Murder Most Royal

The group spent several minutes discussing what might have driven a blood relative to such an act of unspeakable violence. The Queen, who found it all extremely unsavoury, eventually had to put her foot down and insist that they refrain from discussing murder over coffee. She had a strong suspicion that everyone resumed the subject, though, as soon as she departed, coughing and aching, for the relative peace of her office overlooking the garden.

* * *

After two days off, which was as many as she ever took, it was back to the business of being Queen. However, her official paperwork was thin, as most Government officials were still on holiday. She had finished it and was surreptitiously catching up on a couple of stories in the Racing Post when Rozie arrived, skirting round the dogs’ elaborate feeding stations in the office in order to reach her desk.

‘The chief constable rang again just now, ma’am,’ Rozie announced. ‘He’s offered to update you on the Lions arrest in person. He said he’s going to be in the area in a couple of hours. He could drop by, if you like.’

The Queen pursed her lips. ‘Oh, he could, could he? Hasn’t he seen enough of Sandringham recently? I think we can spare him a second trip.’

Rozie nodded. ‘Yes, ma’am. I’ll get him to—’

‘Wait.’ The Queen relented. She still found it extraordinary to think that one of Georgina’s grandsons could have killed her only child. It was heartbreaking, but she wanted to try and understand it. ‘You might as well let him come. I wouldn’t mind a word or two.’

‘Certainly.’

‘Oh, and, Rozie . . . do explain to him where to park this time.’

* * *

The Queen met Bloomfield in the Long Library, which sat behind the dining room and overlooked the ponds beyond the lawn. Its book-lined walls gave few clues that it had started life as a bowling alley. Her great-grandfather was not entirely serious when he was Prince of Wales. The Queen had to admit to herself, she would have rather liked a bowling alley. The books that replaced it had been chosen for the attractiveness of their gilded spines and she had yet to read most of them.

‘Horrible business, ma’am,’ the chief constable agreed. He was in uniform this time, perched on the edge of his chair, as lugubrious as ever. ‘We’re still getting to the bottom of it. Lions is as guilty as sin. You can tell he wants to talk, but he won’t.’

‘Have you charged him with his father’s murder?’ she asked.

‘Not yet. We’re working on it. Give the team twenty-four hours and I think we’ll be ready. All very sad. I don’t think he meant to do it. Now he’s stuck with it for the rest of his life.’

‘I see that he’d changed his name.’

‘Ah! Well, that’s a bit of a clue,’ Bloomfield said. ‘He was christened Orlando George Ellington Longbourn St Cyr, but he changed it by deed poll to Jack Lions ten years ago. His mother’s maiden name. It was a mark of estrangement from his father. Of course, Edward St Cyr had done a similar thing himself, in a way.’

‘He had,’ the Queen agreed.

‘Anyway, Lions wanted nothing to do with the whole St Cyr connection. When his schoolmates were going to university, he was living in a squat. The thing is, though, his mother became addicted to prescription drugs. Jack wrote to his dad in a fury several months ago because St Cyr refused to help with her latest rehab stint. Jack pointed out St Cyr is on the board of three anti-addiction charities. St Cyr wrote back saying if he needed cash, he could get a job on his rewilding project.’

‘Did he?’

‘After that, they spoke by phone. I doubt Lions wanted his opinions recorded. You ask for a parent’s love, and they offer you outdoor labour at minimum wage.’

‘How did you find him?’ the Queen asked.

‘He was always on our radar. For a man born with the proverbial silver spoon, he has quite a criminal record. Taking vehicles without consent, possession of Class B drugs, affray . . . He started off as a hunt saboteur but he’s been involved with increasingly extreme fringe elements on the animal rights front. But what clinched it was the RIP meeting in the diary.’

‘Oh?’

‘This is where we give thanks for the wonders of modern technology,’ Bloomfield said proudly. ‘A cross-check of the number plate recognition cameras showed that on the fifteenth, a van belonging to one of Lions’s close associates was parked behind a building occupied by Rich Indie Productions in Soho. RIP. You see, ma’am?’

The Queen was quite capable of working out a three-letter acronym. Her life revolved around them, after all. ‘Yes, Chief Constable. I do.’

Bloomfield noted a mild tone of irritation in her voice. ‘Of course. Anyway, the owner of the van, a man called Simon Lefevre, did two years in jail for firearms offences. The next day it was caught on camera again, heading west out of London on the A4, with none other than Lions himself in the passenger seat.’

‘I see.’