Murder Most Royal

‘I’m not sure it’s a trait I want to reward.’

‘You have to give her brownie points for chutzpah,’ Philip conceded.

‘Come on, Granny!’ Eugenie pleaded. ‘The poor woman’s bereaved. We’d be helping. Could she come soon? We’ve only got a few more days before we’re due at the chalet.’

The Queen intended to remain firm. She did not invite people to join the family just because they had expressed an interest in doing so. If she did, she would need a place the size of several Wembley Stadiums. However, she was an indulgent grandmother. Perhaps vestiges of her jealousy of Georgina St Cyr’s closeness to Ned remained. Before the last port decanter and cocktail trolley had circulated, she had somehow agreed to let the family ‘help’.

* * *

In hiding as she was, Astrid Westover’s diary was otherwise empty. She arrived for morning coffee forty-eight hours after being invited, before the young princesses headed off for their skiing holiday. She emerged from her car wearing a multi-hued faux fur coat that the girls instantly recognised from a popular fashion brand created by one of their friends, and paused with her back to the house for a moment, unaware that the family were watching from one of the windows in the saloon.

‘I think she’s taking selfies,’ Eugenie said.

‘Someone will have to tell her not to post them.’

When she entered the saloon, the Queen was fascinated to see that, close up, she looked as flawless as an airbrushed model in a magazine. Whatever makeup she was wearing, it seemed to smooth her face into doll-like simplicity. Her forehead was unnaturally unlined and her lips had the fish-like appearance that the Queen was increasingly noticing among her younger female acquaintances. Sophie Wessex had told her this was a ‘trout pout’, and the Queen had yet to be convinced that the exaggerated contours were preferable to one’s natural flesh and bone. She wondered what Astrid looked like underneath. However, the girl had great poise and, taking in the roomful of waiting royals, she sank into a deep curtsey.

‘Your Majesty,’ she murmured, in a deep, contralto voice that the Queen had not expected. ‘Thank you so much for the invitation. I brought you jam.’

Astrid dug around in the basket-like handbag she had brought with her and handed two jars of something rather gloopy and disconcertingly violet to the nearest footman. Like many before her, she must have read that Catherine, the Duchess of Cambridge, had won over the family with her first Christmas present of home-made jam. Many was the jar the Queen had received since. She was rather wary of them. The thing was, Catherine was really rather good at making jam, and that was a key feature.

‘So this is where Ned grew up.’ The contralto voice vibrated with emotion, as Astrid raised her eyes to the tapestries on the walls, the minstrels’ gallery, the royal portraits. ‘Do you know, even just being in this room, I can feel Ned’s presence?’

The Queen saw Philip’s eyebrows rise by about a millimetre. She hoped her family would behave themselves.

‘Well, he spent a little bit of time here. A very long time ago.’

Astrid continued to drink in the room, squealing slightly when her eyes lighted on the grand piano.

‘There’s the jigsaw! You still have one! Ned told me all about it. He adored Sandringham. It was such a special part of his childhood.’

‘How well did you know him?’ Philip asked. ‘I mean, how long did you know him? He wasn’t always a fan of ours.’

‘Wasn’t he?’ Astrid looked surprised. ‘I’m sure he was. He talked about you a lot. He said you were brilliant farmers. Very forward-thinking especially for people of your generation. He said sometimes the older farmers are the best, because you’ve seen everything.’

Philip and the Queen exchanged a look that Astrid didn’t catch.

‘Would you like some coffee?’ the Queen asked. ‘I think it’s ready in the drawing room.’

It was, along with a selection of freshly made biscuits and pastries, and the remaining guests, who were as keen and curious to see Astrid as she was to see them. Soon, she was sitting at one of the card tables, nibbling at some lavender shortbread biscuits and effectively holding court.

‘Ned said you’re doing interesting things with the estate,’ she said to Prince Philip. ‘To make farming more sustainable, I mean.’

‘Did he notice?’

‘Oh, yes. He was very curious. He grew up with the farm at Ladybridge, of course. But Abbottswood wasn’t the same at all. The land is all wood and wetland, and Ned couldn’t bear to chop the trees down. Some of them have been there for four hundred years.’

Philip nodded. ‘I’ve been saying as much. So he had this rewilding idea.’

‘Actually, I was the one who suggested rewilding to him,’ Astrid said. ‘I heard all about it on a work trip to Europe. Ned looked into it and he was so excited. It was our way of connecting with the land spiritually, you know?’

There were general non-committal noises round the room.