The Mirror of Naples

By Rebecca Yount

During his routine morning rounds, Sir Cedric Mallory discovers a man in the Woolsey Rooms who is not supposed to be there before opening hours. When he informs him of this, the man turns to face him and Mallory sees that he is none other than the Queen's own private secretary, Sir Peregrine Lloyd. Mallory also notices that Lloyd has a dagger shoved deeply into his stomach area.
"The Mirror of Naples: Preserve it," Lloyd manages to rasp before falling to the floor, dying.
Thus begins the convoluted investigation into the murder of Sir Peregrine, and Detective Chief Inspector, Mick Chandra and his partner, Detective Elizabeth Chang, are assigned to this high-profile case. What did Sir Peregrine mean by referring to the Mirror of Naples? Mick learns that the Mirror was a priceless jewel once in the possession of Henry VIII, but was thought to have disappeared long ago. But did it?
The case takes Mick and his partner to the far reaches of Buckingham Palace, the Tower of London, Windsor Castles, as well as Ukraine and Russia. Was the Mirror fenced to purchase nuclear warheads by a hostile foreign power? Was it stolen by a greedy collector? Or does it really still exist at all?
Be prepared to be surprised.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Jul 15, 2019
• ISBN: 9781543974874

Book preview

David

Chapter 1

As he had for the past nine years, Cedric Mallory, Director of Hampton Court Palace, was systematically inspecting select rooms an hour before the eager hordes of visitors were admitted through the main gate of one of England’s most popular tourist attractions. Cheerfully going about his routine, Mallory was blissfully unaware that the ground beneath his feet was about to shift seismically.

Ascending the staircase to the Wolsey Rooms — one of the last examples of the palace’s original Tudor architecture — he checked his digital watch, noting that it had just clicked to 8:43 A. M. This was the director’s favorite time of day — the quiet time before the crowds swept into the palace like a marauding army of Ottoman invaders intent on possessing one of the kingdom’s most precious treasures.

The fifty-four-year old specialist in British renaissance architecture harbored a deep sense stewardship toward Hampton Court where one could inhale the same air as once breathed its most famous occupant, the redoubtable King Henry VIII.  Mallory’s daily inspection tour was hardly daunting for him. In fact, it filled him with unadulterated joy.  He could scarcely believe that he was actually being paid for his chosen profession.

Although windowless, the wood-paneled Wolsey Rooms nevertheless retained an aura of lived-in warmth, much like a secret bolt hole where one could hide from the rest of humanity and freely indulge great dreams.  Considering the palace’s history, such fantasies were easy to come by.  Although once owned by the great chancellor himself, Cardinal Wolsey relinquished Hampton Court to his monarch in the year 1528, when Henry made it patently obvious that he fancied the brick monstrosity for himself.

Wolsey was no fool. Aware that he was rapidly falling from Henry’s grace, the quintessential survivor willingly vacated England’s most splendid residence. If the wily cardinal had learned anything in his many years of royal service, it was that the monarch usually gets his or her own way.

Pawing a wall switch to the right of the entryway, Mallory flipped on the room’s track lighting only to be startled by the tall, rangy figure of a man leaning against the fireplace, his back to the director.

Sir, may I ask why you’re here, Mallory inquired. Visitors’ hours don’t begin for another forty-five minutes.

The man slowly turned to face him.  He looked vaguely familiar, prompting the director to reach back into his memory to place him.  Well dressed in a dark-blue pinstriped bespoke suit, the trespasser had a long, deeply lined face, set off by sad, deep blue eyes, a high forehead, and a full head of ginger-colored hair beginning to show the first signs of graying. Mallory noticed that his unwanted guest grasped his abdomen in a protective manner.

Who are you?

More is the pity, the man answered softly.      Removing his hand, he revealed a bloody wound on his white dress shirt made by a dagger protruding from his abdomen.

Sweet Jesus! Mallory gasped.

More is the pity, the stranger repeated before collapsing to the hardwood floor.

Chapter 2

The director knelt beside him, feeling his neck for a barely detectable pulse. He flipped out his cell phone.

Hold on, hold on!  I’ll call an ambulance.

The Mirror of Naples, the stranger whispered hoarsely.

What?

Preserve it.

The Mirror…?

Before Mallory could finish, the last breath of life

with you?"

Hell, no, Barnes huffed. Just because I chatted up the man a few times doesn’t mean he revealed his soul to me.

What do you know about the Mirror of Naples? Mick asked, changing tack.

I’m an armaments expert, Chief.  I know nothing about mirrors.  You’d have to talk to one of our furniture curators to get that information.

No, Mick corrected him, chuckling.  The Mirror of Naples was a priceless diamond in Henry the Eighth’s possession. Mallory told me the jewel is believed to have been sold and subsequently lost over the centuries.  Yet, as Lloyd was dying, he mentioned the Mirror to Mallory, telling him to ‘preserve it.’

Running his hand through his unruly thick hair, Barnes said, Well, that does make things interesting.  The Queen’s secretary is murdered at Hampton Court with one of our own antique daggers, and his last words address a long-lost diamond belonging to one of her ancestors.  It doesn’t get any better than that, does it, Chief?

"Or worse, Mick added.  If somehow Lloyd was in on a scam or heist of this historic jewel, perhaps it got him murdered.  The question is: why would he take such a risk?"

The Eighth Circle, Barnes answered cryptically.

Dante?

"The Inferno, the curator confirmed.  The Eighth Circle is the part of hell where the fraudulent, the malicious, the panderers, flatterers, and seducers are condemned to spend eternity.  If you think about it, Lloyd had to flatter and pander his way through his job as the Queen’s secretary, dealing with all sorts of inflated egos within Buckingham Palace. And who knows?  Perhaps he was living a lifestyle he couldn’t afford.  He certainly wouldn’t have been the first royal courtier to do so.  History is fraught with flunkies like him who go deep into debt in order to keep up appearances.  If somehow Lloyd came upon the Mirror of Naples, it may have cursed him."

The question is: does the Mirror of Naples still exist? Mick asked rhetorically.

Apparently it existed for Sir Peregrine, which is all that really matters. And from the little you’ve told me, this jewel would have been worth killing for. People have killed for less, you know.

Yes, Mick agreed, handing Barnes his card.  Well, thank you for your time.  Should you think of anything else, please call me.

You can count on it, Chief.

As he made his way to the entrance to the south privy gardens to check on the SOCOS, Mick puzzled as to why Randy Barnes would have laid out priceless weapons so carelessly in an unlocked display area. Although Barnes appeared to be credible, still the notion disturbed him.  It also troubled Mick that the curator had not informed Cedric Mallory of Lloyd’s secret early morning visits to the Wolsey Rooms.

The Eighth Circle — where malicious seducers, panderers, and flatterers are condemned to spend eternity.

More is the pity, Sir Peregrine had said to Mallory.

Pity for what?

Mick didn’t know the answer but wagered that, as Lloyd’s life began to unfold, he would discover the Queen’s secretary was not the man he seemed to be. 

Chapter 3

"Sir Peregrine came from a wealthy family that claims to be related to the Lloyds who own and operate Lloyds bank.  He read history at Cambridge, graduated with honors, then joined The Evening Standard as a reporter whose ‘beat’ was the House of Commons.  Later he was recruited by a public relations firm headed by a minor royal.  That’s how he came to Her Majesty’s attention."

Detective Inspector Elizabeth Chang was reading to Mick from a copy of Lloyd’s dossier, which she had requested from MI5.

He was knighted about a year ago.  Before his untimely death, Lloyd had been the Queen’s private secretary for five turbulent years, deftly throwing the press off the scent of one royal scandal after another.

Mick and his partner were meeting over lunch at the Sanctuary pub near Scotland Yard, tucking into steak and ale pies, chips, and peas as they discussed their new case.

Any skeletons in his closet? Mick asked, scooping up a forkful of sweet fresh garden peas.

I was just getting to that, his Hong Kong-born partner said. It appears Lloyd was arrested during a sting when he solicited sex with an undercover male police officer at a public toilet in Bloomsbury. However, the charges were dropped and the incident never saw the light of day in the press.

How long ago was this?

Elizabeth scanned the dossier again. Soon after he became Her Majesty’s secretary, so that would have been about five years ago. It looks like the rumor mill was alive and well, though.  Gay rights groups were pressuring Lloyd to ‘come out,’ but he steadfastly refused, insisting he was in a long term relationship with a woman. 

Was he?

Mmm, perhaps he had a fling or two with women, just for the sake of appearances.  One particular name keeps popping up in the narrative: The Lady Octavia Kent.  If her photograph in this dossier is even a remote likeness, she’s stunning.

Let me see, Mick said, craning his neck.  You’re right.  She’s a beauty.

Perhaps we should have a chat with the Honorable Lady.

That’s a given.  What else does MI5 tell us?

Elizabeth turned the page. From all reports referenced here, Lloyd was brilliant at his job and got on famously with the Queen.  He was…let me see… he was known for his gift of mimicry and his irreverent wit, which apparently appealed to Her Majesty.  Even one of his detractors at Buck House is quoted as saying, ‘Sir Peregrine can charm the bark off a tree.’ He was also known to be keenly intellectual and cultured.  Invitations to the elegant soirees Lloyd held at his Kingston-upon-Thames residence were highly coveted. Even the Prince of Wales and the Duchess of Cornwall had been known to ‘drop in’ on his parties.

Really?

Would MI5 lie?

Let’s not go there, Mick mumbled, savoring some of his steak and ale pie.  What about vital statistics?

Forty-seven years old at the time of his death; just short of six feet, twelve stone and three pounds, blue eyes, reddish hair and… She drifted off, scanning the page then turned it.  Lloyd was asthmatic, but beyond that, he seems to have been healthy.

Does it mention if he carried an inhaler with him?

No.  Why?

Mick shrugged.  Just a random question. This morning I not only questioned Cedric Mallory but Hampton Court’s armaments curator, Randy Barnes.

How does Barnes account for the missing dagger?

He doesn’t, except to admit the weapons were exposed in an unsecured area.

Is that par for the course?  Elizabeth asked.

Apparently.  By the way, Barnes thinks you’re hot.

Elizabeth released a ragged sigh.  Ah, the effect I have on men, even those I’ve never met.

Although she was being facetious, it was true.  Over the past year, Elizabeth Chang had transformed herself from nerdy to pretty, losing fifteen pounds, changing her hairstyle from a frumpy pageboy to a sculpted shorter cut and taking the advice of a cosmetic consultant by sporting natural, tawny shades of lip gloss and blush. Also gone were the glasses (compliments of laser surgery), as well as the dowdy clothes, replaced by sleek pantsuits.

She and Mick had been partners for fourteen years, starting out on the Met at Bobbies on the Beat.  As one of the Met’s first WPCs — or Woman Police Constables — the 34-year-old Chang’s ethnicity made her a rarity on the force.  In an organization that was persistently accused of institutional racism, Mick and Elizabeth were among the Met’s scarcely 6% minority members.  That their clearance rate was consistently the highest within the CID didn’t win them friends among their more bigoted colleagues. Little wonder they served as one another’s comrade in arms, earning them the moniker Batman and Robin.

Despite their closeness, their relationship had always remained strictly professional.  The possibility of an affair had never occurred to either of them, which is exactly the way they wanted it.

I also Googled the Mirror of Naples, Elizabeth said.

And?

Nothing.  Not a shred of information.  Perhaps we should speak with the curator of the Royal Crown Jewels at the Tower of London.

My thought exactly, Mick agreed, sprinkling more malt vinegar on his chips.

May I have that when you’re finished?

He handed Elizabeth the bottle.  Be my guest.

You know, this whole lot with Lloyd’s murder is bizarre, she said, liberally dousing her own chips.  It’s almost as if his killer had acted in plain sight.

Cheeky, Mick said.

"Very."

Mick thoughtfully munched a chip.  I wish I had a better handle on the Mirror of Naples. For starters, does it still exist, and why would Lloyd mention it in his dying breath?

‘Tis a mystery, his partner agreed.  At least the Tower’s curator of jewels might be able to enlighten us about its existence.

But Mallory admitted to me that every legitimate Tudor scholar he knows has never even mentioned the Mirror to him, Mick said with evident frustration.

Mick, the source for the answer may right in front of our noses.

What source?

Jess!  Isn’t she crackers about Tudor history?

Chapter 4

Mick’s eyes lit up at the mention of Jess, his wife of over two years.  An American expatriate, Jessica Beaumont Chandra had rapidly become one of England’s premier concert pianists, no mean achievement in a country famous for its xenophobia.  In addition to concertizing widely across the UK and the Continent, Jess also held an adjunct faculty position at RAM — the Royal Academy of Music.  She and Mick had met three years earlier during a homicide investigation in an Essex village where Jess had taken refuge after a series of personal tragedies had prompted her to flee America.

To the shock of his colleagues, former ladies’ man Mick Chandra had settled into domesticity with a contented vengeance. Viewing their marriage as an extension of their heated love affair, Mick and Jess were also the proud parents of 14-month-old Sarabeth Chandra, a child who had inherited the precocious, if headstrong, genes that coursed through the bloodlines of her Norman French Beaumont mother and Kerala Indian/Welsh Chandra father.

Acknowledging his partner’s suggestion to consult his wife on arcane Tudor trivia, Mick lofted his teacup as if it were a flute of champagne.

Elizabeth, you’re a genius.

–––-

It was a few minutes past seven in the evening when Mick finally arrived at his century-old restored Victorian terrace, located in the north London neighborhood of Stoke Newington.  As he parked his Q-car — or unmarked police vehicle — he could hear Jess playing the piano in the dining room, which had long ago been given over to her seven-and-a-half foot ebony Yamaha.            Entering the foyer, Mick was greeted by Da Da!, as his 14-month-old daughter tottered down the hall toward him, then wrapped her arms around his legs.

Standing in the backlight of the archway to the living room, Jess, arms folded across her chest, observed the scene with an indulgent smile.

Hello, Gorgeous, Mick greeted his wife.

He was not just flattering her.  Petite and curvy, with abundant honey blond hair casually pulled back from her face, Jess was by anyone’s estimation a beautiful woman.  It was difficult to say which of her features was the most stunning:  her porcelain complexion, large dark-green eyes, full lips, or her nose rendered somewhat imperfect by a bump on its bridge, all of which worked in harmony.  Like Mick, she was in her mid-30s and had been previously married.  During the disintegration of her first marriage, Jess’ 10-year-old son, Boyd, had been brutally run down and killed by a hit-and-run driver near their Washington, D.C. home.  Because of Boyd’s tragic death, Sarabeth’s presence in her life held particular poignancy for a woman who, at one time, had thought of herself as star-crossed.

Despairing Boyd’s death, Jess fled a concert engagement in New York, attempted suicide, got professional help, then escaped to England to start life anew.  That’s when she met Mick — a brash, attractive then-Inspector who oozed sex appeal, as did she.  Theirs’ was spontaneous combustion, and the white-hot flames of their passion gave no indication of burning out. Their infant daughter, with her father’s jet black hair and mother’s bewitching green eyes, was a testament of the Chandra’s love epic.

I heard you playing the piano, Mick said, as he lifted up his daughter and gave her a cuddle.

I was entertaining Sarabeth.

Did she enjoy it?

Jess pulled a face.  She put her hands over her ears. Sighing, she added, Everyone’s a critic.

Mick kissed his wife.  She’ll come around eventually.

I let Sarabeth stay up until you got home, Jess said, returning his kiss. Ya Ya fed her dinner before I got back here from RAM. Moussaka, no less.

Ya Ya was Sarabeth’s devoted Greek nanny, who conveniently lived down the street from the Chandras.

Shall I bathe baby girl and put her down for the night? Mick asked.

That would be great.  Jess moved toward the kitchen.  Meanwhile, I’ll finish preparing our own dinner.

What are we having?

Roast duck with a cherry glaze, side salad, and Duchess potatoes.

Mick, a terrific cook himself, was impressed.

Cricky, luv!  What are we celebrating?

Over her shoulder, she flashed her husband a dazzling smile.

Your homecoming.

Chapter 5

Although a temperate, damp spring had settled over London, Mick built a small fire in the living room to make the room feel cozier.  With Sarabeth sleeping soundly in her crib, the Chandras felt free to have pre-dinner cocktails — martini on the rocks with a twist for her, and Bushmills on the rocks for him.

Sir Peregrine’s murder is all over the news tonight, Jess said, taking a sip of her drink.  Even the Queen issued a statement, albeit in her typically restrained manner. I must say, though, Her Majesty appeared genuinely distressed on the telly. Any idea who could have done such a horrid thing?

Not a clue — at least not yet, he admitted.

But why…?

Her question was interrupted by the appearance of the Chandra’s two pets: Pickles, their chubby grey-striped tabby cat, and Nessie, their black Scottish terrier. Like the Basques and the Spanish, the two had recently forged an uneasy truce that could shatter in a New York minute, as Jess put it.  Casting about the room to choose their places, Pickles settled under the coffee table while Nessie wedged herself between Mick and Jess on the sofa.

Something has come between us, luv, Mick announced.

"It was bound to happen eventually. Little did I know that the ‘other woman’ in your life would have fur and claws.

While they spent a few silent moments enjoying their cocktails, Mick observed Jess tapping the toes of her right foot to some celestial music heard only by her.  As a concert pianist she often did this, working out difficult passages in her head, sometimes absently moving her fingers across an invisible keyboard, grappling with the thorny challenges of Bach, Beethoven, Brahms, and Mozart.

Jess, did any of the news report mention Lloyd’s dying words?

She gave her husband a puzzled look.  No. Did he say something significant?

Perhaps.  He mentioned the Mirror of Naples.

Jess gasped, You can’t be serious!

I’m perfectly serious.  Do you know anything about the Mirror?  I know you’re a Tudor history buff.

She nodded.  I’ll tell you what, I’ll brush up on the subject before bedtime and give you the lowdown in the morning.  I have a number of books on Tudor history and, as far as I can recall, they all mention the Mirror.

Does it still exist?

Nobody seems to know.  I promise you, Mick, if you become involved with the Mirror of Naples, you’re in for a huge adventure.  This particular gem has a history of bad karma.  But why would Lloyd mention it?

Why, indeed?

A buzzer went off in the kitchen.  Duck’s ready, she said getting up.

Before we eat, I have one more question for you, Mick said.

Fire away, Chief Inspector.

What the blazes are Duchess potatoes?

Chapter 6

Are you ready for this? Jess asked, taking a book from one of the piles neatly arranged at her feet.

Mick nodded. I’m all ears, Professor.

She turned to a page marked with a paper clip, the text highlighted in Day Glo pink.

If I’m giving you an overload of information, Mick, just stop me.  When it comes to Tudor trivia, there’s no such thing as too much, as far as I’m concerned.

On this cloudy Saturday morning, the two were sitting together on a leather-upholstered sofa in their upstairs home office, accompanied by Sarabeth and Nessie, who snoozed together on a quilt that had been spread on the floor, and joined by Pickles, who sat on the desktop, paws tucked under her plump tummy, glaring disdainfully at the sleeping pair.

Here’s the lowdown on the Mirror of Naples, Jess began.  Most of us know that there was a sixteenth-century English Queen named Mary Tudor, later dubbed ‘Bloody Mary’ by historians.  She was Henry the Eighth’s first surviving child.  What many don’t know is there was another Mary Tudor.  She was Henry’s younger sister, regarded as the most beautiful princess in all of Christendom.  In fact, her contemporaries referred to Mary as ‘The Nymph of Heaven.’

What did she look like? Mick asked.

Like this. She pointed to Mary’s portrait on the page opposite the text.

He took a moment to study the flawless face of the young, blond princess — breathtakingly beautiful, yes, but with a decidedly steely look beaming from her dark blue eyes.

In the year 1514, Henry brokered Mary into an arranged marriage with the widowed King Louis XII of France.  She was eighteen, while Louis was fifty-two, which was considered ancient at the time.

I suspect the princess wasn’t too thrilled with the arrangement.

Not one bit, Jess said.  "But it wasn’t for nothing that Mary was a headstrong Tudor to the core.  In essence, she told her