A Royal Murder

POIROT walks across the train, carefully calculating each twitching eye and sweaty palm.

I faintly hear someone call me.

I ignore it.

“Isabelle, may I come in?”

It was Annie; my aunt.

She was knocking on my room door.

In fact, it was bordering on hammering now.

I groaned.

I was watching one of Poirot’s most famous cases; Murder on the Orient Express and was completely riveted.

David Suchet was just about to reveal who the murderer was.

I never seem to understand how he figures out who the killer is. He’s one of the only people who still seem to baffle me with his every move. I don’t think I’ll ever find out how he understands everything from few random suspicious clues that I always seem to miss. Even if I guess who the criminal was I was always wrong.

This time I was sure it was Princess Dragomiroff. It had to be her. She was Daisy’s godmother, she could wear a kimono and she could have easily slipped into Rachette’s compartment.

Oh, but everyone else could have as well!

I got up from the belly flopped position that I was in and cringed at my rumpled pink dress. Annie was not going to be happy.

I paused the movie just as I heard her voice.

“Isabella! -”

“Come In!” I sang.

“Isabella Ariadne Ronaldino!! Don’t you know it’s un-princess like to keep a person waiting!?” she said, stressing on the un in the un-princess like.

I cringed at the mention of my middle name.

There was nothing wrong with it of course. It was a perfectly wonderful name as far as middle names go. In fact, it was the name of one of Poirot’s famous friends; Ariadne Oliver who was a famous crime writer.

But the use of my middle name has been attached to me only when I’ve done something wrong. This being such a situation. Therefore, the inherent dislike for the name had started long before I knew how to even spell murder.

I also didn’t like the fact that I was a Princess. Yes, all of you must be thinking that I should be grateful that I was born into such finery and not born onto the streets where people barely had enough to eat and drink (My Father is working on that by the way).

But being a Princess entails a lot of unwanted strings. First off, the immense amount of clothing I had. I didn’t want so many clothes. I’d trade one of my finest dresses for a pair of trousers. Secondly, the unwanted attention. It was mind-numbing how those stupid news reporters were. When I was a child, if I’d caught a fever the news headlines would be ‘The Royal Fever’ or ‘If she caught it you will too!’. They wanted to know if I scraped a knee or cut my hair or even learnt how to be potty-trained.

Now they wanted to know how many lovers I had.

As if I had time for those kind of things.

It was exhausting. Thirdly, there was so much etiquette and poise I had to know about I could throw myself off a cliff and they’d probably say, ‘At least look like a princess while doing it.’

My motto; as taught by my first governess was supposed to be ‘Perfection is absolute.’

Not that I cared much about it of course. But if I had to be that way for my people, I would try to. At least in front of them.

“Look at the status of that dress of yours! Haven’t I told you that it’s much too old to be worn even at home?”

I shrugged.

My reply was a sigh.

“It’s getting late, you need to come have your lunch. Oh, and by the way, Prince Harry came by.” She smirked.

I groaned. Being a Princess came with horrible consequences. Prince Harry apparently wasn’t getting the message, I wasn’t interested.

“Hairy?” I asked. “Did you tell him what I told you to say?”

Annie cringed at my nickname for him. I only used it privately of course. And it was true. His gold hair went past his shoulders and would always keep it that way. Sometimes he would actually braid it.

Hey, I’m not judging of course. But some girls aren’t really fond of princes in Rapunzel disguises.

“Yes, I did, but he might start wondering how you’ve been having chicken pox for more than a month.” She said amused.

“That’s because he hasn’t got the hint yet.” I groaned.

Annie was supposed to be me and my brother’s official nanny; although she preferred the term ‘super cool aunt’. She was appointed by Duke Joseph Ronaldino, my dad. And no, he wasn’t a fourth nor a fifth, like those Valerian Kings and princes. Always an Edward the seventh or a Davis the eighth.

Didn’t they have any creativity?

Anyway, since my brother and I had scared away all our other nannies, when I was sixteen, my dad asked my Aunt to be like our guardian.

Now it’s more like Annie and I are my brother’s nannies.

One’s not enough in his case.

She was only two years elder to me and we knew each other since we were in diapers so when my dad appointed her as our guardian, you can see why I would be absolutely delighted by the idea.

“What were you watching again? Poirot? Miss Marple?” she asked good-humouredly.

I was a little afraid of her when she was angry, but when she was in a good mood she was the second best person to be around.

A detective would be the first best person to be around in my opinion.

“Poirot,” I replied, tinting my voice in a French accent.

“What is it with you and mysteries?” she asked amused. “If you’re not watching Poirot, you’re reading Sherlock Holmes or Nancy Drew. If not, you’re playing Cluedo with the maids. Otherwise, you make the butler hide something and then try to go and find it, saying you’re Miss Shaalock Omes.” She ended up holding her nose.

We both laughed at the last one.

“Hey, the last time I did that was when I was six!” I said in a fit of laughter.

“Well, have you honestly grown up since then?” she rolled her eyes.

“Annie I’m seventeen! I think I have the right to say that I have.” I replied puffing out my chest.

“Oh!” she huffed, sounding like my dad when he sat down in the throne room after a good meal. “I guess you’re too old for this too then?”

She started to tickle me.

Let me be sure to warn you that there is absolutely no part of my body that does not tickle.

“Annie No!” I howled. Thankfully, my room had sound proof walls.

She pinned me to the bed and tickled my stomach hard.

Somehow my hand made its way to her side and I poked her, hard.

She yelped in pain.

I took the god sent opportunity and pushed her off me. Then I ran to the other end of the room, covering my mouth and howling with laughter.

Amidst our laughter, we heard low, muffled voices outside my balcony. We looked at each other puzzled. I quickly smoothened my dress as much as I could, combed my fingers through my unruly blonde hair, and placed my tiara on top of it.

When I made my way towards the balcony, I saw a familiar looking woman. It was Lady Rosalinda Fernandez or in my head, Rosie and her Cronies. I groaned. She and her cronies were back to taunt my brother. The poor fellow. I sighed. It wasn’t his fault that he was next in line for the Andalasian Dukedom.

Cue the small history lesson: Yes, I’m the eldest. No, I don’t get to be the Duchess of Andalasia. We live in a patriarchal society. Need I say more?

They looked like they were debating on the best way to get to my brother. I stepped out into the balcony and shouted.

“Lady Rosalinda! Good day!!”

“Isabella, what in Andalasia are you doing?” whispered Annie.

“Shush, I’m saving my brother’s arse from impending doom,” I whispered, giggling.

“Your grace!” cried Rosie, curtsying, her mop of brown hair falling around her. Her cronies copied her.

“May we have an audience with Prince Edward, your grace?” asked one of the girls.

“Oh Dear. Izzie don’t be rude,” Annie warned, worriedly.

“Don’t worry Anny, I’ll be princess-like.” I winked. Then I hid against a pillar, in my balcony. Under it was a trap door from which I could escape whenever I wanted to. No one would see me because I would land on a soft bale of hay and that whole area would be covered with vines and bushes.

Now they wouldn’t be able to see what I was wearing.

“Lady Rosalinda I extremely sorry,” I said my voice dripping with sugar, “But we are all in mourning. You see, my brother’s friend’s goldfish died, and it was a very tragic death.” I sniffled.

“I simply cannot go into the details!” I moaned, peeping out at them I slipped my hand into my pocket and pulled out a handkerchief. Dabbing my nose, I sniffled once again.

“Since the whole house is in mourning I’m afraid no one can enter. You must leave the palace grounds at once!” I replied, hoping that the snort that was about to escape me would come out more like a sob.

“Ex-Excuse me? In m-mourning?” asked Rosie, transfixed.

“Yes, we are in mourning” I repeated much slower, as though I were talking to a bunch of half-headed nitwits. “Would you like me to send a couple of guards to escort you out?” I asked, slipping the threat into those kind words.

“No, no. You don’t have to trouble yourself your grace. We shall guide ourselves out.” Rosalinda replied.

After that they quickly dispersed. Annie and I shared an amused look as we re-entered the bedroom.

“They actually believed it,” Annie, wiping an imaginary tear from her eye. “That was horrid of you though. What if news gets to your father?”

“You and I both know daddy would just laugh. But what we did was a for a noble cause. Just because Edward’s next in line for the Dukedom, it doesn’t give them the right to harass a six-year-old!”

***

It gets better.

(David Suchet is the old Poirot).