Murder Most Royal

The Queen, meanwhile, was visiting Wood Farm with Philip. They were out towards the marshes, where the Boxing Day shoot had started. This was where Philip would retire to the modest farmhouse in less than a year. He was already looking forward to a life of painting, birdwatching and visits from friends. The Queen loved the little farmhouse, too, where it was possible to relax without servants or fuss, with the rugby on the radio and an uninterrupted view of the sky towards the sea.

She would visit as often as she could, though she knew he would manage perfectly well without her, and even better without the panoply of advisers and attendants who inevitably followed in her wake. Today, meanwhile, they were outside in their coats and binoculars, walking back from the hides Philip had had built so they could watch the waterfowl side by side.

‘You’re looking thoughtful, Lilibet,’ he said. ‘Anything up?’

She was glad he’d asked. She wanted to talk to him about something. He was one of the few people who would understand her concerns without thinking them medieval – which in many ways they were.

‘It’s Hugh St Cyr,’ she said.

‘I’m not surprised. Still grieving hard for Lee, no doubt. It was good of you to visit yesterday.’

‘It wasn’t exactly that.’ She looked across at her husband, who was as always adapting his long stride to match her much shorter one, and bending down slightly to listen. ‘It was something he said about Valentine. Hugh sounded very forward-thinking. Rozie was most impressed.’

Philip glanced at her sharply. ‘Forward-thinking? Hugh? Are you sure?’

‘I know. I was surprised, too.’

‘I always had him down as mentally stuck in the Renaissance. Solid man, very sound. But many’s the time I’ve talked about one of my innovations on the farm and he’s raised his eyebrow at me a good half-inch. I mean, the man’s an expert on the Metaphysical poets, for God’s sake.’

‘Mmm,’ the Queen agreed. ‘And yet, he’s leaving Ladybridge to Flora in his will.’

‘Is he?’

‘And Valentine’s getting married.’

‘What? Really? To a girl? I thought he was with that feller who came round at Christmas. Business partner, my foot.’

‘He is.’

For the first time, Philip paused in his stride. ‘He’s marrying him?’

‘Yes.’

‘And what does Hugh think about it all?’

‘He seems pleased that it will put the St Cyrs in the history books.’

‘What?’ Philip shook his head. ‘But . . . There are no other St Cyr male heirs around, are there?’

‘No. Not close family. The line will die out.’

‘And Hugh’s pleased?’

The Queen nodded, to him and to herself. She wasn’t being absurd to think this situation unusual.

Philip knew what she knew – and what Sir Simon would explain to Rozie, if she asked: that it was impossible in the British aristocracy for a male married couple to produce a legitimate heir. A peer of the realm could have as many children as he liked, in wedlock and out of it, adopted or whatever he chose, but only the genetic child of married parents could inherit the title. It was the law, and there were forces that wanted to change it, along with the stipulation that the child who inherited should if at all possible be male, but they weren’t making much headway.

Surrogacy didn’t count because the genetic parents weren’t married, even if the legal parents were. Therefore, as it was impossible for two men, or two women, to produce a child that genetically belonged to both of them, gay married aristocrats could not pass their titles down. Which might perhaps explain why so far there had not been a single such couple. A man might subsequently marry his gay partner, having ‘done his duty’ and created an heir within a heterosexual marriage, and no doubt that would happen in time, but it hadn’t yet. Anyway, Valentine wasn’t doing that. This would be his first wedding. In fact, he was forty-seven and until now he seemed to have been in no rush to marry at all. And under no pressure from his father to do so. All Hugh’s attention was on his daughter. This, too, was strange.

‘Hugh was quite offhand when he mentioned it,’ the Queen said.

Philip frowned. The thing was, he understood all the implications instantly. A nobleman who didn’t care who his children slept with was not unusual, but one who didn’t care about who they married, and the consequent loss of lands or titles, was as rare as a unicorn.

There was a pause as they stopped to admire a couple of plump partridge stalking ahead of them up the path to the farmhouse.

‘Did you ever get a sense of Hugh’s relationship with Valentine?’ she asked. ‘Hugh used to bring him shooting when Valentine was a teenager. You talked to them then, didn’t you?’

‘I did. The boy was a top-class shot. Very coordinated, very composed. Excellent fieldcraft – better than his father’s. I always thought he’d go on to do more with it, but then he drifted off to London and never came back.’

‘And were he and Hugh close?’

Philip snorted dismissively. ‘Name me one teenager out of boarding school who’s close to his father.’