The man’s nude body was gray and waxy, just as Julia had said. His overlong black hair made him look paler than he probably was. Except for his pallor, and the great slash across his throat from ear to ear, the man looked young and healthy. His most prominent feature was his hairiness—black hair grew on his arms, his hands, and his chest. A white towel appliquéd with pink roses covered most of his face, and another was draped across his groin. His arms were stretched out, Christ-like, and a little blood was trickling to the floor.
A straight-edge razor—it looked brand new—lay beside the body, not far from his left hand. The razor troubled Rachel.
“Where does one get that kind of razor?” she asked.
“Lots of places,” Julia said. “Barbers and hairdressers use them.”
“This scene reminds me of Dorothy L. Sayers’s book Have His Carcase, when Harriet Vane finds the body on the beach.”
Julia raised her eyebrows. “Well, Harriet’s corpse and ours were both killed by having their throats cut. That’s the only similarity I see,” she said.
Cut with a straight-edge razor. Rachel thought the similarities were remarkable, but this was not the time or the place to discuss it. She’d had more than enough of this room.
“Let’s go,” she said.
A few minutes later they were back in Julia’s sunny sitting room. Rachel glanced around, thankful for the lavender-blue walls, and that the flowers in the chintz that covered the sofa and chairs were yellow daffodils and yellow and white narcissi. The room smelled clean and fresh, with a hint of the scent from a vase of fresh narcissi. She could see through the glass doors to the tiny balcony, bright and cheerful, with pots of yellow and white tulips. Rachel had never cared for the color pink. After what she had seen this morning, she disliked it intensely.
“Inconsiderate of him to kill himself in Stephanie’s bathroom,” Julia said.
“Why would anyone commit suicide there?” Rachel asked.
Julia shrugged. “I can think of a number of reasons. Perhaps he asked her to marry him, and she refused him. Or he was her lover, and she broke it off. Or he found out she was two-timing him.”
“Who is he? You sound as if you knew him,” Rachel said.
“I don’t know him, but I’ve seen him with Stephanie. He’s a Russian, claims to be a descendant of one of the tsars—his first name is Ivan. I never heard his last name. He was one of several men courting Stephanie. All of the young men she goes out with want to marry up. They think Stephanie’s a matrimonial prize, because of her distant relationship with the Windsors, even though she is not in line for a throne, nor do her relatives pay her much heed.”
“How did you recognize him?” Rachel asked.
Julia raised her eyebrows. “My dear, he has a pelt, and he’s very dark. I’ve never seen blacker hair. He has bushy black eyebrows, too, although you couldn’t see them. I’d know him anywhere, even naked and dead in a bathroom not his own.”
“Isn’t cutting one’s throat an unusual way to commit suicide?” Rachel said.
Before Julia could reply, the telephone rang. Julia answered, and after a brief conversation, turned to Rachel. “That was Izzy. She says Stephanie has calmed down, and knows you are here. She wants to talk to us. Do you mind if they come up?”
“No, not at all. I’ll be interested to hear what Stephanie has to say.”
•••
A few minutes later the doorbell rang. Julia admitted Stephanie, wearing a quilted pink robe and matching slippers, her hair loose and tangled, and her face bare of makeup. Her eyes were red, but she wasn’t crying.
With her was one of the plainest women Rachel had ever seen, even in the orphanage in Oklahoma where she had spent her childhood. The harridans running that place had worked hard to make the girls look as ugly as possible, because many women would not hire a pretty girl to work in their homes, fearing that a son or husband would be attracted.
Stephanie’s companion had mouse-brown hair pulled back tightly from her bony face. She wore orange plastic-framed glasses, held together on one side with adhesive tape. Her long tan dress—it looked as if it was made of burlap—fell to her ankles, and hung loosely over her gaunt body.
“Come in, have a seat,” Julia said. “Rachel, this is Stephanie’s friend Izzy.”
Izzy nodded. She sat in a straight-backed chair and crossed her ankles, revealing droopy tights, and clogs.
Stephanie paced up and down the room, talking all the while. “I don’t know why this is happening to me. I don’t know why Ivan was in my apartment. When I came in this morning, there he was . . . yes, yes, I stayed out all night! There’s no law against it; I’m an adult,” she said, as if she had been accused of misbehavior.
“Where were you?” Julia asked.
“With a friend,” Stephanie snapped.
Julia raised her eyebrows and looked at Rachel. “So much for Miss Congeniality,” she murmured.
Rachel thought finding a dead man in one’s bathroom might make anyone irritable. “Do you think this—uh—event is linked to the stolen prints?” she asked.
Stephanie shook her head. “No, of course not. I was afraid you might think that. That’s why I wanted to see you. I’m certain Ivan had nothing to do with the theft. I think he was murdered.”
“Who would do such a thing?” Rachel asked.
Stephanie turned to Julia. “I have enemies. You know I do. You saw the letters I received when I changed my name.”
“Yes, I saw the letters. Very ugly. Rachel told me about the stolen prints. Why are you so sure the murder isn’t related?” Julia said.
“Ivan was rich,” Stephanie said. “He didn’t need to extort money from me, and he knew I have nothing. We’d talked about marriage. He was happy.”
“If it was murder, you’ll need an alibi. Will the man you spent the night with give you an alibi? If he will, you have nothing to worry about,” Rachel said.
“I’m not worried about being suspected of anything. I’m worried because someone out there hates me so much they would do this.” Stephanie began to cry again.
Julia rose, opened the door to the corridor, and nodded at Izzy, who stood up, put her arm around Stephanie, and escorted her out.
“I still don’t know how she can be so certain the body in the bathroom isn’t linked to the theft of the prints,” Julia said.
Rachel had an idea about that, but before she could reply, the doorbell rang. Julia looked through the peephole and whispered, “Cheese it, the cops. They’re here sooner than I thought they would be. I should have changed my detective clothes for something more conventional.” She opened the door to a pair of tall men in dark suits.
“Lady Fitzgerald?” the bald one asked.
“Yes, I am she. Are you here about the dead man?” Julia asked.
“Yes. May we come in?”
“May I see some identification?”
The bald man flashed a badge too fast for Rachel to see it, then handed Julia several traditional-looking calling cards. She glanced at them and said, “Please come in. Let me take your coats. Won’t you sit down?”
The men sat side by side on the big sofa facing Rachel and Julia. They looked like soldiers at attention. Their features and coloring were different, but they were oddly similar—short haircuts, dark blue suits, white shirts, shiny black shoes. Like a pair of bookends. Or maybe they were in uniform?
“I’ve been expecting the police,” Julia said.
“They’ll be here soon enough,” the fair one—the one with hair—said. “We’re from the Palace. My name is Charles Graham, and this is David Lancaster.”
“Yes, so I observed from your cards,” Julia said. “This is my friend, Mrs. Ransome.”
Graham glanced at Rachel, dismissed her, and turned back to Julia. “I understand you discovered the body, Lady Fitzgerald?” he said.
“No, Princess Stephanie did. I heard her cries of distress, and went upstairs to see if I could help her. If you wish to see her, she’
s with her friend Izzy, on the third floor.”
Graham shifted his attention to Rachel. “Do you live here, too?” he asked.
“No. I am Lady Fitzgerald’s guest,” Rachel said.
He frowned. “This early? It must have been an urgent matter that brought you here at what? Seven? Seven thirty?”
“It was urgent. I am concerned about Stephanie. She has suffered a theft, and is being blackmailed. I had planned to meet with her this morning at my home to discuss the situation. Lady Fitzgerald knew this, and telephoned to explain that Stephanie could not come, and why. I am here to see if I can be of assistance to her,” Rachel explained.
The men exchanged glances. “And you knew about this—uh—theft and blackmail—how?” Graham asked, not troubling to hide his skepticism.
“She called on me yesterday, and told me about it,” Rachel said.
“Are you close friends? Is that why Miss Stephanie decided to tell you this improbable story?” Graham asked.
“No, I know Princess Stephanie only slightly. I, too, was surprised that she chose to confide in me,” Rachel said.
Julia raised her eyebrows. “You underestimate your reputation, Rachel.” She turned to the men from the Palace. “Mrs. Ransome has helped solve two important art crimes.”
The men exchanged glances again. This time Lancaster spoke. “Let’s start again, at the beginning. May I see your identification, Mrs. Ransome?”
Rachel sighed and reached for her shoulder bag. “Here is my passport. Here is my business card. My London attorney is George Quincy. The lawyer who dealt with my affairs in Boston before I moved to London is Bernard Gregory. You will easily find them—they are both well-known. And if, as you imply, you do not believe my account of how I learned about Stephanie’s problems, you may wish to speak with an American friend who was with me at the time, and heard everything Stephanie told me. Her name is Dinah Greene Hathaway. Her London address is 23 Culross Place. But I should be careful when questioning her. You will have heard of the Boston Hathaways. Richard Madison Hathaway was the Ambassador to the Court of St. James’s a few years ago.”
Julia looked at her watch. “I’m rather tired, and very bored. You are wasting your time and ours. Surely you should be talking to Stephanie?”
Lancaster—the bald one—shook his head. “Excuse me, Lady Fitzgerald, but we must ask Mrs. Ransome a few more questions. Can anyone vouch for your arrival time this morning? And your actions last night from midnight onward?”
“I attended the Royal Shakespeare Theatre last night. My lawyer, Mr. Quincy, and his sister and her husband, Lord and Lady Darny, called for me at about half past seven. The play began at eight. We dined at the Ivy after the play. My friends escorted me home. My maid brought hot chocolate to my bedroom at about midnight, as she does every night. Her name is Eileen Kelly, and she can be reached at the number on my card.
“After Eileen served my chocolate, she locked up the house, set the alarms, and went to bed. Her room is directly over mine on the floor above. A red light goes on in my bedroom when all is secure, and remains on until a door or window is opened. No one left the house until I did this morning. I came in a taxi that is frequently hovering outside the gallery. You should have no difficulty finding the driver. If you cannot, telephone Miss Manning, my secretary, at the number on my card. She uses that taxi frequently, and will know the driver’s name. The doorman here let me in. He and the concierge know me by sight. They can tell you precisely what time I arrived.”
“And this address on your card: the Ransome Gallery. It is a business? But you claim to live there?” Lancaster seemed prepared to challenge every word she said.
Julia interrupted. “Oh, for God’s sake! I’ve had enough of this. Do you realize you are insulting my guest? I shall report this.”
Rachel intervened. “Do not worry, Julia. I want to complete this interrogation. My gallery—the Ransome Gallery—specializes in Renaissance art and jewelry, and is on the first floor—street-level—of my house. The rest of the building is my home,” she explained, as if speaking to a child.
“We will need to verify everything you’ve told us,” Lancaster warned.
“Please do. You may also wish to investigate my financial situation—taxes paid, and the like. Mr. Quincy can assist you with that, too.”
Graham frowned. “You are amazingly cooperative, Mrs. Ransome. We rarely encounter anyone with such a strong desire to help us.”
“I have nothing to hide. Perhaps others do. I should add that Lady Fitzgerald, Princess Stephanie, and her friend Izzy are the only people living in this building whom I have met,” Rachel said.
“Uh huh,” Graham said. “We’ll verify that, too. I think that’s all.” The two men stood up. “Oh, just one more thing . . . ”
Julia giggled. “You’re pulling a Columbo—that detective on American TV. That’s what he always does—comes back in at the last minute—asks the really important question and catches the criminal. Is that what you’re about to do?”
Graham, ignoring Julia, said, “How did you meet Lady Fitzgerald?”
“We met at a bookstore called Make Mine a Mystery,” Rachel said. “A writer we both admire was reading from her new book. We stood in line together, waiting for the author to sign our books, and discussed our favorite mysteries. We enjoyed the conversation so much we made a date for lunch. And we’ve been friends ever since.”
Neither of the men commented, but Rachel thought they looked dubious, even about this innocent meeting. They thought she was guilty of something. But of what? And why?
A phone buzzed. Graham excused himself and stepped out into the corridor. A few minutes later, he came back in. “The police have arrived,” he said. “I am told they wish to see you alone, Lady Fitzgerald. Shall I arrange a taxi for you, Mrs. Ransome?”
Rachel stood up. “Thank you. That will not be necessary. I am sure my driver is waiting downstairs. But I should like my passport back, please.”
“I’m afraid that isn’t possible. We’ll need to hold it for a while. You don’t plan to leave the country, do you?”
Rachel looked at Julia and raised her eyebrows. She turned back to Graham. “I do not intend to leave the country. I have tried to be cooperative, but I do not like having my passport confiscated. My lawyer will be in touch with you.”
Graham shrugged. “As you wish,” he said.
“May I have your cards? You gave them to Lady Fitzgerald, but I shall want my own.”
He handed her two cards.
Julia, obviously annoyed, escorted Rachel to the door, collected her coat from the closet, and helped her put it on.
“I’ll ring you later,” Julia said. She turned back into the apartment, and spoke to the two men. “I never met any Pal Pols until today. Did no one ever tell you about the ‘special relationship’? Americans are our friends. Especially when they bring a great deal of money into the country, as Mrs. Ransome does. Being rude to Mrs. Ransome was a serious mistake. Anyway, I know why you’re here. It’s not about the poor man who was killed. It’s all about Stephanie. You guys are always after her. Why can’t you leave her alone?”
Rachel, waiting for the elevator, could hear Julia berating the men until the elevator doors closed. Good for Julia. The men were obnoxious in every way.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Rachel
Tuesday, May, London
On her way home from the Little Palace, Rachel asked her driver to stop at a newsstand to pick up a copy of Secrets.
While she waited for him to return to the car, she tried to reach her attorney, George Quincy. His assistant said Mr. Quincy was engaged and would have to call her back. She hoped he would call soon. She could not understand the suspicion and hostility she had encountered, but she was certain she needed legal assistance. She had nothing to hide, as the offensive Palace Police would soon learn, but she had much to lose if these creatures decided to damage her reputation. She feared they had the power to do so, and perhaps the po
wer to cause her a great deal of trouble.
The photograph of the etching was on the front page of Secrets. Its subject was familiar: a female nude lying with her back to the viewer, a pose used by both contemporary and ancient artists. The print closely resembled Velázquez’s Rokeby Venus, without the mirror.
The woman could not be identified, but the caption was provocative: “Photograph of an etching made from a drawing of a woman visiting the Little Palace, where nearly everyone is connected to the Royal Family. We’d like to hear from readers who recognize this woman.” An e-mail address followed.
Rachel sighed. Stephanie’s problems must be resolved quickly, but she could not see how to do it. She was almost certain that no one could prevent the press from printing this sort of thing. What would the blackmailer do next?
Her cell phone rang. Thank goodness, it was George Quincy. When she started to explain why she was calling, he interrupted.
“I know all about it, and it’s quite serious. I want to speak with you right away, but not on the telephone,” he said.
“You are worried about those officious men? I thought that it would be possible to put the whole affair to rest quickly, if we gave them the facts they asked for, and they verified them. But come immediately if you think it is necessary. I will be at home shortly,” Rachel said.
A few minutes later she sat on a bench in the foyer of her house, removing her beige boots. To her astonishment, they were stained with blood. She must have walked in it, but when? She hadn’t entered the room where the dead body lay, and she hadn’t seen blood anywhere else. When she started to hang up her white coat, she was horrified to see blood splotches on the hem. How was it possible?
She removed her skirt and examined it. It, too, was blood-stained. The outfit was ruined, but that was the least of her worries. She needed time to think about where she could have brushed against blood, or walked in it, and what she should do about it.
But George would arrive momentarily. She took an empty garment bag out of the hall closet and shoved the entire outfit, including the boots, in it. She hurried upstairs with the bag, and hung it in the back of her off-season clothes closet, behind her summer wardrobe. She locked the closet door. She selected a gray knit suit from her active closet and dressed as fast as she could, pulling on the gray suede shoes that went with the suit, and tying a gray and wine-red scarf around her neck. She was halfway downstairs when the doorbell rang.
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