‘Well,’ the Queen said at last. ‘Do you have anyone in particular in mind?’
‘I don’t. Not that I can make any sense of, anyway.’
‘Have you talked to Chief Inspector Strong?’
‘Not yet.’
‘Let me think about it for a while.’
‘I—Of course. Yes.’ Rozie relaxed a little. ‘I didn’t think you’d believe me. I thought I was getting a bit dramatic.’
‘And yet you came to find me,’ the Queen said, ‘and kept me from lunch with the Princess Royal. You must have thought it was important.’
Rozie tried to hide her smile. Princess Anne was known for her punctuality. Even her mother might be on the receiving end of a sharply raised eyebrow. ‘I did. I’m sorry.’
‘Don’t be. And now I really must go.’
However, after Rozie left her, the Queen remained in the calm stillness of the room, grateful for a moment of solitude.
Rozie had been on her mind yesterday while she was out riding at Windsor. She had been thinking about the notes. If Cynthia Harris had targeted herself, one had to wonder who had targeted Rozie and why. The notes seemed designed to get rid of her and the Queen had wondered if there was a specific reason why somebody wanted her out of the way.
And now this. The idea that Mrs Harris had been deliberately killed, almost the moment she got back to the Palace from Scotland, to stop Rozie from talking to her. Why? Because Rozie had been asking about a painting by a fairly unknown Australian that went missing thirty years ago. It was outlandish. It was outright ridiculous. And yet . . .
The strangest thing of all was the behaviour of Sholto Harvie, who had failed to mention that he once worked closely with a woman whose death was in the news, along with fanciful stories of young princesses and bottles of champagne. Why stay silent about that, but disclose the story of the Breakages Business?
Sholto couldn’t be the killer – if indeed there was one. What harm could he have done from the Cotswolds? And anyway, why help and hinder at the same time?
There was a gentle knock at the door. ‘Ma’am?’
Damn. The soup would be cold, or boiled, and Anne, Charles and Philip would be livid. She called out that she was coming and followed the dogs as briskly as she could.
Chapter 21
T
hat afternoon, Anne put her head around the study door.
‘Not disturbing you, am I?’
She was. The Queen was catching up on some private correspondence. But it didn’t matter. Anne, who was in town for various work commitments, sat on the comfy armchair she generally used if she came to visit and accepted the eager, nuzzling curiosity of Vulcan and Candy as they came to settle at her feet. Willow remained by her mistress, but cocked an ear in acknowledgement.
‘It’s not the same, is it?’ Anne said. Her tone was matter-of-fact, but her eyes were full of sympathy. ‘D’you miss her badly?’
She meant the dog. It was only four weeks and a bit since the vet had performed his final, inevitable task on Holly, and several times a day the Queen felt a sudden tug at her consciousness: the different sound made by three sets of paws, not four; wondering what treats one might persuade the elderly dog to eat, and remembering that there was no need; the sight of the corgi’s eager body waddling and waggling ahead of her down the corridors, snaking round her ankles as she tried to sit down and lying in all the most unfortunate places – a ghostly memory now.
In fact, the Queen had been responding to a couple of old friends who’d been offering their condolences. Dog-lovers, they understood.
‘Yes, I miss her very much,’ she said. ‘But life goes on, doesn’t it?’
‘I know, Mummy, but you can talk to me. I bawled my eyes out when Mabel died.’
‘You did,’ the Queen remembered.
That was the thing about Anne: tough as old boots, which meant she hadn’t cared a jot if the family saw her blubbing at the death of a precious pet. Mind you, one of her bull terriers had caused a corgi to be put down once. Not a happy memory.
Who, the Queen thought, could kill their own guinea pig? Her mind was back with Peggy Thornicroft, and from there to Cynthia Harris again.
‘You seem very distracted,’ Anne said. ‘I thought so over lunch. Anything I can do?’
She reflexively declined the offer. ‘No. It’s not Holly.’
‘Oh, God – it’s not the President of Colombia, is it? He hasn’t asked for anything outrageous in the Belgian Suite? D’you remember that prince who wanted an open fire?’
She did. He wanted it so his chef could cook appropriate meals the traditional way, but it had been agreed that such a fire in the kitchens might be a safer option.
‘I do. Not that.’
‘Oh, not the housekeeper in the pool? That was bloody bad luck. I haven’t told the little ones about it. They’d go apeshit.’
‘Not that either,’ the Queen lied. ‘But I do have a problem. I sense I should alert the authorities about something, but if I do, it will go from something very small to something very big very quickly, and I won’t have the power to stop it. And I might be wrong.’
‘Can’t you get Sir Simon to fix it?’
‘No, I don’t think so.’
‘Really? There’s not much he can’t do. Except find meaningful jobs for Beatrice and Eugenie, I s’pose.’
‘Not this.’
‘Can you wait? See if it sorts itself out?’
The Queen smiled fondly at her daughter. She loved Anne’s practicality and instinctive desire to help, combined with the tact born of a lifetime of knowing that Mummy had to deal with secret things on a regular basis, and if she didn’t want to tell you, you didn’t ask.
‘I don’t think it will,’ she answered. ‘I wish it could.’
Anne stood up. ‘Well, I’ll leave you to it. But when I had a problem setting up the horse trials at Gatcombe, I remember I was calling up all and sundry, making my presence felt and being a bloody nuisance, and you said to attack it one piece at a time, and do nothing until I was sure of my facts.’ She walked over to give her mother an affectionate kiss. ‘I’m off to get changed. Black-tie dinner in the City to raise wodges of dosh for the Royal Voluntary Service. I’ll see you tomorrow.’
Alone again, the Queen pushed aside the letter she’d been writing and considered her daughter’s advice. Her duty told her to raise her concerns about Mrs Harris with Chief Inspector Strong as soon as possible. If Cynthia had died to stop her from talking to Rozie about what happened in the nineteen eighties, then murder had been committed within the precincts of the Palace and of course the police must know.
But had it?
Despite the Queen’s misgivings from the start, the police were still content that Mrs Harris’s fall was a tragic accident. Had someone really masterminded that trick with the tumbler? (The Queen couldn’t help seeing it as a trick.) All Rozie had done over the summer was ask around about the long-ago disappearance of a minor oil painting. Would someone plot and kill to stop her making progress? Really?
If one did talk to the chief inspector, he couldn’t possibly keep it quiet while he made a few discreet enquiries. He wasn’t like Billy MacLachlan, her old protection officer who occasionally helped out in his retirement. Strong would be duty-bound to report his findings up the line. Even if his bosses tried to keep it quiet, it was a murder at Buckingham Palace. She could imagine the headlines and endless updates in the news.
The Queen gazed out of the window. The gas lamps were on in the grounds – relics from a Victorian age, though her great-great-grandmother had found them too newfangled for her taste. Beyond the walls, London went about its business, oblivious. She could feel a headache coming on. To talk or not to talk? All she had was a hunch, although when Rozie had spoken to her in the 1844 Room, their joint conclusion had felt much more than that.
Anne’s advice, though given without much context, seemed sound. If she were a minister, preparing to present to herself, she would endea
vour to put a decent case together and be sure of her facts. She must do the same for the chief inspector.
Yes, that was the answer. She sat back in her chair with relief. She knew where to start. But she couldn’t do it yet.
Chapter 22
T
he State Visit of the President of Colombia began on Tuesday. This was a highlight of the calendar that the Queen cared about tremendously, and she wanted London and the Palace to be at their best. Over the years, there had been some leaders of Latin American countries one had found more congenial than others. Mr Santos, who was on the brink of achieving a historic peace agreement at home, was a man she was pleased to welcome with all the pageantry State and Crown could command. He had once been a student here, and now he was the most recent recipient of the Nobel Peace Prize, due to give a speech at the London School of Economics about the role of young people in the peace process. He would visit Northern Ireland, hot on the heels of her own recent trip, and see the tremendous progress that a community could make when it actively turned away from conflict. She was grateful to Rozie for finding a suitable quotation from a Colombian writer for her own speech of welcome. Which is harder to fight: war or indifference?
That night, she gave the speech in the gilded Ballroom, at a banquet for a hundred and seventy. The tables, positioned in a U shape, were so wide that footmen had had to walk across them in stockinged feet to smooth out the cloths and position the silver gilt dessert stands and branching candelabras from the Grand Service, dating back to the early nineteenth century. Each place was set with six cut-crystal glasses. The flowers included choice varieties from Colombia alongside home-grown blooms. The Master had checked – with a ruler – that the knives and forks were set the correct distance from the edge of the table. She herself had closely inspected the settings beforehand, to ensure everything was right.
Sitting beside Mr Santos at the head table in the Ballroom, she wore the Victorian Suite diamonds and sapphires. The overall effect, with matching tiara, was suitably large and showy, to match the banquet. The Queen liked to break out all the rocks for occasions such as this. She had already given the President a formal reception on Horse Guards Parade, a carriage-ride up the Mall and lunch in the Bow Room. There was more to come tomorrow. It was the chance to connect with a world leader at a personal level and spread a little dazzle.
At times like this, and during the investitures and the garden parties, one could forgive Buckingham Palace for being so large, so extravagantly redesigned and decorated by her third-great-grand-uncle, George IV, and so difficult to maintain. It was not ideal as a home in many ways, but when the nation wanted to extend its thanks or hand of friendship, there was nowhere quite like it for doing the job. She and the rest of the family went out of their way to make the once-in-a-lifetime experience as delightful as they could for their visitors.
During the dinner, she was very glad to think that Mr Santos and his wife would have no idea of the horrors going on above their heads, where the space above the Ballroom ceiling had been recently inspected to make sure it wasn’t as critically dangerous as the one above the State Dining Room, which was still out of use. The Palace was a bit like a swan on the lake: gliding gracefully on the surface, paddling like billy-o underneath.
*
To her relief and the Master’s, no ceilings fell. After two nights in the Belgian Suite and a packed agenda of events, Mr Santos left for Northern Ireland and the Queen had a bit of breathing space.
On Thursday morning she travelled to Newmarket to unveil a statue of a racehorse in honour of her long and happy association with the town. In the helicopter on the way to Suffolk, she read a note from Sir James giving her a quick update on the new investigation into the Breakages Business that Rozie had covertly instigated. Her heart sank. It was half a page.
Initial enquiries suggest that there was a problem with a manager in the eighties called Sidney Smirke who became head of the Works Department. He was known as a bit of a character, but towards the end it became sadly obvious he was a raging alcoholic. He got a criminal record for beating up a man outside a pub and my predecessor at the time had to get rid of him. It’s not impossible that he tried to run some sort of racket, but I can absolutely assure you that any possible issues with a ‘Breakages Business’ are purely historic. If I come across anything else, I’ll let you know instanter, but I don’t need to assure you that my team have management of your assets under tight control.
She looked up from the note with a sigh. There it was again. If anyone else told her everything was ‘under control’ she might be forced to break something herself.
She tried to use the rest of the journey to make sense of it all, but helicopter rides are not designed to aid the thinking process. This was a three-dog problem. She resolved to give it her full attention when she got back.
Chapter 23
F
or years, it had been the Queen’s habit to take a few dogs for a walk in the grounds if she had a big problem to consider. Too many, and one ended up spending more time calling them to heel than thinking. Nowadays, she didn’t have the luxury of choice.
On her return to the Palace that afternoon, there was a small gap in her schedule before tea. She put her papers aside and checked the sky outside her window. It was grey and gloomy, with a likelihood of rain. No matter. She told her page to explain to anyone who asked that she was going out and she might be some time.
The dogs accompanied their mistress to the boot room, where she slipped into a raincoat, headscarf and sensible shoes before heading out into the garden. Candy and Vulcan’s dorgi ancestry resulted from an encounter years ago between her corgi, Tiny, and Margaret’s dachshund, Pipkin. Despite their stubby legs, these two were energetic creatures who appreciated the exercise. Willow, the corgi, did not look convinced she needed another walk after the one she’d had with a footman this morning, but she came along out of curiosity, if nothing else.
The cool, tangy air outside was an instant reminder that it was the first week of November, and winter was on its way. The Queen felt it prick her skin and catch in her throat. Ahead, the lawn stretched down towards the lake. Two weeks ago, with autumn at its height, the view had been awash with vibrant colour from the bright yellow ash, the flaming swamp cypresses and tawny horse chestnuts that flanked the lawn and encircled the water. Today, the trees were a patchwork of gold and brown, and the lawn was edged with flurries of fallen leaves. In the past, there would have been bonfires; now there were composters. Philip ensured they were all environmentally efficient, but she missed the smell of woodsmoke on the air.
She turned along the West Terrace, keeping the Palace to her right as she headed for the kissing plane trees. The dogs were already ahead of her; they knew this route. They padded along the path, sniffing the borders and pausing occasionally if she called. At the end of the terrace they trotted past the north-west pavilion, which Papa had converted into the pool. From here, it looked like a Greek temple with Georgian windows. The Queen looked up as she passed, considering its interior and the night the family got back from Balmoral.
‘What had happened to Mrs Harris, then?’ she asked the dogs, who were more inquisitive about what lay under the leaf piles than their mistress’s musings. She kept the rest of her thoughts to herself.
Why on earth would Cynthia Harris go there? The police were happy enough that she had done so alone, out of mere officiousness, or on a whim. She had arrived in her slippers, which were found in the ladies’ changing room, so it didn’t look like a romantic encounter – not that anyone had expected it to be. Outside, the grounds were full of hidden CCTV cameras that could be triggered by the slightest movement, all of which were working. No one had entered the Palace unofficially that night. If the housekeeper had met anyone, it was an insider. There were no signs of trauma on her body, other than the knock on the head and the cuts to the lower leg, no indication that she was hurt or forced.
Even the newspapers were happy: they had r
un dozens of articles about the dangers of cutting yourself on the ankle. In the absence of photographs, they had mocked up endless pictures of what Mrs Harris must have looked like, lying there, with images of crystal glasses of all shapes and sizes, and advice on where to procure similar items from Harrods and Thomas Goode.
Surprisingly, they never had picked up on the poison pen campaign. Their angle was that Mrs Harris was a tragic victim of cut crystal and bad luck – or possibly the lax habits of poor Beatrice and Eugenie, who were in fact several miles away at the time – so it didn’t fit that she might be unpopular. Simon had tried to explain this, but the Queen was quite aware of it already. She knew precisely how certain elements of the press decided their story first, then found the facts to fit. Her family had been at the receiving end of it all her life.
By now she had reached the plane trees planted by Victoria and Albert either side of the path, a hundred and fifty years ago. They arched above her, high into the sky, their spreading branches intertwining just as her great-great-grandparents must have planned. At this point she followed the path to the left, towards the rose garden. Was she stirring up trouble for nothing? What could she prove? Given all the trouble it would cause, why would she even want to try?
She passed the little summer house, where in warm weather she liked to give tea parties to the great-grandchildren. Willow stayed nearby on the path while Candy and Vulcan nosed about outside.
Because she knew something was wrong. One did not give up so easily.
‘Motive, means, opportunity,’ she muttered. ‘You know that, Willow, don’t you?’
The corgi panted at her in a non-committal way. They carried on.
Rozie had provided the motive. But while it gave the Queen pause for thought, it was so weak. Even if Cynthia Harris knew all about the Breakages Business and the purloined painting, who would commit murder for the sake of protecting a small-time art thief and a racket to sell unwanted presents? Not that they were ever unwanted, of course, just difficult to store.
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