The Windsor Knot

by SJ Bennett

  And they talked – he and the Queen did, the guy in the gloves didn’t say anything else, just kind of hovered in the background – for what could have been a minute or half an hour, Ben had no idea. Nor could he remember afterwards a single thing they’d said, exactly. Except that she was really nice, and they’d talked a little bit about his sister and his dad, and she’d said how hard it must have been growing up without his dad, which it bloody was, and how brave he’d been, and how sorry she was about his sister. And he felt it was true. She really meant it. And at some point he stopped being terrified and he just felt kind of . . . at home. Like, this is just what you do on a Tuesday morning. And it was OK.

  Then the tall lady came back with this other guy in the most outrageous uniform you’ve ever seen in your life – all red and black, with gold braid everywhere and medals and shiny shoes, like a costume drama, and the Queen stood up, so Ben did too, and she walked over to this table with a cushion on it, and uniform guy picked up the cushion and handed it to her, and on it was a small, black box, lined with black velvet, with two silver crosses inside, one medium-sized and one small.

  The Queen looked at Ben and said, ‘You stand here,’ pointing to a spot just in front of her. She sounded kind of strict, but not mean with it, and Ben did as he was told, and she said, ‘Mr Stiles, I know the version of this award that was given to your mother went missing last year. I was sorry to hear that. Your sister, too, died serving her country, and I would like to say how very grateful I am for her service, and your father’s sacrifice. And how sorry I am about your mother.’ She reached out to shake his hand, then turned and took the box from its cushion and gave it to him.

  He looked down, and in the process two of his tears landed on her thumb, which was embarrassing. Ben hadn’t been able to hold it in since his mum died. One of those things. But the Queen didn’t seem to mind. She just made sure he was holding the box securely. And when it was done she took a step back, and smiled at him in a friendly way, and Ben didn’t know what to say, so he said, ‘Thank you. Er, ma’am. Appreciate it.’

  And he realised that what she’d given him wasn’t really the replacement cross and its miniature so much as the time spent in this room, with her, which could have been ten minutes or two days by now for all he knew – it was like being in a time warp. But he was properly crying now so it was probably best just to go. She said something else that he didn’t really hear and then the tall lady was showing him out, and as soon as they were out of the room he just turned to the tall lady and hugged her, tight – which you’re totally not allowed to do and he knew that, but sometimes you just kind of have to go with it – and she hugged him back for a moment, and asked if he was OK. Which he said he was, because there was the long version and the short version, and the short version was always easier. But she squeezed his arm as if he’d given the long version, and held onto it as they walked down the corridor, saying something about a scroll he’d get too, but he’d worry about that later.

  And that’s how he got the Elizabeth Cross back, and the whole thing was weird. He’d vowed he’d never wear it after his mum died. Rachel was happy to, but she was more into that sort of thing; Ben was sure he’d just lose it. He knew he wouldn’t lose this one, though. Not ever.

  *

  The other visitor was Meredith Gostelow, whom the Queen invited to see the headstone she had designed, at the Queen’s personal request, for a very unusual grave.

  They met at the castle and the Queen drove the architect down through Home Park, towards Frogmore House and its grounds. It was here that many members of the Royal Family were buried, including Victoria and Albert, who had chosen the spot specially, and the Queen’s uncle, Edward VIII, whom the family could hardly put anywhere else.

  The royal graves were neatly tended, in the shadow of Queen Victoria’s mausoleum, but the spot the Queen took Meredith Gostelow to was somewhere a little distant, half-hidden by trees, just to the north of Frogmore Lake. If you weren’t looking for it, you would hardly know it was there. A patch of grass among the flowering bluebells was marked by an asymmetrical slab of white marble, set with brass lettering that simply read ‘MAKSIM BRODSKY. MUSICIAN. 1991–2016’.

  The architect looked at her work with a critical eye. This was the first time she had seen the finished piece in situ. It was extremely simple, and far from her usual style, but a tremendous amount of work had gone into its simplicity: choosing the exact shade of white, the perfect block of marble, the most pleasing asymmetry, the right style and size of lettering with the most attractive spacing, and the best sculptor to achieve it. It had taken days of work on the design, and weeks of thinking.

  ‘Do you approve?’ she asked.

  ‘I think it does very well,’ the Queen said. ‘Don’t you?’

  ‘Oh, there are always things I’d change.’ Meredith sensed this wasn’t the answer the Queen was looking for, so amended it. ‘But overall, it does what I wanted. I think it does him justice. I hope so.’

  ‘I hope you didn’t mind me asking you to do it,’ the Queen said.

  ‘I must admit, I was rather surprised.’

  ‘We admire your work. It’s why we invited you that night, of course. And you knew Mr Brodsky.’

  Meredith felt a hot flush coming on. ‘You might say that.’

  They both stared at the headstone. ‘You danced with him, too,’ the Queen said, to take the heat out of the other woman’s cheeks. She didn’t mean to embarrass her.

  It seemed to work. Meredith smiled. ‘Didn’t I just? And wasn’t he a dream?’

  ‘Yes, he rather was.’

  ‘I was kind of told, on the low-down, that they found the man who did it,’ Meredith offered.

  ‘Ye-es,’ the Queen agreed. ‘I gather your name was brought into the investigation. That wasn’t my intention.’

  ‘Please, don’t apologise.’ Was it an apology? It had sounded like one. ‘As long as justice was done.’

  ‘Up to a point.’

  They stood in silence for a while. ‘I like the bluebells,’ Meredith said. ‘The whole place. It has a real sense of peace.’

  At that moment, a 737 roared overhead, causing them both to look and Her Majesty to hoot with laughter, but it was true – planes aside, it was the most tranquil, private spot in this patch of woodland. The Queen had taken her time to find the best location.

  ‘How come he’s here?’ Meredith asked. It was the question she’d been asking since she first received the commission for the headstone and nobody would tell her. It was as if they were as mystified as she was. This kind of thing wasn’t done. It didn’t happen. There was no precedent.

  ‘There was nowhere else for him to go,’ the Queen said, with a wave of her hand.

  Nobody had come to claim the body from the morgue. The embassy would have collected it eventually, of course, but she wasn’t sure what would happen to it then. He had no one at home to mourn him. She thought he deserved better, after all that Rachmaninov.

  ‘I think he’ll be happy here,’ Meredith announced. She crouched down – with some strain – and leaned forward to pat the stone, under which Maksim’s ashes were buried. ‘Or maybe unhappy-happy, in the Russian style. I mean, wow, I’d love to be here. Who wouldn’t? It feels . . . safe, doesn’t it?’

  Birds chirruped from the trees. There was the dull hum of insects, and a distant sound of horses. They stayed there for a while, soaking up rays of sun that interspersed the dappled shade. But for the white marble, and one contrail in the sky, it seemed as though this spot among the trees could have looked and sounded and felt this way at any time over the last millennium.

  The Queen turned down the path eventually. ‘Shall we go?’

  Together, they headed back towards the castle.

  Acknowledgements

  T

  hank you, above all, to Queen Elizabeth II, for being a constant source of inspiration, both literary and otherwise.

  My parents, Marie and Ray, for the preciou
s gifts of a love of detective fiction and a lifetime of anecdotes about the British royal family.

  My fabulous agent, Charlie Campbell, sine qua non. Alongside Charlie, I’m eternally grateful to Grainne Fox and the team at Fletcher & Company, as well as Nicki Kennedy, Sam Edenborough and the team at ILA. I write this four months after we first encountered each other, as the copy edits for the UK and US editions are being finalised. How far we’ve come together in that time.

  My editors Ben Willis in the UK and David Highfill in the US, and the teams at Zaffre Books and William Morrow, who have been a delight to work with from the moment we first spoke. That happened as lockdown started, so we haven’t met yet, but I can’t wait until we do.

  For their friendship and generous insights: Alice Young, Lucy Van Hove, Annie Maw, Michael Hallowes, Fran Lana, Abimbola Fashola, and those who prefer to remain anonymous.

  Mark and Belinda Tredwell, who hosted me on the writing retreat when I was supposed to be writing another book, but got a little obsessed with the idea for this one.

  The Place, the Sisterhood, the Masterminds and all my students and fellow writers. You know who you are. A huge thank you to Annie Eaton, who shares a love of art, history, fashion and books, and knows some great agents.

  The National Health Service, which kept Alex and me alive last year. An eternal thank you.

  The Book Club, with a special mention to Poppy St John, whose early enthusiasm kept me going when this story was still an idea and a few paragraphs that didn’t work.

  Emily, Sophie, Freddie and Tom, who put up with benign neglect when I was in the writing shed. And to Alex, my first reader, love of my life, the man who told me the first version wasn’t good enough . . . but the second one was.

  To receive Royal Correspondence about the Her Majesty The Queen Investigates series – including royal family trivia and more – sign up at bit.ly/SJBennett

  About the Author

  S. J. Bennett wrote several award-winning books for teenagers before turning to adult mysteries. She lives in London and has been a royal watcher for years, but is keen to stress that these are works of fiction: the Queen, to the best of her knowledge, does not secretly solve crimes.

  You can find her at SJBennettBooks.com for all things crime and royal, on Instagram @sophiabennett_writer and on Twitter @sophiabennett.

  To receive Royal Correspondence about the Her Majesty The Queen Investigates series – including royal family trivia and more – sign up at bit.ly/SJBennett

  Keep reading for an exclusive extract from the next mystery in the Her Majesty The Queen Investigates series . . .

  Coming November 2021

  Prologue

  S

  ir Simon Holcroft was not a swimmer. As a trainee pilot, about a thousand years ago, he had spent many hours in the water on naval training exercises. He could, if necessary, escape from a sinking helicopter in the Atlantic Ocean, but ploughing up and down an indoor pool held no allure for him. However, his trouser waistline was two inches larger than it should be and his GP had made those noises about cholesterol levels. Something needed to give, and it wasn’t just the button above his flies.

  Sir Simon felt tired. He felt flabby. On the train back from Scotland he judged that here was a man who had eaten too much Dundee cake and not offered to accompany the Queen on enough cross-country walks. His first thought on arriving back at his cottage in Kensington Palace was that he needed to jolt himself out of this slump. Those last few weeks in Balmoral had been bloody. It was as if the midges had been staging a world event. He had been busy most mornings with Prince Philip, discussing the details of the Reservicing Programme, because the Duke had always taken a very keen interest in how the royal residences were run. Then he’d been up most nights on the phone, conferring with Michael Green and Sir James about the Duke’s suggestions and questions, as well as adding some of his own. If they hadn’t done all their homework by the time they presented it to the Public Accounts Committee in November, the proverbial ordure would hit the fan like a fireworks display.

  Vigour was what he needed. And freshness. Despite his lack of enthusiasm, the palace swimming pool seemed like the best solution, but the Queen’s Private Secretary was in a bind. Staff weren’t supposed to swim when the family was in residence, and the nature of his job meant that if the Boss was away, so was he, and vice versa. However, catching sight of himself in an ill-advised full-length mirror in the bedroom at KP that night, he made the decision to take a risk and nip in early. He prayed he wouldn’t encounter a keen prince or duke, or indeed anyone, with his midge-bitten body stretching the seams of his baggy Vilebrequin trunks.

  Sir Simon walked through Hyde Park and Green Park – one of the few forty-minute commutes you could make through Central London that was entirely green – in time to arrive at the Palace by 6.30 a.m. He had stupidly put his trunks on under his trousers, which made both uncomfortable. He parked his briefcase on his office desk and hung his suit jacket on a wooden hanger, rolling his silk tie up neatly and placing it on the mantelpiece. Not sure what to do about his shoes (he should have thought this through further), he took these off too and, shouldering the backpack containing his swimming towel, he walked in his socks towards the North Wing pavilion. By now it was 6.45.

  The pavilion had originally been designed as a conservatory by Nash. Sir Simon always thought they should have kept it that way. His mother was a plantswoman and he felt that conservatories could produce wonders of ecology, and were marvellous places to relax – whereas heated swimming pools were a little naff. Nevertheless, the Queen’s father had decided to convert this one, so there it was, with its Grecian pillars outside, and its somewhat the worse for wear art deco tiles within, as much in need of updating as so many palace nooks and crannies that the public didn’t see.

  The pool area was reached from inside through a door papered with instructions for what to do in case of fire, and reminders that nobody should swim solo, which he ignored. The corridor beyond was already uncomfortably humid. He was glad he’d left his tie behind. In the men’s changing room, he divested himself of his shirt, socks and trousers and draped his towel across his arm. He noticed a cut crystal tumbler abandoned on one of the benches. Odd, since the family had only arrived back from the Highlands last night. There must have been a homecoming celebration among the younger generation. All glass was banned in the pool area, but you didn’t tell princes and princesses what they could and couldn’t do in their granny’s home: you simply cleared up after them. Sir Simon made a mental note to tell Housekeeping so they could deal with it.

  He showered quickly and walked through into the pool area, with its windows overlooking the kissing plane trees in the garden, bracing himself for the shock of cool-ish water lapping against this too, too solid flesh.

  The shock he got was quite different.

  At first his brain refused to register what it was seeing. Was it a blanket? A trick of the light? There was so much red. So very much red against the green, tiled floor. In the centre of the stain was a leg, bare to the knee, female. The image imprinted itself onto his retina. He blinked.

  His breath came short and punchy as he took two steps towards it. Another two, and he was standing in the gore itself and staring down at the full horror of it.

  A woman in a dark dress lay curled on her side in a puddle of darkness. Her lips were blue, her eyes open and unseeing. Her right arm reached towards her feet, palm-up. It was soaked and stained with congealed blood. Her left arm was stretched towards the pale water’s edge, where the dark puddle finally stopped. Sir Simon felt his own blood pulse, pounding a one-two, one-two rhythm in his ears.

  Gingerly, he knelt down and placed reluctant fingers against her neck. There was no pulse, and how could there be, with eyes like that? He longed to close the lids, but thought he probably shouldn’t. Her hair lay loosely fanned around her head, a halo soaked in red. She looked surprised. Or was that his imagination? And so small and fragile that if she ha
d been alive, he could have easily scooped her up and carried her to safety.

  Rising, he felt a sharp pain in his knee. He tried to wipe some of the sticky blood from his skin and his fingertips encountered grit. Examining it, he could just make out tiny shards of thick glass. Now his own blood, seeping freshly from a couple of jagged cuts on his leg, was mingling with hers. He saw it then – the remains of a shattered tumbler, sitting like a crystal ruin in the crimson sea.

  He recognised the face. What was she doing here, with a whisky tumbler? His body didn’t want to move, but he forced it back outside to seek help. Though he knew it was too late for any help worth having.

  First published in the UK in 2020 by Zaffre

  This ebook edition published in 2020 by

  ZAFFRE

  An imprint of Bonnier Books UK

  80–81 Wimpole St, London W1G 9RE

  Owned by Bonnier Books

  Sveavägen 56, Stockholm, Sweden

  Copyright © S. J. Bennett, 2020

  Jacket design by Nick Stearn

  Jacket illustration © Iker Ayestaran

  Author photograph © KT Bruce

  The moral right of S. J. Bennett to be identified as Author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.