Murder Most Royal

The Queen tried not to think about the people who were not coming. Zara, her eldest granddaughter, such a lovely, sensible girl and a mother herself now, was not well. Also missing were William and his family, who had chosen to spend Christmas with Catherine’s family in Berkshire. A Middleton Christmas was quite something, apparently. Full of jollity and good cheer. The Queen felt thoroughly put in her place when William had described it. In what way jollity and good cheer were lacking at Sandringham, she didn’t know. However, a part of her rather admired her grandson for taking a stand. One needed fortitude for the job he would one day hold. It took a loyal spouse, too, and that necessitated care and compromise along the way. Catherine would have her family Christmas. The monarch would make do. There was always FaceTime.

Among the freshly polished royal vehicles, a mud-spattered old Subaru estate car incongruously drew up in the courtyard and its driver got out alone. The Queen happened to be looking out of the saloon window as he did so. She turned to the butler who was standing beside her.

‘What’s the chief constable of Norfolk doing here?’

‘I don’t know, ma’am,’ he said, looking as surprised as she was. ‘I’ll redirect him round the back.’

The Queen shook her head. Surely the most senior policeman in Norfolk wouldn’t visit Sandringham on a day like today unless it was very important? It must be to do with Ned St Cyr, and yet it had only been twenty-four hours since she had identified the hand. Was that enough for significant progress? She didn’t know whether to hope or dread what he might say.

‘Show him in, would you? One might as well say hello.’

The lugubrious, angular man who came in from the cold, shrugging off his waxed jacket and handing it to a waiting footman, looked astonished to be ushered into the saloon itself, and to find Her Majesty waiting for him. The circumstances were unusual, but this was by no means the first time they had met. Nigel Bloomfield had been head of the Norfolk constabulary for five years. He was a keen and thoughtful officer who had joined as the son of local farmers and risen quickly through the ranks. The Queen admired him for sticking with the Norfolk force and not seeking flashier jobs elsewhere. ‘They call Yorkshire God’s own county,’ he’d said once, ‘but we know where it is really, don’t we, ma’am?’ She was pleased that his loyalty hadn’t held him back. He was well regarded among other senior officers she knew. She found him both imperturbable and affable, which was an attractive combination, despite his general demeanour of a disappointed bloodhound.

‘Chief Constable! It’s good to see you,’ she announced. ‘Very kind of you to come on Christmas Eve.’

He bowed at the neck, and apologised for his off-duty outfit of neatly pressed corduroy trousers and smart red jumper.

‘I’m off to a carol concert later. My wife’s singing with a choir in Burnham Market. I hope you don’t mind, ma’am.’

‘Not at all,’ the Queen said. ‘Very appropriate.’

‘I was hoping to give your private secretary a quick update before Christmas. I got a bit held up, I’m afraid.’

‘You’ll have trouble seeing Sir Simon. He’s in Scotland,’ the Queen informed him.

Bloomfield frowned. ‘He rang first thing to find out how the team were getting on, ma’am. He sounded very keen to know all the details. I assumed he was here.’

‘Sir Simon’s on holiday,’ the Queen said sharply, making a mental note to tell the man in no uncertain terms, when he got back, not to do Rozie’s job for her while he happened to be away. ‘And I’m afraid Captain Oshodi, my APS, is getting ready to play football. My grandson has inveigled her on to his team. Can I help?’

Bloomfield took a couple of seconds to process the information. However, he gathered himself.

‘Quite possibly you can, ma’am. You’re familiar with the victim, I gather. I don’t want to intrude into your day. I’m sure you must be . . .’

He was somewhat distracted by whatever was going on behind her – almost certainly one or several of her children and grandchildren popping their heads round the door from the armoury corridor that led to the drawing room, to see who on earth this new arrival was.

‘You’re right, we’re very busy. But I have five minutes. Where can we . . .? Ah yes, follow me.’

In the company of the dogs, she led him to the far end of the room, where a doorway was almost invisibly silhouetted in the panelling beside the fireplace. It led to a small, dark, book-lined room with a desk. The Queen turned on the light and closed the door behind them.

‘So. An update,’ she said. ‘How encouraging.’ She didn’t sit down, because stand-up meetings tended to be quicker.