Murder Most Royal

She had hoped to distract herself with the picture, but her mind inevitably drifted back to Ned St Cyr. He was two years older than Charles, which would make him seventy now. Three-score years and ten, she thought. A biblical lifetime, although now one could easily live to a hundred, as witnessed by her own mother and all the centenary birthday telegrams one sent these days.

Poor, dear Ned. In her mind, he was still a schoolboy. He had been a regular visitor here in the fifties, in the company of his glamorous mother and her family, with his shock of strawberry blond hair and always a winning smile, usually in apology for something he had just done, or was about to do. He had once persuaded a youthful Charles that it would be a good idea to hide a few of the jigsaw pieces for a joke. Philip’s expression when Charles admitted to it after a fortnight had been something to behold.

Ned, when he visited the next time, took his scolding with good grace. He had arrived with a home-made bird table, she seemed to remember, to be given as penance, and a couple of jokes from school that had made Philip hoot with laughter.

Ned usually got away with his naughtiness. Like his mother and his beloved uncle Patrick, his charm and charisma made him ‘one of those special people’, as her own mother always put it, and she should know, because the Queen Mother had been the very definition of ‘one of those special people’ herself.

Perhaps it was an accident. Perhaps Ned had died at sea and a boat propeller had somehow caused the hand to become detached. Except, no – there was the bag. Somebody must have . . .

She prayed that at least they would find the body soon, otherwise intact. She really must not indulge her worst imaginings. The Queen brought her mind back to the jigsaw and tried to lose herself, unsuccessfully, in Constable’s feathery trees.

* * *

Back at her desk, Rozie stared in frustration at her computer screen. After a stint as a captain in the Royal Horse Artillery and a couple of years on a fast-track role in the City, she could strip and reassemble a rifle blindfold, disarm an attacker, tack up a horse and break down a P & L statement – but the kind of estate she grew up on in West London did not feature farms and country houses, and there was still a lot the royal family took for granted that she had yet to learn.

In this case, she had googled ‘Edward Sincere’ and looked him up in every directory she could think of, starting with Debrett’s, but there was no aristocrat with that name. She couldn’t ask the house staff, because they were all rushing around like blue-arsed flies, as Prince Philip would say, getting ready for the arrival of multi-generational royals tomorrow. But there was one person who would certainly be able to help, if she could bear to ask for it.

Sir Simon Holcroft hadn’t risen to the heights of private secretary without being a bit of a control freak. He had exhorted her to call him in Scotland ‘at any time, day or night’ if she had any questions or concerns of any kind. For her part, Rozie hadn’t survived several years as a black female officer in the British Army without developing a strong sense of self-sufficiency, so she had equally vowed to herself that she wouldn’t. Yet the Queen had been here for less than two hours, and already Rozie’s finger was hovering over Sir Simon’s number in her phone. She could hardly call the police to identify the victim if she didn’t know who he was. And one didn’t ask Her Majesty for the same information twice.

Damn.

Sir Simon was all charm. There was the clinking of glasses and the hum of congenial chatter in the background. He sounded as if he was in a bar or social club of some sort, having a good time.

‘Rozie, Rozie. Edward Sincere, d’you say? How did you spell it?’

Rozie frowned. How many ways could you spell Sin—? Damn.

He voiced the thought as it entered her brain. ‘Don’t tell me it was “S-i-n-c-e—”

‘Yes it was,’ she said crossly, tapping a nail on the leather-topped desk in front of her.

‘Have I taught you nothing about the British upper classes? Think “Chumley”.’

Rozie did. It was spelled Cholmondeley. He had taught her how to sidestep the pitfalls that were the ‘Beevors’ (Belvoir), ‘Orltrups’ (Althorp), ‘Bookloos’ (Buccleuch) and ‘Sinjons’ (St John). She should have known.

‘Is it “Saint” Something?’

‘Exactly. S-t C-y-r.’ He spelled it out for her. ‘It’s the family name of Baron Mundy. They’re based at Ladybridge Hall. It’s a lovely place with a moat, not very large, about a forty-minute drive from you. The Mundys are ancient Norfolk aristocracy. They were first ennobled by King John in the thirteenth century,’ he went on. Of course, Sir Simon, the amateur historian, would know. ‘He was the king who famously lost the Crown Jewels in the Wash. Why?’

‘Why what?’ Rozie asked. She was still thinking about the Crown Jewels, lost at sea, a bit like the hand with the signet ring.

‘Why d’you need to know?’