The Windsor Knot

by SJ Bennett

  Rozie looked up again. ‘The hair?’

  Sir Simon’s expression was very thoughtful. ‘They found a single dark hair, trapped between the dressing gown cord and Brodsky’s neck. About six inches long. Doesn’t obviously match any of the Peyrovskis’ entourage. Obviously a DNA gold mine. Tell her about the hair. That might cheer her up.’

  ‘Will she need cheering?’ Rozie asked. The idea of an unhappy Queen made her edgy.

  ‘Yep,’ Sir Simon said, before glugging back the last of the whisky. ‘I think she probably will.’

  Chapter 5

  T

  he Queen was not cheered by the news of the hair. She wasn’t cheered by any of it. A young man had died – died horribly – in an ancient castle that was supposed to be a modern fortress. Yet over twenty-four hours had gone by and nobody seemed any the wiser as to who had done it or how. It made her feel not entirely safe. However, it did not do to give the impression that she was nervous and upset, so she carried on as normal as the week wore on, nodding grimly as Rozie or Sir Simon passed on the persistent lack of developments.

  Sir Simon and the communications team had done a good job with the press, at least. The story that ‘leaked out’ was bland and unremarkable: a visitor to the castle, not one of the Queen’s guests, had died unexpectedly at night. The thoughts of Her Majesty were with his family. Initial rumours that he had had a heart attack in his sleep were not contradicted. A few sordid web-based news rags carried unsubstantiated gossip that the dead man had been found in a sexually compromising position with a member of the Household Cavalry – but these seemed so outlandish and, frankly, predictable for the online sites in question that no respectable news agency picked up on them.

  Meanwhile, four detectives and two officers from the Security Service beavered away under glowering skies, high up in the Round Tower. In the opinion of King George IV, the medieval version of that great tower was not impressive enough, so he had added a couple of extra storeys and some Gothic battlements. The internal space thus created was normally reserved for the royal archivists, but they had been moved downstairs temporarily, to create an incident room. Whiteboards had been erected in front of floor-to-ceiling glazed cabinets containing boxes of royal files. Computers were set up with high levels of security. A request for a kettle was politely denied because the steam could do untold damage to ancient documents, but a hotline to the kitchens was installed, and endless rounds of sandwiches readily supplied to the detectives and their new colleagues from MI5.

  Increasingly senior people came and went across the drizzle-soaked paths. Gossip around the castle was rife. According to the Queen’s dresser, most bets were on Mr Peyrovski’s valet and a secret gay love affair gone wrong. Her racing manager, however, who got it from the grooms, informed her that unofficial sources were giving odds of seven to four that it was accidental suicide all along and the police were simply being cautious.

  They didn’t know about the second knot, the Queen thought to herself. It was always dangerous to give generous odds if you weren’t up to speed with the stables. It was all in extremely poor taste, but one had to acknowledge that betting was in Windsor’s blood. It was only seven miles to Ascot, down a road created for the purpose, and the races were not far off.

  People were people, she considered. They did what they did. In Tudor times, attending public executions used to be a regular cause for celebration. The odd wager was tame by comparison.

  *

  It wasn’t until Friday, three days since the discovery of the body, that the Round Tower team finally emerged from their stuffy, windowless room. They met with their bosses’ bosses, who would in turn report to Her Majesty. An hour before lunch, the Queen was getting ready to walk the dogs when her equerry told her a delegation would like a word.

  ‘Tell them to put some wellies on,’ the Queen said. ‘It’s muddy.’

  It was a sorry band who arrived at the East Terrace ten minutes later, in borrowed raincoats and boots. There were three of them and the most junior, who was introduced to her as Detective Chief Inspector David Strong, looked as if he hadn’t slept for days. He was the man who’d been leading the police team in the Round Tower. There were blue-grey bags under his eyes and cuts to his sallow skin where a recent shave had been too hasty. He needed daylight and exercise, the Queen judged. The walk would do him good.

  The other two were on better form and needed no introduction. Ravi Singh was an experienced and competent Commissioner of the Metropolitan Police who had come in for a lot of stick recently for various incidents that were outside his control. The Queen had the urge to put a hand on his and commiserate, but obviously she didn’t.

  The third man was Gavin Humphreys, appointed last year as the new Director General of MI5, the Security Service, known in government circles as Box. There had been two excellent, highly qualified candidates for the job, whose keen supporters had lobbied hard on their behalf. In the way of these things, bitter infighting had allowed a third, uncontroversial candidate to emerge from the shadows, and that was Humphreys.

  Uncontroversial, because no one had taken a deep enough interest in his personality or leadership credentials to care. Humphreys was one of the new breed: a managerial technocrat. The Queen had met a few technical experts who were spellbinding when they discussed the ins and outs of cyberspace – but Humphreys, whom she had met various times in his anodyne rise to power, was not among them. He was grey of hair, suit and mind. He was also convinced that, at eighty-nine, one had no possible means of understanding the complexities of the modern world. He didn’t seem to grasp that she had lived through all the decades that had created it, and she had perhaps a more nuanced understanding of it than he did.

  In short, she didn’t like him. Thank God for the dogs.

  ‘Willow! Holly! Come on, come on.’

  The last remaining corgis, as well as two friendly dorgies, scurried around her ankles and the group set off.

  ‘I’m sorry it’s taken so long,’ Humphreys said, as they headed downhill towards the gardens. ‘This case has turned out to be much more complicated than you would think. We’ve been up all night putting the pieces together.’

  The Queen stole a glance at DCI Strong, whose pallor suggested late sessions in front of a computer screen. Humphreys’ dewy glow did not.

  ‘And I’m afraid it’s bad news.’

  The Queen turned to look at him. ‘Oh? Who’s responsible?’

  ‘We don’t know that yet, exactly,’ Ravi Singh admitted. ‘But we know at least who ordered it.’

  ‘Ordered it?’

  ‘Yes,’ Humphreys confirmed. ‘It was a government hit. An assassination.’

  She stopped in her tracks, calling briefly to the dogs, who were keen to keep going. ‘Assassination?’ she repeated. ‘That seems unlikely.’

  ‘Oh, not at all,’ Humphreys said, with an indulgent smile. ‘You underestimate President Putin.’

  The Queen considered that she did not underestimate President Putin, thank you very much, and resented being told she did. ‘Do explain.’

  They headed off again, Humphreys walking slightly too fast for Holly and Willow, two nonagenarians in dog years, with the commissioner right beside him, and poor, exhausted DCI Strong lagging slightly behind. The drizzle formed a fine mist against the horizon, through which the tall trees loomed from the park below. Their footsteps crunched on gravel, then sank into the damp grass as they followed the younger dogs down the slope. The Queen usually loved these walks – but she wasn’t loving this one.

  ‘Brodsky was apparently a very good pianist,’ Humphreys began.

  ‘I know. I heard him.’

  ‘Oh right, of course. But that was just a front. We discovered he was the brains behind an anonymous blog attacking Putin’s Russia. A blog is a kind of website. It’s short for “web log” . . .’

  The Queen frowned. She was certain she reminded him of his doddery granny. It was tempting to remind him that she had signed several state
papers this morning and could recite all the countries in Africa in alphabetical order, and the kings and queens of England from Ethelred up to herself. But she didn’t. She set her face grimly to the drizzle and prepared to be patronised.

  ‘Brodsky ran it under an avatar – a fake internet name, if you will – so we didn’t spot it straightaway, but analysis of his laptop quickly confirmed that he was a big Putin-basher. He kept a record of every journalist who’s died in suspicious circumstances in the ex-Soviet Union since Putin came to power. The most famous is Anna Politkovskaya, of course, who was killed ten years ago, but it’s a long, long list. Brodsky had done some quite intelligent research, for an amateur. He thought of himself as one of them, highlighting their cause. But it’s a very dangerous thing to do, of course, even from London. Putin isn’t averse to killing Russian nationals on foreign soil. They made it legitimate ten years ago. He’s done it here before.’

  ‘Not in one of my palaces.’

  ‘It looks like he’s upping his game, ma’am. Perhaps he wanted to send us a message,’ Humphreys persisted. ‘“Look, I can get them anywhere, any time.”’ It’s just like him. Brazen. Brutal.’

  ‘Even here?’

  ‘Especially here. Right in the heart of the British Establishment. It’s classic Putin.’

  The Queen turned to Mr Singh. ‘Do you agree, Commissioner?’

  ‘I admit I took some convincing. But the motive is strong. And Putin is unpredictable.’

  ‘Candy! Stop that!’

  The elder corgi looked up sheepishly from the muddy puddle she had been wallowing in and padded back to their side. She shook herself energetically all over Humphreys’ trousers. The Queen hid her approval with sangfroid.

  ‘I’m so sorry.’

  ‘Think nothing of it, ma’am.’ He bent down and brushed off a few filthy drops of water with his fingers. He really was rather soaked around the knees. ‘And of course, you know what that means,’ he added, straightening.

  ‘Do I?’

  ‘The thing is, we’ve been through the lives of Peyrovski’s staff and those ballet dancers with a fine-tooth comb and there’s no indication they’re agents, never mind of the calibre you’d need to pull this off. No – it’s more likely, I’m afraid, that the killer has been here for a while.’

  ‘Before anyone knew Brodsky was coming?’ The Queen threw a questioning glance across at Mr Singh. But the commissioner got no chance to reply as Humphreys warmed to his theme.

  ‘They wanted to be ready for anything. It’s how these people work, ma’am. They’re planted years in advance. Sleeper spies, just waiting for instructions when the right moment comes. Imagine it.’ He gestured around them. ‘A killing here at Windsor Castle, right under your nose, so to speak. “Nobody’s safe now.” The message has gone out.’

  ‘A sleeper spy,’ she echoed, unconvinced.

  ‘Yes, ma’am. An insider. Here among your staff. At least one, but possibly more. It’s possible the killer was another visitor, of course, but to pick this venue it seems more likely they’d have tasked someone who knew it well.’

  ‘I’m sorry, but I don’t think that’s likely.’

  Standing under the shelter of one of her favourite beech trees, he gave her a pitying look.

  ‘I’m afraid it is, ma’am. We need to face facts. It wouldn’t be the first time.’

  The Queen pursed her lips and turned for home. The sodden little group of men followed, while the dogs appeared from the undergrowth and ran ahead.

  ‘What are you going to do?’ she asked eventually.

  ‘Track him down. It won’t be easy. We’ll be discreet, of course.’

  Singh added a detail that his colleague, in his Putin-mania, had omitted.

  ‘We think Brodsky arranged to meet up with his killer after the party, ma’am. At about two a.m. a man of his description was spotted smoking outside and escorted back to the visitors’ quarters. It must have been some sort of rendezvous. I’m sorry to be the bearer of such bad news.’

  Singh did indeed seem genuinely sorry. Unlike Humphreys, he did not give the impression of treating this place like the location for an exciting game of spies, but as a home, where a lot of people would now be living under suspicion, and that never did anyone any good.

  ‘Thank you, Mr Singh.’

  ‘And we’ll keep you informed.’

  ‘Please do.’ She would have liked to invite him to stay to lunch, but that would have meant inviting Humphreys too and she couldn’t do it.

  What hurt most were those six little words: ‘It wouldn’t be the first time.’ They were quite correct, but the Queen found them unforgivable.

  Chapter 6

  T

  hat evening, Sir Simon needed to consult the Queen about some of the finer details of the Obama visit. The White House team kept finding new security issues to worry about. He found Her Majesty unusually downcast. He might have blamed it on the weather if he didn’t know she was impervious to wind and cold.

  Maybe the murder’s got to her at last, he thought. She was tough as old boots, but there were limits. Perhaps he shouldn’t have told her those gory details. She had asked, but it was his job to protect her as much as to serve her. At least Box were on the case. He gently reminded her about Gavin Humphreys’ progress, but she didn’t seem as reassured as he’d hoped.

  ‘Is Rozie here?’ she asked.

  ‘Of course, ma’am.’

  ‘Can you send her in? There’s something I’d like to talk to her about.’

  ‘Ma’am . . . if there’s anything Rozie’s done . . .’ Sir Simon was aghast. He’d thought Rozie was coping rather well for someone so new to the job. He certainly hadn’t noticed any issues and instantly blamed himself, whatever they were. ‘If I can help in—’

  ‘No, no. It’s a small thing. Nothing to worry about.’

  Rozie arrived ten minutes later, looking puzzled.

  ‘Your Majesty? You wanted to see me?’

  ‘Yes, I did,’ the Queen said. She fiddled with her pen for a moment, deep in thought. ‘I was wondering if you could do something for me.’

  ‘Anything . . .’ Rozie offered, with more passion in her voice than she’d intended. It was true, though. Whatever the Boss wanted, she would do. Rozie knew most people in the Household felt this way. Not because of what she was, but because of who she was. She was a special human being who had been given an almost impossible job, and had taken it on and never complained, and done it brilliantly, for longer than most people in the country had been alive. They adored her. They were all terrified of her, obviously, but they adored her more. Rozie felt lucky she was still going.

  ‘Can you get someone for me?’

  Rozie was snapped out of her reverie. The look accompanying the Queen’s request was an odd one, as if this time the answer might be no. Usually, they were simply polite instructions. This one seemed more philosophical.

  ‘Of course, ma’am,’ Rozie said brightly. ‘Who?’

  ‘I’m not sure, exactly. There’s a man I’ve met before – an academic from Sandhurst or Staff College, I think. An expert on post-Soviet Russia. He has scruffy hair and a ginger beard and his first name is Henry. Or William. I’d like to invite him to tea. Privately. Actually, I think he’d like to meet my friend Fiona, Lady Hepburn. She lives in Henley and I’m sure she’d be happy to host. She can invite me to tea, and him too, and we can talk.’

  Rozie stood in front of the desk, trying to decode what was happening. She wasn’t sure exactly what she’d been asked, but that was a detail: she’d work out how to do it later.

  ‘When would you like?’

  ‘As soon as possible. You know my schedule.’ There was a pause. ‘And Rozie . . .’

  ‘Ma’am?’

  The Queen gave her another odd look. This one was different from the last. That had been uncertain; this one was challenging. ‘A private conversation.’

  *

  Back at her desk, Rozie went over the whole e
ncounter in her head.

  What did private mean? Of course tea at Lady Hepburn’s house would be private. Was the expert – and Rozie thought she knew the man the Queen was referring to – supposed to keep quiet about meeting Her Majesty? Rozie would make sure he did, but why not just say so? Her relationship with the Boss had been pretty straightforward until now: she simply did whatever the Queen told her, and if there was any doubt she checked with Sir Simon, who had nearly twenty years’ experience and knew everything, and . . .

  And suddenly Rozie knew what the Queen meant. And why it had been impossible to say it out loud. And why this was a test, though one she sensed the Queen didn’t want to give her.

  It was all rather frightening and just a little bit exciting.

  She logged on to a government database of experts and set about finding a particular man to invite to tea.

  *

  The Queen sat up in bed, writing her diary entry for the day. She never wrote much, and certainly not what she was thinking now. Many historians would be itching for the opportunity to get their hands on the pages she dutifully composed in longhand each night, which one day would be deposited in the Royal Archives in the Round Tower, alongside those of Queen Victoria. But those historians would almost certainly be disappointed. Whoever read this document in the twenty-second century would find it a detailed source of racing information, observations on the dullness of certain prime ministers and minor family anecdotes. Her deepest thoughts she kept between herself and God.

  And God knew, Vladimir Putin was an infuriating individual, definitely a cruel one, but not stupid. You didn’t become the richest man in the world, as rumour had it, by making lazy mistakes. Nor was he the sort of person to ignore the unspoken accord among the ruling classes, among whom he was so proud to count himself these days: princes simply did not tread directly on the patch of other princes. One might spy, certainly, if one could. One might seek to undermine one’s enemies in negotiations or elections. But you did not commit lese-majesty and cause havoc in their palaces. If you did – who knew? – perhaps one day they might do the same in yours. Even dictators understood this.