A Death in Diamonds

‘The Chelsea murders?’ the Queen asked, turning round with the left earring in her hand. ‘What murders?’

‘Oh, it’s dreadful. Two bodies, found in one of those little mews houses off the Old Brompton Road. It was all over The Times and the Daily Express.’

‘How do you know?’

‘The ambassador gets them by air from London. The housekeeper showed me.’

‘Did they say who they were?’

‘Not yet, dear. Just that it was a man and a woman, and she was no better than she should be. The awful thing is, it seems almost certain the Dean of Bath did it, or one of his guests.’ Bobo shook her head. ‘He rents the house where it happened for his visits to London. He looks such a mild-mannered man in the photograph, although they say he had a good war – so not that mild-mannered.’

‘Was it definitely murder?’ The Queen knew the dean in question a little. An upstanding member of the Church of England and a charming occasional dinner guest at Windsor.

‘Oh yes, dear. It was all very violent. And a little bit suggestive.’ Bobo pursed her lips and her eyes gleamed. ‘The girl was wearing nothing but satin lingerie and diamonds. Lying on the bed like Snow White, the papers said, but they probably make that sort of thing up, don’t they? And I don’t think I’ve ever seen Snow White depicted in her smalls.’

‘Who was depicted in her smalls?’ Philip asked, striding into the room and looking somewhat distracted as he inserted a cufflink into a recalcitrant cuff.

‘The dead woman in Chelsea, sir,’ Bobo explained.

‘Oh?’ He didn’t look up. The cufflinks were gold, held together by a delicate chain, and fiddly to use. ‘And how did she die?’

‘According to the papers, they were both strangled and the gentleman was stabbed in the eye. Isn’t it wicked what some people can do? It beggars belief.’

‘Oh, I can believe anything of some people,’ Philip said. He glanced up from his shirtsleeve. ‘You wanted to ask me something, Lilibet?’

The Queen had put on her earrings by now. She placed her tiara in position and stood up again, saying nothing, because she wasn’t quite sure how to ask for what she wanted.

He looked her up and down.

‘New dress?’

‘Yes.’

‘Haven’t seen you in that style before.’

‘No.’

‘It’s different. Very . . . sparkly.’

‘Oh.’

There was a short silence.

‘Isn’t she a picture?’ Bobo said, with an edge of Scottish censoriousness in her voice.

Philip took his cue at last.

‘You look ravishing, my darling.’ He grinned rakishly and strode towards her. ‘If Ava Gardner was a couple of inches shorter . . .’

He took his wife’s hands in his and kissed her palms, one after the other, and she was reminded how irresistible he was himself, and how hopelessly devoted she was. Not just because of his Viking-blond looks, but for his ability to make her weep with laughter one minute and to be quite serious the next, as he was now, aware of how important this visit was, how much was asked of her, and how much she needed him.

‘Good, well, that’s settled, then,’ Bobo said. ‘Your tiara’s a bit wonky, dear. Don’t forget the necklace. I’ll go and fetch your fur.’

* * *

Outside the room, at the top of the stairs, a small group was gathered. It consisted of the ambassador, two military equerries who assisted the royal couple in their public duties, Sir Hugh and Philip’s new private secretary, all ready to accompany them down. They were speaking in low voices but the words ‘Cresswell Place’ were audible.

‘What’s that?’ Philip asked. ‘What’re you talking about?’

‘The murders in Chelsea,’ the ambassador explained. ‘Have you heard?’

‘Oh that. Strangling and stabbing,’ Philip said, fiddling with his second cuff. ‘Those the ones?’

‘Yes, exactly. Hardly the modus operandi one would imagine of the members of the Artemis Club.’

‘What?’ Philip’s head jerked up.

‘Well, apparently the dean was dining at the club that night and he brought a small group back to play cards. Nobody else went in or out, apart from the victims, so . . .’ The ambassador trailed off and coughed. ‘I’m aware you’re a member of the Artemis, sir.’

Philip’s face tightened. ‘I am.’

The ambassador laughed nervously. ‘I don’t mean to imply . . . Rather, the people who came back with the dean that night were all above board. Decent men, spotless reputations. You knighted one of ’em last year, ma’am.’ He nodded to the Queen. Nobody had said anything about her dress yet, but they were men, so they wouldn’t. ‘They apparently accompanied the dean home for a quick game of canasta.’

Sir Hugh intervened with a slight cough. ‘So they claim. The awkward thing is, according to the press reports, the dean told the charlady not to clean upstairs the next day, as she usually did. He then returned to Somerset, and she only discovered the bodies when she went upstairs a week later.’

‘Gosh, so when did they die?’ the Queen asked.

‘I suppose it would be a week ago last Sunday,’ Sir Hugh said, rapidly calculating. ‘The thirty-first. That would be the night of the card game. They must have been lying there all—’