Murder Most Royal

‘Not exactly,’ she said, reeling slightly at the thought of the head, which she hadn’t considered. Ned’s golden hair had always been a glory. ‘We hadn’t seen him for many years. But his mother was.’ She glanced across at the spot on the floor where Willow, the last remaining corgi, was enjoying a patch of winter sun on the carpet. Georgina had been a dog person, too. Always English or red setters, glamorous and slightly mad, always at least four of them. Thank God she was no longer around to hear any of this.

‘I’m surprised,’ she added, ‘that the Met aren’t dealing with the case, if Ned disappeared in London.’

‘He was reported missing in Norfolk, ma’am. There was an exchange of views about it between the forces, put it that way, but my team prevailed. And despite the signs, I sense this is a Norfolk crime at its heart.’

‘Oh?’

‘The hand was found up here, after all,’ Bloomfield pointed out. ‘St Cyr grew up here, lived here, ran all his businesses from his place at Abbottswood. I knew him through his charity work. Always took a keen interest in what I was up to in my role as head of the Drugs Task Force. He was surprisingly well informed for a man of his—’ He caught the Queen’s eye and coughed again. ‘Ahem . . . his generation. He let us use Abbottswood for meetings and events. It was obviously his home, not just some bolthole he used at weekends.’

‘I see.’ She wondered suddenly if the chief constable thought that one saw Sandringham as a bolthole. But surely not? So much of her family’s life was bound up in it.

‘Anyway, we’ll know a lot more when forensics make their report,’ he went on. ‘I expect they’ll give us an idea about what happened to him first and where the bag went in the water, too. It’s amazing how much they can deduce from temperature and tides. The cold weather helps, of course. If the hand had been in that plastic bag under a hot sun it would have been quite a different story.’ He saw the Queen’s bleak response to that last statement and sought to reassure her. ‘I’ve got fifty people working on this night and day. Whatever happened, ma’am, we’ll find it soon enough. I guarantee we’ll have it wrapped up for you as quickly as any force in the country.’

The Queen sensed a note of competition in his voice. Norfolk was not, on the whole, known for its speed and efficiency. No doubt its major investigation unit could compete with the best in Manchester, say, or Edinburgh or Belfast, but as a county in general it had a reputation as slow and steady. Which was exactly how she liked it. Still, Bloomfield’s intention was a good one, if slightly misplaced.

‘Not for me. For his family,’ she said. ‘And for the sake of justice. Thank you, Chief Constable.’

She arranged for him to be looked after by the kitchen staff before heading off to his wife’s carol concert. The investigation sounded as if it was in good hands, which was where she wanted it to stay. Finally, she could focus on her own family, who would be wondering what on earth had happened to her.

Chapter 5

In the festive drawing room, the recent arrival of Charles and Camilla meant that the family, such as it was this year, was complete. Those who were there soon fell into familiar patterns, built up over many years and generations. Outside, the traditional football match was already underway against the local village of Castle Rising, the Sandringham team of staff and groundsmen captained by Harry in William’s absence. Indoors, the little ones gathered around the Christmas tree to hang the decorations that were set out for them in ancient cardboard boxes, some of which dated back to Queen Victoria, watched over by the painted pheasant on the drawing room ceiling. The Queen was content to observe from a nearby chair, sipping a hot tea and lemon and giving suggestions for where choice ornaments should go.

Anne came to sit beside her.

‘Mummy, I’m so sorry.’ Her tone was sombre.

‘What about?’

‘The hand!’

‘Oh, that.’

‘You must be feeling awful.’

‘I wasn’t.’ For a pleasant half-hour, filled with children’s chatter, the Queen had managed to put it from her mind.

‘Did you hear that Astrid’s gone missing too?’

‘Who’s Astrid?’ the Queen asked.

‘Ned’s girlfriend . . . fiancée. Moira Westover’s girl.’

‘Oh, I see. How dreadful. How do you know?’

‘It was on the radio,’ Anne explained. ‘We heard a news update as we were driving down. She was the one who reported Ned missing a week ago.’

‘Oh, dear,’ the Queen sighed. The chief constable hadn’t mentioned it. Another complication. She thought of the Westover family. It was awful enough trying to deal with a difficult emotional situation, but to do it in the public eye made it more distressing. She knew better than anyone how that felt.

* * *