Murder Most Royal

‘Not as far as we know. I’ve had a quick chat to the estate manager. Cassidy’s references were immaculate, and in the way of these things, the staff know several people who’ve known him for years, back to his days as a biology student at Oxford. He was known for rescuing injured birds and hedgehogs and so on.’

‘Really?’

‘Yes. There was quite a female following who thought of him as a bit of a St Francis of Assisi. They may not have known that he went shooting at weekends. He has a reputation for being laid-back, if anything.’

The Queen tried to picture the bean counter storming down to London from Sandringham with murderous intent . . . But of course, it wouldn’t have been ‘storming’: Ned was lured there, it seemed. It would have been planned. That was even harder to imagine. One didn’t want to harbour a cold-blooded murderer on one’s estate, but she really didn’t think she was.

* * *

Sir Simon was followed shortly afterwards by Mrs Maddox, who was armed with the week’s suggested menus for approval. The housekeeper saw the Queen’s dark expression and asked if she could help.

‘Not really,’ the Queen admitted. ‘It’s been an interesting morning. Actually, there’s one thing. Do you know how Mrs Raspberry from the WI is getting on? I gather she’s had an accident.’

Mrs Maddox was north Norfolk born and bred, and thought it a personal affront if she didn’t know what was going on in any village within a twenty-mile radius.

‘Oh, that! It was awful! We did wonder whether to tell you, ma’am, but we didn’t want to worry you so close to Christmas, with you so busy in London, and then with your cold. It was very upsetting. She was tossed into the air like a rag doll. Not that anyone saw it directly, but she must have been, the way she landed in that bush. My niece works at the ICU at the Queen Elizabeth. She got the shock of her life when they brought Judy in. All over knocks and bruises and a gash on her head . . . How anyone could drive away from that . . .? It’s wicked. May he rot.’

‘I spoke to her nephew at the stud,’ the Queen said. ‘His sister seems to rely on her.’

‘I’m not surprised. Judy’s wonderful with the teenagers. Not just her own, who’ve left home now, but all of them in the villages round here. Setting up clubs, you know, getting them holiday jobs, like with the Fen-Time festival, when it was running. Anything to keep them out of trouble. She sponsors a lovely refugee family from Syria. She spent months fundraising to make sure they had everything they needed. And I don’t know what the parish council would do without her.’

‘Is there a Mr Raspberry?’ the Queen wondered.

‘There was. He sold wood-burning stoves in Burnham Market. Ran off with a woman from Blackheath.’ Mrs Maddox sniffed. Her look of disdain suggested she thought as little of south-east London as she did of men who ran off with the women who lived there. ‘Judy was too good for him. Any man would be lucky to have her, if she had time for him.’ The housekeeper stopped short and blinked away tears. ‘Anyway, thank you for the menus, ma’am. I’ll let chef know.’

* * *

The Queen got up and stood at the window, brooding. What a winter this was. Two people injured – one of them almost certainly dead – and it struck her how both of them had been described as particularly alive. Philip had said it about Ned, and Mrs Maddox had said something similar about Mrs Raspberry. They shared a certain bloody-mindedness, which she rather admired, an antipathy to drugs and a willingness to get stuck in. They knew each other through Ned’s festival. She wondered idly if they were friends.

She returned to the memorandum from the Cabinet secretary on her desk but her mind went back to Judy. At the last WI meeting, they had discussed an article Judy was writing for the Flying Post about Norfolk’s pigeons in the war. They had played a critical role delivering messages to and from the Front for the Signal Corps. The birds were decorated for their bravery: no fewer than thirty-two had won the Dickin Medal. Several had undoubtedly saved lives. Judy’s knowledge and curiosity on the subject was impressive. Even though it was a part-time interest for her, she had a journalist’s instinct for getting to the heart of a story. Another string to her bow.

The Queen caught sight of the mug that little Prince George had given her for Christmas. I may look like I’m listening to you, but in my head, I’m thinking about pigeons. Who else had she been talking to about them recently?

Then she remembered. Gradually, her curiosity turned to a prickling sense of dread. It wasn’t a suspicion, exactly. Just a twitch. A worry. A series of connections.

She reached for the telephone on her desk, which sat beside a picture of a small man in a white coat, standing in front of a table of silver cups he had won for her with champion birds. The operator asked where to direct the call.