“A royal servant impersonating a German?” I said.
“Use your loaf, Diana! Half the family was German. I’m sure they had servants from the old country. There was always a German governess in tow. There were probably other retainers from Germany as well.”
“Wouldn’t someone miss a royal servant?”
“Not if he had a relatively minor position. Footman or-”
“Gardener!” I suddenly realized that we were talking about Scotland. “A servant at Balmoral. It’s so remote, no one would know what went on there. Is it far from Dungavel House?”
Sarah considered it. “A hundred miles perhaps. They could have done it in a few hours, I think. One telephone call to Balmoral from the Duke of Hamilton, and it could all have been arranged by morning.”
I began to pull leaves off a branch of rowan. The wind felt suddenly cold. “But what did they do with the real Rudolf Hess, Sarah? Surely you can’t think that he agreed to become a gardener at Balmoral?”
“No. But I don’t think they’d kill him. It’s not the family style. We tend to shut people up when they’re inconvenient, at least at first. Richard III and the two little princes. Brenda the First imprisoning Mary Queen of Scots.”
I giggled at “Brenda the First.” Sarah is awfully jolly, but I’m always afraid she’ll slip and say something like that in public or to the press. Then heads would roll!
“I wonder if there’s any way of finding out what they did with the real Rudolf Hess,” said Sarah.
I shivered. “Are you sure you want to know?”
I don’t know exactly where Sarah got the information about the family secret, but I do know when she got it. It was in January of 1991, just before she left for a trip to the Everglades Club in Palm Beach, Florida. I know that she had been looking into old records books on Balmoral, and researching family history, and she did publish that nonfiction book about the royal ancestors, but I think that book was just an excuse to cover up her real inquiries. I wasn’t seeing much of her by then, because she had become rather too impulsive for safety, and besides I had more than enough troubles of my own, but just before she left for the United States, she sent me a coded package to my secret postal address in Knightsbridge. (There is no privacy at the palace, with all those prying eyes!)
Even then, Sarah was unusually careful. There was no message from her, and no explanation. All the package contained was a souvenir guidebook of Glamis Castle. That was the Queen Mum’s girlhood home in Scotland, so at first I thought it was another of Sarah’s jokes, so I paged through it to see if she had put any funny little drawings in the illustrations, or perhaps written crude remarks in the margins, but she hadn’t. The book was perfectly ordinary, I couldn’t see what she meant by sending me such a thing, so I put it away in my desk at Kensington.
Later, of course, I must have read it twenty times. After I realized that the woman who came back from Florida, the one who got drunk on the plane and threw sugar packets, was not Sarah Ferguson, Duchess of York. The family knew about the substitution, of course, but the resemblance was nearly perfect, and by then Sarah’s public appearances had been curtailed, so that she didn’t go out much. No one ever gets very chummy with a Royal, anyhow. “How do you do, ma’am?” is about the sum total of anyone’s acquaintance with us. Except for the servants and courtiers, but I’ve warned you already that one cannot trust them. Believe it.
I stayed away from the imposter Fergie after that. I didn’t want anyone to think that I suspected. I knew too much, you see, and it would be dangerous to let them find out that I knew. I think poor Andrew minded very much about losing his wife and having to put up with that imposter, but the family’s word is law, so he had to go along, and pretend that the stranger was Sarah. He didn’t have to pretend for long. A few months later the “Duchess of York” took a holiday on the Riviera with a silly-looking Texan, and a photographer conveniently snapped some scandalous photographs that finished the Yorks’ marriage. After that, “Sarah” left Sunninghill Park, left the family, and left public life. I think the family hopes people will forget about her. I wonder where the imposter will go when the furor dies down. Back where she came from?
Not that it matters. What really concerns me is the whereabouts of poor Sarah, who knew too much. She must have tried to use her knowledge of the family secret as leverage in some battle with the family. Sarah was just impulsive enough to have done such a foolhardy thing. But I know where she is, just as she knew where the real Rudolf Hess ended his days.
I don’t know what she did with the Hess papers, though. I suspect that the family never found them. When the fire broke out at Windsor Castle, and Andrew was the only family member present, I did rather wonder, but I’m not sure I even want to know where those papers are. They’ve done enough damage as it is. And at least I know what has become of poor Sarah.
Glamis Castle is in Scotland, a few hours north of the Duke of Hamilton’s estate. In the guidebook I finally found the message Sarah was trying to send me. It is on page six:
The secret chamber, about which are woven many legends, is thought to be located deep in the thickness of the crypt walls on the left as you face the two small windows at the end. In this room it is said that one of the Lords of Glamis and the “Tiger” Earl of Crawford played cards with the Devil himself on the Sabbath. So great were the resulting disturbances that eventually the room was built up and permanently sealed…
I’ve done quite a bit of reading on Glamis Castle, birthplace of the Queen Mother-and home of Macbeth. There is a secret room behind walls that are three feet thick. From the left side of the castle one can see the narrow windows high up the wall of rosy stone. They say there is no way into that room, but there must be. Someone took food in to Rudolf Hess for however long he lived there, before he took his secret to the grave. I’m sure the family sees that its prisoners are well-treated. They are not cruel people, only single-minded.
If you are reading this, Mills, you are now the King, and you must make them do as you say. Take people that you trust and go to Glamis Castle. Your cousin Simon will be the nineteenth Earl of Strathmore and Kinghome by now. I wonder if he will know the family secret. Anyhow, you must find that secret room, and if your Auntie Sarah is still alive, you must get her out.
Mummy is counting on you.
With lots of love to my own dear King,
HRH Diana, The Princess of Wales
THE MATCHMAKER
“YOU DON’T LOOK like the head of a dating service,” said Carl, nervously licking his lips.
The large woman behind the desk smiled and fingered a lock of greasy brown hair that dangled over her glasses. “You were expecting someone more like a game-show hostess, Mr., er…” She consulted the manila folder in front of her. “Mr. Wallin.”
Just as she said this, the woman looked up from Carl’s file, and Carl had to pretend that he hadn’t been wiping his sweaty palms on his slacks. “Did I expect glamour?” He shrugged. “I guess so. I’ve never been to one of these dating places before.”
“Naturally not, Mr. Wallin,” said the director blandly. Her expression suggested that all the clients said that, and that nothing could interest her less. “Please sit down. I am Ms. Erinyes.”
Carl blinked. “Is that Spanish?” His dating preferences tended more toward northern European ancestry.
“It is Greek. Ancient Greek, as a matter of fact.” Her jowls creased into a smile. “Now let’s talk about you.”
“I thought you people matched couples up by computer,” said Carl, frowning.
Another smile. “And so we do, Mr. Wallin, which is why I don’t look like a centerfold. I started this company with personality-matching software of my own design. So, you see, my specialty is not romance or even the social niceties. I am a psychologist and an expert in computer technology.”