Murder Most Royal

As she knotted her headscarf under her chin in preparation for leaving the house, she wondered idly whether poor, nervous Arthur Raspberry would be there, and thought back to his redoubtable little sister, Ivy. She had been at the beach at Snettisham, of course, the fateful day of the hand washing up on the shore. The Raspberrys and Snettisham . . . Judy was not the only member of the family to see something interesting on the beach. The Queen pictured the scene after the storm, with the plastic bag bobbing on the water, and the terrified girl. That was the day the drugs washed up, too, not all of which were recovered. Sir Simon had mentioned that a package had gone missing from the bigger bag. But after Ivy’s discovery, the beach would have been full of police officers and forensic teams. That mental image gave the Queen pause for thought.

It was possible. Unlikely, but possible. The more she thought it through, the more possible it seemed. Tightening the headscarf knot in place, she headed outside with greater purpose.

The Land Rover was waiting for her in the forecourt, but her chief personal protection officer was not. Normally, when she was preparing to go out, he lurked outside, ready to accompany her in the car or follow on as required, but there was no sign of him She turned to the nearest footman.

‘Do you know where Chief Inspector Jackson is?’

‘Do you mean Inspector Depiscopo, ma’am? He took over your protection from Mr Jackson yesterday. I’ll find out for you.’

The Queen berated herself for forgetting. Her PPOs regularly rotated shifts and Jackson had gone back to London yesterday. Jackson, she had known for years, but Depiscopo was new. He was part of a Government scheme to save money by rotating officers across a range of VIPs. So far it had annoyed all concerned and cost a fortune in additional overtime, because traditional royal PPOs didn’t think of their role in strict terms of ‘on’ and ‘off’, but the new policemen definitely did. Nor did they understand where to be and when, and how one liked to work. She waited impatiently for a couple of minutes and decided to drive the Land Rover by herself.

‘He knows where to find me,’ she said tersely.

The footman gulped and nodded. Depiscopo wouldn’t be making that mistake again.

* * *

At the stud, the Queen spent some pleasant time watching the mares with their foals in the Walled Garden. Like her, the foals had an official birthday in addition to their real one, and theirs was always the first of January. One of the jobs of a breeder was to encourage them to be conceived in time to be born as early in the year before as possible. Estimate’s foal, for example, had been born in the early spring, which was ideal. He would be well established before he raced as a two-year-old – assuming he was good enough to do it. Judging from his proportions, his movement and that intelligent flick of his ears, she had high hopes for him. But her thoughts were elsewhere this morning.

She was pleased to see that Arthur was among the grooms. As they prepared to walk the horses back to the yard, she asked him to stay behind, near the statue of Persimmon, whose winnings on the track for her great-grandfather had paid for the magnificent Walled Garden itself. The poor boy looked chalk-white with lack of sleep. She had seen him this way at the stables, too. At the time, it seemed natural that he should be anxious about his aunt and his little sister; now she wondered if it was something more.

‘How is Mrs Raspberry?’ she asked. ‘Is there any news?’

Arthur looked astonished to be asked.

‘She came out of the coma a couple of days ago, ma’am. But she’s got no memory of that day. She’s covered in bruises. Dad didn’t want us to go and see her, but we had to. I mean we wanted to.’

‘Well done. I’m sure it must have been very comforting for her.’

‘She looked . . . bad, ma’am. Thin. Her face all purple and yellow . . . And, you know, tubes and things.’

‘Give her time. She’ll heal. She might lose her confidence a little,’ the Queen added, having seen enough riding accidents to know. ‘But you can help her by keeping her company. I sense you’ll be good at it.’

‘Er, OK. I’m not sure about that.’ The troubled look on his face was evidence of a confidence crisis of his own.

‘I’ve been thinking about your sister’s discovery on the beach,’ the Queen went on.

She saw his whole body tense. ‘What, ma’am? I mean, why? I mean . . .?’

‘I wondered if she had gone there alone that day. It’s a very long walk to Snettisham from West Newton. That is where you live, isn’t it?’

‘Yes, ma’am.’

‘So I wondered if someone had driven her. And they might have been on the beach with her. And they might have seen . . . all sorts of things . . . while they were there. Before the police arrived, I mean.’

The poor boy was practically blue. The Queen had considered that it was three to one she was probably wrong, but now it was odds-on she had pictured the scene correctly.

‘I-I dunno. Maybe someone drove,’ he said. ‘I can ask.’