A Three Dog Problem

by S. J. Bennett

  ‘Oh!’

  ‘I know!’ Lady Caroline said, seeing the shock on the Queen’s face. ‘Simply awful.’

  ‘Dreadful,’ the Queen agreed. ‘Did they find out who did it?’

  ‘Yes, they did. The police were hopeless, mind you. We were far too scared of their uniforms and craggy faces, and nobody would really talk to them. But our headmistress brought in this sweet little man – I think he was a priest, but he didn’t act like one, if you know what I mean. I don’t remember his name. He was very calm and friendly and just sort of hung around and chatted. You never particularly noticed that he was talking about Peggy. I don’t recall telling him anything remotely useful. But after a couple of days, he worked it out.’

  ‘And . . .?’

  Lady Caroline held her hands out wide, theatrically. ‘It was Peggy!’

  ‘The girl herself?’

  ‘Absolutely.’ Lady Caroline shrugged. ‘Isn’t that a strange story? It was awful to go through at the time, as I said. So disconcerting. I don’t know how the priest man did it. But Peggy sort of admitted to it in the end. It was definitely her. She was doing it for the attention – which, of course, she got. For a year she was the main topic of conversation. She must have been very unhappy at home, my mother always said. But we never knew what caused it. Her parents came and took her away, but she was back the next term.’

  ‘No! Really?’

  ‘Yes. And we never talked about it. We tried to be nicer to her. Obviously, the girl had some sort of mental problem. And when you think about that poor little guinea pig, and what it must have taken . . .’

  They looked at each other, both animal lovers, both trembling a little bit.

  ‘What happened to her in the end?’ the Queen asked.

  ‘I’m not entirely sure,’ Lady Caroline admitted. ‘I did try and look her up, years later, on Facebook, and there was a woman with her name who could have been her, who had lots of pictures with her happy little family, sailing about the place and looking perfectly normal. But if it was Peggy, she would have changed her surname, surely, when she got married, so I don’t know for certain. She didn’t put where she went to school – which suggested to me that it was her. I mean, she wouldn’t have wanted us all finding her and raking all of that up, would she?’

  ‘No. I suppose not.’

  ‘Anyway, goodness, I’ve been rabbiting on and it’s not remotely helpful. I am sorry, ma’am.’

  ‘Don’t be.’

  ‘A bit ghoulish.’

  ‘Yes. But isn’t human nature interesting?’

  ‘It really is, isn’t it?’ Lady Caroline agreed.

  The news was over by now and a panel show was on, which they watched for a little while before retiring to bed.

  As she settled against the pillows to write in her diary, the Queen was still thinking about Peggy Thornicroft. Lady Caroline had apologised for not being helpful, but the Queen wasn’t so sure about that.

  Chapter 17

  ‘S

  o you’re suggesting, ma’am, that Cynthia Harris wrote those letters to herself? And cut up her own clothes?’

  There was a strong note of scepticism in Chief In-spector Strong’s voice over the phone, though he was trying to hide it.

  ‘Only that it’s possible,’ the Queen said, from her study at Windsor, where she was weekending as usual.

  ‘We’ve been considering it as a potential line of enquiry, of course. It happens. But this would be a pretty extreme case.’

  ‘True,’ the Queen acknowledged. ‘But I can think of lots of reasons why Mrs Harris might have wanted to attract attention and sympathy, a bit like Lady Caroline’s schoolmate. She wasn’t popular. She knew she was disliked. Having managed to come back after retirement, she may have wanted to make it difficult for the Master to get rid of her.’

  Strong agreed, somewhat reluctantly. ‘Well, that was certainly the effect.’

  ‘If it’s possible for someone to behave that way – to do themselves so much damage – then I wonder if she did. You haven’t managed to establish how anyone here could have known about her abortion, have you?’

  ‘Er, no, ma’am. Excuse me.’

  He was having a coughing fit. Was it because she had said the word ‘abortion’? It was written in his own report to her, which he had talked her through. It was very tiresome, sometimes, how even sensible people expected one to think and speak like a medieval princess in an ivory tower. Although, goodness knows, they were probably familiar with abortions too.

  ‘That’s what I thought,’ she said.

  ‘She might have done it,’ Strong admitted. ‘But if so, what about the other letters? Like the ones to Mrs Baxter and Miss van Renen. Are you suggesting she sent them to cover her tracks?’

  ‘I don’t know. It’s just an idea. But I did wonder . . . If she was trying to attract attention to herself, why dilute it by creating other victims?’

  ‘Out of sheer spite?’ he suggested. ‘Because she was a fundamentally nasty woman?’

  The Queen bridled at the words nasty woman. She had heard them recently in another context and they brought her up sharp. Peggy Thornicroft had been unhappy at home, according to Lady Caroline. The Queen wondered what might have caused Mrs Harris similar pain. ‘Was she? Perhaps that’s something you could check?’

  Strong agreed that he would. ‘She couldn’t have sent the notes to your APS, though. Wrong place, wrong time, and she was dead by the time Rozie got the second one.’

  ‘Yes, it makes the question about who sent those rather interesting, don’t you think?’ she remarked, because it was on her mind. And instantly regretted it.

  There was a note of real intrigue in Strong’s voice when he replied, ‘Yes it does, ma’am. It does.’ He was silent for a moment. ‘If it was someone else, they’d’ve had to’ve found out what the original notes looked like. Not super-difficult because, to be brutally honest, ma’am, your HR department leaks like a sieve. It’s certainly a thought.’

  ‘Anyway, I’ve no idea what you’ll find, but you’re very kind to look into it,’ she said hastily.

  After she put the phone down she let out a deep sigh. Must be careful, she thought. Strong was a useful resource, but she didn’t want him getting any ideas. Among her aides, only Rozie knew how far she was prepared to go to solve a problem. The chief inspector was the professional. One tried to be helpful, that was all. God forbid she should ever be seen to do the police’s job for them. That would never do.

  *

  On Sunday, Rozie got up early and took a bus to Portobello Green. She’d always loved the flea market here, with its vintage fashions and antiques. Since her schooldays, when she wasn’t riding or doing homework, a lot of her free time had been spent visualising the life she would have one day, when she was a proper grown-up: the offbeat dresses she would wear; the furniture and fittings she would display; the perfect jewellery collection she would own. Her visit to Sholto Harvie’s home last weekend had only sharpened and intensified her vision. She wanted to touch it, smell it, put a price on it. She wanted to buy at least a perfect coat, or a vintage cushion, as a down payment on the dream.

  Today, nothing was quite right though, and it wasn’t the real reason she’d come back to the area anyway. After an hour of window-shopping, she bought a bunch of dahlias from a flower stall. In her bag was a jar of chicken soup she had begged from the Palace kitchens, and a big box of Roses chocolates – because Mum always said you couldn’t visit the sick without a box of Roses.

  The block of flats she was heading for was sandwiched between a primary school and a busy road. Rozie knew it well, because she had been a pupil at the school twenty years ago. Which was why her ears had pricked up on Friday when she overheard a couple of housekeepers talking about where Lulu Arantes lived.

  ‘She said it was a terrible accident at Vincent House.’

  ‘In Pimlico?’

  ‘No – Ladbroke Grove. She fell straight down the stairs – voom. Right o
nto that shoulder. Yeah, that one. And broke her collarbone, again. And two black eyes. She said she’d be in on Monday, but d’you really think so?’

  Rozie certainly didn’t think so. Even for Lulu, working with a freshly broken collarbone would be insane.

  She had got hold of Lulu’s number from another housemaid and texted to ask if she could visit. Rozie had said, truthfully, that her mum lived nearby and blatantly lied that she was coming over anyway and would be just around the corner. Lulu had said it would be nice to see her.

  Rozie had a very bad feeling about this.

  Her thoughts were dark as she walked along the familiar streets she had trodden as a schoolgirl in braids, back in those days when the worst that could happen was forgetting your homework or wearing the wrong kind of shoes to church. Now, she had a bad feeling about almost everything. Cynthia Harris was dead, Mary van Renen was so scared she had left London, Lulu’s own sister-in-law had been killed by her wife-beating husband, and in the back of Rozie’s mind was always that image of the elegant, deadly fighting knife, drawn so accurately, down to the ringed-grip handle.

  Had Lulu really fallen down the stairs? Is that how she got those two black eyes? Who did she live with? They’d never socialised outside work and it wasn’t really any of Rozie’s business, but the feeling in the pit of her stomach told her that perhaps it should be, and if she was wrong, then at least there were the Roses.

  At her knock, the door was opened by an elderly gentleman with unnaturally black hair, smartly dressed in chinos and a fitted cotton shirt. He had once been tall, but now had to straighten up a bit to look Rozie level in the eye.

  ‘Yes?’ His voice was croaky, his expression curious and wary.

  ‘I’m Rozie Oshodi. I know Lulu from the Palace. She said I could come over.’

  At once, his face lit up.

  ‘From the Palace! Come in, come in. I’m sure she’ll be happy to see you. She’s in bed. She will try and get up and move around but every movement hurts, you can see it. It’s the devil’s work persuading her to stay put. See what you can do, will you?’

  Rozie promised. She realised, relaxing slightly as she followed him through the narrow flat, that she had been half expecting a muscle-bound partner in a wife-beater vest. But there was no sign of such a person. She really did not know Lulu’s situation and tried to be a bit more open-minded.

  In fact, Lulu was sitting up in bed in a bright single room, cheerfully decorated in yellow and green, next to a table heaving with magazines and grapes. She grinned at Rozie as the older man walked away.

  ‘That’s Uncle Max,’ Lulu explained. ‘He lives with me – I live with him, really, it’s his flat – and he’s nursing me like a professional. He’s such a dear. Oh, soup! And chocolates! And flowers! You shouldn’t have. You really didn’t need to come. I’m fine!’

  Rozie settled in a nearby chair. Lulu was chatty as ever, but the dark patches under her eyes were almost black. She winced whenever she moved. Rozie got her to admit that as well as fracturing her collarbone, she’d bruised three ribs.

  ‘On the stairs?’ Rozie asked.

  Lulu sighed, winced and nodded. ‘I know. I don’t know what it is about me. I must have been thinking about my shoulder. Carrying a heavy shopping bag. Reached out to grab the handrail, missed, started to fall backwards, twisted and fell right on my face. Stupid thing to do.’

  ‘Where were you?’

  ‘She was right outside this flat.’ Uncle Max was standing in the doorway, holding a tray with tea things. ‘I heard a yelp and ran out and there she was, face down, arms akimbo. You could tell she’d done something awful. She let me ring the ambulance this time and she never does that, do you, darling?’

  Rozie started at the word ‘darling’. What kind of ‘uncle’ was he?

  He put the tray down on the floor, moved some magazines to make space for it and told them to wait while the tea brewed in the pot. Rozie asked how he and Lulu knew each other, and he parked himself on the end of Lulu’s bed to join in the conversation.

  ‘I’ve known Lulu since she was a baby, haven’t I, darling?’ he said. ‘She’s my sister’s girl and my god-daughter.’

  OK, so he was that kind of uncle. Their close relationship was obvious from the way they interrupted each other’s sentences and finished each other’s jokes.

  ‘We’ve always lived in each other’s pockets, haven’t we?’ he said.

  Lulu agreed. ‘Uncle Max was my coolest uncle by far. He was the person who took me dancing.’

  ‘You look surprised, Rozie,’ he said from the end of the bed. ‘Lindy Hop dancing, d’you know it? It’s a style from the forties, quite gymnastic. You should see me in my bags and spats and Lulu in her circle skirts. Although, for Lulu it’s a dangerous sport, isn’t it, darling?’

  ‘I’m always bashing myself,’ Lulu said with a grin. ‘I don’t know how I do it, really. Not just me. I gave my partner a black eye last month. I’ve crashed into you a few times, haven’t I, Uncle Max?’

  ‘More than a few. But hey, Rozie, tell me about the Palace. Lulu’s bored with keeping me up to speed. What’s the gossip?’

  Lulu laughed again. ‘Uncle Max used to be a butler in the Household, did I tell you? It was the reason I applied.’

  ‘I’ve been hors de combat for ten years, though,’ he added wistfully.

  They spent half an hour talking about how things had changed since he’d left. He was misty-eyed.

  ‘Every day, I miss it.’

  Rozie laughed. ‘I doubt that. You must have worked incredibly hard.’

  ‘Oh, I did. We all did. Lulu does too, don’t you, darling? But with such pride.’ His eyes sparkled. ‘Where else could you do such a job, with people you love and trust like that, eh? Tell me?’

  Rozie wasn’t feeling it right now. But she nodded anyway.

  ‘And then, of course, that horrible death,’ he went on. ‘Two deaths – one at Windsor, and one at the Palace. I’m sure you know much more about them than you’d ever tell.’

  Rozie gave the quick-fire response: ‘I really don’t.’

  Uncle Max merely raised an eyebrow. ‘That’s exactly what you’d say, though, isn’t it? I won’t press you. I knew Cynthia, of course. Can’t say I liked her, but you had to feel sorry for her.’

  ‘Did you?’ Rozie thought of the horrible old woman who had sat beside Mary van Renen in the canteen that day.

  Uncle Max nodded. ‘It was such a comedown, from the Royal Collection to Housekeeping. I think she started as a picture restorer, something like that – she had a degree in art – then she went to the Works Department and got briefly engaged to the boss. What was his name? No, can’t remember. Someone else I didn’t have much time for. But she didn’t give up, I’ll give her that. Went to Housekeeping, kept her head down, learned her trade, got good at it. No one ever questioned her work. But she wasn’t very nice, d’you know what I mean?’

  ‘She was an absolute bitch,’ Lulu interjected emphatically from her sickbed. ‘A total cow, and I don’t care what her sob story was. She should’ve dealt with it and moved on with her life.’

  Rozie realised they were both looking at her for comment and she couldn’t think what to say. So many sudden possibilities were jumbling round her head that she needed to be alone to straighten them out. ‘I – I’m really sorry, it’s been lovely. But I should go. It was good to meet you, Uncle Max. I’ve taken up too much of your time, Lulu.’

  That was true. Her friend protested otherwise, but the shadows under her eyes were deepening. Her shoulders drooped. Uncle Max promised to cook the soup for them both that evening, after she’d had a nap. Rozie left, feeling that she had been wrong about her sense of disquiet on arrival – but that she had a new reason to be uneasy now.

  Chapter 18

  G

  race Oshodi had been cooking. This was entirely normal for a Sunday, and equally normal that, even though Rozie wasn’t expected, there was more than enough for her. She needed to
think and she did that better on a full stomach. Or that’s what she told herself, anyway. She was six streets from home and Mum’s after-church Sunday feasts were legendary.

  Having called ahead to announce her arrival, Rozie used the walk to Lancaster Road to do some mental maths. Cynthia Harris was sixty-three, according to her file. If she had joined the Household at, say, twenty-two, after an art degree (assuming Uncle Max knew what he was talking about), then the earliest she could have arrived was in . . . Rozie did a rapid calculation . . . 1975. That made sense. That was fine. It did not explain the bugs under Rozie’s skin, or the buzzing in her brain.

  When did she go to the Works Department? her brain persisted in asking. Why did nobody say?

  But she ignored it, and bought a second colourful bouquet, to take to her mother this time, and a good bottle of red wine.

  For the first, fantastic forty minutes, it was as if she had never been away.

  In the dining room, which played host to an upright piano, three guitars, two tall bookshelves and a small TV, as well as a table for six set awkwardly for eight, the family were helping themselves to the feast. The aroma of sweet peppers emanated from the tiny kitchen where every other Sunday her mother concocted meals big enough to feed the five thousand. She alternated with Auntie Bea, her sister, who was here along with her husband Geoff and sons Ralph and Mikey, whom Rozie and Fliss had grown up with like brothers. Rozie’s dad, Joe, sat at the head of the table with his eyes on a silent TV rugby match. On his right was a young woman she had never seen before.

  This was not unusual. While her dad collected guitars, vinyl dance music from the fifties and vintage maps of the London Underground – all of which littered the flat – her mother collected people. A Sunday meal that didn’t include at least one old friend or new acquaintance was an opportunity missed, in Grace Oshodi’s opinion, and an affront to God’s bounty. In many ways, her mother reminded Rozie of the Queen at Windsor and Balmoral: it was all about sharing, hosting, connecting. When work permitted, they were both very social women who loved a laugh.