A Three Dog Problem

by S. J. Bennett

  Before retiring, briefly, to her private rooms, she’d observed the Household staff in action, moving furniture and bringing in glasses, setting up flowers and ensuring the lighting was right. She and Philip would greet the principal guests in the White Drawing Room before shaking hands with everyone else in the Picture Gallery and having a private word with a select few in the Ball Supper Room. Then it would be time to award the life-saving medals. She always enjoyed that moment, particularly having trained here for her own certificate. To know that someone was alive today because of something one of these brave souls had done . . . How splendid.

  She needed to change and touch up her make-up first. If she was quick, she could sneak in a catch-up on the racing. But as she sat in her private sitting room, fiddling with the remote control for the small television in the corner, she found herself thinking of Cynthia Harris again. It was the life-saving that did it, of course. All those people one would celebrate tonight, and no one had been there for her.

  The Queen had had no luck during her little tour of the Property, Operations and Accounts Departments yesterday. Almost everyone had said something, but no one had produced the distinctive voice she was sure she’d recognise: the one who had tasked Spike Milligan (she was certain of it) with getting Lorna Lobb to deliver the poison pen letters. It wasn’t Mick Clements, with whom she’d had a two-minute conversation. His voice was a bass, whereas the one she’d heard had been a tenor. She had hoped to listen to Eric Ferguson and a couple of the porters, but they weren’t there.

  Meanwhile, Sholto Harvie’s reasons for wanting Cynthia dead were stronger than ever. That card from Helen Fisher had been remarkably informative. It was Cynthia who had found the Gentileschis – it must have been. Unearthing those paintings should have been the highlight of her life. Her career was on the brink of a major coup, and then . . . Sholto’s cruelty was worse than the Queen had imagined. She was appalled that Cynthia had been used in such a way by him.

  What was it about the Surveyors of the Queen’s Pictures and their deputies? She felt certain that Sholto had killed Daniel Blake. Cynthia would have known the young conservator quite well, working alongside him at Stable Yard. She might have had light to shed on that subject, if asked. But Sholto couldn’t have killed her too.

  Which left ‘Mr X’ from the Breakages Business. Rozie had established that four of the people on Billy MacLachlan’s list had been at the Palace that night, working hard to finish off the leak-induced refurbishment and prepare the state and semi-state rooms for the family’s return from Scotland. But why would one of them kill Mrs Harris, when it was Sholto who had the most to lose? If they were worried about Rozie finding out about the business in the course of her research, all they had to do was shut up the tunnel and lie low for a bit. Everyone would assume it was a historical scam, surely? And why had Sholto told Rozie about the business after all this time? He could have told someone at any point in thirty years.

  There was a brief knock on the door and Philip put his head round.

  ‘Ready to go soon, Cabbage?’

  He’d come up to get changed for the lifesavers too.

  ‘Quite soon. How was the lunch?’

  ‘Spot on. Many war stories told. We’d heard them all before, of course, but they bear repeating. D’you remember Sergeant Pun in Afghanistan, during the elections, who fought off thirty Taliban single-handed? Caught by surprise in an ambush on his post. He ended up throwing the machine gun tripod at one of ’em. We got a blow-by-blow account of it. Extraordinary fellow. Typical Gurkha. His grandfather won the Victoria Cross in Burma. Are you there? You look as if you’ve gone gaga.’

  ‘No. I’m quite all right. I just need to think for a minute.’

  ‘If you must. See you in your glad rags shortly. I’m off to have a bath.’

  He left her to it, and she let her mind drift back to the walk in the garden with Rozie and MacLachlan. There had been a discussion of war stories and something had struck her at the time. What was it?

  She thought of Mick Clements, who was certainly aggressive. Look at the way he had tried to intimidate Rozie in the cellars that night. He was rash and impulsive, barely in control of himself, Rozie had said. But whoever killed Cynthia – if indeed someone had – had done it subtly, with premeditation. It was a bit like the way the Breakages Business was run: criminal, but not too greedy. Always flying under the radar. Dangerous, but restrained. Not like Mick Clements at all.

  According to MacLachlan, one or two people discussing Cynthia’s death over drinks after work had been ‘encyclopedic’ on the subject of battlefield injuries. Quick ways, slow ways . . . They could have been security officers, but not necessarily.

  The knife on the note sent to Rozie had been quite specific. It was a type of commando knife the Queen recognised, used by the special forces. Not a kitchen knife, or a vague approximation, but an historic model that a military buff would know. So who had been talking in the pub? The same man who’d written those notes to Rozie, she felt sure.

  Quick ways, slow ways . . . Perhaps that sort of man, he wouldn’t need much . . . He’d do it as a favour. Do it carefully, so as not to get caught.

  And then it all fell into place.

  If she was right, that sort of man might even have taken pleasure in doing damage. He was quite possibly the same sort of man who would put a filthy message on Mary van Renen’s bicycle, when no one was looking . . . just because he could. It would explain what happened to Mary and Rozie and even poor Mrs Baxter, whose suffering was just a distraction: the unnecessary cruelty, the instinct to hit where it hurt.

  It wasn’t Mick Clements, who might have the interest but didn’t have the self-control. Not anyone she had spoken to yesterday, because none of them had the voice she remembered from the unfortunate episode in the attics. Someone made interesting, in fact, by his absence during her tour of the departments. Someone who took care to stay in the shadows.

  But given the extreme nature of the act, when Cynthia’s death hit the news, why didn’t Sholto say something?

  He had his own dirty secrets. There were the paintings. And the nobbled motorbike. Anyone who knew about the paintings would probably know about the bike.

  The Queen reviewed what she knew and felt certain she had it now, but all of it was perhaps and assuming and probably. She wasn’t absolutely sure she had the right person. She ran back over the events once more in her mind, looking for something that would constitute proof of the kind the police would need.

  There was nothing. She might still be wrong. She would have to tell Strong anyway. If she was right, this was as far as she could go. Also, if she was right, there was no limit to what this man might do.

  There was a phone on the desk and this time she had no hesitation. She used it to ask the Palace operator for Rozie, who answered promptly.

  ‘Can I help, Your Majesty?’

  ‘Rozie, this has gone far enough. Please can you fit in an appointment for Chief Inspector Strong to see me as soon as possible? First thing tomorrow, ideally. Half an hour will do.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Meanwhile, can you find out what has happened to Eric Ferguson? I’d like to be sure one knows where he is.’

  ‘I’ll get onto it now.’

  ‘Don’t, for God’s sake, go near him. Just his location – that’s all I need.’

  ‘I’ll be careful, I promise. Have a good evening.’

  The Queen intended to. She felt much better now. She glanced at her watch. In forty-five minutes she would be appearing through the hidden doorway in the White Drawing Room, and there were a few miracles to perform with lipstick, powder, diamonds and curlers between now and then.

  *

  Rozie made a succession of phone calls, all of which were dead ends. Eric Ferguson hadn’t been at his desk for days, and he certainly wasn’t at the Palace, or his team’s second office in SJP. Sensing what the Boss might be thinking, she rang Mary van Renen’s family home in
Shropshire, trying to keep any note of panic from her voice. She’s out, her mother said. You can try her mobile, but reception’s terrible in that place. Rozie asked what place and Mrs van Renen explained, rather excitedly, that Mary was on a date with a new man, someone she’d met in London, who was visiting the area and who between you and me, gave the strong impression he’d come up to see Mary specially. Isn’t that lovely?

  Was it, Rozie wondered? Was it really? She felt sick.

  Mary’s mother was right about the mobile reception in the restaurant. Or maybe the date was going well. Either way, Mary didn’t pick up, and the restaurant itself wasn’t answering their landline number. Rozie wrote a brief but urgent text, asking Mary to call.

  Sitting at her desk, alone in her office, she racked her brains about where else to try. Then she remembered the little breeze block office in the cellars. There had been various drawers that she hadn’t had time to go through. She sensed that was where Mick Clements did his thinking. Perhaps Eric Ferguson did too. It was a very long shot, but she was really scared for Mary, and you never knew.

  Chapter 42

  I

  t wasn’t yet seven o’clock and Sir Simon was preparing to knock off early for once. He wasn’t needed for the reception upstairs: that was the Master’s domain, and no doubt he had it under control. There was a drinks party at the In and Out club across the square from the Rag, and another at the Foreign Office on Whitehall, and Sir Simon was wondering whether he had time for both. His wife was deeply into a drama series on BBC One and it was the finale tonight, so she wouldn’t mind if he wasn’t back before eleven.

  As usual, before tidying up for the night, he scrolled through various newsfeeds on his computer. There was more fallout from President-elect Trump’s decision to pull out of the Trans-Pacific Partnership. Definitely drinks at the Foreign Office: they’d all be apoplectic. More reports of Mr Trump’s meeting with the press, post-election, which according to his new spokeswoman was ‘very candid and very honest’, and according to the New York Post was ‘like a f---ing firing squad’. Drinks at the club, then, too, where one of Sir Simon’s good friends had gone to the Economist after a short career in the navy. He’d have a thing or two to say.

  He slipped on his coat and popped his head round Rozie’s door to see if she was still working, and to say goodbye.

  She was in her office, but not at her desk. In fact, she was standing in the middle of the room, wearing her coat and her emergency trainers. She started guiltily.

  ‘Where on earth are you going?’

  Rozie quickly recovered her composure. ‘Just downstairs. It’s nothing.’

  ‘It’s clearly not nothing.’ Sir Simon gestured at her jacket and shoes.

  She hesitated for a fraction. ‘It’s to do with that painting of Britannia. Just a couple of loose ends. I thought I’d look around and see if I can . . .’ She trailed off with a smile and a shrug.

  ‘Downstairs?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Downstairs where?’

  ‘Just, you know, the cellars. It’s fine. I’ve been there before. I just thought I might find . . . Honestly, you go. Have you got something on?’

  ‘A drinks, actually. Two. Look, stop trying to distract me. You’re not going to the cellars on your own, Rozie. Definitely not at night. I saw what happened to you last time.’

  ‘Nothing happened,’ she said brightly. ‘Honestly. Go.’

  But he was already taking off his coat. ‘You had blood on your lip and you scared the life out of me. Let’s go down and find whatever it is you need and get the hell out of here. We’ve both earned a decent drink.’

  She tried to remonstrate, but he wouldn’t be moved. Sir Simon glanced at his watch: a quarter to eight. Hopefully they’d find this ruddy thing soon, whatever it was, and they could both get on with their evenings.

  *

  It was abominably cold down there. He regretted leaving his overcoat in Rozie’s office. She saw him shiver and offered him hers, but naturally he refused. It would have to be a question of hypothermia or frostbite before a gentleman accepted warm clothes from a lady, even if she was a decorated army officer.

  The door ahead was clearly marked with a freshly-made sign:

  DO NOT ENTER.

  PROPERTY DEPARTMENT ONLY.

  BY ORDER OF THE DUKE OF EDINBURGH.

  Rozie opened it and he followed. Inside, it was dark and she had to feel around for the light switch.

  ‘You can’t hear anything, can you?’ she asked, just before turning it on. He listened. There was nothing.

  ‘No. Why?’

  ‘Just checking.’

  She flipped the switch and the lights slowly buzzed into life, illuminating an Aladdin’s cave of royal discards. They passed rack upon rack of fascinating artefacts peeping out of boxes or simply stacked on shelves. It was a bit like how he imagined the storerooms at the British Museum.

  Rozie seemed to know where she was heading. Beyond the racks there was a small office with rough, unpainted walls, built into the far corner. She opened its door with some caution and poked around inside while Sir Simon waited nearby, rubbing his arms through his jacket and watching his breath form condensation in the air.

  When she came out, he asked, ‘Anything?’ and she shook her head. He was about to head back, but she said she just wanted to have a quick look in the room beyond. This one had a barrel-vaulted ceiling that took him straight back to his history books. It couldn’t be Tudor, so must be late Georgian, he judged. Berating himself for not coming down here before, he followed Rozie with considerable enthusiasm now, noting the old, thin bricks peeping through where a couple of tiles were missing, and the well-worn stones of the floor.

  She looked around and, following her gaze, he spotted a trio of rather nice Chinese-looking pots standing in a row in front of one of the racks. Rozie glanced towards the far end, where another door was just about visible behind a tower of trunks and boxes.

  He gestured towards it. ‘I suppose that’s where the tunnels start.’

  Rozie murmured her agreement. But her attention was caught by a patch of something dark on the floor ahead of them. She went over, crouched down and put her finger in it, then stood to rub whatever it was off her hand.

  ‘I think we should call someone,’ she said, staring back at him.

  ‘Oh? Why?’

  ‘Because I think that’s blood.’

  He walked over and touched the stain too. It was like the swish of a paintbrush, rust brown, mixed with dirt on the stone. Adrenaline kicked in.

  ‘Go and get help.’

  ‘The blood’s dry,’ she pointed out.

  ‘You’re right.’ He was overreacting. Perhaps this was an ancient storeroom injury, or rusty paint. He was just starting to relax when he happened to follow Rozie’s gaze again towards the pile of trunks and boxes. ‘Oh my God.’ There was a smear of something ominous on the side of a tea chest in front of the tunnel door. ‘D’you see that?’ he asked, pointing it out.

  ‘What?’

  ‘On the tea chest.’

  ‘Oh? Er, yeah.’

  They went over together and Rozie lifted down the top trunk from the tower. He helped her lift down the tea chest, only to find it was nailed up.

  ‘We need to open this.’

  ‘I don’t think—’

  ‘It’s not nailed hard. We can easily lever the top off. I’m sure I saw a crowbar leaning against the wall in that other room. Can you get it?’

  She went off in search of it and, as she did, Sir Simon’s attention strayed to the heavy trunk at the base of the tower, now sitting unencumbered. It was like the ones some of the boys had had at school. His own had been quite small, made of canvas bound with brass-studded wood. This one was similar, but larger and made of leather. Steamer trunks, they were known as. It was somewhat battered and there seemed to be a noise coming from inside it.

  He bent down and listened harder. It was an unpleasant sort of scrabbling sou
nd, reminding him of mice behind the wainscot at the cottage at Kensington Palace. With curiosity mixed with faint disgust – Sir Simon was no fan of vermin – he tested the lid. The two hinged buckles gave way easily; it was not locked. He lifted it up.

  The smell hit him full on, sweet and sickly and nauseating, followed by the sight of a pair of small, frightened eyes that stared up at him, caught by the light, above a set of twitching whiskers. They belonged to a fat, filthy rat that leaped up at him suddenly, before throwing itself over the side and scuttling into the shadows. Holding his sleeve to his nose, he looked back at the hideous object the animal had been feasting on.

  Inside the trunk, untidily folded, was the body of a man, face up. He had not been dead very long, Sir Simon judged – days at most – but the rat had been busy. The eyes and eyelids of the cadaver were already eaten away. Additionally, there were dark bullet holes in one marbled cheek and the opposite temple, and his navy waistcoat and white shirt were stained with blood. He’d been shot in the chest first, Sir Simon speculated, and then a lucky – or unlucky – bullet had caught his head as he turned it. Even so, enough of the face was left for him to know he had seen the man before, though he couldn’t put a name to him.

  Rozie came over, clutching the redundant crowbar. ‘Shit!’ she said, reeling from the stench. She peered over his shoulder.

  ‘Do you know who this is?’ he asked. ‘I warn you, it’s not pleas—’

  ‘I met him over the summer,’ she said, oddly calm. ‘It’s Eric Ferguson.’

  Chapter 43

  T

  his time, there was no avoiding it.

  MURDER AT BUCKINGHAM PALACE!

  QUEEN’S AIDE FINDS DEAD SERVANT