Murder Most Royal

‘Just put on a high voice and say, “And what do you do?”’ Henry suggested with a smirk. ‘Tell them . . .’ he did the voice again ‘. . . “I’ve just shagged Her Majesty’s assistant equerry and he was very good in bed.’

She shot him a look.

‘It’s a Sandringham tradition,’ he protested.

‘What, shagging equerries?’

‘Shagging people you can’t keep your hands off. What do you think the guest lodges in the grounds were for?’

‘Guests of the shoot?’

‘Mistresses. Mistresses who could shoot were ideal.’

‘I wonder what they think of me,’ Rozie mused. ‘At my lodgings, I mean. Constantly not turning up for breakfast.’

‘I wouldn’t worry about it. What happens at Sandringham stays at Sandringham. Are you ready?’

Rozie wondered what her mother would think, seeing her daughter on the arm of a Guards officer, ready to go and mix with royalty. Her grandfather had started out in Peckham, washing bodies in the mortuary. His daughter had got a nursing degree and was a respected community worker. Rozie had already turned down a proposal of marriage from a viscount, but he was incredibly drunk and said how much she reminded him of Grace Jones – which could be a compliment coming from some people, but felt pretty racist under the circumstances. Perhaps today she’d be sharing a sherry with a murderer. Sir Simon was right: you never knew what to expect in this job.

* * *

Today’s pre-lunch drinks was one the Queen had been slightly dreading, not helped by the lingering effects of her cold. It was a chance to see friends and neighbours, but it was difficult to know what to say when one of these had recently lost his beloved wife and his estranged, dismembered cousin was in the news. The Queen wanted to show her support to Lord Mundy, but she was more of a doer than an orator, and she was never quite sure what to say.

Charles, much to his credit, had intuited something of the sort and offered to postpone his trip to Scotland for Hogmanay, so he could be at her side for their visit. He had been a big fan of Lee’s, too.

‘Are you sure you’re up to this, Mummy?’

‘Of course,’ she told him, stoically.

She had wondered if the baron would come at all, and for much of the party there was no sign of him. Lee had always been the more social of the two, and it was possible he had decided to stay at home with his beloved sheep. And then she spotted him at the far side of the saloon, heading towards her, accompanied by his two children, who were in their forties, and a man about his son’s age whom she didn’t know.

Rozie had told the Queen about Hugh’s frailness on the phone before Christmas. Even so, his appearance was quite shocking. He looked hollowed out by grief. His son Valentine towered over him, of similar build and looks, with the prominent St Cyr nose and piercing blue eyes, but still fit in middle age. He was nervously twisting the bloodstone signet ring on his little finger. Valentine saw the Queen looking and clasped his hands behind his back.

‘It’s so kind of you to invite us, Your Majesty,’ his sister Flora said, curtseying unselfconsciously and bobbing up to flick a tendril of hair out of her eyes. ‘Isn’t it dreadful about Uncle Ned? And Mummy gone, too. I can’t tell you what a nightmare Christmas was.’ She grinned ruefully. ‘Anyway, how are you?’

Something about her over-bright eyes suggested the pain behind her smooth civility. It was Flora who had the vim, the Queen sensed, just like her mother. She looked like her mother, too, beetle-browed, with rosy cheeks and a ready smile, her unruly brown hair flecked with grey. The Queen assured her she was very well, thank you, which was a lie, but the only possible reply in the circumstances. Philip grunted about feeling like death, which was more honest, but unhelpful.

‘May I present Roland Peng,’ Valentine said.

At which the attractive, beautifully attired man beside him bowed neatly and murmured, ‘Your Majesty.’ He seemed polite and un-starstruck, which made him promising company.

‘Roland’s staying with us for the weekend,’ Flora explained.

‘My business partner,’ Valentine clarified.

‘Another horticulturalist,’ Flora added, smiling. ‘Like Mummy.’

The Queen turned to the man in question. ‘Oh, really? And what exactly is it that you do?’

‘I grow plants without soil or daylight,’ Mr Peng said with a smile and a raised eyebrow, as if anticipating surprise. ‘At least, I invest in businesses that do.’

‘Ah! Hydroponics!’ The voice was Charles’s, and the Queen glanced round to see him stepping in to join them. ‘How fascinating. Where are you doing it? I gather they can grow salad in the desert. Are you having much success?’

‘As a matter of fact, we are,’ Peng said, his smile broadening at a fellow plant-lover. ‘We have sites in Nevada and California. So far it’s going very well.’

‘And you do all this from Norfolk?’

‘No,’ Peng admitted. ‘From London and Singapore. I have family there.’ He turned to the Queen. ‘My grandfather shares a passion with you, ma’am,’ he told the Queen.

‘Oh? Not salad in the desert, I take it.’