A Three Dog Problem

by SJ Bennett

  SECOND BODY PALACE HORROR!

  QUEEN ELIZABETH IN MURDER QUIZ

  The news was halfway round the globe by breakfast and was even picked up by astronauts on the International Space Station. Twitter went into meltdown. The first conspiracy stories hit Facebook as fast as they could be written and fed each other in a frenzy. Instagram spawned a thousand memes.

  The Palace communications team worked hard to make sure at least some of the news stories bore a vague relationship to the truth. The team reported to Sir Simon, who was the hero of the hour. He firmly instructed them to keep him out of it as much as possible, but it simply wasn’t possible: everyone the world over was fascinated by the thought of the Queen’s right-hand man discovering not one body but two (this news quickly spread, too). Pictures of Sir Simon landing a helicopter on a ship’s heaving deck thirty years ago, or looking dapper in his current array of silk ties and Savile Row suits, only served to feed the fire.

  LIFE STORY OF THE QUEEN’S REAL MR BOND!

  YOU’LL BE AMAZED WHEN YOU SEE THE MAN BEHIND THE ROYAL BODIES!

  WHO IS THE SILENT COURTIER WHO SOLVES MYSTERIES IN HIS SPARE TIME?

  ‘But I haven’t solved anything!’ Sir Simon pointed out, self-deprecatingly, when lightly teased by Sir James and Mike Green over lunch in the canteen. ‘If anything, I’ve only created problems for the police.’

  He was working on it, though. They all were. It hadn’t taken long for Cynthia Harris’s recent, ugly death to be seen in a new light. The canteen was full of talk about how Eric Ferguson himself had been overheard talking about similar killing methods used during the Second World War. Several female members of staff had tales of times he had made them feel uncomfortable. Lots of people now reported their concerns to the Master, the Keeper, Sir Simon himself or DCI Strong – who was running a proper incident room now, based partly in Rozie’s office, while she camped with the Private Secretary.

  Had Ferguson killed Mrs Harris, or given someone else the idea of how to do it? The police had found a cache of historical guns and knives at his flat. The man seemed quiet enough, but he was plainly a psycho. This was the common consensus among the staff. No one could work out exactly why he should want to kill the old housekeeper, but it was still universally agreed that she wasn’t missed.

  *

  Upstairs in her study, the Queen was slow with her boxes, which was very rare.

  Suddenly, everyone around her was very sure of themselves – certain that Cynthia Harris had died violently, that Eric Ferguson had done it, and that he was therefore the person behind the poison pen campaign. Within minutes they had wrapped up the whole problem and tied it with a bow. Their very certainty made her more cautious. She had been considering this possibility far longer than they had, and saw more nuances to it than they did. For example, had Eric targeted Cynthia that way? The Queen had her own contradictory theory, but it was just a theory after all.

  She picked up the phone and asked the operator to find Spike Milligan for her. They were quite miraculous in the way they could locate almost anyone at any time. Sure enough, four minutes later he was on the line, sounding slightly breathless and extremely nervous.

  ‘Your Majesty?’

  ‘I have a question for you, Mr Milligan, and I would be grateful if you would stop lying to me.’

  She heard him gasp down the line. Shock and awe. Wasn’t that what the Americans called it these days? Usually, good manners were called for, but not today.

  ‘I-I’m sorry, I really d-don’t know what you mean.’

  ‘You do, Mr Milligan. Captain Oshodi asked you some questions about the poison pen letters two weeks ago and you pretended to know nothing about them. I happen to know this isn’t true.’

  ‘I-I don’t know what to—’

  ‘The problem has gone away now. At least, I assume that’s right. There’s nothing to stop you being honest at last, is there?’

  He paused for a moment, clearly thinking. ‘I-I s’pose you’re right, ma’am. How did you—?’

  ‘That doesn’t matter. You were in cahoots with Lorna Lobb. She got the letters from you, yes?’

  ‘Yes, ma’am.’

  ‘And distributed them as you instructed?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘So, tell me . . . who gave them to you?’

  He was a broken man, talking to the monarch directly on the phone. He dropped the pretence and did as he was told.

  ‘Eric Ferguson did, ma’am.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘He found out about Lorna and me. I think he overheard something in the canteen. Lorna’s married, and so am I. Happily married, if you want to know – or good enough. He said he’d tell my wife and I’d lose my marriage, and Lorna would too. He would have, he was the type. There was nothing he wouldn’t do.’ Milligan sounded bitter now, glad for the chance to get it off his chest. ‘Lorna didn’t like it, especially after she found out what some of the notes said. She didn’t know exactly, but the Master made it clear they were racist, ma’am. I’m very sorry about Captain Oshodi and so is she. Really we are, ma’am.’

  ‘Sorry isn’t good enough, is it?’ the Queen said. She had seen that letter. Seen the knife. Felt the shock. Seen poor Rozie’s distress.

  ‘No, ma’am,’ Milligan mumbled.

  ‘So. I’d like you to confirm exactly who you told Mrs Lobb to give the letters to.’

  There was a silence on the line as Milligan hesitated.

  ‘Mr Milligan. I don’t have long.’

  ‘Sorry, ma’am. It was your APS, Mrs Baxter and Mary van Renen. But she didn’t do the bike, ma’am. Only the notes in the palace.’

  ‘Did Mrs Lobb also use social media for harassment?’

  ‘No, ma’am, that was Eric, like the bike. At least, I always assumed it was.’

  ‘And what about Mrs Harris?’

  His tone shifted from shame to puzzlement. ‘I thought it was weird. She was the one person we didn’t do. Not even once, ma’am. Eric liked to laugh about that. He told Lorna to own up to it anyway, or else. Keep them guessing, he said. But on my honour—’

  ‘What honour, Mr Milligan?’ she demanded crisply.

  ‘I-I know. D-do you need me to hand in my notice, ma’am?’

  ‘I’ll think about it.’

  She put the phone down. A tiny part of her felt a scintilla of sympathy for the man. He was being blackmailed – but with cause. At any point he could have taken some responsibility for the damage he could see he and his lover were doing, but for many months he had sacrificed the well-being of her Household for his own interests. He had let his mistress, and the entirely innocent Arabella Moore, risk their jobs and take the blame. He should go, of course. But, if she were to be brutally honest with herself, it would be very awkward indeed if he decided to explain what had precipitated his resignation. He had confirmed her assumptions about Ferguson, which was all she really needed. That was what mattered.

  Eric Ferguson must have copied the style of Cynthia Harris’s notes having seen them somehow (the Queen grimly remembered how Strong had told her the HR department ‘leaked like a sieve’), but he did not target her as part of the poison pen campaign. He’d had other reasons for killing her, and the Queen was now confident that she knew what they were.

  She had not yet had her proposed meeting with Chief Inspector Strong. When Sir Simon made his discovery last night, the policeman had understandably said he was very busy and had politely asked if she could postpone. Now, she wondered if she could, after all, stay behind the scenes. It was what she wanted, but was it perhaps selfish? It was her duty to tell him everything she knew. But then she would have to explain how she had worked out the historical connection between Cynthia and Eric, dating back to the nineteen eighties. That would bring Rozie in, and the awkward moment in the cupboard . . . Strong might start to wonder what else . . . It was all very difficult.

  She lifted the telephone receiver again to ask to speak to him, then paused with it in
her hand. She had, after all, been solving mysteries since her father was on the throne and so far, she had managed to keep it a secret. All it would take was a couple of carefully judged ‘senior moments’. One had dug oneself into an awkward hole and now one must dig oneself out of it.

  Chapter 44

  I

  nstead of Strong, the Queen asked to see Sir Simon. They had spoken briefly a couple of times since his great discovery of the body, but he had been rushed off his feet managing the consequences. She was relieved to see that this time, he was perfectly compos mentis. The discovery of Cynthia Harris had briefly undone him. Was it because she was a woman, the Queen wondered? Or was it just the unexpected pool of blood? Either way, finding a man with his face half eaten off by vermin was all in a day’s work for her Private Secretary. He was, if anything, more on top of things than ever. As he entered her study in answer to her latest call, she was almost certain she detected a spring in his step.

  ‘Your Majesty.’ He gave the courtier’s bow, which started and ended at the neck. Otherwise they’d be up and down like cranes in a dockyard.

  ‘I thought I might be able to help,’ she said.

  ‘Oh, really?’

  His face was a picture of politeness. She admired how it was almost, almost clean of disbelief.

  ‘Yes. I understand that now the death of Cynthia Harris is being seen in a new light.’

  ‘Yes, ma’am. Awful. It hardly bears thinking about.’

  ‘I suppose one must face up to the fact that someone working at the Palace could be responsible for . . .’

  ‘I know, ma’am. Dreadful. Ferguson, almost certainly.’

  ‘But was it? You see, I’ve always liked the man very much—’

  ‘Who? Ferguson?’

  ‘No, no. And I find it very difficult to imagine him as a – not to put too fine a point on it – a killer. But I’m sure I remember seeing something about Mrs Harris having a relationship with him.’

  ‘Who, ma’am?’ Sir Simon asked. He looked utterly baffled, which was much as the Queen expected.

  ‘Neil Hudson,’ she said, assertively.

  ‘Neil? At the Royal Collection? Your Surveyor of Pictures?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘That seems incredibly unlikely.’

  ‘I know. It all seems unlikely, though, doesn’t it? And we can’t forget his predecessor.’

  Anthony Blunt (he had been knighted, but his knighthood subsequently revoked) was a famous Communist spy, as Sir Simon well knew.

  ‘But I don’t think all your art experts can be criminals, ma’am.’

  ‘I hope not.’

  ‘And surely she was too old?’

  The Queen frowned. ‘I don’t mean that sort of relationship. Was she an aunt? A godparent? I forget, but I’m sure it was something. I’d just like to be reassured that he didn’t have anything to do with . . . any of this.’

  Sir Simon regained his unflappable poise. ‘I’ll certainly look into it, ma’am.’

  He was the consummate courtier. Eyes that refused to judge; a smile that refused to falter. Rozie couldn’t do it yet. You could always tell at a glance if she thought you were being absurd. The Queen would miss it when she, too, employed a poker face.

  ‘If you would be so kind.’

  After he’d gone, she wondered if he would remember the little illustrated card. How fortunate that he had been the one she had mentioned it to at the time, even though she hadn’t wanted to. With any luck, Rozie would have left it at the top of the file.

  *

  ‘Can you get me Bogroll’s file on Mrs Harris?’

  ‘Really?’

  Sir Simon waited while Rozie rooted around in her desk drawer. She had had to empty the drawers before the porters shifted the desk into his office to make way for Strong and his team in hers. Inevitably, files got misplaced. Nothing was quite at her fingertips any more. It gave her a few seconds to think.

  ‘Is this for the Boss?’ she asked.

  ‘Yup. She has some idea that Cynthia was Neil Hudson’s aunt. And that therefore he killed her. Not Ferguson.’

  ‘What?’ Rozie popped her head up to stare at him. This was unexpected.

  ‘I know. I think she’s been watching too much Death In Paradise. Or what’s that one with Angela Lansbury as the writer?’

  ‘I have no idea.’

  ‘Murder She Wrote. The Boss did a little binge-watch at Balmoral. It’s given her ideas.’

  Rozie nodded absently, turning back to her files. Her brain was working overtime. Neil Hudson? Was there something the Queen hadn’t told her? She panicked for a moment, then realised – or thought she realised – what the Boss was up to. Sir Simon extended a hand and she adjusted some papers in the file and passed it over.

  ‘Neil’s aunt, you say?’

  ‘Or something,’ he muttered. ‘Though why that would make him want to slash her ankle, I have no clue. Could you imagine him doing it? The blood on his shoes alone . . .’

  ‘I’d say he was more of a poisoner,’ Rozie agreed. ‘Preferably with something used by Lucrezia Borgia.’

  ‘Exactly. And I wonder how long we’ll be playing the game of “favourite murder methods of fellow staff”.’

  Rozie eyed him reflectively. ‘You’d use a Walther PPK, obviously, in keeping with your Bond image.’

  ‘I wouldn’t, actually. Barrel’s too short, calibre’s too low. You might as well just chuck it at your victim. Fleming was hopeless on guns. You’d do it with unarmed combat, no question.’

  Rozie shrugged. ‘So? What would you use? If not the PPK?’

  He was about to say something flippant, but the image came back to him of the face with the holes in it, and the body on the tiles. He had started this game, but he was suddenly rather tired of it. There was a knock at the door and Sir James Ellington appeared.

  ‘You two look like you’re having fun.’

  ‘Favourite murder methods,’ Rozie explained.

  Sir James didn’t pause for a beat. ‘The iron staircase at the end of my office corridor. There are a couple of newspaper editors I pray I never meet at the top of it. Look, can I carve out some time with the Boss tomorrow? Bogroll and I need to update her on Eric Ferguson. God, he was a nasty piece of work. It’s pretty explosive, actually. We’re still working on it, but I can give you the gist of the thing now, if you like.’

  He did, and at some points even Rozie found that she was genuinely surprised. Afterwards, Sir Simon retreated to his desk with the file she had given him, to see if he could reassure Her Majesty that, unlike the latest murder victim, her Surveyor of Pictures was not a secret vengeful psychopath.

  Chapter 45

  I

  t was not until ten o’clock the following evening that the investigating team had everything ready and Sir James managed to get his meeting with the Queen in the pale blue Audience Room. He was accompanied by Sir Simon and the Master, along with Rozie, who was there to take notes. They had all had a rather exhausting day, but the Queen, as always, looked fresh as a daisy. Nevertheless, she conducted the meeting standing up, which led Sir Simon to believe she wanted it to be a short one. This wouldn’t be a problem: it would only take a few minutes for the Keeper to deliver his bombshell news.

  ‘Is the chief inspector not with you?’ she asked, looking somewhat surprised as the triumvirate gathered round her near the fireplace

  ‘No, ma’am,’ Sir James confirmed. ‘He’s away as part of the investigation. In fact, we’re expecting news from him at any moment. Sir Simon had an extraordinary—’

  ‘We don’t need to talk about that,’ the Private Secretary interrupted with a self-effacing flap of the hand. He’d been getting good at these recently. ‘It may come to nothing. We’ll let you know if there are any developments, ma’am.’

  ‘Oh, good. So why are you here?’ She looked expectantly back at Sir James.

  ‘Since Sir Simon found the body on Tuesday,’ the Keeper said, ‘we’ve discovered an e
normous amount about Eric Ferguson. None of it good, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘Mr Ferguson – and as the ultimate head of Operations I take full responsibility for this, ma’am – was someone who should never have been allowed to come within a mile of this place. He was a very dangerous individual, with morbid tastes. The police discovered a lot of violent material on his computer and a large cache of weapons at his flat. The walls were covered in them, like the armoury at Hampton Court. Nobody knew, because it turned out he never invited anyone home. Not from the Household, anyway. They’re all talking about it now.’

  ‘I’m sure they must be.’

  ‘But more to the point, ma’am, perhaps, is the fact that they also found half a dozen crystal tumblers in his kitchen, similar to the ones used at the Palace. His computer records showed he had ordered eighteen of them. It looks as though he’d been experimenting with making the damn things lethal.’

  ‘Goodness. Really? Oh dear. Is this what the police think too?’

  ‘It is, ma’am,’ Sir Simon agreed, stepping in. ‘They are convinced, now, as we had begun to fear, that Cynthia Harris’s death was not an accident, far from it. I’m sure the chief inspector will be able to confirm it himself very soon.’

  ‘And Neil Hudson? Was he involved?’ the Queen enquired meekly.

  Sir Simon noted the frank humility in her clear blue eyes and shook his head gently. ‘No, ma’am, I’m afraid that was always an unlikely possibility.’

  ‘I see. Never mind.’

  ‘It did throw up a useful line of enquiry. But meanwhile, the police have uncovered some rather devastating details about Ferguson’s work life, haven’t they, James?’

  ‘They have indeed,’ Sir James said. ‘It’s why I wanted to talk to you, ma’am. We were rather lucky with a very talented young cyber security officer at the National Crime Agency. Digging around Ferguson’s computer files, he discovered that for at least two years Ferguson has been running a major scam at the Palace. It’s known as the Breakages Business. I believe you were aware of it.’

  The Queen’s eyes widened. They caught Rozie’s for a moment, who nodded almost imperceptibly. ‘Good gracious,’ she said. ‘Running it? But he was quite junior, wasn’t he?’