Bloody Royal Prints

by Reba White Williams

  The young woman turned to Dinah. “Please call me Stephanie. May I call you Dinah? It’s actually about a problem involving prints that I’ve come here today. Perhaps you’ll remain with us a little longer? I’d be most grateful. It’s confidential, but I’m sure I can trust a friend of Mrs. Ransome’s. I need help desperately.”

  The young woman’s cotton-candy pink lipstick was smeared, and a lock of ash-blonde hair had straggled loose from its chignon. On television, she looked meticulously groomed. Whatever her problem, it was serious enough for her to make an appearance looking less than perfect.

  Her blue eyes, like those of the late Princess Diana, were her best feature, but they were an even brighter shade of blue, so vivid that Dinah suspected tinted contacts. Her high-pitched voice was grating, as was her tendency to end her remarks on an upward note. Every statement sounded like a shrill question.

  Still, Dinah was fascinated by an up-close view of a princess, even a minor one with an annoying voice. She was also intrigued by the young woman’s story. What could she have to do with prints?

  “Yes, please call me Dinah. I’ll be happy to stay if you think I can help,” Dinah said.

  “Please sit down,” Rachel said.

  Stephanie smiled weakly. “Thank you,” she said. She perched on the edge of a chair until Rachel returned to her seat by the fire.

  Dinah sat opposite Rachel, feeling as if she were in church. Up, down, up. At least she didn’t have to kneel or curtsey.

  “I expect you know that Queen Victoria and Prince Albert made etchings?” Stephanie said, looking at Rachel.

  “Certainly,” Rachel said.

  Dinah nodded. Dinah owned Prince Albert’s etching of the Queen’s Cairn terrier, Islay, and Queen Victoria’s etching of the Prince’s greyhound, Eos. The miniature prints were a gift from Jonathan. Framed in antique brass, they stood on the mantle in their New York living room.

  Thinking about that living room, Dinah felt a wave of homesickness. She wished she’d brought the Victorian prints to London. They’d be a pleasant reminder of home in the depressing sitting room of their rented house. She must stop thinking about that hateful house. She forced herself to concentrate on what Stephanie was saying.

  “Over the years, many of our family have engaged in some form of art as a hobby—painting, mostly—but I knew about Queen Victoria’s printmaking and thought it would be fun to etch. So I learned how—it’s not very difficult—well, actually, it’s awfully difficult to make a really good etching—but anyway, I’ve made a lot. And the thing is, they’ve been stolen,” she said, tears rolling down her cheeks.

  Rachel frowned. “I do not understand why you are telling me this. The Ransome Gallery does not deal in prints. No one is likely to try to sell them to me, if that is what you wished to discuss.”

  “No, no. I wasn’t actually thinking anyone would try to sell them to you. But I understand you have assisted with investigations involving prints—identified the criminals?”

  “I have been able to assist friends in the United States with a few art-related problems, but my role has been minor. Dinah has done a great deal more detecting than I,” Rachel said.

  “I see,” Stephanie said. She turned to Dinah again. “Will you help me?”

  Dinah was curious to learn more, especially why this theft was “a matter of life and death.”

  “I’ll try,” she said.

  “Would you like coffee?” Rachel asked Stephanie, ringing for the maid.

  “Oh yes, please, black. Thank you.”

  The maid served Stephanie, and refilled Dinah’s and Rachel’s cups. When the door closed behind her, the young woman continued.

  “The images in the Queen’s and Prince Albert’s prints were very proper—their dogs, the children, copies of pictures from their collections—that sort of thing? They were private, kept under lock and key at Windsor.”

  Rachel nodded. “But despite all that security, about sixty of them were stolen from the man who printed for Their Highnesses. The thieves prepared and circulated a sales catalogue of the prints. Prince Albert was furious and, in 1848, took the matter to court. Prince Albert won, of course, and the catalogues were destroyed and the sale prevented,” she said.

  Stephanie nodded. “Since then, if we—that is, those with a connection to the throne—make etchings, we are not allowed to have them printed outside the palace. Actually, that means outside wherever we live, since hardly any of us live in a ‘live’ palace. But most of us are housed in approved and secure quarters. As I think you know, Mrs. Ransome, I live in a flat in what is nicknamed the Little Palace.” Stephanie looked at Dinah. “It’s not a palace at all; it’s a modern building. Calling it a palace is a bit of a joke: It is a very un-palacey palace. I print my etchings on an old-fashioned hand press in my spare bedroom. I make only a few impressions, and when they’re done, I lock them in the safe in my flat. But someone stole them—every one.” She broke into tears again, took a handkerchief from a pale blue bag the exact shade of her suit and shoes, and blotted her wet cheeks.

  Dinah was fascinated by Princess Stephanie’s clothes and puzzled by her distraught manner. Why all the fuss? Even if the plates as well as the prints were stolen, why would it matter? This woman wasn’t a professional artist whose livelihood depended on selling prints. She was an amateur—a hobbyist—and from the look of her, rich.

  Dinah was not warming to Princess Stephanie. The young woman was so artificial, so Barbie-dollish. Her every gesture seemed rehearsed. She cried without disturbing her mascara, and she didn’t smear her foundation when she dried her tears. That required practice. Her clothes were too perfect, matchy-matchy. Even her white handkerchief was embroidered with her initials in pale blue. Could one buy lingerie that color-matched designer outfits? If so, Dinah was sure Her Highness was wearing a pale blue thong.

  Dinah looked at her watch. At this rate, Stephanie’s story was going to take all afternoon, and so far, it was boring.

  Rachel must have thought so, too. She intervened, her tone stern. “Stephanie, please control yourself, and come to the point. Why has this theft upset you so much?”

  “Well, you see, sometimes I draw from life. There are a number of people in the Little Palace connected in one way or another with the Royal Family. And they—we—occasionally have royal visitors. I sketched them when they were relaxed, not posing. Perhaps they didn’t know I was drawing them. Sometimes I photographed them and worked from the photos. Actually, in my prints, people are often engaged in private activities, casually dressed, or in—uh—dishabille.”

  Rachel looked horrified. “Are any of these etchings of nudes? Behaving inappropriately? Surely not engaged in sexual activities?” she asked.

  The girl nodded, tears pouring down her face. “I’m afraid so. Actually, some people may describe a few as pornographic. I don’t think they are—they’re works of art. But others may see them differently.”

  Dinah now understood why the theft of the prints was catastrophic. The young Royals’ inappropriate dress or lack of dress, and the paparazzi’s constant spying on the Royal Family, had led to scandal, and had left the press hungry for more. They would feast on Stephanie’s etchings.

  Rachel frowned. “I agree that you have a serious problem. Stop that whining and tell us exactly what happened. When did you discover that the etchings were missing?”

  Her words acted like a splash of cold water in the girl’s face. Stephanie stopped crying, and replied, if not calmly, at least comprehensibly.

  “This morning. Actually, I didn’t know they were gone until a man rang me. He says he has the prints, and won’t return them unless I give him money. If I don’t pay, they’ll appear in the newspapers. As proof that he has them, tomorrow one of them will appear in Secrets, that dreadful scandal sheet.”

  “How much money did he ask for?” Rachel asked.

  “One million pounds, which is absurd. I have no money—only a tiny allowance from a family trust. It takes eve
ry penny I have to live,” Stephanie said.

  “Tell me exactly where and how the prints were kept,” Rachel ordered.

  Dinah was surprised at Rachel’s dictatorial manner, and angry expression. She had never seen this side of her friend, even during Rachel’s struggles with her vicious assistant, Simon, who’d stolen from her, cheated her, perhaps planned to kill her.

  “They were in the safe in my closet—the kind of safe they have in hotels? After I spoke to the man, I opened it, and it was empty.”

  “When had you last looked in it?” Rachel asked.

  “Friday night before I went to bed, when I put some new works away.”

  “So they must have been stolen Saturday, Sunday, or this morning?” Rachel said.

  “I suppose so. I was in and out all day Saturday and Sunday—a few friends came for drinks on Saturday, and I gave a little dinner Sunday night. Most people in London go away for Saturday and Sunday, of course, but I was able to round up some friends who, like poor me, are forced to stay in town, unless we are fortunate enough to be invited somewhere.”

  “Did you keep other valuables in the safe? Or just the prints?” Rachel asked.

  Stephanie shook her head. “Nothing else, just the prints.”

  Rachel raised her eyebrows. “What about your jewelry? Wasn’t it in the safe?”

  “Actually, all I own is costume jewelry. If I need jewelry for an important occasion, I borrow it from a jeweler. I keep my inexpensive bits and pieces in a box in a dresser drawer. Nothing else in my flat was touched, just the safe,” Stephanie said.

  “Does the safe work with a combination?” Rachel said.

  “Yes, it’s my birthday—twenty-one eleven—November twenty-first.”

  Dinah and Rachel exchanged glances. Stephanie’s birthday celebrations had probably been covered by the press every year since she could toddle. Most of England would know that November 21 was her birthday. Only an airhead would choose such an obvious code.

  Dinah wondered what advice Rachel would give the princess. And when. The “when” was increasingly important. She needed to get back to the house of horrors at least an hour before Jonathan arrived for dinner, and before she went home, she had to pick up food for dinner. She had a list she rotated—mostly cold food. Smoked salmon. Sliced ham or roast beef. Roast chicken. Cheese and fruit. Anything to substitute for the ghastly meal Mrs. O’Hara would serve. The cook’s dinners were even worse than her breakfasts. O’Hara insisted on serving dishes Jonathan detested—mostly offal, which he couldn’t abide, as the cook had been told repeatedly. Every day Dinah had to purchase food that would prevent Jonathan’s nightly tirade about Dinah’s inability to manage the servants.

  When Rachel asked who had a key to Stephanie’s flat, the young woman claimed that only the building manager had a key to use in case of emergency. She seemed rattled and hesitant when Rachel wanted to know the names of those who’d visited her flat on the critical days. Dinah thought her reaction suggested that the list would be long, or that she didn’t want to disclose the information. When Rachel insisted that she couldn’t help Stephanie without the names, the girl reluctantly agreed to compile a list when she could consult her diary.

  “Is there anyone in the palace in whom you can confide? Someone who would help you?” Rachel asked.

  Stephanie shook her head. “Actually, anyone I told would be forced to take this to the highest level. That would be disastrous for me. Isn’t there anything else I can do?” She looked as if she might cry again.

  “I suggest you wait until tomorrow, and see if one of the prints appears in that paper you mentioned—Secrets, I think you said? If it does, you must speak with someone at the palace. Come for coffee tomorrow morning at eight thirty. Bring the newspaper if the photo of the print is in it, and most important, your list of weekend visitors. We then shall see where we stand,” Rachel said.

  At last Stephanie left.

  Dinah took a long breath. She felt as if she’d listened to that piercing voice and constant use of the word “actually” for weeks. She should get on with her errands, but she was too full of questions.

  “Is Stephanie really a princess? I never heard of her before I came to England, but since we’ve been in London, I’ve seen her on television several times,” Dinah said.

  “Yes, she is very popular with both the public and the media. And, no, she is not a princess, although she is said to be distantly connected to the Windsors—or rather, to the House of Saxe-Coburg and Gotha, as the Windsors were known until 1917. The title ‘princess’ began with newspaper stories when she was a child. Stephanie was a pretty little girl—very photogenic. Many pictures of her appeared frequently, and the press christened her the Little Princess, or maybe her family gave her that name. But as she grew older, there were objections in high places to her using the title. Stephanie was annoyed by what she considered interference in her affairs. She had her name changed legally. Her first name is Princess,” Rachel said.

  “Good grief, I never heard of such a thing. I wouldn’t have thought she had it in her. She seems so—I don’t know—feckless?” Dinah said.

  “Do not underestimate her. She seems to have inherited some of the famous Victorian grit and stubbornness. Whatever else she is, she is definitely a descendant of Queen Victoria,” Rachel said.

  “I’m impressed,” Dinah said.

  “Do not be. Queen Victoria’s descendants are myriad. Victoria had nine children and thirty-eight grandchildren, including twenty-two granddaughters, five of whom married reigning monarchs. In any case, Stephanie’s connection to Queen Victoria does not make her a princess. There are only a handful of designated royals in England. Of course, Europe and Africa are full of princes and princesses and tribes of other royals. There are said to be six or seven hundred surviving Habsburgs, a host of people who call themselves Romanovs, and many more, with various names and titles, from dozens of countries.”

  “I had no idea. I’ve never met a prince or princess in the United States,” Dinah said.

  “There must be some who live in New York, or at least visit there. Most of those living in exile, or hoping to someday claim a throne, drift back and forth between London, Paris, and New York. Some are legitimate; some are frauds. There are a few reigning royals who identify themselves by first names only, which may be awkward for the uninformed,” Rachel said. “I understand that when a lady introduced herself to Prime Minister Blair as ‘Beatrix,’ he asked her what she did. She was forced to explain that she was the Queen of the Netherlands.”

  “Good grief!” said Dinah. “Mr. Blair must have been terribly embarrassed!”

  “Perhaps,” Rachel said.

  “There’s so much I don’t know. What is the ‘Little Palace’? And what’s a ‘live’ palace? Is it one that’s empty—just for show?”

  Rachel smiled. “I forget that you are an American, and would not necessarily know these things. The Little Palace is the nickname for the building where Stephanie and a number of people like her live—inexpensive for those who can get a flat—almost a grace-and-favor building. The building has exceptional security. I am certain Stephanie’s thief is someone she knows. One cannot enter the Little Palace without an invitation and proper identification.”

  “What does ‘grace-and-favor’ mean?” Dinah asked.

  “‘Grace-and-favor’ once meant free accommodation by permission of a sovereign or government. Grace-and-favor residents were typically retired members of royal households, or members of the armed forces who had served the country or the Palace. The practice dates back to the eighteenth century, but officially it no longer exists. Still, some people who would once have been given grace-and-favor accommodations pay very little rent—what is called a ‘peppercorn’ rent,” Rachel said. “That, I believe, is how the flats at the Little Palace are awarded—almost free. I don’t know who manages the building or awards the flats—some charity, I think. I’m sure the building has no connection with the Royal Family.”
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br />   Dinah frowned. “But why does Stephanie have a ‘peppercorn’ flat? Did someone in her family do something important?”

  “I have wondered about that, too,” Rachel said. “I only know what I have read in the papers, which may not be accurate. Her parents, about whom I know nothing, died in an automobile accident when she was an infant. She was brought up by distant relatives. Perhaps one of them is powerful. Someone influential has made it possible for her to live in the Little Palace, and that is surprising, since she was criticized by many important people for changing her name as she did. She was scolded by a Royalist group who are said to handle matters like this by dealing with people they think might embarrass the Palace. Some people call them the ‘Pal Pols’—short for Palace Police. I think they are volunteers, not real police, but they can be difficult. I have never encountered them, but they are said to be unpleasant to those who behave inappropriately.”

  Dinah’s head was reeling. None of this had been covered in her English history class. “What’s a ‘live’ palace?” she asked.

  “One where the queen or king and their families live. The ‘live’ palaces are Buckingham Palace, where the Queen lives during the working week, and Windsor, where she spends weekends, and which she officially occupies for certain functions at Easter and in June. At Christmas and for the month of January, Her Majesty is at Sandringham, her private estate in Norfolk. In August and September, she moves to Balmoral, a property in Scotland Queen Victoria bought in 1852,” said Rachel. “Sandringham and Balmoral are not palaces, of course.”

  “Wow! That’s a lot of real estate. Taxpayers in the United States complain because they have to support both the White House and Camp David. Some presidents have their own places as well, and the people have to pay for security when the president goes to his ranch, or his beach house or whatever. People say it isn’t right for the president to have so many houses when Americans live in poverty, or are homeless,” Dinah said.