wake of the scandal, remains adamant that she knew of no wrongdoing. When answering questions in the press, the Prime Minister insists she knew nothing of her ex-husband Pierre St. Clair’s plan on fleecing innocent business victims who wanted to obtain building permits. Sean discovered Pierre’s plan, and Sean was foolish enough to try to blackmail the man. According to Pierre’s accomplice, Maggie Delvers, it was cheaper to kill Sean than continue to pay him to remain silent.

Over the last month I have spent far too much time wrapped up in affairs surrounding my ex-boyfriend’s murder. So today, as I am driving up the Cotswold road, reveling in the first flush of wildflowers blooming across the countryside in vibrant hues of chartreuse, scarlet and orange, I mentally wash away my past. Like these flowers, I am starting anew. Instead of thinking of the tragic ending to Sean’s life, I need to concentrate on reinvigorating my own. The beauty of my surroundings puts a smile on my face as I drive through the green, gently-curving hills that lead me home. Thinking about the upcoming charity ball that I’ve been invited to as the official biographer of the Prince, I am overcome with the desire to shop for my gown. In my head I imagine a host of lovely options, perhaps something over the shoulder, but nothing too clingy. And what color? Again, I look at the wildflowers for inspiration. The possibilities are all so exiting. I’ve never had a special-occasion dress before, not even a prom gown, because I’ve never been invited to anything, not even a high school dance.

Holding tight to the steering wheel as I take in the countryside, I am jarred a bit when my cell phone emits a shrill ring. After hitting the answer phone button on the steering wheel, a voice comes over the radio speaker. Hello, Ms. Rue, my name is Rupert Schnipps, a very British man, who slurs his ‘s’, says.  Rupert Schnipps...Rupert Schnipps...I know that name. He’s the head curator for the King’s Palaces—all three of them. The man must be extraordinarily busy. He has to catalogue every precious item contained at each residence.

Mornin’, Mr. Schnipps. I try to sound fine and upstanding, as befits a royal biographer.

Good Morning, Ms. Rue, he draws out each word as if eating an enormous piece of taffy. Is now a good time to talk?

It is not. There is an elderly lady, with her hair immaculately coiffed, who is driving rather slowly in front of me. Behind me is an enormous truck, the driver of which seems to be in a terrible hurry. He keeps veering into the oncoming lane, looking to see if he can overtake both of us. With so many cars travelling this narrow two-lane road, I think the man must have suicidal tendencies to even contemplate such a move.

Well, I suppose it’s an okay time to talk, I reply, worried that I’m about to witness a terrible accident.

Fabulous, wonderful. I have been informed by his Royal Highness the Prince that you were in the room when he found a small diary in the Mary, Queen of Scots’ chest-of-drawers at Holyrood. 

That’s true. The Prince and I found the diary together. It was odd because it was inside an empty Victorian collection chest in the Mary, Queen of Scots’ Apartment. Prince Alex informed me that he had never seen anything in that chest-of-drawers before, and so we removed the book, thinking it belonged somewhere else in Holyrood. The next day the Prince took the diary back to Buckingham and gave it to the Palace Curator, Mr. Schnipps.

Yes, I was in the room when we found the diary.

And it was just the two of you? Mr. Schnipps asks and I believe I hear a note of disapproval in his voice.

Yes.

Curious, he mutters. Ms. Rue, I’m wondering if you have any idea as to how that diary got inside the collection chest.

This is a strange line of questioning at a very inopportune time. If I’m not mistaken it sounds like Schnipps is trying to accuse me of something.

No idea. The Prince and I entered the chamber together, and he was showing me the various objects in the room when we found it.

Umm hum, Schnipps muses in a disbelieving tone. What does he think? Does he think I am some oddball who found a diary in another part of the Palace, and, then as a prank slipped it into the chest-of-drawers?

Well then, perhaps you can help me with something, Ms. Rue?

What’s that? I respond. Behind me the mad truck driver decides to go for it, pulling out to pass both me and the older driver ahead.

How did you correctly identify the item as mid-16th century?

I’m a historian, I respond, not at all amused with his underlying insinuations, and, at the same time, growing dangerously alarmed that the truck driver is going to be forced back into my lane due to oncoming traffic.

No, strike that, the truck driver is going to be killed by an oncoming truck! It all happens in a blink of an eye. In a desperate attempt to pull back into the proper lane the truck driver swerves dangerously. He hits the car in front of me, sending its driver and her sensible hatchback flying into a ditch. I stomp on my breaks, narrowly avoiding the collision.

The accident unleashes a flood of adrenaline. Quickly I pull my car over and throw open my door, jumping out to check on the woman in the hatchback. At the same time the truck driver revs his engine, intent on speeding away. I try to note the license plate number but am only able to memorize the first two digits before it shoots out-of-sight. Approaching the woman’s car, I can still hear Schnipps voice