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Greetings to all. Here is a real treat for those who are interested in a very good story. Inside this story you will find intrigue, mystery, adventure, murder, romance, and Royal plots!!!! For excitement, look no further ... turn off the television, and sit down to enjoy a few chapters of Lynne De Caen's first book: THE BLUE ICE PRINCESS!!!!

 

The Blue Ice Princess

by: Lynne DeCaen & Ted Anthony Roberts

(A Romantic-Tragedy)

 

 

Chapter 1

Plunged Into Darkness

On a cold, snowy December twenty-fourth, 1960, in London, England, we see a rugged automobile pull up at a local antique shop on the east end of the city. Stepping out of the vehicle, the driver at once takes a look at his surroundings. Other than a few scattered shoppers on the sidewalks across the road, he sees nothing except an icy roadway, with fresh snow flowing softly upon it. With smoke extracting from his mouth, an event caused by the chilled air, he then takes a look in the direction of the antique shop, smiling with satisfaction at having come to his destination at last. Shutting the driver's side door, he puts his winter's jacket on, and pulls the collar over the back of his neck, shielding himself from the cool air. Immediately lowering his left foot upon the sidewalk, he carefully tests it for ice; and after being satisfied that it is safe, he begins his short journey across the sidewalk to the window of the antique store.

As his eyes quickly examine the contents of this window, we can see his image in the glass, as if it were in a mirror. We see that he is a rather handsome man, with a very distinguished air about him. Yet, at the same time, we also can see, through his deep-blue eyes, that his heart is traced with a peaceful nature. Short brown hair is framed by a nineteen-forties style hat upon his head. His face is serene, yet mild - being set off perfectly by a very thin, neatly trimmed dark moustache. And by this short examination of him, we realize that he is in his early thirties.

As he examines, carefully, the antique trinkets that are in the window, he finally rests his attention onto a small figurine - Quiet beautiful! It is a figurine of a little crystal Blue-Ice Princess upon ice skates; precision made, with a very antiquish look about it. Yes! This is the one; this is the perfect gift for his dear, lovely wife - and he just has to get it for her. Yet, he is surprised to have found such a perfect gift at such a late time of Christmas shopping; as this is, technically, the very last day one is able to do so.

As he walks into the small, warm shop, he is at once met with pleasant, nostalgic sights. Here and everywhere we are met with reminders of England's near and long-ago past. Amazingly, the owners were able to cram so many things into such a small shop! And as the man continues his quick observations of these items, making his way toward the window, he is stopped short by a framed poster, which is announcing an opera that was held in London only ten years ago. This poster produces a pleasant smile upon the man's face.

"Ah, my dear!" he says to himself, smiling at the beautiful lady that it was announcing as the main operatic singer. "You are as beautiful now as you were that night."

"May I help you, sir?" asks a kindly voice beside him.

The gentleman turns to his side and notices that the shop-owner, detecting his presence, is standing beside him.

"Yes," he says to the shop-owner. "I am interested in a certain item that you have in your window."

"Which item is that, sir?" asks the shop-keeper, in a friendly manner.

"Why, the little Blue-Ice Princess, on ice skates." exclaims the purchaser, in a pleasant voice.

"Ah!" says the store-owner, in a deep Irish brough. " 'Tis the perfect gift for Christmas." And as the older gentleman walks toward the window for his purchaser, he begins to tell him of his purchase: "I believe that it may have come from Dublin . . . kinda adds to the magic a bit, ya think? And I've had this figurine since the war, sir."

"Which war was that?" curiously asks the younger man, following the shop-keeper to the window.

"Why, the most famous war in earth's history, mind you." answered the older man, who just reached the window. Picking up the Blue-Ice Princess, he examines the figurine fondly, while replying: "The second world war is what I am referring to. You know, I was here in London when those blasted Nazis were bombing us!"

"Yes, I remember that time myself. I was twelve years old when it was happening." answered the younger man.

"Crazy war it was." continued the eldest, still looking fondly at the figurine. "It was told me that there was an interesting story behind this Blue-Ice Princess."

"Really?" asks the other, smiling. "And what was that?"

"Not too clear on it, my good man." answers the other, still observing the Princess intently, not being able to take his eyes off from its features. "But it is rumoured that this was purchased by a madman for his dearest love. And legend has it,” he adds, while patting the Princess lightly, “that this lovely thing . . . is cursed!"

"Cursed!" the younger man repeats, laughing loudly. "Don't tell me, sir, that you really believe that."

There is a moment of silence before the older man finally whispers: ". . . of course not," while still examining the precious gift. He then finally turns around to look at his customer. And smiling, he repeats: "Of course not."

"And just who was this madman?" asks the customer, with a big grin on his face.

"Not really sure." confesses the shop-keeper, raising his brows a bit, while shaking his head. "But it was also rumoured that he was a traitor to this country during the great war. However, his dearest love, whom he bought this for, never believed it no' how."

Still laughing at this funny, yet interesting, story, the younger man holds out his hand to receive this amazing gift.

 

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

 

Sarah and her five year old son Johnny are keeping as warm as they can in their cozy London flat, which is only five minutes away from the antique shop that we just have visited. Together, mother and son are preparing a small, yet elegantly made meal upon the kitchen table. This will be a nice Christmas Eve supper for the family, and for the upcoming Christmas feast the very next day.

John is helping with the turkey, and is chattering endlessly to his mum about every event that has happened in his kindergarten class since he started there. And he just keeps talking about it without ceasing - and, it would seem, without even taking a breath! Sarah's only response to this constant chatter is an amused smile that stays upon her lips, listening to this endless babble, as she continues to work busily on the meal. He is almost out-drowning the record player that is playing low in the background, as it cheerfully gives out Sarah's favourite Christmas tunes by Bing Crosby.

Finally, John decides to take a breath!

"Sing for me, mummy!" he yells, upon this sudden thought. "Please!" he adds, smiling from ear to ear - illuminating the pinkness of his cheeks even more, which are being warmed by the stove.

"What? Now?" she asks, a little worried, giving a sad look toward the record player.

"Yes, mummy, now!" John demands, with a slight pout. "Just because no one wants to hear you sing at the opera house anymore, doesn't mean that I don't want to!"

"Dear," Sarah replies, with a slight grin, "it's not because no-one wants to hear me anymore, it's just that opera, it seems, is not as popular as it used to be. I think that we have Elvis to thank for that. Everyone wants nothing but rock and roll!" she adds, while throwing her arms in the air in a dramatic manner.

"I like Elvis!" yells John, lit up with a smile. But after his mother gives him a surprised look, his glance falls toward the table. "But not that much." he adds, knowing that he has goofed.

Suddenly, Sarah bursts out laughing! "I like Elvis, too." she exclaims, while pinching his puffy cheeks with her fingers. "You little ham-dog!"

At that name, John looks at her, confused. "God made doggies out of ham?" he asks, innocent-faced.

This only increases Sarah's laughter. But John does not understand any of this, but laughs with his mother nonetheless.

But after the laughter has ceased, John asks: "Why did you call me a ham-dog, mummy?"

"Because that is what Elvis sings: You ain't nothing but a ham-dog!"

"Mummy, I think that it's hound-dog!"

"Oh!" she says, with a serious expression on her face. But then the thought of a ham-dog is pretty funny - so she starts laughing again!

"But Elvis is not as good as you are, mummy!" John adds very quickly. "No-one compares to you, for you are my light in this dark world." he announces, holding his little head up with much pride.

"Light in this dark world?" she repeats, putting her hands on her hips, and looking at the youth suspiciously. "John, you heard your father tell me that!" she adds, raising her voice in a silly manner.

"Yes . . ." he confesses. "but I do agree!"

"Alright, Johnny." she says, kissing him on the forehead. "I will sing for you. But," she adds most seriously, while watching him clap his hands gleefully, "only on one condition."

"And what is that?" he asks, anxiously, with a huge smile on his face.

"You have to help me."

"Alright, mummy. What shall we sing?"

"My favourite by Bing Crosby: White Christmas."

And just as they started singing, there is a knock at the front door.

Suddenly, John jumps off his chair, shouting joyfully, while running toward the door: "I'll get it, mummy - I just know that it’s daddy!"

"He wouldn't be knocking if it were him, John!" she yells toward him from the kitchen.

At that thought, John stops suddenly in his tracks before the door. Looking at it with a blank look on his face, he timidly asks: "Who's there?"

"I'm the Constable." he hears from the other side of the door. "I've a message for Sarah Dickerson, mate."

"Mummy," yells John toward the kitchen, "It's a constipated bull! And he wants to see you.”

“It’s a what!” exclaims Sarah, walking out of the kitchen toward John, wiping her hands upon her apron.

John opens his mouth to answer, but before he has a chance to say again, the man from the other side of the door answers instead: “I’m the Constable, ma’am. I need to speak to Sarah Dickerson.”

Opening the door quickly, and seeing this man with a badge held out to her, she says: “Yes. I’m Sarah Dickerson. What can I do for you?”

“How do you do, ma’am.” he adds, while putting away his badge into his trench-coat pocket. He then glances at John. “Not constipated, son.” he says to the youth, winking. “I’ve taken me medicine t'day, and I’m regular at the moment, mate.”

While John expresses an extreme blank, confused look on his face, his mother answers the constable's question. “I’m doing fine, sir.”

“Great.” he responds, while looking back at the mother. “And you, mate?" he says, looking, again, back at John. "How are you?”

“I’m fine, too. Me mum and I are making supper and singing,” he replies, beaming with pride, “and me daddy is coming home from his business trip to Manchester.”

At this last comment, the Constable looks down at his shoes, scrambling for something to say. “Mate,” he finally ventures, still looking downwards, “I need to talk to your mum a bit. Mind going to play a while? I shan't keep her from you very long.”

At this announcement, Sarah’s smile turns completely upside-down, sensing that something is wrong.

“Alright,” John says, “but not too long, for we have more singing to do, don’t we mum? You know, Mr. Bull," John says to the Constable, "that me mummy here is an opera singer.”

“Yes, I do know that, Johnny, lad.” The Constable comments, while leaning down toward John. “I’ve heard her sing at the opera house years ago, and I was extremely impressed.”

With a smile, John departs. And as he is leaving toward his room, the Constable calls to him: “And, mate, just call me Mr. Richards. Bull is me maiden name!” he adds, with a slight giggle.

Without even bothering to look back at the man, for the boy did not understand this strange remark in the slightest, John simply shuts his bedroom door behind himself, intending to play for awhile - but then, his curiosity gets the better of him. Why has this Mr. Bull-Richards come to talk with his mummy? Oh, He just has to know! And at this thought, he carefully runs over to the bedroom door, tripping over hundreds of toys in this messy abode of his along the way, before finally reaching his not too distant destination. Upon opening it slightly, he is able to see somewhat into the adjoining room; and he will now be able to overhear the conversation.

“Will you please come in, Mr. Bull - um, Richards!” she says, quickly correcting herself.

Smiling slightly at this blunder, he advances into the flat.

“Please sit down, sir.” she says, pointing out a chair in the living room.

As he sits, he pulls off his hat. John notices that it is very similar to the one that his daddy wears all the time - as if it come from the nineteen-forties: perfect for a Constable of the law, making him look like Humphrey Bogart in a classic movie that the boy just recently watched on the telly: the Maltese Falcon. Mr. Richards, who is a rough, and slightly aged man, starts looking - really for the first time - directly at this young lady standing beside him. Even though twenty-nine in age, she still retains most of her youthful teenage look. However, her figure has bloomed since that time, but the looks of her face has not lost any touch of the beauty that won her the fame of being the most beautiful opera singer in all London just ten years previously, when she made her musical debut in the London Opera House at the tender age of only nineteen. Her short dark, brown hair frames this lovely face, that houses some of the most lovely brown eyes that the Constable has ever seen. And as he examines all this quickly, he sighs sadly at what he must now do.

She does not sit with him, but asks, most kindly: “Would you like a spot of tea, sir?”

“Tea!” he says, suddenly sitting erect in his chair. “That would be wonderful.” he adds, happy that he can delay his duty another few moments with this slight distraction.

Momentarily she returns with a tray in her hands. Leaning over toward the Constable with this tray, he takes from there a cup of tea. He also notices some crumpets thereon, and takes some of those, too. She then sets the tray on the living room table, which still has another cup of tea on it, with more crumpets. She then picks up the sugar cup.

“How many lumps, Constable?” she asks, with a smile.

“Two, please.”

“And do you take cream?”

“Well, what is tea without cream, aye?” he adds, also smiling.

“Indeed.” she agrees, pouring some cream into his cup.

After accommodating herself with some tea as well, she finally sits across from him on her small couch, awaiting whatever it is that he came to tell her.

With slight embarrassment, he stares at his teacup, and asks her: “Mrs. Dickerson,” he began, “your husband is Mr. John Dickerson - is that so?”

“Yes.” she timidly answers, knitting her brows. “John is my husband. What’s this about, Mr. Richards?”

“Mrs. Dickerson, your husband’s automobile was found only five minutes from here, turned upside-down . . . and your husband . . . .” he says, hesitantly.

“Yes?” she anxiously asks, scooting up further on the edge of the couch toward Mr. Richards. “My husband . . . .?”

He finally looks up from his cup of tea, while finishing his sentence: “. . . has been found burnt to death.”

“No!” she screams; or rather roars.

John, in the adjoining room, stares - petrified! - not wishing to understand! His eyes are wild with emotion, yet his body is frozen as a statue.

As Sarah clasps her hands over her face, filling them with many tears, the Constable continues, very slowly, while looking back at his cup of tea: “His vehicle had caught fire after it turned over . . . I’m am sorry, ma’am, to inform you of your husband’s death.”

After a few moments of quietness, while Sarah tries desperately to calm herself, she’s finally able to ask, as she raises her brown tear stricken eyes: “Are you sure that it was him, Mr. Richards?”

“Yes, Mrs. Dickerson, I am sure.” he answers, looking at her. “Your husband must have had his jacket lying on the passenger side front seat, for we found the jacket only a few feet from the car.”

“He never could wear that jacket while driving.” Sarah interrupts, confirming the possibility.

“And in this jacket we found proof enough that it was indeed John Dickerson.” continues the Constable. “Including his wallet and other things.” At this, he pulls out the wallet from his top trench-coat pocket, and hands it over to Sarah.

Upon opening it, she immediately looks for the license. And while nodding her head in consent, she feels fresh tears coming into her eyes, while saying: “Yes, it was him.”

“No!” they both hear, coming from John’s room. The little boy can take no more! The door of the bedroom comes flying open, and what can be seen is a red-faced John - tears flowing like rain. “Daddy is not dead!” he yells, looking at both of them.

At this, Constable Richards quickly gets up and walks over to the boy. Kneeling down on one knee, the Constable places a hand upon John’s shoulder. “There, there, lad.” he says, trying to calm him. “We must be strong, my boy.”

As the Constable is doing this, Sarah takes this opportunity to stand up and walk into the kitchen, and starts looking out the window at nothing in particular, plunged into deep thought.

“Hey, mate,” the Constable continues to the wailing John. “Listen to me, now. You must be strong, I say. You will now have to be a man rather quickly for your mum. You are now the head of the household, the man and protector. Do this for your mum, aye?”

For some unknown reason, these words make a lot of sense to the young mind of the boy. Suddenly, he stops crying.

"My daddy always told me that men should always protect the ladies in their lives." John confirms. "Especially those who are hurting."

“Aye, laddy." says the Constable, agreeing with these sensible words, and smiling a bit. "Your father must've been a very wise man - them are words to live by! Yes, we must always do that. The ladies, indeed, need us for protection - aye?” The Constable then gives a gentle but manly pat on the boy’s shoulder.

John begins looking in the direction of the kitchen, where his mother still stands, motionless.

“Aye!” the boy finally says, still looking in that direction. “I will take care of her!”

“That’s the spirit, me lad!” joyfully says the Constable, patting him on the shoulder once more.

Afterwards, the lawman then gets up and walks slowly into the kitchen. Standing for a slight moment behind Sarah, who has her back to him, and still looking out the window, he finally ventures to say: “If you have need of anything, ma’am . . . .” but then he stops his words with slight embarrassment, and is unable to finish the sentence. He begins to reach into his trench coat, as if to grab something for the lady, but his hand is hesitating. Not really knowing what to do, he finally decides to head toward the front door.

And just as he turns to walk out the kitchen, Sarah stops him with these words: "Thank you, Constable, for your support.” And she says this to him without even turning around. She then contiues, while he turns back toward her: “You have been kind to Johnny and I, but there is one thing more I must ask of you, if it is alright.” At this new sentence, she finally turns to face him. And after a moment’s pause, while they both stare into each other‘s eyes: “May I have John's jacket?"

Being unable to control herself, and at the thought of the possession of the last thing that her husband had worn in life, new, harder tears advance to her eyes.

Lowering his eyes slightly from this rendering sight, the Constable says: "Aye, ma'am. It's out in the car; I’ll go get it for you.” Raising his eyes to hers once again, he adds: “And for the kindness ma'am, well . . . it is no problem at all; really."

After the Constable returns with the jacket, Johnny greets him with an out-stretched hand, motioning for the jacket of his father. Constable Richards hands it to him, watching intently as the young boy takes it over to the couch. Immediately, as the boy sits down, he presses it close to his heart - allowing fresh tears to drop upon it.

Oh, This is too much! Too much! the Constable’s only thought is to leave this place immediately, for he can stand no more of this heart-rendering scene, for he is in danger of bursting out in tears himself!

Silently watching the Constable’s every move, John sees the man open-up the front door for his departure. But then, the man suddenly stops! He is again hesitating - but about what this time? Upon a final decision, the Constable reaches into his trench-coat pocket, and removes a small package that is wrapped in Christmas paper. Setting it onto a small table near the doorway, the Constable finally leaves, shutting the door behind him.

Even though extremely curious as to what the Constable has placed on the table, Johnny decides to walk into the kitchen where his mother is, and notices that she is still staring out the window. Walking up quietly beside her, while holding the precious jacket in his little arms, he announces with confidence: “I will care for you, mummy.” And after saying this, he places his little arms around her waist.

This finally breaks her from her spell.

Turning toward the youth, she looks at him tenderly. And at this moment, she sees the jacket that is nestled between them. However, and because of the sight of this angelic face before her, she is able to check the tears that were about to erupt once more.

“Mummy, please don’t cry.” he tells her, seeing the strenuous look on her face. “You can’t do that now. We have to be strong, like Mr. Bull-Richards said.”

At hearing this, she could not help calming a bit, as she remembered what Johnny had called the Constable a little earlier.

“Yes, dear.” she says, lovingly - trying to smile, “we must listen to the Constipated Bull - aye, Johnny?”

“That’s right, mummy. And don’t worry, I will protect you!”

“I know you will, Johnny.” she says, while lifting the boy into her arms, holding him tenderly next to her heart.

 

 

Chapter 2

Chilled to the Bone

It wasn't too long after these events that Sarah finally puts Johnny to bed. She figures that the youngster needs to get to sleep earlier than planned this night because of the tragic events of the day that may have got to him. There were no complaints from the young boy, for the great amount of tears that he had shed made his eyes weary, so he went on to sleep instantly. As she caresses Johnny's forehead while he falls to sleep, her thoughts again return to her husband; and she realizes, for it is now hitting her in its fullest aspect, that John will never come back to her again!

Back in the living room, only moments later, we find Sarah pacing back and forth across the carpet, almost in a trance of thoughts, while, every now and then, a tear can be seen glistening on her cheeks. The thoughts in her mind are many and varied - too numerous to list. Yet, the reader can probably guess a great many deal of them: such as, what was she and Johnny going to do now that they are alone? Where were the finances going to come from? Why did her operatic career have to come to an end? What was her landlord going to do and say? In short - how were they going to survive?

Hours go by in this fashion, not even noticing the time at all, but she is momentarily broken from her trance of thoughts when Big Ben, off in the short distance of London, stricks twice, indicating that it is now two in the morning.

"Two o'clock." she says, only half paying attention to her own words.

She is about to add to her sentence that it is getting late, when all of a sudden she notices something sitting on the table next to the front door - that she hadn't noticed before . . . what is it? It looks like a Christmas gift. But they have no Christmas presents, for John was out Christmas shopping that night when he was killed; and all presents with him - that were in the trunk and in the back seat - were destroyed!

Curiosity getting the better of her, she slowly makes her way over to the table - her mouth and eyes wide open. Yes, it is a Christmas gift - But from whom? She has not too many friends, and her family is no where near around.

She picks it up, slowly turning it over in her hands, when she finally comes to a small tag upon it.

For the loveliest woman in the entire world,

John

No - It can't be!! . . . yet, there's his signature, and in his handwriting, too! How in this world did this present get here?

She suddenly looks all around herself, with an extremely eerie feeling in her being! . . . What! . . . How? . . . Where could? . . . But then she finally remembers Constable Richards, pulling out John's wallet from his pocket, while he mentioned that John's jacket contained several items that belonged to him. This small Christmas package must have also been in the pocket of John's jacket . . . "Oh, John!" she wails.

What should she do? Open it? Open it now? Wait till Christmas? Or just throw it away - considering the sight of it might be too painful for her to bear? . . . Throw it away? What a mad thought! This is the last declaration of John's love to her - perish that thought! She would never depart from this gift, no matter what's behind these Christmas wrappings.

Upon this last thought, she tears away at the wrappings like a mad woman, yet careful enough not to damage anything. Underneath the paper reveals a small box; and opening the box, in turn, reveals the precious gift inside - a small figurine of a crystal Blue Ice Princess on Ice Skates - how beautiful it is! John knew she would like this, and she does. Yet, the sight of it is more emotional on her feelings than what would have been usual. But, yes, it is beautiful! Dear, sweet, John - He knew just what to get.

New tears now glisten on Sarah's already wet cheeks.

 

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

 

A few days later, we find the apartment of the Dickerson's very quiet, except for the telly that is playing softly in the living room, as Johnny is watching one of his favourite movies upon it. He is sitting upon the floor in his pajamas, with his legs crossed - extremely into what he is watching! And sitting alone in the kitchen we find a very sad Sarah, with her hand over her forehead, as she is leaning on her elbow upon the table. Her thoughts have not changed in these few days - she is still trying to make sense of it all - and of what her and Johnny are going to do! She did make an effort, though, for she has found employment! But will it suffice her landlord at this late of a date? . . . Oh, her landlord! What is he going to do to them when she does give him the rent on time?

"Get that man out of here - he claims to be your landlord!" Sarah hears, coming from the living room.

Upon hearing this odd sentence, Sarah quickly jumps up out of her chair and rushes into the living room. What was going on?

"He is - monsieur Bonaxieur." she hears as the reply to that odd sentence.

Would'nt you know it - it was only the movie playing on the television set! It was the movie that Johnny is watching.

"Just as I thought, he was telling the truth." Continues the dialog on the telly, "Well, get him out of here, I cannot abide landlords!"

"What are you watching?" asks Sarah to Johnny.

"The Three Musketeers, mummy," Johnny answers, "starring Gene Kelly."

"Oh." Sarah says, starting to watch it a little herself.

Just then there is a knock at the door. Upon opening it, Sarah nearly falls backwards! Standing before her is none other than Mr. Jones - her landlord! He must have known, somehow, that landlords were being discussed this fine day.

Suddenly, upon seeing Mr. Jones, little Johnny screams at the top of his lungs: "Get that man out of here, he claims to be your landlord!"

Sarah and Mr. Jones suddenly turn toward Johnny, eyes bulging with surprise.

"Johnny!" yells Sarah, in shock.

"I am your landlord!" says Mr. Jones to Johnny, indignantly.

Johnny quickly gets up, turns on his heel, and starts heading toward his bedroom, while saying out loud: "Just as I thought, he was telling the truth - Well, get him out of here, I cannot abide landlords!"

As soon as Johnny disappears into his bedroom, Sarah and Mr. Jones are alone - staring at each other in embarrassment.

"No matter how old tenants are, they never like landlords!" exclaims Mr. Jones, with a bitter grin on his face, while shaking his head.

"Oh, Mr. Jones," Sarah replies, still embarrassed. "Johnny didn't mean anything by that statement, he just heard it being spoken over the telly, and he was just repeating what he heard. You know how children are."

"No, I don't; I've never had any - and for good reason, too!" Mr. Jones continues, still displaying his disdainful smile.

"Would you like to come in?" Sarah quickly asks, ignoring his strange statement.

Well, Mr. Jones. Would you like a nice hot cup of tea? Mr. Jones enters and glances around the small but pleasantly arranged home, and with a smile that resembles that of a sinister villain.

He accepts the offer of the tea.

To be continued ....