by Julie Sarff
Instead of responding to Alistair’s instant message, I sit down and review Internet articles about Albert’s death one more time. This time, I dive even deeper into the realm of the conspiracy theories. Some theorists, who wish to prove Nanny Margery was a horrid person, have produced every unsavory picture of her ever taken. It appears that as a teenager she had a lot of fun, occasionally taking off articles of clothing and streaking across parks. Eventually, she grew into a fine, upstanding person who attended university, learned some serious martial arts, and became the world’s most infamous nanny to date.
Feeling as though I’ve seen enough pictures of poor Margery, I shut my computer with a decisive click. How I hate conspiracy theorists. Throughout history, these people have targeted people mercilessly, especially women. I head for my couch and whip my crochet out of my shoulder bag, thinking things through as I finish up a tea cozy I am making with long, white furry yarn. Thirty minutes later, after having pondered how conspiracy theorists tried to ruin women throughout history --like Mary Magdalene (labelled a whore, but probably wasn’t), Joan of Arc (labelled a witch, but definitely wasn’t) -- I produce a lovely tea cozy that resembles a small mountain a minute yak might what to climb.
I set it down on my coffee table and pace my living room, beginning a feminist rant about Mary, Queen of Scots that would make my father, a professor of women’s studies, very proud.
“Take Mary,” I bluster, striding across the room. “Lord Darnley killed her secretary, David Rizzo. What possessed him to do such a thing? Darnley claimed Mary was having an affair with Rizzo, but did he have any evidence? No. He was a cruel, vain man; yet the people of Scotland chose to adopt his narrative and to believe that Mary was an adulteress!” I shout at my imaginary yak.
“And many began to believe that Mary was a bad woman, which is why they did not call for Darnley to be prosecuted for Rizzo’s murder. People thought it was a crime of passion and that Darnley had a right to kill Mary’s lover. And then, of course, things got worse for the Queen. Darnley was mysteriously murdered, and what did Mary do? She married James Hepburn, the Earl of Bothwell straight away. People went crazy, they accused her of being behind the plot to kill Darnley. Yet to date, there is nothing other than the Casket Letters to suggest that Mary had even the faintest idea about Darnley’s murder. And many historians believe the Casket Letters were forged; an attempt by someone to place blame for Darnley’s death squarely on her shoulders. Yet the conspiracy theorists of 16th century Scotland ate it all up with a spoon. They were ready to kill their Queen. Did they look to see who would benefit most from Mary’s demise? No, they didn’t. Did they notice that the person who would benefit the most, Mary’s half-brother James Moray, just so happened to be the one who ‘found’ the Casket Letters. No, they blamed everything on the Queen, and do you know what happened next?”
The imaginary yak does not respond.
“Scotland descended into civil war, that’s what happened. Mary’s own half-brother, Moray, led the rebellion against her. Yes, that’s right, he was the one who conveniently produced the handful of condemning letters. Moray told the Lords of Scotland that they were love letters Mary had written to Bothwell asking him to kill Darnley. To this day, nobody has been able to authenticate the letters, and when Mary’s trial was over and her son, James I of England came to power, the original letters were burned. All very convenient, nice and tidy, so now the truth will never be known.”
I sit down on my couch and chew on a cuticle. I really need to adopt a pet. I can’t keep talking to an imaginary yak. It’s pitiful. It just so happens that I think I know just the right pet. There is this darling tabby cat that comes around and sits in my flower boxes. I’ve started to feed him, and I’ve named him King Stephen.
For a moment I am lost in thoughts about how comforting it will be to have a cat about the place, but then I return to thinking about the Queen of Scots in particular and conspiracy theories against women in general. Poor Queen Mary, and poor Nanny Margery. Centuries later, the witch hunt against women continues. Whatever I do, I have to help Alex get to the bottom of this mystery, I have to get into the office that houses his memorabilia and have a look-around for myself.
Exited by my pep talk, I return to my desk, open up my computer and type a very strongly worded instant message to Alistair.
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Off whirls the message and soon a reply comes back.
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I slump down low in my computer chair. What am I supposed to do? Sneak into Buckingham Palace and search for room #705? That will never do.
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Yes, tiny Yak! Yes! I pick up my cell phone and dial Schnipps. No more instant messaging, I need to talk to my dear friend Rupert in person.
Chapter 10
A week later, I walk down a long sterile hallway that runs underneath Buckingham Palace. Mr. Schnipps was reluctant to acquiesce to my request, but I informed him that I would not be able to work anymore on the Mary Beaton confessional if he did not agree to give me direct access to the Prince’s memoirs.
“I am terribly far behind on the biography,” I told him when I called.
“But I have only sent 15 more pages, surely that wouldn’t take you long to translate,” Schnipps had responded. That’s when I knew he had it bad. The man is a bona fide history junkie. He is tantalized by the idea that we could find some previously unknown fact about one of Mary’s principal ladies-in-waiting. He was dying to know what Mary Beaton had done to harm Mary, Queen of Scots. We were both waiting for the reveal, but the next 15 pages were only more musing about Mary Beaton’s secret love meetings with Bothwell.
“I am very slow at deciphering 16th century French…and I am so far behind on the biography…getting fed bits and pieces of info from Ms. Tate. What I really need is unfettered access to the Prince’s files for a day or two. Then I could crank out enough of the biography to keep my publisher happy and return to devoting more time to the Beaton book,” I told Schnipps, even though I had already read and translated everything he had sent me.
Schnipps relented with a heavy sigh. So on this very rainy Friday, I find myself in Buckingham Palace following the giraffe-like Elaine Tate. I am 5’9 but Elaine towers over me. She is very jovial as she talks a mile a minute about absolutely nothing. We turn down one twisty, sterile hallway after another and then stop at a very unassuming door with the numbers 705 painted in gold.
She motions me through the door and I enter a narrow, windowless room with row after row of boxes on cheap metal stands.
“All this stuff,” I begin, “is about the Prince?’
“Spot on!” She replies merrily, “All sorts of stuff. Birthday cards from well-wishers, news articles, letters, photos etc. Memorabilia in general. I have digitized everything I possibly can on the computer. Anyway, I think you’ll find the filing system straightforward.”
She points to a long row of boxes marked “Birth.”
“My, that’s a lot of stuff.”
“Yes, the newborn Prince was extremely popular. There’s lot of goodies in there. I tried to send you the best. Cherry-picked them all specifically for the biography.”
“Oh… well….you did a wonderful job. Just thought it would go faster if I could have a look around.”
“Suit yourself,” she says merrily, but to my consternation, she plops down in front of her computer in the front corner of the room and begins scanning what looks to be a stack of letters.
Wait a minute, isn’t she going to leave?
Right then, I’ll have to do this with her along for the ride. I begin to inch my way slowly down a row of boxes marked “Year 1.” I open a box, and find stacks of birthday cards. Trying to look like I know what I am doing, I open an envelope from a Mrs. Avery Ryhter-Ames, and out falls a card, which falls open on the floor. Then it begins to sing:
“Happy Birthday to you,
Can you wee in the loo?”
I am horrified, but Elaine laughs merrily, “Ah British humor, those singing cards are the best. Although they drive the Queen’s Pomeranians mad. You should see them bark and howl when they go off.”
I reach down and close Mrs. Avery Ryhter-Ames card with great celerity.
“Year two, year three,” I mumble to myself as I pass rows of boxes. I reach the end of a row and turn the corner. Whoa! There is only a single box marked year 4.
I pull it off the shelf while Elaine twitters away about “the insane weather.” This is London; is rain in June really so unusual? I sit down cross-legged on the ground with the box on my lap, and begin to peruse its contents. There are pictures of an absolutely cherubic little lad sitting on blankets at impromptu picnics, riding in a pedal-car, chasing a young blond-headed Rose, all dressed up and dashing about at an Easter egg hunt, all dressed up and dashing about at a Christmas party, all dressed up and sulking at some birthday party etc. I go through the entire contents of the box, and yet there is not one single reference to the disaster of his brother’s death which struck halfway through the Prince’s fourth year.
“Tea?” Elaine pops around a corner unexpectedly and I jump.
Oh goody, is she going to go for tea? If she leaves, maybe I’ll be able to find a few more boxes for year four hidden away somewhere.
“I’d love some, thanks,” I answer.
“Great!” She smiles down at me from the end of a long row of boxes. “I’ll ring and have some sent down.”
Five cups of tea later and I’m really hoping Elaine will leave for the bathroom. I have located only one more box pertaining to the time period of Albert’s death and yes, it was full of more photos and singing cards, but nothing about the whole tragic accident.
Trying to spur Elaine on to the loo, I talk about all things water related, especially the copious rain falling outside and how much I love Niagara Falls.
“Never been, must be a beautiful sight,” Elaine twitters, soldiering on with her data entry at the computer.
I talk about the mighty and powerful Victoria Falls. Same response.
Clearly Elaine has been told not to leave me alone in this room. Since she won’t leave, I need to get her to trust me, so she doesn’t mind my intense snooping. To this end I pull out the fluffy white tea cozy.
“Elaine, you have been such a great sport to help me all morning like this. I want you to have this. I made it myself,” I plop the tea cozy down on her desk.
“Ooh, what is it?” she questions jovially.
“It’s a tea cozy. You know, you put it over your favorite teapot to keep it warm.”
“So retro. My grandmother used to make them,” she coos. Then, a moment later she adds, “It looks like a tiny, snow-covered mountain.”
I know. I tell her about the yak.
“Thank you,” she says, “so nice. Nobody ever gives me things, everything is just for his nibs.” She jabs in the direction of the Prince’s memorabilia.
“It shall keep my tea most toasty,” she murmurs, and then unbelievably she pretends as if she is holding the tiny yak between her thumb and forefinger, making it jump its way up the cozy.
Oh my, the great towering Elaine Tate is totally bonkers. Although hadn’t I done the very same thing? Anyway, even after all that tea, Elaine never leaves to go to the bathroom.
I return to scanning the contents of boxes, feeling positive that under Elaine’s watchful eye, I’m never going to find anything that will help Alex. With a sigh, I shift through an enormous pile of birthday cards.
Why on earth would anybody keep all this stuff? It’s just junk.
Chapter 11
Perhaps I am looking in the wrong room. There must be a room full of Albert’s memorabilia, but how would I get admitted to that room?
I don’t know. I sit down on the floor, after making three trips to the bathroom, (escorted by Elaine,) and start searching through the only box marked year 5. It is more of the same, except tucked between the photos and birthday cards, I find a small folded over piece of paper that doesn’t look like it belongs. I unfold it quickly and find that it isn’t a letter at all; it’s a memo. The subject line reads: Margery Tannebaum. The rest of the memo is impossible to read. Somebody had taken a Sharpie and blocked out everything that is written on the page, except for the two words TOP SECRET that are splashed across the page.
Making sure that Elaine doesn’t see me, I fold the paper until it is very small, then I shove into my pant pocket.
A moment later I pop up like an inflatable bouncy castle and glide towards the door. Dear, sweet Elaine has placed the cozy on her head.
“What do you think? Do I look like I am at the top of the fashion tree?” she calls to me.
The fashion tree? What? Why would anyone put a tea cozy on their head?
“The tippy-tippy top of the tree, I would say. What say next time I’m in town, Elaine, we go somewhere for tea?”
“Shall I wear my new hat?” she asks and smiles so wide that I think she just might be mad enough to wear it out in public. Nonetheless, she scribbles down her email. I tell her I will be in contact and she escorts me out of Buckingham to my car with the cozy still on her head. Other Buckingham employees smile to themselves as she passes, as if it is all perfectly normal. Really, what would the Queen say? What would Alistair say? Even worse, what would Hollister Schmidt, snooty secretary to the King, say?
I guess I don’t need to worry about it. I have enough problems. I wave goodbye to Elaine and drive off. Since the Prince isn’t in London today (he’s in Liverpool flipping pancakes or serving punch or giving a speech or something), I drive back to the Cotswolds in a hurry. I can’t wait to examine the paper under a better light to see if I can read what was blocked out by the Sharpie. Along the way, I swear I end up behind the same truck that ran Lady Jones off the road. Once again, the driver seems in a tremendous hurry, anxious to overcome anything in his path. I lean forward as I drive, trying to get a glimpse of his license plate. It is indeed the same truck. I recognize the first two numbers from having memorized them at the scene of the accident. But there’s no way to read the rest of the license plate today, it’s splattered with mud. Stupid truck driver…with a license plate like that he’ll soon be stopped by police. I watch as the truck surges forward into the other lane, dangerously passing the car ahead of him.
“I need to report that guy!” I bluster. But I forget all about the truck driver after I pull my car into the garage and hurry inside. Pulling the paper I found out of my pocket, I examine it under my bright desk light. Unfortunately, whomever took a Sharpie to it did a good job; I can’t make out a single word.
Then, an inspired idea comes to me. I pick up the phone and dial Lady Margaret as fast as I can.
Chapter 12
Later that evening, I find myself pouring over the early days of besotted love trysts between Mary B. and Bothwell. Mary’s confessional seems to backtrack, and she writes about when their romance first started. She writes of her despair when Bothwell leaves court and sails off to marry Anna Tronds of Denmark. At that time, Bothwell was a penniless admiral who forced his new wife to sell all of her possessions. When that money ran out, he had Anna ask her wealthy family for more. Bothwell continued to sail around Europe, occasionally coming back to Scotland and resuming his affair with Mary Beaton.
I read a few more pages before googling James Hepburn. I want to see the picture of the man Mary Beaton describes as the most handsome in all of Scotland. Whereas the pictures I have seen of Lord Darnley show a pompous man, the picture of James Hepburn is of a br
ooding, cruel-looking, mustachioed creature. I read the Wikipedia article that accompanies the pictures. The author appears very knowledgeable about Bothwell. He describes how James Hepburn, Earl of Bothwell, leaves his first wife Anna (whom he never divorces) and marries again. This time, he chooses the English woman Jean Gordon. I return to read more pages of Mary Beaton’s confessional, which is full of her jealousy of Jean. This jealousy was short lived, however, because one year after their marriage, Bothwell abruptly divorces Jean. According to both Wiki and Mary Beaton, Jean was very happy to be rid of the philanderer. Mary Beaton writes, “As the Earl explained to me, she was given to nagging about his romance with others, including myself and a servant who was in the employ of the Gordon household.”
If you ask me, Jean was the only smart person in this tale. Although, if my history serves me correct, Anna Tronds is going to reemerge at the end of the story and have the ultimate revenge. And what of Mary Beaton’s revenge? I read on. Only eight days after his divorce to Jean, Earl Bothwell marries Mary, Queen of Scots. From what Mary Beaton writes in her book, this is when she begins to unravel.
“He visits me not,” Mary complains. “He has become dedicated to the Crown and to the Cause.”
I feel sorry for Beaton as I translate the 16th century French in my head. She never hears from Bothwell again. Claiming that he stole her youth and her innocence, she vows revenge. She offers her services to the Queen’s half-brother, James Moray.
“Together we devise a plan that will be the end of the Queen,” Beaton writes on one page. This declaration is so bold that I let out an audible gasp.
