Murder Most Royal

Downstairs, the more active members of the family were gathering for a hearty fry-up, ready for the traditional Boxing Day shoot. Some of the women would be joining the men, while others had breakfast in their rooms and took the chance to recover from two days of festivities. Shooting was largely a man’s sport anyway, in the Queen’s experience. At least, it had been in her father’s day.

This morning, the royal party assembling in the gun lobby would be a slimmed-down version of Sandringham in its pomp. Since Philip’s heart operation he travelled as an observer only. William was still keen on the tradition, but of course he wasn’t here. And Harry had developed a sensitivity to blood sports and wasn’t going out with the guns today.

The tide of history was on Harry’s side, she thought. When she and Philip were young it had seemed quite natural to combine a love of field sports and wildlife conservation – necessary, even – and yet that combination had now become a paradox. Charles, aware of this, had given up the hunt and tried to be seen less and less with a shotgun in his hands. The Queen wondered where this loss of tradition would stop. So much of the countryside worked the way it did, with hedgerows and copses as cover for birds, because sportsmen kept it that way. What would happen without keepers and sporting farmers to look after it? By the time little George took over, would it be one big theme park with ‘royalty’ rides, or, God forbid, a massive golf course with sterile putting greens?

At least there was one advantage to Harry’s sudden aversion to blood sports: it meant he could keep her company and help her with the jigsaw. She was looking forward to hearing more about the girlfriend. Her grandson’s general air of bonhomie reminded her somewhat of herself when one of Philip’s letters arrived after the war. It was cheering to see him so happy. She had never doubted the essential, transformative effect of love.

* * *

Rozie was woken by the alarm at 7 a.m. Heavy curtains blocked out the sky, and it took her a moment to remember where she was. She needed a pee and a drink of water. She needed to be elsewhere. She probably shouldn’t have brought that second bottle of champagne up to the room last night.

As she sat up slowly to examine the extent of her hangover, a heavy arm threw itself across her from the other side of the bed.

‘Don’t go.’

‘I have to,’ she said, remembering the late-night text she had received from Sir Simon. ‘You, do too. You’re the one who set the alarm, remember?’

‘Yes, but it’s so comfortable.’ The owner of the arm had the same peevish stubbornness of her sister when Rozie used to try and wake her up to go running in the mornings.

‘Prince Philip’ll be expecting you.’

‘I can dress very fast. I’m sure we’ve got twenty minutes to spare.’

‘I can dress fast too, but I’ve got to get back to my room, remember?’

‘Borrow something of mine,’ he grumbled. ‘We’re the same kind of size.’ He nuzzled her shoulder, but she wouldn’t be persuaded.

It was tempting, though. Henry Marshal-Ward was a captain in the Coldstream Guards, fit in every sense, with a cushy staff job as a temporary equerry to the Queen. Rozie didn’t have time for a full-on boyfriend and Henry didn’t come with strings attached, so occasional hook-ups suited them both. Especially here, where he had a room inside the main house, within drunken staggering distance of the servants’ hall last night, while she was billeted in the overflow accommodation on the estate, half a mile down the road. However, royal shoot attire was very strict, even for observers like her, and it didn’t include black lace bodycon party dresses or a boyfriend’s borrowed tracksuit. She needed to go and change.

Sir Simon’s drunken text from the night before suggested that he, too, would be nursing a hangover this morning. He’d been talking to one of the ghillies in Balmoral, who had heard on the grapevine that the Sandringham shoot would contain some friends and neighbours of the family, to make up for missing royals:

There’s a possibilility likelihood that one or more of these people may be connected to St Cry. Find out what you can. Be discreet. We may need to do some damage control later. Good lick.

Rozie reached over to switch on the light. As its glow caught the Roman profile and the tousled curls of his strawberry blond hair, she was reminded of her Google Images search from three days before.

‘You’re not related to Edward St Cyr, are you?’

‘The missing man? Um, yuh,’ Henry said. ‘I think he’s like my second cousin twice removed. I’m related to most people, though, one way or another, if you go back far enough.’

‘I bet you’re not related to my family,’ Rozie challenged him.

‘Well, no, I don’t have any ancestors in Lagos that I know of. Wouldn’t swear to it, though.’