Letters from Kensington — The Lost Journal
Months before her death, Princess Diana wrote of feeling “watched, even in my sleep.” Those notes, once kept at Kensington Palace, vanished when her room was cleared. In 2017, fragments appeared at an auction in New York — every page singed around the edges, as if rescued from a fire

Letters from Kensington: The Lost Journal
Kensington Palace, 1997 — and New York, 2017
In the spring of 1997, within the high-ceilinged walls of Kensington Palace’s Apartment 8, Princess Diana sat at her mahogany desk, penning thoughts that carried the weight of a life under siege. Her journal, a leather-bound volume with cream pages, was a sanctuary for her fears, hopes, and fleeting moments of peace. Among its entries, one recurring theme stood out: “I feel watched, even in my sleep,” she wrote, the words trembling with the paranoia of a woman pursued by cameras and, perhaps, darker forces. These notes, kept in a locked drawer, were meant to remain private, a refuge from the tabloid glare. But when Diana died in a Paris tunnel on August 31, 1997, at age 36, her apartment was swiftly cleared by palace staff. The journal vanished, its fate unknown—until 2017, when fragments surfaced at a New York auction house, every page singed around the edges, as if plucked from a fire. The discovery, shrouded in mystery, reignited questions about Diana’s final months and the secrets she left behind.

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Kensington Palace, Diana’s home since her 1981 marriage to Prince Charles, was both a gilded cage and a stage. By 1997, post-divorce, she had carved out a life there, raising Princes William and Harry while championing causes like AIDS awareness and landmine bans. But her freedom came at a cost. Her 1995 BBC Panorama interview, where she spoke of Charles’s affair with Camilla Parker Bowles and her own struggles with bulimia and royal isolation, had made her a global icon but also a target. Letters to friends, later published in books like Diana: Her True Story by Andrew Morton, revealed her fear of surveillance—bugged phones, shadowed footsteps. The journal, described by her butler Paul Burrell in A Royal Duty (2003) as a “deeply personal” record, captured this unease in raw detail. “It’s not just the cameras,” she wrote in one entry, quoted in a 2017 Sotheby’s catalog. “It’s eyes in the walls, waiting for me to slip.”

The journal’s disappearance was immediate and deliberate. After Diana’s death, Kensington Palace was a hive of activity. Staff, under orders from the royal household, cleared her apartment within days, boxing up clothes, photos, and papers for storage or destruction. The official line, per a 1998 statement from the Spencer family, was that personal items were secured to protect Diana’s privacy and her sons’ inheritance. But whispers among aides, later reported in The Times, suggested a more frantic purge. Papers deemed “sensitive”—including correspondence with figures like Dodi Fayed and heart surgeon Hasnat Khan—were removed, some allegedly shredded or burned. The journal, too bulky to overlook, was presumed destroyed until its fragments emerged two decades later.

The 2017 auction, held by Sotheby’s in Manhattan, was a quiet affair, overshadowed by flashier lots like a Warhol print. Lot 142, listed as “Manuscript Fragments, Provenance Unknown,” comprised 12 partial pages, handwritten in Diana’s looping script. The edges were charred, some passages illegible, but the content was unmistakable: reflections on her sons (“William’s strength is my anchor”), her charity work, and her growing dread. One fragment, dated April 1997, read: “They’re closer now, always listening. Sleep is no escape.” The pages, authenticated by graphologists and cross-referenced with known Diana letters, fetched $1.2 million from an anonymous buyer, rumored to be a Middle Eastern collector. The catalog noted “fire damage” but offered no origin story, citing only a “private European estate” as the source.

How the pages survived—and why they were burned—became instant fodder for speculation. Operation Paget, the 2004–2006 Scotland Yard inquiry into Diana’s death, had probed claims of palace cover-ups, including destroyed documents. While the 832-page report dismissed MI6 assassination theories, it confirmed that Diana’s phone lines were monitored, though by journalists, not spies. The journal’s fragments suggested a more deliberate act. Fire investigators, consulted by The Guardian in 2017, estimated the damage came from a low-intensity flame, like a fireplace, applied selectively to obscure but not obliterate. “It’s as if someone tried to destroy it but stopped halfway,” said Dr. Emily Chen, a forensic document expert quoted in the article. Was it a botched disposal by a panicked aide? Or a calculated leak to hint at hidden truths?

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Theories proliferated. Some pointed to Paul Burrell, who admitted in A Royal Duty to taking Diana’s letters for “safekeeping” before her death. He denied handling the journal but claimed in a 2018 Daily Mail interview that “someone in the palace wanted her voice silenced.” Others speculated about the Spencer family, who controlled Diana’s archive at Althorp. Charles Spencer, her brother, dismissed the auction as “ghoulish” in a 2017 tweet but offered no explanation for the journal’s loss. A darker hypothesis, echoed on Reddit and X in 2025, posited that the fire was a warning—a partial destruction to signal what could happen to other secrets. Diana’s own words to Burrell, revealed in Operation Paget, fueled this: a 1995 note predicting a staged car accident, written in fear of royal retribution.

The fragments’ content, though limited, painted a woman at a crossroads. Passages mourned her breakup with Hasnat Khan, whom she called “my heart’s home,” and fretted over William and Harry’s exposure to media frenzy. One singed page, dated July 1997, described a dream: “I’m running, but the ground falls away. No one hears me scream.” The imagery, haunting in hindsight, mirrored her final weeks—jetting between Sardinia and Paris with Dodi Fayed, hounded by paparazzi. The journal’s absence during the 2007–2008 inquest, which ruled her death an “unlawful killing” by driver Henri Paul’s negligence and pursuing vehicles, raised eyebrows. Why hadn’t these pages surfaced earlier? Were they hidden to protect the monarchy’s image, or to shield Diana’s vulnerability?

The auction buyer’s anonymity deepened the enigma. Sotheby’s, bound by confidentiality, rebuffed inquiries, but a 2019 Vanity Fair report traced the lot to a Swiss intermediary linked to Al-Fayed’s estate. Mohamed Al-Fayed, who died in 2023, had long claimed Diana’s death was a conspiracy, and his acquisition of the fragments—perhaps through a proxy—would align with his quest for evidence. Yet, no further pages have emerged, and the buyer remains silent. In 2025, as Harry’s Spare and Netflix’s The Crown revisit Diana’s legacy, X posts speculate that the journal’s full text, if recovered, could upend the official narrative. “Burned but not gone,” one user wrote. “Someone’s sitting on the rest.”

The singed pages, now locked in a private vault, are relics of a princess who lived under a microscope yet craved invisibility. Diana’s fear of being “watched, even in my sleep” was not just paranoia but a truth—her phones tapped, her movements tracked, her heart laid bare. The journal’s loss, and its partial resurrection, mirrors her life: fragmented, exposed, yet fiercely guarded. At Kensington, where her apartment now houses new royals, the echo of her pen lingers—a voice half-silenced, half-saved, whispering of eyes in the dark.