by SJ Bennett
‘I’m sorry I didn’t manage to solve it for you over the summer. I tried as hard as I—’
‘I’m sure you did your best. You’re usually successful, and that’s one of the things that strikes me as odd.’
Rozie looked confused. ‘I don’t . . .’
‘If everything was as it should be, you would have traced it quite easily from this end. The fact that you didn’t makes me uneasy. As the Surveyor at the time is no longer with us, I’m hoping Mr Harvie, his old deputy, might be able to help. He lives in the Cotswolds, I believe, and I’d like you to pay him a visit. It was all a very long time ago and it may take him a little while to remember something useful, so I suggest you offer to stay nearby and pop in a couple of days in a row.’
By now Rozie’s eyes were almost perfectly round with surprise. ‘You want me to go to the Cotswolds? For a couple of days?’
The Queen faked a grimace. ‘Or even three.’
‘I don’t think I can spare the time, ma’am. There’s the chief inspector, and the state visit to finalise, and your speech about peacemaking . . .’
‘The chief inspector can look after himself. Are you on top of the state visit and the speech?’
‘Well, yes, I am, but—’
‘Can you work on them from your laptop?’
‘I could, but—’
‘Could you go this weekend?’
Rozie swallowed. The Queen sensed she was struggling with something. ‘You’re busy?’
‘A friend’s getting married on Saturday,’ Rozie admitted.
‘I’d hate you to miss a wedding. Go on Sunday. Stay until Tuesday if you need to, assuming Mr Harvie’s at home.’
‘But on Tuesday you have the Patriarch of Moscow and the Archbishop. The High Commissioner . . .’
‘Sir Simon can brief me. They’ve met me before. We all know what we’re doing.’
Rozie gave her a look of pure bemusement. All this for a painting? it said.
Well, yes. And a bit of distance from Sir Simon. The Queen agreed, privately, how odd it must seem, but she still couldn’t get rid of the feeling that something was off and it would be remiss not to try and find out what it was.
Chapter 12
S
holto Harvie, Rozie discovered, lived in one of the loveliest villages in the Cotswolds, in a cottage so beautiful it had featured in two national magazines.
He sounded delighted to get her call. ‘How wonderful to hear from the Palace!’ He insisted that she should stay with him for a couple of nights, rather than ‘shacking up at some little B & B in the middle of nowhere’. If he was amazed – astonished, even – to be approached out of the blue in this way, he gave no hint of it. Instead, he was all bonhomie, busily exchanging email addresses and sending her a detailed list of directions to his cottage and asking her to bring a couple of French cheeses from Fortnum’s that he couldn’t source in Wiltshire, for which he would happily reimburse her.
Rozie ended up working late on the Friday night to get through as much of her overcrowded inbox as she possibly could. On Saturday morning, upstairs in her little attic rooms, she was woken by the cheerful banging of the cleaner’s trolley and the sound of Lulu Antares singing.
Rozie opened her door to say hello, to find that Lulu was nursing one arm in a sling. Rozie didn’t ask why. They had the usual conversation about towels and linen and Lulu asked what Rozie was up to today. She explained about the wedding.
‘Ooh, lovely! I do like a good bash. Are they having it somewhere posh?’
‘Just a church in Canterbury and a local hotel.’
‘Are you spending the whole weekend down there?’ Lulu asked. ‘Only, I’ve got a cousin in Whitstable and it’s not very far and they do the most incredible fish and chips. It’s perfect for Sunday.’
‘I’d love to,’ Rozie said wistfully. There was going to be a man at the wedding she would have very much liked to eat incredible fish and chips with on the Sunday. But it wasn’t to be, and probably better that way. Rekindled old relationships were usually a disaster. He’d probably show up with a girlfriend and anyway, one-night stands were tacky. She lost her train of thought. ‘What was I saying?’
‘You’d love to, but . . .?’ Lulu looked hopeful.
‘I’m off to Wiltshire,’ Rozie said, indulging her. Repeating her strange plans aloud made them seem more real somehow. ‘I’m staying with an old member of staff, actually. He worked here back in the eighties. He has this amazing cottage in the Cotswolds, apparently.’
Lulu rested her good hand on the trolley. ‘Not Mr Harvie?’
‘Yes! Goodness, how did you know?’
Lulu rolled her eyes. ‘I’ve heard all about him. Awful man.’
Rozie laughed. ‘You said that about Cynthia Harris. They can’t all be awful!’
‘Really fake, if you know what I mean. Good luck with that one.’
Rozie looked again at Lulu. How could she even know? Her curly, dark brown hair was dyed, but her barely lined face suggested a woman in her forties. She would have been a teenager when he worked here, if that. ‘Did you know him?’ she asked, sceptically.
‘Me? No. But I’ve heard all about him. He was the Surveyor, wasn’t he?’
‘The deputy.’
‘Came in after all that terrible Blunt business. A Russian spy! Maybe it’s not surprising. Don’t say I didn’t warn you. Anyway, have a nice day.’
Rozie recalled the last time Lulu had told her to have a nice day. It was just after mentioning the sister-in-law’s cousin who was bludgeoned to death.
‘Thanks,’ she said, without much conviction. She realised she was truly late now, and disappeared back into her room to shower and climb into the extortionately expensive dress she had succumbed to on Net-a-Porter, when Mark, the ill-advised ex-boyfriend, was on her mind.
*
Mark didn’t show up with a girlfriend. He showed up with eyes only for Rozie’s extortionately expensive dress, and a look about him that suggested he’d like to know if she’d invested in equally expensive underwear. (She had.) He looked, sounded and behaved like a man who was totally lined up for incredible fish and chips on Sunday, after an equally incredible Saturday night, and Rozie had to grip the steering wheel of her Mini very hard as she remembered telling him she needed to leave at 9 p.m. to make the long drive to Wiltshire.
He’d taken a room at the wedding hotel. They could have nipped upstairs if they’d wanted to, but that would have been tacky. She was regretting not doing it now, but she’d thank herself in the morning.
And it was her own fault that she was driving through the dark at half past eleven at night, fully sober, rather than making herself comfortable with Mark at the hotel bar. When Sholto Harvie had said, ‘Come on Saturday night, as late as you like, then you’ll be all fresh for Sunday,’ she could have said no. Hadn’t she deliberately accepted his invitation precisely so that she’d be here, on the M4, not creating some doomed drunken fumble she would inevitably regret?
No. She’d accepted the invitation because she assumed Mark would be with someone else and she couldn’t bear to watch him. But he wasn’t. And Mark wasn’t a fumbler. Not even close. Drunken nights with him had been some of the best.
Damn.
The Mini trilled once, twice, three times. She shook herself and clicked a button on the steering wheel to accept a hands-free call.
‘Yes?’
‘Rozie?’
‘I’m driving.’
‘I can tell,’ her sister said. ‘You always sound cheesed off when you’re driving.’
‘Just concentrating on the road,’ Rozie assured her. ‘What’s up?’
‘Nothing. I was on my way to bed. I just felt like calling. How’re you doing?’
Rozie considered this. Fliss never called on a Saturday night. Why on earth would she? Oh, Mark: Fliss was distant friends with the bride. She’d have realised he would be there.
‘I’m single and sober. Thanks for worrying ab
out me.’
‘I wasn’t! I just . . . How’d it go?’
‘It was nice. Jojo wore Amanda Wakeley. Backless. Half the older men in the church nearly had a heart attack.’
‘She always did have a great back.’
‘Still does. Her brother made a pass at me.’
‘Again?’
‘Won’t take no for an answer. His wife was standing right there.’
‘I liked your dress. It was fly-y-y. Very Iman late nineties.’
‘How did you . . .? Ah.’ Rozie realised. Her private Instagram account. She’d put up a selfie and a couple of pictures with friends. She’d forgotten her sister stalked her online.
‘And Nick?’
Fliss meant Mark. Rozie didn’t correct her. ‘Nothing. He was there. Look, I’m driving up to the Cotswolds and I’ve still got a way to go. Can we talk tomorrow, or something? It’s dark and I need to concentrate.’
‘Sure,’ Fliss said, but she didn’t say goodbye. Instead, after a pause she asked, ‘Everything OK?’
‘Yes. Why wouldn’t it be?’
‘No reason. How’s Sir Simon?’
‘He’s fine. Look, I can talk about him tomorrow, if you like.’ There was silence. Rozie felt annoyed at her sister’s prying. Her chest grew tight. It was as if a whole cauldron of annoyance was bubbling inside. Mark. This stupid journey. The note. A casual remark at the swimming pool. Maybe Lulu Arantes was right – maybe Sholto Harvie would turn out to be a sex pest. And what would Sir Simon think, with Rozie suddenly disappearing for three days? It was all very well for the Queen to ask her to do it, but Sir Simon liked to think he was in charge, even though he wasn’t.
‘He’s being a pain, OK?’ she snapped. ‘I can understand it. He found a dead body a week ago.’
‘I heard about that. So Sir Simon found the body, huh? Didn’t they bash their head or something?’
‘Yeah. It was just an accident. But he’s being a bit shitty. I said something and he’s not taking it well.’
‘You said the whole atmosphere was a bit shit this summer.’
‘It was. It is. You just feel like you have to watch your step. It wasn’t like that before. It’s like everyone’s watching everyone else and judging. And you don’t know what anyone’s thinking, about Brexit, or this Trump thing. You start to say something, and people just stare at you. And . . . Oh hell. Forget I said that. It’s late. I’m tired.’
In the silence that followed, she realised that had been quite a speech. She couldn’t usually get a word in edgeways when her sister called. It had always struck Rozie as funny that Fliss, the chattiest, loudest, most-likely-to-interrupt-you woman in the world, had a career as a psychotherapist and counsellor. It was only when she was in work mode that she—Damn.
‘Are you listening to me?’ Rozie challenged her angrily.
‘Of course I am.’
‘I mean actively listening. Like work. Are you working on me?’
‘No! Not at all. I would never—’
‘Ah-ah! Don’t you dare work on me!’
She always knew when her little sister was lying. Rozie was the most on-top-of-things person in the family. Always had been. If she could survive a foxhole in Helmand Province, she didn’t need her sister’s bloody therapy.
‘I’m fine,’ she said forcefully. ‘Thank you for asking. Just missing a little late-night action with Mark. It’s not a problem.’
‘I never said it was.’
‘Give Viktor my love. See you. Bye.’
Rozie ended the call with a jab, flicked on the radio, cycled through several stations and ended up with some late-night jazz that calmed her mood a little. She sped down the motorway at eighty-five, nudging ninety, until she imagined the news reports of her being arrested splashed all over the tabloids:
QUEEN’S FIRST BLACK ASSISTANT SPEEDING SHAME
Grudgingly, she slowed down to just over the limit, which in the sporty Mini felt almost stationary. The motorway was straight and endlessly dull, and the darkness hid whatever delights the countryside might have had to offer. It gave her time to think back to how angrily she’d responded to her sister’s check-in. That wasn’t like her at all. She was usually grateful for a call.
What had prompted that cauldron of fury? Mark was a part of it, yes – but he was just a guy she used to know. It was thinking back to Sir Simon and the Palace that had done it. There was crackling tension in the air, not just with him, but with everyone. True, the Reservicing Programme was putting people under pressure, but normally they pulled together as a team. There was the housekeeper’s death, of course, but things had been wrong before that. They were wrong when Rozie first encountered Cynthia Harris. She remembered feeling it in the canteen. At the time, she’d felt like an observer, but now she realised she was caught up in it too. The note tucked into her folded clothes. Everything had changed with the note. She tried to pretend it hadn’t happened, but she’d been on edge ever since.
Driving west through the dark, she saw her London life come into sharper focus. There was a force at work in the Palace that was undermining the ‘happy ship’, as Sir Simon liked to call it, that she had joined. It was hard to pin down, but it manifested itself in dark looks and broken friendships, in cruel messages and damaged personal possessions. And even in death. In such an atmosphere, how could the housekeeper’s tragic fall possibly be accidental, as she’d just assured her sister?
The Boss had called in the police. She was worried too, but if she was trusting David Strong to find the answer, it meant she didn’t know where to look.
Rozie rolled her shoulders. For now, she was just glad to be away from it all for a while. Eventually the road sign she’d been waiting for showed up in the beam of her headlights: ROYAL WOOTTON BASSETT.
She turned off the motorway. The sign brought back a whole different set of memories. The last time she’d been here, she was in the back of a four-tonner and the town had been plain ‘Wootton Bassett’. At this time of night, for military personnel returning from active duty as she had been, the place was nothing special. But by day, when the dead from Afghanistan were transported in their flag-draped coffins from the military airfield at RAF Lyneham, the locals had turned out to pay their respects to each one. It must have been a strange sight. Hard not to be moved, and the Queen had granted the whole town the title ‘Royal’.
This was the first time Rozie had seen the words written down and they brought a lump to her throat. They brought back the banter in the back of the four-tonner on the way home from Helmand, and unspoken thoughts about families who’d be meeting up with someone who had changed in ways the mums and dads would never really know; other families who’d be meeting a coffin . . . friends you’d never see again.
She drove on. According to the satnav she’d arrive at Easton Grey at close to midnight. Sholto Harvie had promised her that it didn’t matter what time she got there. ‘If I’ve gone to bed, help yourself to whatever you can find in the kitchen. Your bedroom’s the first on the left at the top of the stairs. I’ll see you in the morning.’
She parked up at two minutes past twelve. An owl hooted as she unloaded her bags from the car. The key to the house was where he’d said it would be, under a box plant beside the front door marked The Old Haberdashery. She let herself in.
Chapter 13
I
n one of the staff kitchens at Buckingham Palace, a debate was taking place between two liveried footmen, who had recently come off duty, and a telephone operator and a security night-shift manager who were about to start. The topics of conversation were the same as they had been for a week: England’s chances in the World Cup, the Access Hollywood tapes, and the latest news regarding the body in the swimming pool.
‘Word has it,’ the junior footman said, casting his eye around his audience, ‘Sir Simon came out covered in blood – face, hands, the lot – and went straight to the Queen’s bedroom. She nearly had a heart attack.’
‘He fainted in he
r room. They had to shut it up,’ the telephone operator interjected.
‘What? The bedroom?’ the night-shift manager asked.
‘No, the faint. Nobody was supposed to know, but I heard it from one of the housekeepers.’
‘What was he doing in her bedroom?’
‘You’re over-exaggerating,’ the senior footman said, casting a withering look at his companions. ‘It’s all rumours. Fainting in her bedroom? Don’t be an arse. What you’ve got to ask yourself is: what was he doing in the pool?’
‘What d’you mean?’
‘When was the last time Sir Simon Holcroft went swimming? Tell me that.’
‘Don’t look at me. How would I know?’
‘Never. That’s when. That’s all I’m saying.’ The senior footman leaned back and folded his arms.
The operator wasn’t quite sure what his point was, but it certainly sounded suspicious, now you came to mention it.
‘What was she even doing there?’ the junior footman said into the ensuing silence.
‘Cynthia Harris?’ the night-shift manager queried. ‘That woman would get anywhere. Probably spying on someone. The family, I should think.’
‘She’d never do that. She had her nose so far up their—’
‘Spying on one of us, then,’ the operator speculated.
‘Maybe she had a secret drink habit. You heard they found her with a bottle of whisky?’ the night-shift manager said.
‘I heard it was gin,’ the junior footman added.
‘Did they?’
‘Serves her right, anyway,’ the senior footman concluded. ‘The manky witch.’
‘All the same,’ the night-shift manager said – and this was something he was certain of, because he’d seen it with his own eyes – ‘she was lying there all night, they said. You can still see the stain on the grouting, if you look.’
*
Rozie awoke to the smell of fresh coffee and the sound of virtuoso piano coming from downstairs. Eyes closed, she took a moment to remember where she was. Ah yes, a strange man’s house in the countryside. All alone. In a very comfortable bed, to be fair, with smooth linen, soft pillows and a duvet light as air that enveloped her in a warm cloud of goose down. The room also smelled fantastic. Was it spices or woodsmoke behind that coffee aroma? She wasn’t quite sure, but it was gorgeous. She just wanted to lie there forever, but the strange man would probably think that was rude. Reluctantly, she got up. There was a vintage green kimono hanging on the back of the bedroom door. She ran her hands over her very short hair (her mother was always telling her to grow it), slipped the kimono over her T-shirt and shorts and padded downstairs barefoot to say hello.