A Three Dog Problem

by SJ Bennett

  *

  By Monday morning she felt much better, cheered by a good night’s sleep and a pleasant early ride in the park. She worked in the car on the way back to London and was ready to face the week with her normal vigour.

  Rozie was in charge of the boxes today.

  ‘There is something I’d like you to do for me.’

  Rozie brightened instantly. ‘Of course.’

  ‘It’s about the Breakages Business. I’ve been thinking about the tunnels under the Palace. You must have heard of them.’

  ‘I’ve heard rumours,’ Rozie said. ‘That there used to be a network connecting all the royal palaces in this area.’

  ‘Not “used to be”,’ the Queen corrected her. ‘Is. They were used to store lots of the more valuable furniture during the war, then rather forgotten about.’

  It was hardly surprising. Papa had other things to think about, repairing the worst of the bomb damage, trying to make the place presentable again with everything rationed and much of the empire still cut off as trade routes slowly re-established themselves. It wasn’t until she and Philip had been living here for a while that the Duke had grabbed his equerry and gone on an exploratory adventure in the bowels of the Palace and beyond.

  You’ll never believe what we’ve found, he’d said on his return, dirty and happy, covered in mud and dust, with wisps of cobweb in his hair. Two crates of china. German. Looks important. Some nineteenth-century wine. Fourteen Regency gilt chairs. Seven mouldy mattresses, a portrait of George III, four marble fireplaces and a family of Romanian refugees. At that, her eyes had widened. Ha! he’d said. He’d made the last bit up, but he was amused by her lack of surprise at the rest.

  At the time, they had all been fascinated by the forgotten treasures, and Philip had explored the tunnels further to see where they went, hoping to set up a useful little route for staff and family to travel out of the public eye between Buckingham Palace and Clarence House, where Mummy and Margaret now lived. He eventually reported that while the tunnel was reasonably roomy under the Palace grounds, its offshoots became narrow, low and damp as they ran under Green Park towards St James’s Palace. Walls seeped with slime and some areas were quite impassable. Philip had closed them off, giving instructions that the better-built parts near the Palace be used for storage only.

  The Queen summarised this for Rozie.

  ‘I believe there is a doorway of some sort that lies roughly under Constitution Hill. It cuts off the far section and it’s supposed to be firmly locked. When things are quiet, might you perhaps be able to check that it really isn’t being used?’ She phrased this carefully. It was a genuine request to Rozie, with an opt-out clause framed in her eyes. The far end of the tunnels was unsafe, after all, and she didn’t want Rozie to take any risks unwillingly.

  In fact, Rozie looked so delighted at the idea that the Queen had to give her strict instructions not to venture beyond Philip’s locked doorway, should such a thing be possible. She took care not to break her own neck and preferred her APS to do the same.

  ‘And one other thing. I believe that Lavinia Hawthorne-Hopwood may know Sholto Harvie’s background.’

  ‘The sculptor who’s doing your portrait for the Royal Society?’

  ‘Exactly. I’m sure I remember her discussing a connection. You could perhaps ask her about him, privately. If you’d be so kind.’

  Rozie nodded. ‘What sort of thing would you like to find out?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ the Queen said. ‘It might be nothing. But ask, and see what you find.’

  Chapter 30

  I

  n the South Wing office of the ‘rollicking bollockings’, Air Vice-Marshal Mike Green had not particularly been enjoying the last four weeks. Normally he was in his element in the run-up to Christmas, organising lavish dinners and banquets for the cream of international society. But this year there had been the unfortunate death of the terrible housekeeper and the extra pressure of the Reservicing Programme and, worst of all, the jumped-up policeman, Strong – or Bogroll, as he was known in court circles – was ferreting around the Palace and basically telling him how to do his job.

  It was the Master himself who had come up with this particular epithet. There was that TV ad from his childhood about loo paper: ‘soft, strong and very long’. Bogroll was certainly soft and meetings with him felt endless. It was in the tradition of Palace nicknames. Mike Green was well aware that he was ‘Crabmeat’ to his elders and betters. The army and navy had called the RAF ‘crabs’ for decades, so it was inevitable really. The Master took it in very good spirit and smiled indulgently whenever someone accidentally said it to his face.

  He smiled to himself now because Bogroll had been defeated. He wasn’t the one to spot the clue that solved the whole problem of the poison pen campaign. He hadn’t conducted the crucial interview with the perpetrator. (Admittedly, the chief inspector was rather annoyed about that – but was it the Master’s fault if he had been away on a training course on the critical day?) He hadn’t obtained the signed confession. Strong hadn’t looked convinced by any of it when faced with the evidence, but that was typical of the smallness of the man: he just couldn’t accept when he’d been bested. A gracious ‘Congratulations’ would have been enough.

  The Master was looking forward to his meeting with Her Majesty. He hadn’t seen her alone for a week, in which time much had happened. He trusted she would be delighted. She might also be just a little penitent that she hadn’t trusted him in the first place, though of course she wouldn’t show it, and he wouldn’t expect her to.

  They had half an hour scheduled before lunch, in her private audience room. It was their first opportunity to catch up since the state banquet.

  ‘Not too many disasters behind the scenes, I hope?’ she asked.

  ‘One or two, ma’am. I’m afraid Vulcan disgraced himself again. He appeared from nowhere when a guest was emerging from the loos and bit him in the ankle.’

  ‘Oh dear! One of ours or one of theirs?’

  ‘One of ours. A Permanent Under Secretary, as I recall.’

  ‘Oh, that’s all right then.’ She grinned. ‘He won’t sue. Do send a note, though. “The Queen deeply regrets . . .”’

  ‘Of course.’ He smiled, feeling a bit like a magician about to produce a rabbit from a hat. ‘I thought you might like to know, ma’am, that we’ve solved the nasty matter of those letters.’

  Her eyes widened behind her glasses. She looked positively shocked.

  ‘Really? I didn’t know you were still looking into them.’

  He assured her that he very much was.

  ‘In conjunction with the police?’

  ‘In a way, ma’am.’

  The chief inspector and his man were always available to help out (she seemed ready to dispute this, but he hadn’t produced the rabbit yet), but they were focusing mostly on Cynthia Harris, and he, the Master, had a broader view. He admitted that their general presence might have spurred the culprit on to come clean when caught. If so, he was grateful for the assistance. (He wasn’t, but you had to make Her Majesty feel useful.)

  ‘Come clean?’ the Queen queried. She still looked mightily puzzled. ‘Do you mean, he’s admitted it?’

  ‘She,’ the Master gently corrected. ‘And yes, ma’am, she has. She couldn’t help it: she was caught in the act. I have her confession here.’ At which point, he opened the leather folder he’d been holding to reveal the signed typescript in all its glory.

  The Boss was too startled, obviously, for the delighted smile yet, but he would settle for astonishment. He had been quite surprised himself.

  ‘And who is she?’

  ‘A housemaid, ma’am. A woman called Lorna Lobb. She was seen at the canteen last week, hovering near the table where your APS was sitting. My team have been asked to be on the lookout, and it was one of my clerks who spotted her. Rozie was busy talking to someone else and my clerk saw Mrs Lobb about to drop something in her bag. He managed to corner her
before she could do it. It was all very discreet. I don’t think Rozie even noticed, ma’am, but Lorna could hardly deny the envelope she was holding, or the fact she was wearing a single latex glove. She was quite terrified when we questioned her about it. And quite rightly. The note was absolutely appalling.’

  ‘Lorna Lobb?’ The Queen considered the name, her brow deeply furrowed. ‘Which notes did she deliver?’

  ‘All of them, ma’am, except the ones to Mary van Renen.’

  ‘Are you quite sure? Including the notes to Cynthia Harris?’

  ‘Absolutely. We have it here in writing.’ He tapped the folder. ‘She didn’t do it on her own account. She was working for Arabella Moore who, by the way, denies everything, but the case is very solid. Mrs Moore is married to Stewart Moore, who you may remember left under an unfortunate cloud that was somewhat of Mrs Harris’s making. There was bad feeling between her and the housekeeper.’

  The Queen’s brow remained stubbornly furrowed. ‘But didn’t Mrs Harris receive other notes years ago? Before she retired, I mean? Before Mrs Moore would have had any reason to resent her?’

  The Master had considered this himself. ‘She did,’ he acknowledged, ‘but Mrs Lobb claims to know nothing about those. I assume they were the work of someone else, giving Mrs Moore the idea. Mrs Harris was unpopular with some of the junior staff even then. She may quite easily have said or done something to create ill will.’

  The Queen’s gaze rested on a selection of photographs in silver frames. Her lips were pursed. ‘Did Mrs Lobb explain what Mrs Moore’s motives were for the other messages? The ones not received by Mrs Harris, I mean.’

  ‘No. After a certain point she clammed up, unfortunately. But I did my own research. Mrs Moore was known to have had words with Mrs Baxter about the unrest she felt Mrs Baxter was stirring up in her staff. And with Rozie there was a racist element. I must say, this came as a complete shock. I’d never have guessed. Mrs Moore has always seemed a picture of propriety.’

  ‘Yes, she has,’ the Queen said quietly.

  ‘I asked if Rozie wanted to make an official complaint, formally to the police, I mean. But she didn’t. She was quite clear about that.’

  ‘And what about Mary van Renen? You said Mrs Lobb didn’t confess to those notes.’

  ‘Ah. That’s another matter entirely, ma’am. I don’t know if you remember, but Miss van Renen was being harassed by a man she had met on the internet. He caused some unpleasantness, but it was unrelated to Mrs Moore’s campaign.’

  ‘I see.’ Her Majesty didn’t seem puzzled any more, thank goodness, merely grim: the way she looked when watching parade manoeuvres poorly executed by troops of foreign nations in the rain. ‘And what does Mrs Moore have to say about all this?’

  ‘As I said, she’s denying everything, quite vociferously, but she would, ma’am, wouldn’t she? There’s a formal process we need to go through before we let her go. I have initiated it. She won’t be with us for much longer.’

  The Queen’s brow furrowed again. ‘You haven’t sent her home already?’

  The Master admitted that he hadn’t. He’d been too busy recently to give it his full attention, and – this was something he kept to himself – it was in his interest to keep Arabella Moore on for as long as possible. She might be a nasty, racist bully in her private life, but she was an excellent man-manager at work, and her team was responsible for all the guest liaison for the upcoming Diplomatic Corps Reception in a month, which was the biggest, most glamorous event of the year, putting even the state banquet to shame. She was, in her way, a bit like Cynthia Harris: very good at what she did in ways that were hard to replace at short notice in a high-pressure environment. She’d be out on her ear soon enough, once the formalities were over, but he offered to put her on paid leave instantly if Her Majesty required it.

  However, she didn’t. She merely requested him to let her know if he discovered anything new, and asked to see a copy of Mrs Lobb’s confession. It was only as he was leaving that the Master realised she hadn’t looked delighted even for a moment. This, too, was a mark of the woman. Despite the fact that he had dealt with the issue for her, one of the victims had accidentally died in the process, and that was hard for all of them to take.

  *

  The Queen went upstairs for final fittings with Angela, her chief dresser, for the black coat and dresses she would wear at the end of the week. Afterwards, she caught up on correspondence and took the dogs for another walk in the garden.

  Philip had brought up his latest painting to work on, meanwhile. It wouldn’t be long before he retired to the Sandringham Estate – at ninety-six – and she knew how much he would enjoy devoting himself to his canvases. He had never been a fan of the Palace. He would much rather live in a farmhouse in the middle of nowhere, but, thanks to her, until next year he didn’t get to choose.

  She popped in on him in his study when she got back, to see how he was getting on.

  He glanced up from his oils, in shirtsleeves, with an ancient cotton jacket thrown over them for protection. ‘Oh, Cabbage, it’s you.’ His eyes narrowed. ‘What was Crabmeat doing here earlier? I passed him outside your study looking about to explode with self-satisfaction.’

  ‘The Master had some interesting thoughts on who was behind that poison pen campaign.’

  Philip looked at her hard. ‘I know you. You think his thoughts were bollocks. Did you tell him?’

  ‘Not yet. He might be right. He has a confession.’

  ‘Don’t tell me. Sandy Robertson.’

  This was the Queen’s loyal page, who had recently been suspected of spying by MI5.

  ‘No. A housemaid called Lorna Lobb.’ She explained about Arabella Moore and the theory of revenge.

  ‘What? Mrs Moore, from the Lady Clerks department? She used to be a secretary in my private office. Damned efficient, always polite, honest to a fault.’ He looked scornful. ‘All I can say is, if it’s her, she’s a bloody Jekyll and Hyde. She’s a lot less useless than your average desk johnnie.’ From Philip, this was praise indeed.

  ‘I can’t quite see her as a criminal mastermind,’ the Queen agreed.

  ‘Still, a confession’s a confession,’ he acknowledged. ‘She owned up, did she?’

  ‘No. She denies everything. It’s Mrs Lobb who’s confessed. She said your Mrs Moore put her up to it.’

  He looked at her with frank incredulity. ‘And Crabmeat believes her? Christ. He flew jet fighters, didn’t he? All those G-forces must have addled his brain.’

  The Queen wasn’t so sure about the G-forces, but she agreed on the essentials. She also knew something he and the Master did not: Mrs Lobb had not been working directly for the poison pen letter-writer, as the Master so readily assumed.

  It was quite clear to her now. This must have been the subject of the conversation she overheard from inside the wardrobe last summer. The voice getting instructions had belonged to the Goonishly-named Spike Milligan. That had become obvious enough after the incident with the bats in the bedroom at Balmoral and she was still sure of it, despite his denials to the chief inspector. He was acting as an intermediary. The voice giving him instructions could have been male or female. She thought more likely male, but it was definitely not that of Arabella Moore, whom the Queen had spoken to many times about guest invitations.

  Back at her desk, she picked up the phone and asked Rozie to talk to Mr Milligan.

  ‘Can you assure him he was overheard, and say it has come to Her Majesty’s attention that he was involved? That ought to do it.’

  Rozie promised she would.

  *

  At six thirty she managed to sneak in a quick gin and Dubonnet before Chief Inspector Strong made his appearance in her sitting room, to give her the latest progress update. She admired the man for not sending panicked messages after the Master had made his grand announcement about Arabella Moore. Strong seemed to trust that she would wait to hear from him before coming to any conclusions. She liked calm, con
fident people who expected others to do their jobs properly until proved otherwise. After all, she was one of them herself.

  Her equerry showed him in and left them to it. Strong sat down in his usual place, at her invitation.

  ‘What do you think of this Lobb confession?’ she began.

  Strong paused for a moment, while his gentle face turned from pale to puce and gradually back again. ‘Not strictly the way I’d have done it, Your Majesty.’ His voice was tight.

  ‘I imagine not. I do apologise. The Master’s very enthusiastic.’

  ‘Isn’t he, ma’am?’

  ‘But the girl was caught red-handed, I gather.’

  ‘She was,’ Strong admitted. ‘And it turns out she was in most of the right places at the right times to have done it. My sergeant’s been doing some cross-checking.’

  ‘Thank you for that.’

  ‘Just doing our job, ma’am,’ he said pointedly. ‘Mrs Lobb came back to London ahead of some of the staff from Balmoral and wouldn’t have been around to cut up Mrs Harris’s clothes, however. Which I understand she fiercely denies, and which doesn’t form part of her confession.’

  ‘Yes, I saw that. The Master didn’t mention it.’

  Strong’s silence spoke volumes.

  ‘Tricky,’ the Queen observed.

  ‘Quite. The Master has a theory that the clothes thing was done by another servant with a grudge. I increasingly tend to lean towards your theory, ma’am, that Mrs Harris was targeting herself.’

  ‘My lady-in-waiting’s theory,’ she was quick to correct him.

  ‘Right. It does seem that Mrs Lobb was delivering the notes to Rozie, though, and she could have done it to Mrs Baxter, and possibly Mary van Renen. But once you take Mrs Harris out of the equation – if she’s lying about that – it’s hard to see why Mrs Moore would have tasked her to do any of it.’

  ‘Oh, I see,’ the Queen said, trying very hard to make it look as if this hadn’t been her first thought.