Free The Prince and I: A Romantic Mystery (The Royal Biography Cozy Mystery Series Book 1) by Julie Sarff, The Hope Diamond, The Heir to Villa Buschi Page B

palace, are extremely eerie at night. They might be fine by daylight, with 500 tourists marching through. But with the setting of the sun, and a particularly thick fog all about, the entire North-West tower gives off a disturbing vibe.
    Dutifully Alex reenacts how Mary’s second husband, Lord Darnley, came rushing up a private spiral staircase from his room below. With the help of his group of henchman he dragged poor Rizzio, Mary’s private secretary, from the hem of her skirts. Darnley and his men then used their swords to turn the poor man into a pincushion.
    It’s easy to imagine such a tragedy on a night like tonight.
    “I have to confess I don’t really know who Bald Agnes is,” I say, when Alex is done imitating Rizzio falling over dead.
    “What? There’s something the historian doesn’t know?” he mutters, standing back up and picking his cake plate up off of Mary, Queen of Scot’s bedside table.
    “Well I ….I sort of stick with the leaders of countries and all… ”
    “Of course you do. You specialize in royals. Which is lucky for me, because that’s how we met.” He grins and takes another bite of his cake. “Well, let’s see, Bald Agnes, the poor woman was garroted and burned at the stake for witchcraft by James I. It was in the late 1500’s, I believe. I’m not too good with dates. But I believe they were seeing witches everywhere in those days.”
    “And you really think you saw her ghost?”
    “Who knows what I saw when I was three!” he jokes. Then he takes me around and shows me some of the amazing objects in Queen Mary’s room. The most amazing of which is a chest with tortoise shell hearts that gleam ominously in the track lighting. In this light, the hearts appear blood red. Alex opens the doors to the chest, inside is a maze of tiny drawers. He opens each one and we peer inside until he gets to a small door hidden behind all the other doors. Inside, it is like a small stage surrounded by mirrors. On the stage, reflected in all the mirrors, is a little brown book that appears to be made out of vellum.
    “Never seen that before.” Alex jabs his cake fork at the book. “It’s always been empty when the tour guides showed me it before.”
    “May I,” I ask and pick up the object.
    “What is this piece of furniture,” I ask, as I run a hand over the sewn binding of the book.
    “It’s a chest that holds one’s collection.” Alex informs me, “One’s finest figurine would go on this little stage, that way it would be reflected in all these other mirrors as soon as the doors are opened. But, like I said, I’ve never seen a book in here before.”
    I scratch my head and open up the book to glance at the first page. “Honestly, this seems authentic. It’s written in French. By its construction, I’d place it at about mid-16th century.”
    “Well, what the devil is it doing here?”
    “Maybe somebody misplaced it. It looks valuable. You should return it to the palace curator.” I snap the book closed and offer it to him.
    “I’ll do that,” he responds, taking the book from me with his free hand. “I’ll turn into the head curator, Mr. Schnipps, in London. But before we leave the room, I want to tell you something about the chest.
    “It didn’t really belong to Mary Queen of Scots, did it?”
    “How the devil, Lizzie?”
    “It’s a Victorian collection chest, isn’t it?”
    “Yes, that’s right. Some Earl of something or rather…” he reads the man’s name of a plaque on a nearby stand that describes the chest, “gave it to Queen Victoria and claimed it had belonged to the poor, forsaken Mary, but it turns out it was built 100 years or so after her death. How did you know? I am beginning to believe you are the brightest historian I’ve ever met.”
    “I read the plaque when you were doing your David Rizzio-as-pin-cushion impression and falling on the floor,” I say cheekily, paying him back for tricking me about the cake plates.
    “Fair enough,