Murder Most Royal

‘No, no. She went off to New Zealand. The marriage to Gerry was pretty awful, I gather. She married a sheep farmer and third time lucky, as far as I know. Ned’s eldest boy and girl are proud New Zealanders these days. The boy builds bunkers for billionaires. I can’t remember his name. Fascinating job, though, don’t you think? When the apocalypse comes, all the private jets will be heading to Auckland. Gerry might be one of them. He’s one of those few old-money people who actually still possess it. His parents were frightful snobs. They used to refer to the Queen and Prince Philip as the German and the Greek. Although, strictly speaking, they should have called Prince Philip the Dane, I suppose. The Greeks had sort of borrowed the Danish royal family because they didn’t have one of their own. Who else?’ She scanned the line of guns until she got to the end and handed Rozie her binoculars. ‘Ah, and see the woman two pegs along, in lilac tweed, with the fur-trimmed hat?’

‘Yes.’

‘I assumed it was a novelty outfit the first time I met her. That’s Helena Fisher. You wouldn’t think so to look at her, but she’s a phenomenal shot. She’s half Swedish, half American, and she was on the national Olympic team, I can’t remember which. Her husband Matt runs Muncaster, which is the next estate along. It’s between here and Abbottswood, so I assume they knew Ned quite well.’

‘Oh, right.’

‘Ned was very charismatic and Helena’s charming and attractive, so if he had anything to do with it . . . She’s much younger than him, of course. She can’t be more than forty-five. But, as we know, age was no barrier to Ned’s interest in a woman. Matt’s an average shot, so he’s over with the pickers-up somewhere. I overheard Prince Philip saying he felt obliged to invite them because we poached his bean counter for the estate. I think that’s the bean counter there, see? At the end of the line, in the bright yellow ear defenders. You could see them from space! I assumed Prince Philip meant he was an accountant, but apparently he really does count beans.’

‘Why?’ Rozie asked.

‘He’s some sort of conservation manager. His thing is organic farming. Of course, that’s catnip for the Prince of Wales. He has to show how good the organic yields are or something. Hence—’

‘He counts them. Not individually, I presume,’ Rozie said.

‘By the tonne, I imagine,’ Lady Caroline agreed. ‘And blackcurrants, too. Did you know they supply them for Ribena? I’m surprised he’s shooting with the guns today. Staff don’t usually . . . But I’m sure Prince Philip has his reasons. And that’s it, as far as I know,’ Lady Caroline concluded. ‘Oh, look, they’re about to start and the duke is glaring at me because I’m talking.’

She gave Rozie an unrepentant grin and headed back to the group of wives and other guests who were watching from a suitably safe distance. Rozie noticed the bean counter with the yellow ear defenders had turned his head and was looking in her direction. It was a little unnerving. Had he not seen a six-foot black woman in tweeds before? She stared back at him until he looked away.

* * *

After the third drive, Rozie decided she had had enough of tweed for the day. She was contemplating the long walk back across farmland and paddocks to her lodgings, when a Range Rover stopped beside her. Princess Anne was at the wheel.

‘Oh, good! It’s you,’ she said. ‘Hop in.’

Rozie did as she was told.

‘I was hoping to catch you,’ Anne went on, negotiating the car down the muddy track. ‘Any more news from the police?’

‘Not that I’ve heard,’ Rozie said.

‘Lady Caroline mentioned that you’re on the lookout for potential murderers among us.’

‘Not exactly, ma’am. I just thought it would be useful to know who knew the victim.’

‘Do they know what Ned was doing in town?’

‘Not yet.’

‘I wonder if it was a gangland thing,’ Anne said. ‘Ned mixed with some dodgy types back in the seventies. It’s not hard to picture them luring him to London. Though God knows what for, after all this time.’

‘It’s interesting that whoever did it came back to Norfolk,’ Rozie said, glancing beyond the stubble and dykes towards the marshes that led to the Wash. ‘Something must have drawn him here.’

‘Lunch!’ Anne declared.

Up ahead, an isolated building too small to be a house, and too delicate to be a farm building, stood solitary behind a sea of winter wheat. Already, various cars were disgorging their occupants on the track nearby and Anne swung her Range Rover alongside them.

‘You’ll join us, I take it?’ she asked as they got out.

‘I was going to head back. I don’t think I—’

‘Don’t be silly,’ Anne said. ‘You’re here now. Come on.’