Chapter 3 - THE QUEEN WHO DISAPPEARED
“Missing?” I repeated. “How does a queen disappear from her own son's wedding?”
King Frederick looked toward Sir Edmund.
“That,” he said, “is what we're trying to determine.”
I stood.
“If you think I had something to do with it—”
“I think your mother trusted you to recognize a dishonest account.”
“Then why aren't your security people handling this?”
“They are. But they don't understand what happened to the trust.”
The King pressed a button on his desk.
A side door opened, and a woman in a navy suit entered carrying a tablet.
“Inspector Margaret Shaw,” he explained. “Head of palace investigations.”
Inspector Shaw looked to be in her late forties.
Her expression suggested she had already endured a very difficult day.
“The Queen left the cathedral reception at 1:28,” she said. “Her security officer escorted her toward the east apartments. She never reached her rooms.”
“Was she alone?”
“Initially, no.”
The inspector turned her tablet.
A security photograph showed Queen Helena walking through a corridor.
Beside her was my sister.
Vivienne.
Still in her wedding gown.
I stared at the screen.
“What time was that?”
“1:34.”
Only forty-three minutes before the guards arrived at my shop.
“Where did Vivienne go afterward?”
“She returned to the reception through the west entrance.”
“Without the Queen?”
“Yes.”
King Frederick rubbed his forehead.
“She claims Helena wished to rest.”
I looked again at the photograph.
The Queen was carrying a small silver evening bag.
Vivienne was touching her elbow.
Not guiding her affectionately.
Holding her.
“Can you enlarge the Queen's left hand?”
Inspector Shaw did.
A narrow gold chain hung from Helena's fingers.
Attached to it was something familiar.
A small silver thimble.
Mother's thimble.
I recognized the tiny dent near its rim.
She had dropped it onto our kitchen tiles when I was twelve.
“How did the Queen get that?” I whispered.
The King leaned closer.
“What?”
“That thimble belonged to my mother.”
He stared at the image.
Then his face tightened.
“Helena kept it.”
“Why?”
“Your mother gave it to her twenty-nine years ago.”
He looked away.
“During a very difficult time.”
I was beginning to understand that my mother's quiet life had contained an entire history nobody had bothered to tell her daughters.
Inspector Shaw interrupted.
“Miss Hale, would you be willing to examine the financial authorization?”
“Yes.”
She handed me the tablet.
The trust document appeared on the screen.
At first glance, it looked authentic.
The seal was correct.
The trustees' details were correct.
Even my signature looked remarkably close to the real thing.
But underneath the approval was a reference code.
BH-2709-MH.
I stopped.
“That's wrong.”
“What's wrong?” the inspector asked.
“The code.”
The King leaned forward.
I explained that every Heritage Trust authorization contained a reference to the governing charter and trustee ledger.
Mother had designed the system herself.
The final letters were supposed to identify the originating ledger.
MH meant Margaret Hale, our mother.
But she'd retired that ledger eight years before her death.
“Someone copied an old document,” I said. “Whoever made this forgery didn't know the system had changed.”
Inspector Shaw wrote something down.
“So the document was fabricated.”
“Yes. But there's another problem.”
I scrolled lower.
The redevelopment company was called Bellmont Riverside Holdings.
Its directors were hidden behind two corporate holding companies.
Yet one financial institution appeared repeatedly.
Ashcroft Private Bank.
My stomach tightened.
I recognized the name.
“Vivienne has an account there.”
The inspector studied me.
“How do you know?”
“She asked me to help reconcile her statements last Christmas. She said there'd been a mistake with her investment portfolio.”
I remembered sitting at her dining table while she complained about incompetent bankers.
I'd noticed several large payments labeled CONSULTING.
When I questioned them, she'd snapped that I was too provincial to understand modern investments.
Now I wondered what those payments had actually purchased.
“Does Prince Lucien have an account there?” I asked.
Sir Edmund answered.
“Several.”
The King closed his eyes.
For the first time, I felt almost sorry for him.
His son's wedding had turned into a financial investigation.
His wife was missing.
And the only person he seemed able to trust was the daughter of a woman who had repaired old clothes.
Then the door opened.
Prince Lucien walked in without permission.
“Father, this has gone far enough.”
Inspector Shaw stepped forward.
“Your Royal Highness, we're conducting—”
“I know exactly what you're conducting.”
He pointed toward me.
“This woman is exploiting Mother's absence to make accusations against my wife.”
“Your mother is missing,” the King said sharply. “Show some concern.”
Lucien stopped.
His expression changed.
For a moment, the polished prince disappeared.
“I am concerned,” he said quietly.
“Then tell us where you last saw her.”
Lucien looked at the photograph on the tablet.
“Before the ceremony ended.”
“Vivienne escorted her away afterward,” I said.
His eyes flashed.
“Vivienne wouldn't hurt her.”
“I didn't say she would.”
“It's what you're implying.”
I stood.
“You know what I find interesting, Your Royal Highness? You keep defending my sister against accusations nobody has actually made.”
Silence filled the room.
Lucien looked toward the King.
“Father, remove her.”
Instead, King Frederick said, “Charlotte stays.”
His son stared at him.
“You would trust a seamstress over your own family?”
The King rose.
“I trusted her mother. It was one of the wisest decisions I ever made.”
Lucien's jaw tightened.
Then he noticed the photograph on the desk.
The one showing Mother with the younger King.
His expression changed so suddenly that I saw it.
Recognition.
Fear.
“Where did you get that?” he demanded.
The King picked it up.
“From my private files.”
Lucien took a step backward.
“Then you should look at the original.”
“What original?” I asked.
He swallowed.
“The photograph was cropped.”
The King went still.
Lucien looked at me, and something like pity entered his face.
“Charlotte,” he said, “your mother didn't just manage the Heritage Trust.”
Before he could continue, Inspector Shaw's tablet sounded an alert.
She read the message.
Her expression hardened.
“Your Majesty, the Queen has been located.”
“Where?”
“The Royal Heritage Gallery.”
Relief passed across the King's face.
Then the inspector continued.
“She's conscious. But she's refusing to leave.”
“Why?”
Inspector Shaw looked directly at me.
“Because she says someone is trying to destroy the only evidence Margaret Hale left behind.”
I grabbed Mother's silver watch.
The King noticed.
“Charlotte?”
I looked at him.
“Your Majesty, what's inside the Royal Heritage Gallery?”
He hesitated.
Then answered.
“Your mother's final restoration project.”
May you like
And Prince Lucien whispered something I would never forget.
“Then we're already too late.”
