by SJ Bennett
Technocratic heads of MI5, it seemed, did not.
The Queen had not bothered to try and correct Mr Humphreys. He seemed so certain of himself and so little interested in her opinion, even though she had met Putin and ruled alongside him, temporally speaking, for decades.
Dogs. They knew. Like Candy this morning. The corgis had hated Mr Putin on sight and tried to nip his ankles during a state visit. Even a minister’s guide dog had barked, she remembered. Dogs have such natural instincts. Putin used them to his advantage. He knew that Angela Merkel was afraid of them. Was that because she was brought up in East Germany, the Queen wondered, where they were more likely to be trained as guard dogs rather than pets? Armed with this information, he had ensured the German Chancellor was met by two aggressive German shepherds when she came to visit him in the Kremlin. The poor woman. It was a mark of the smallness of the man. The Queen did not always agree with Mrs Merkel’s politics, but she was fond of her. Merkel had managed to stay at the helm of a great democracy for a decade. She was a woman in a man’s world – as it most certainly had been when she started. As it still was, if one went by the photographs at meetings of heads of state: Merkel’s, the only trouser suit in a sea of trousers. The Queen knew very well how that felt – although of course she did not share Merkel’s rather Teutonic sense of fashion.
She realised she hadn’t written anything in her diary for about ten minutes and tried to get back to the sentence she had left half-finished, but her mind continued on its train of thought.
Putin was absolutely the sort of man who would seek to make a woman like Merkel uncomfortable. He was a bully, an ex-KGB officer with an unhealthy fondness for control. His attitude to canines, and theirs to him, said it all. Yet this did not mean he would have a very junior young expat killed on one’s own turf. When such a thing was so unnecessary.
According to Humphreys, this cold and calculating man had established a spy in her Household just in case one of his enemies should come to visit – a very junior enemy indeed – so that he could show off the extent of his power. And when that moment had come, this ‘sleeper’ – who had presumably been in place for years, simply waiting – had set up an elaborate attempt to suggest suicide and had failed to check the simplest of knots. Why suggest suicide at all if you wanted to make a statement about yourself? Was the idea that the police would realise it was murder after all? If so, surely there were more subtle ways of doing so than to make the whole sordid affair look so ham-fistedly botched. She liked to think that if one did have a traitor in one’s midst, he would at least be half competent. Oh, the whole thing was unutterably ridiculous.
And yet, ‘It wouldn’t be the first time . . .’
Well, no, it wouldn’t. And that had seemed impossible, too.
Anthony Blunt was her first Surveyor of Pictures, having worked for her father before her. What an erudite, cultured man, so at home among the courtiers. A Cambridge don, he was an art historian, an expert on Poussin and the Sicilian Baroque, and a member of MI5 himelf. He had saved her Uncle Edward from embarrassment by rescuing some of his letters during the closing stages of the war.
He was also, as he later confessed, a long-term committed communist and a Soviet agent. He and his friends had caused untold damage to the people she held most dear. He had remained at work at the palace for years after she was told, to spare the shame and embarrassment of admitting how far he had come – until Margaret Thatcher let the cat out of the bag and Blunt had to go. He seemed repentant for some of it, but one could never be sure.
She couldn’t pretend that all her servants were above reproach. There had even been a play, and the BBC had made a film of it, with a comic actress who portrayed her as a prig and a frump. Not the Crown’s finest hour in any sense.
Gavin Humphreys’ words brought back unpleasant memories and made her doubt herself, which was not something she particularly liked to do. Nor did she enjoy having to rely on Rozie Oshodi when the girl was so new and so young. But one did what one had to. And hoped to be pleasantly surprised.
She wrote another paragraph about something else entirely and drifted off, with difficulty, to sleep.
Part 2
The Last Dance
Chapter 7
‘W
hat’s this in the diary for tomorrow?’
Rozie looked up from her keyboard at Sir Simon, who had popped his head round her office door. She tried to keep any hint of nerves from her voice.
‘The afternoon, you mean?’
‘Yes. She’s supposed to be visiting her cousin in the Great Park after lunch. It’s been in for weeks.’
‘I know. But unfortunately Lady Hepburn’s brother died recently and the Queen wanted to see her. When the invitation to tea came, she asked me to accept.’
‘When?’
‘Yesterday.’
‘You didn’t tell me.’
‘It didn’t seem important.’
Sir Simon sighed. It wasn’t important, in the great scheme of things, but he was a control freak and that’s why he was so good at his job. He tried to relax and delegate. If you didn’t trust your subordinates, where were you? Even so, something rankled.
‘How did Her Majesty know? About the invitation, I mean? I didn’t see anything.’
Rozie paused for half a second. Sir Simon saw every email, every log of every phone call, every message of any sort. And if he didn’t, he could check it out. He probably wouldn’t bother, but what if he did?
‘I heard about Lady Hepburn’s brother from Lady Caroline.’ She was improvising as she went. Sir Simon was not close friends with the Queen’s lady-in-waiting. She simply had to pray he wouldn’t check with her. In fact, Rozie had had a brief conversation with Lady Caroline about Lady Hepburn first thing this morning, but it had been the other way around: Rozie had engineered it, having noticed that they had houses near each other in Henley. She had wondered whether it might be presumptuous to assume that rich, titled neighbours knew each other – but no, that turned out to be a thing, and they were friends.
‘Lady Hepburn’s brother died a few weeks ago, didn’t he? Heart attack in Kenya.’ Sir Simon knew everything.
‘Yes. And Lady Caroline said that Lady Hepburn was still very upset about it.’ (She hadn’t.) ‘When I mentioned it to the Queen, she asked me to pass on her sincere condolences and when I did, Lady Hepburn invited her to tea and Her Majesty said yes.’
Was this even possible? Did such things happen? Rozie held her breath. Her heart was hammering in her chest so hard she was sure Sir Simon would see it under her dress.
Sir Simon frowned to himself. This was most unusual. The Queen liked to visit Fiona Hepburn, but not on a whim. The Boss was not a whimsical person. How very odd. Perhaps it was a sign of advancing age. Not dementia, surely? No, that didn’t make sense at all. But there was something about Rozie that didn’t quite . . .
He stared at her for a moment. Rozie wouldn’t make anything up, surely? What would be the point? He made a mental note to double-check with the Queen that she really did want to go on this consolatory visit, and went back to his desk.
About an hour later, Rozie’s heart stopped hammering. She didn’t know whether to be very proud of herself, or deeply ashamed. She had just lied to her immediate boss about the words and deeds of two lady aristocrats and the British monarch. In the privacy of the ladies’ loos, she sent her sister a Snapchat of various goggle-eyed expressions. Fliss would have no idea what it was about, but it helped.
*
The weekend was a difficult one. The Queen was already starting to notice the first ripples of a pebble dropped by MI5 into the Household pond.
The maid who delivered tea and biscuits to her bedside did so this morning with a doubtful expression and a biting of lip, suggesting huge discomfort and a need for reassurance. Had the Queen not known better, she would have asked a question and enabled a conversation. Usually, one could quickly solve the problem if one nipped it in the bud. But toda
y she had no reassurance to offer.
Similarly, the page who later poured her Darjeeling in the breakfast room did so with a querulous look. She had known the man for years (Sandy Robertson; started as a beater at Balmoral; widower with two children, one of whom was at Edinburgh University studying astrophysics) and could easily read the unspoken message in his eyes: They’ve questioned me. And not just me. We’re all worried. What’s going on, ma’am?
The look she gave him back was just as easily translated: I’m sorry. It’s out of my hands. There’s nothing I can do. He nodded sadly as if they had actually exchanged words, and otherwise behaved with his usual calm efficiency. She knew he would report back to the servants’ quarters and the social club, though, and the news would not be good. Something was rotten in the state of Denmark and even the Boss could not guarantee it would blow over soon.
For the rest of the day, she felt the shadow of fear and uncertainty fall over the castle. She and her Household operated on a code of absolute loyalty: both theirs to her, and hers to them. They did not blab, did not sell stories to the Sun or the Daily Express, did not ask for or expect the exorbitant salaries they could command from the likes of Mr Peyrovski, did not ask impertinent questions or allow the inevitable below-stairs ructions or personal concerns to punctuate the smooth running of her affairs – or not often, anyway. In return, she respected and protected them, valued the sacrifices they made and rewarded lifetimes of service with medals and other honours that were treasured far more than gold.
Foreign dignitaries, presidents and princes marvelled at the precision and attention to detail accorded to every aspect of their visits by these men and women. One’s family were jealous, frequently tried to steal some of the more exceptional stars and occasionally succeeded. From Balmoral to Buckingham Palace, Windsor to Sandringham, the army of servants, hundreds strong, were family. They had nurtured her through very nearly ninety complicated years, been the buffer against the tides of disaffection that it sometimes pleased her subjects to display, and worked tirelessly to make a really rather difficult job, at times, look effortless. They worked on mutual trust, and now the Security Service was undermining it, one insidious interview at a time.
Still, the question remained: had a member of the Household killed Brodsky? And if so, why? Until she could answer it herself, she had to let Humphreys conduct his investigation in his own way.
*
On Sunday, the Queen was very pleased to escape the doom-laden atmosphere and accept Lady Hepburn’s kind invitation to tea at Dunsden Place, her small estate a few miles west, at Henley-on-Thames. They had been friends for decades, through Fiona’s tempestuous marriage to Cecil Farley in the fifties and sixties, her fascinating single years in the seventies, when she travelled the world on the arm of various eligible men, her quiet second marriage to Lord Hepburn in the eighties, and now her gentle widowhood.
Fiona was a good ten years younger than the Queen, but these days friends of one’s own age were like hen’s teeth – certainly those who retained their marbles – and it was a boon to talk to anyone who had lived through the war and shared the values that had pulled the country through.
She was also a gardener. The house – elegant Queen Anne with a spot of Jacobean folderol at one end and an unfortunate Victorian extension at the other – was in need of a little updating, but the garden was lovely. Fiona walked them through the house, looking pretty as ever with her white-blonde hair piled high in a loose chignon, and a pair of baggy trousers showing only the faintest traces of soil.
Today, on a blustery weekend in April, vast pots of daffodils and narcissi glowed yellow and cream ahead of them, against a verdant backdrop of box hedging and billowing topiaried yew, through which one got the occasional glimpse of the river. Most people would have considered the day too cold to sit outside, but Fiona knew her guest, and had ordered home-made scones and prize-winning raspberry jam to be served on the terrace overlooking the parterre, with thick Kashmiri blankets for their knees and plentiful supplies of hot tea.
The Queen’s driver waited in the kitchen and her protection detail blended into the background, just out of earshot, refusing all offers of refreshment. The only other people outside were Fiona herself, Rozie Oshodi and a bearded man in his mid-forties, in a tweed suit and tie, seated at a large teak table on the terrace. He rose to his feet as soon as they arrived.
‘I invited Henry Evans,’ Fiona said cheerfully, as if the idea had been her own. ‘I believe you know each other.’
Mr Evans bowed. When he straightened and smiled, the Queen suddenly remembered what a sweet, boyish expression he had, and how charmingly innocent he seemed, given his specialist subject. ‘We do indeed. Good afternoon. How nice to see you.’
‘And you, Your Majesty.’
‘I hope it wasn’t too much trouble to get here.’
‘On the contrary. A positive delight. Especially to come to Henley. You have a beautiful home, Lady Hepburn.’
‘Oh, Henry. You charmer,’ Fiona grinned. ‘Have a scone.’
They chit-chatted with friendly politeness, while Rozie sat at a nearby table pretending to be engrossed in her notes. She was impressed that Henry Evans managed to talk animatedly about the journey from the Royal Military Academy at Sandhurst, where he worked as a lecturer, without showing the slightest concern about why he’d been summoned in the first place. Rozie hadn’t been able to explain much on the phone – beyond mentioning how much she, personally, had enjoyed his lectures when she had done her officer training there. That wasn’t relevant to today’s meeting, though, so she made do with a brief smile of recognition and kept herself apart.
After a while Lady Hepburn made some excuse about checking with the lady from the village who was helping out in the kitchen, and they were alone.
‘Now, Mr Evans, I wanted to ask you something,’ the Queen said, almost without pause.
‘Yes?’
‘The suspicious deaths of Russians on British soil. You’ve been studying them for a while, haven’t you?’
‘A couple of decades, ma’am.’
‘You contributed to that report I got last year. I remember you accompanying the minister to the palace.’
‘That’s right.’
‘And you believe the Russian state has been murdering its enemies here in Britain with impunity?’
‘Not exactly the Russian state, ma’am. Putin and his allies, specifically. I know he can be seen to embody the state these days. It’s all a bit murky.’
‘Did the list include any journalists?’
‘Only Markov, who worked for the BBC. He was the Bulgarian dissident writer, killed with the ricin bullet fired from an umbrella in ’78. Before Putin’s time, of course – but it set a precedent.’
The Queen nodded. ‘On Waterloo Bridge, I remember.’
‘Exactly, ma’am. It seemed almost too Le Carré to be true.’
She nodded at the reference. People assumed she didn’t read – God knows why, she probably read more papers in a month than most people did in a lifetime, and she was fond of a good spy story. Henry Evans understood her better than many of her ministers.
‘How many deaths have there been since then?’
‘On British soil? Five or six. The first was Litvinenko in 2006. He was the ex-FSB agent poisoned with polonium-210. Horrible business.’
‘Quite. And yet no one was arrested or charged, for any of them.’
‘No, ma’am,’ Evans confirmed. ‘Not since that agent we tried to have extradited for the Litvinenko poisoning.’
‘The Americans often tell my ambassador how furious they are with us.’
He gave a wry smile. ‘They’re welcome to supply the evidence.’
There was a pause while he took a quick sip of tea. Rozie noticed how naturally the Queen took the teapot to refill his cup. She was a remarkably practical person for someone with hundreds of servants to call on, and, in fact, an army. (As Rozie knew from experience, the British Army specificall
y pledged allegiance to her, not the government, and meant it.)
After another warming sip he went on. ‘Putin’s good these days. Since the slip-up with Litvinenko, which was sloppy, all the subsequent deaths have been very professional. And there’s still a question mark over whether Boris Berezovsky was murder or suicide.’
‘What do you think?’
‘Oh, murder, definitely. The colour of the face, the broken rib, the shape of the ligature . . . But one could of course argue, as they did, that he was found in a locked bathroom, and he was certainly depressed. Berezovsky’s a tricky case. He was the most high-profile of Putin’s critics, the richest, until the Abramovich lawsuit bankrupted him, the man most obviously in Putin’s sights. All I can say is whoever staged the suicide, if it was staged, did a damn good job of it. And the others were harder still to pin on Moscow.’
‘Go on.’
‘Well, Perepilichnyy died of a heart attack while out running four years ago. They found traces of a poison in his system, but no proof of how he came by it. Gorbuntsov was the victim of an assassination attempt in Mayfair the same year. He survived it, but the would-be assassin got away. Scot Young – he was the one with links to Berezovsky – was depressed when he fell onto railings. It’s not that we don’t suspect Russian involvement. It’s that we don’t want to start a diplomatic war without incontrovertible proof of why we’re doing it.’
‘Naturally. They all died in their own homes or public places?’
‘Yes.’ He seemed surprised that she would ask.
‘And they all had high-level links to people in Moscow? I believe your report said as much.’
‘Absolutely. These were quarrels about whistle-blowing or money. That’s where their threat to Moscow lay.’