Murder Most Royal

‘Should we call Sir Simon?’ someone asked.

‘No,’ the Queen said decisively. ‘Rozie can deal with it. She knows the form.’

‘This won’t be the end of it,’ Anne muttered.

The Queen agreed. Cold-ridden and otherwise occupied, she had hoped she could avoid involvement with this case. Now, the press had placed her at the heart of it, whether she liked it or not.

PART 2 A RACING CERTAINTY

Chapter 11

Sir Simon Holcroft lay wide awake in his bed in London, after a long and complicated journey down from The Highlands. The private secretary had left his wife Sarah in the charming Balmoral cottage to finish their holiday alone. The Queen needed him at Sandringham, that was obvious. She hadn’t actually contacted him to say as much, but everything was clearly falling apart in his absence. Body parts in the mud . . . newspaper interviews . . . the Queen’s absence at church on Christmas Day. The winter visit was Not Going As Intended. It was New Year’s Day and he itched to be back at his desk, on the phone to the people that mattered, sorting everything out for the Boss and showing Rozie how it was done.

He had already had a long conversation over the phone with the chief constable of Norfolk, during which Sir Simon had made his displeasure quite clear. Ditto with the editor of the Recorder. The palace had always had a tricky relationship with the newspaper: one minute they were rhapsodising over the colour of the Duchess of Cambridge’s latest dress, and the next they were running an exposé on palace expenses and rumours about ructions among the staff.

The newspaper interview with Jack Lions had been particularly difficult. Especially with its picture of the chief constable himself visiting Sandringham on Christmas Eve. Someone should have stopped that from happening. It made it look as if the police were in the palace’s pocket, which they most certainly were not. Although, admittedly, the chief constable had been very helpful on the phone.

But more than that, Sir Simon longed to be useful in the matter of the missing person. When it came to the matter of crime in the Queen’s vicinity, he had recently proved that he had a talent for rooting out perpetrators. He wasn’t sure what it was – perhaps a skill he had unwittingly picked up in the navy or the Foreign Office. Her Majesty must be feeling particularly vulnerable at this time. He wanted to be there to protect her. It was really quite a surprise, actually, that she hadn’t asked him to cut his holiday short. Even so, he pictured her relief when he finally got to Norfolk.

* * *

On Monday, 2nd January, another article appeared in the Recorder.

THE DISAPPEARING QUEEN

For the second Sunday in a row, Her Majesty was missing from the usual royal line-up at St Mary Magdalene Church at Sandringham. This is unprecedented for the elderly monarch, who hasn’t missed a service in decades. Royal sources say she has a bad cold, but rumours have it that she is upset by the violent death of family friend Ned St Cyr, whose dismembered hand was found within walking distance of the Sandringham Estate. Locals are concerned for the Queen’s health, but say the plucky monarch will ‘get through this somehow’ with her usual Dunkirk spirit.

‘What fresh hell?’ Philip asked, scrumpling up the page in question and chucking it in the direction of the fire. ‘What “locals” are concerned for your health? Who in God’s name calls you “plucky”?’

The Queen was too irritated to reply. She decided to take her mind off it by visiting the horses in the stud.

Drawing up outside the mare barn in her favourite Land Rover, she found the immaculate yard empty. It had been a last-minute decision to come, and no one walked over to greet her. She didn’t mind – in fact she was rather relieved. She didn’t quite have the energy yet for a discussion of every mare’s and foal’s progress with the manager: she just wanted to greet some old equine friends, hand out some festive mints and get back to the warm.

Leaving her protection officer at the car and walking across the frosted cobbles, she paused by the tack room to catch her breath, cough, and curse the flu for making her feel so light-headed. A glossy, coal-black cocker spaniel puppy looked up at her. He was sitting alone, waiting for his owner. The Queen was impressed by how well behaved he was, and bent down to stroke his eager head. Through a gap in the tack room window, she could hear a female voice was talking about parasites. She idly wondered if they were discussing equine diseases. When it came to horses, she was always keen to learn.

‘Shhh, you can’t say that!’ a male voice was saying.

It was the ‘shhh’ that caught the Queen’s attention. She stopped and listened properly.