A Three Dog Problem

by SJ Bennett

  Strange.

  It was not addressed to anyone. The toilets, like the corridor outside, were empty. With a feeling of increasing discomfort, she picked up the envelope and opened it.

  Inside was a torn-off piece of paper from a child’s exercise book, folded three times so it was the size of a business card. Rozie opened it slowly. It contained three childish drawings executed in blue biro, and four words written in stencilled capital letters. The effect on her was visceral, like a punch to the stomach. For a moment she was suspended in time: a confused little girl herself, watching fear and fury flick across her mother’s face. Then, crumpling the note in her hand, she steadied herself while the shock tunnelled down to her core.

  Part 2

  The Breakages Business

  Chapter 9

  ‘S

  imon, you look dreadful. What’s happened?’

  On her first morning back at the Palace, the Queen emerged from her bedroom, dressed and coiffured, only to find her Private Secretary waiting for her in the corridor. This was hardly protocol.

  ‘Your Majesty.’ He bowed at the neck. ‘I wanted to be the one to tell you. I found . . . There’s been a most unfortunate accident. A terrible thing. I found . . . There’s a body in the pool, ma’am. Not in the pool, beside it. A housekeeper. Mrs Harris. I found . . .’

  She stared at him. Sir Simon was one of the most competent men in the country. Ex-Royal Navy and Foreign Office, a pilot and a diplomat. She had never seen him like this. There was a smear of red on his earlobe. His tie was askew.

  ‘Come with me and tell me about it. Are you sure you don’t need to sit down?’

  They walked briskly along the corridor to her study, while Sir Simon, limping slightly, poured out details in no particular order. The housekeeper had fallen, it seemed, and hit her head. The blood was caused by broken glass. The police were here. She looked very cold. He had found her first thing this morning.

  The man was grey and she sensed that any minute the shock would kick in properly, and he would hardly be able to stand.

  ‘Get Rozie for me,’ she said, once they’d reached her desk and he was starting to repeat himself. ‘Then go home and don’t come back until I tell you.’

  ‘The police, ma’am . . .’

  ‘Rozie can deal with them. And they can visit you at home. It’s not far. You’ll be useless to me here.’ She said it sharply, not to be unkind but because she knew he wouldn’t leave unless she made him, and he was in no fit state to work.

  *

  It was her APS, therefore, who got the report from the police about how the housekeeper had died.

  ‘A thick piece of glass cut her artery just above the ankle,’ Rozie explained a couple of hours later, standing in the light from the study window, one floor above where the body had been found. She, too, had an odd look about her, but at least her manner was professional. ‘A freak accident. It looked as though Mrs Harris slipped and dropped a whisky tumbler she was carrying. The bottom of the broken glass had a lethally sharp edge that must have caught her as she fell. They think she was lying there all night.’

  ‘What was she doing with a whisky tumbler by the pool?’

  ‘Probably clearing it up, ma’am. A few had been left around recently.’

  ‘Can you die from a cut on your ankle?’

  ‘Apparently yes, if you’re very unlucky. That artery bleeds a lot. It looks as though she slipped and knocked herself out, then came to and tried to stem the bleeding – her hands were covered in blood. But she was too weak to do it, or get up and call for help. She only had a couple of cuts, but that’s all it takes. That’s what the police inspector I spoke to thinks, anyway. He’s requested an autopsy, so the pathologist will let us know for certain.’

  The Queen was grateful for the way Rozie didn’t pause to check she was ‘OK’, as people usually did. When one had grown up with dogs and horses one was used to accidents of various ghastly descriptions. Used to death. And she had read the reports of more soldiers killed in battle than she cared to recall. She pictured the poor woman trying to stem the flow of her own blood, and was desperately sad there had been nobody there to help.

  ‘Why was she on her own?’

  ‘The Master’s not sure. There’s only one CCTV camera in the area and it’s been on the blink for ages. It’s possible she went to clear up after a family session. She was in uniform and didn’t have her costume with her. She probably only meant to be in there for five minutes.’

  ‘Poor Mrs Harris,’ the Queen said. ‘She’s been with us for years. I saw her only recently, at Balmoral.’

  ‘Yes, she went up with the second wave of staff, I believe.’

  The Queen nodded thoughtfully. ‘And they think she slipped?’

  ‘It seems so.’

  ‘Let me know if they make any unfortunate discoveries.’

  Rozie knew exactly what the Boss meant. ‘I’m sure it’s an accident this time,’ she ventured. The last time a body was found at a royal residence, it turned out not to be accidental at all.

  Her Majesty gave her a piercing look through her bifocals. ‘Don’t be too sure of anything. It pays to keep an open mind.’

  ‘Yes, ma’am.’

  ‘Can you find out if Mrs Harris was in any trouble?’

  The piercing look was still on her. Rozie felt the Queen’s concern. She had a split second to decide whether to keep her promise to Sir Simon from the summer. And if not, whether to tell the full story. She decided to keep some of her thoughts to herself. This was about Cynthia Harris; best for all concerned if it stayed that way.

  ‘I happen to know already, ma’am. She was.’

  ‘Oh?’

  Rozie took a breath and explained. ‘There’s been a spate of poison pen letters. Several people didn’t like her. I mean, they had reason not to like her. I don’t know how all of them actually felt.’

  ‘What reasons?’

  Rozie summed up what she had learned from Lulu Arantes and Sir Simon about the retirement and return. ‘There was a lot of resentment. And . . .’ Rozie paused.

  ‘And what?’ The blue stare was unwavering.

  ‘Well, ma’am, I understand several people thought Mrs Harris had undue . . . that she was quite close to you, ma’am, because she helped out with the guest suites and you’re so particular about them.’

  Rozie wondered whether she was being too direct, but didn’t have time to find the elegant courtier’s way of telling the truth. Sir Simon would have managed – if he’d been here, and not at home with his wife and a stiff brandy.

  If the Queen was offended, she didn’t show it. ‘Thank you, Rozie.’ But she pursed her lips again. ‘Why wasn’t I told before?’

  ‘About what, ma’am?’ Rozie asked, stalling for time.

  ‘About all this unpleasantness. The bad feeling about Mrs Harris. The poison pen letters. I could have done something.’

  ‘I – I don’t know. Sir Simon felt . . . I mean the Master . . .’ Rozie struggled to finish her sentence without implying the senior courtiers had made a terrible mistake. Which, in her opinion, they had.

  The Queen nodded and waved a hand. ‘They had it under control, no doubt,’ she said coldly.

  ‘Yes, ma’am.’

  ‘They didn’t mind the implication that a housekeeper had me in her power.’

  Rozie was shocked at the baldness of this statement. But she couldn’t deny it.

  ‘They were unhappy about it. But there was an HR process to go through before they could ask her to retire again. The anonymous letters made it difficult.’

  The Queen was thoughtful for a moment as she looked out of the study window towards Constitution Hill. When she turned back her voice was sharp. ‘Is there anything else I’m being protected from?’

  A million things, Rozie thought. But nothing worth sharing at this point. ‘Not as far as I know, ma’am. If I think of anything, I’ll tell you.’

  ‘Thank you. That will
be all.’

  *

  Once she was alone, the Queen turned her gaze back to the view. It was a crisp October day and the sky was powder blue above the trees. For London, the air was clear and bright, but after the Highlands she could make out the fug of air pollution that rendered everything slightly grey. She had been anticipating problems on her return . . . But not this.

  It was true, she and Cynthia Harris had been close in a way. When you need your home to run like clockwork, you come to rely on those professionals who work to your standards. Any room prepared by Mrs Harris was always impeccable. There was never a speck of dirt or a hint of disrepair. Fraying fabrics were magically replaced; requests for specific books or flowers were always met; even the allergies of guests’ staff were considered. There had been that awful time not long ago during the President of Mexico’s visit, when the Orleans bedroom in the Belgian Suite had been filled with Casa Blanca lilies, which had given his chief of staff a streaming nose in minutes. That would never have happened if Mrs Harris was in charge. It must have been while she was away. Hmmm.

  The woman had been friendly but not forward, practical, tireless – and unquestionably loyal. In Balmoral she would always grab a net and leap about with the best of them to catch the infernal bats. They had shared the occasional joke. Her attention to detail was obvious in the way she looked after the rooms in her care, but they were not close in the way Rozie seemed to suggest.

  The Queen sighed. After sixty-three years on the throne, she was not as impressionable as some members of her Household gave her credit for. She could see that Mrs Harris was a bit of a toady. She had noticed her occasionally being sharp with junior maids, but instantly sunny as soon as she turned her attention to a VIP. It had struck her as unusual that the woman was still working beyond retirement age, and indeed she had asked the Master about it last year, but he had said ‘she wanted to’ and ‘it was all under control’. It always was with the Master. But what control? Had he controlled who Mrs Harris made enemies of? Could he?

  The Queen took off her bifocals and fiddled with her fountain pen. She felt a mix of guilt and frustration. If Cynthia Harris had been causing problems, someone should have said. One could live with the occasional poor choice of flowers in the Belgian Suite if it meant the Household as a whole was happy. Was that the sort of thing the housekeeper hadn’t mentioned in her handover notes? The Queen wished people didn’t always assume that obeying one’s every whim was the be-all and end-all. It was more than a whim to desire the staff to get on with each other. That mattered too, surely?

  Even so. Mrs Harris’s reliability and flair were a rare mix and the Queen would miss her. The poor woman had been receiving poison pen letters and now she was dead.

  And there was something else.

  She thought hard for a moment, gazing into the middle distance. Rozie had said something she had meant to follow up on. What was it?

  A spate of poison pen letters. Mrs Harris was not the only victim.

  She reached swiftly for the phone on her desk and asked to be put through to the Master.

  ‘Good morning. I’d like to see you in my study immediately. If you would be so kind.’

  Chapter 10

  ‘Y

  ou what?’

  Sir Simon, back at his desk and, it seemed, fully recovered from the shock, was incandescent.

  Rozie stood her ground. ‘I told her about the letters. I had to.’

  ‘Oh, you had to, did you? Why, exactly?’

  ‘She asked.’

  ‘Asked if there were any letters, specifically? Any damaged items?’

  ‘No. She asked if I knew whether Mrs Harris was in any trouble. What damaged items?’

  ‘It doesn’t matter. I told you about the letters in confidence. God, Rozie! The Master told me in confidence. Can’t I trust you?’

  He was standing at the carved marble mantelpiece in his office, flexing his hands into fists while she stood facing him. This was not a sit-down conversation. In fact, it was abutting the borders of a rollicking bollocking, Sir Simon-style.

  ‘Yes, of course you can,’ she said.

  ‘How? How?’

  ‘I can’t lie to the Queen!’ Rozie raised her voice to match his, which then became icy.

  ‘I never ask you to lie, simply to let the right person tell their own story. Is that so difficult?’

  Rozie stood in silence. She understood, up to a point. But since her arrival late last year, she had developed a bond with Her Majesty that Sir Simon couldn’t even guess at. She had lied to him, when the Queen needed her to. If he even half suspected how much, she would become one of those people like Cynthia Harris who other staff hated for their privileged access to the Boss.

  She kept her head held high. It was easy to know what to do: lie again. Brazenly. And as often as it took.

  ‘Of course, Sir Simon. It won’t happen again.’

  She only called him ‘Sir Simon’ when he was shouting at her, which was rare. She saw from the tick in his cheek that he was slightly ashamed of himself. It was his tell. Breathing hard, she took advantage by withdrawing from the room and closing the door with infinite care behind her.

  He wouldn’t know what she was thinking. It would drive him mad. Serve him right. And thank God he didn’t know what she was holding back, because if he did, he’d be even more furious with her than he already was.

  When she was alone, Rozie messaged her sister in Frankfurt to let off steam. It was rare for a day to go by without an exchange of some sort between them – often accompanied by a meme, a few jokes and a selection of emojis. She didn’t tell Fliss what was happening, and Fliss knew enough not to ask. It was good just to make some stupid faces and apply the cheesiest filters she could find. Fliss, as usual, tried to teach her a new word in German. Today, it was Backpfeifengesicht: ‘someone who you feel needs a slap in the face’.

  Rozie’s list of approving emojis went on for two lines.

  *

  The Queen spent the weekend visiting friends. On Monday morning, Sir Simon’s mood plummeted from chilly to glacial. He called Rozie into his office again.

  ‘Can I help?’

  ‘You certainly can. We’ve got the Met in. A detective chief inspector is arriving this morning. You can look after him. I have things to do. You can imagine how the press are slavering for details on the body.’

  Rozie, who also had a full diary, simply nodded. ‘Of course. What’s he—’

  ‘He’s here about the letters. Well done. You can introduce him to the Master. That’ll be an interesting conversation. “We didn’t trust you to take care of it. We told Her Majesty and she’s called in the police”.’

  Rozie peered to see if she could see actual steam coming out of his ears. ‘I’ll introduce the man, certainly. Do you know where he’s going to work?’

  ‘I know practically nothing. She organised this from her weekend jolly, God knows how. He may come with a hundred officers, for all I know. Put them in the Ballroom. Order up some computers and a whiteboard. Let’s make it an incident room.’

  ‘Yes, Sir Simon.’

  He glared at her and left.

  Soon afterwards, Rozie received a phone call to say that her visitor had arrived. She went to the entrance at the front of the North Wing in time to see the policeman striding across the Palace forecourt as the last of the scarlet tunics of the Foot Guards disappeared in the direction of St James’s Palace. As she approached, she was astonished to see that she recognised him.

  The man nodding to the sentry at the gate was DCI David Strong, whom she’d met at Windsor Castle. He had been part of the team in charge of solving the murder there. He was short and squat, wearing a fringed woollen scarf over his suit to keep out the autumn chill. His salt-and-pepper hair had grown slightly greyer since the spring, she thought, but there was a gentle babyishness to his round, pink cheeks that made him look disarmingly cheerful. She greeted him at the door with a smile and a handshake.

  ‘Davi
d! Good to see you again.’

  ‘You too, Rozie. Sorry, I’d have been earlier, but I lingered to watch the Changing of the Guard. Haven’t seen it since I was a kid. All those soldiers in their busbies. What d’you call them?’

  ‘Bearskins.’

  ‘Do they actually make them out of bearskins?’

  ‘You don’t want to know. Come on through.’

  She escorted him to her office and got an assistant to make him a coffee (she still remembered Baba Samuel’s slightly mind-boggled expression when she explained that, as Assistant Private Secretary she was not a secretary, and nor was the Private Secretary, but that they shared two assistants, who were). The chief inspector made himself comfortable in an antique wing-back chair between the fireplace and a tall Georgian window flanked by silk curtains and masked from the world outside by heavy netting.

  ‘Nice place you’ve got here.’

  ‘I like to think so,’ she agreed.

  Strong guessed the netting was blast-proof, in the sense that it was designed to catch shattered glass and protect the room’s occupants in case of an explosion. Antiques and bomb threats. Swings and roundabouts. Still nice, though.

  ‘Did Her Majesty explain why I’m here?’

  ‘I think I got a fair idea from Sir Simon,’ Rozie said. ‘You’ve been asked to look into the poison pen letters received by one of our housekeepers, who died a few days ago.’

  ‘That’s about it. And the others too. She wasn’t alone, I gather.’

  Rozie nodded as she bent down to fiddle with something on her desk. ‘Yes, there are a couple of others. A secretary and a catering manager. Mrs Harris wasn’t very popular.’

  ‘So I’m told.’

  Rozie looked up again. ‘Does this mean the Queen thinks she was killed?’

  ‘No more than you do. Do you?’

  ‘No,’ Rozie said. Then, a little less confidently, ‘No.’