Murder Most Royal

‘It’s a natural temptation, I should imagine,’ the Queen said. ‘Given the consequences. I’m sure he did it to reassure himself rather than anything else.’

‘Yes, I suppose so. Lee was laughing at the sheer, unlucky madness of it when she told me.’

‘And what was Hugh’s reaction?’ the Queen pressed.

‘At the time, in the hospital, almost nothing. She said he looked numb. She told him the story on the way home – because up to then they’d told each other everything. This was her one secret. She said she realised how stupid it had been to do it then, because he could have crashed into something and killed somebody. But he didn’t. They got back to Ladybridge. Hugh got very drunk and raged about Ned for a night, then he went quiet. Very quiet. That was almost more frightening, she said. He locked himself away in his study for days, or went walking alone across the fields. That’s when she called for me. Lee was beside herself. She was terrified he’d do something he’d regret. She sent the children away so they wouldn’t antagonise him and begged and pleaded at his study door for him to talk to her. It was dreadful. It lasted for about a week. Then one day I was up in the Long Gallery looking out of the window and I saw Hugh go up to Lee in her rose garden and fall down on one knee, like a gentle knight from one of their tapestries. He kissed her hand. It was all over.’

‘Did you believe that Lee had persuaded him not to do something he’d regret?’ the Queen asked.

‘Yes,’ Moira said simply. ‘Yes, I honestly did, and I still do. She made him promise to do nothing. She knew what it would cost the family if he did anything. Mind you, if it had been something done to me, David would have tracked round there and killed the man on the spot. Hugh’s not like that at all. More’s the pity, in my opinion. Look at him after Lee’s death – he’s shrivelled to practically nothing. He adored her, even in the middle of his white fugue. He’d have done anything for her. I mean, how many men, on realising their wife had a child with another man, would instantly blame the man?’

Moira had a point. The Queen realised she had found this story all too easy to believe, but she knew many, many men – most men, perhaps – who would have at least wondered about such a seemingly convenient explanation.

A thought occurred to her, and she had been so busy thinking of the impact on the St Cyrs all those years ago that she was surprised she hadn’t thought of it before.

‘And you, Moira?’ she asked. ‘Did you believe her?’

‘Of course I did!’ Moira said, surprised even to be asked. ‘I was the only person she confided in at the time. Well, me and the shepherdess. She and Lee were close, too.’

‘And yet, you wanted your daughter to marry Ned next month.’

Moira’s mouth fell open and she stared back, wordlessly. It was as if the thought had only just occurred to her.

‘But . . .’ she said, colouring, ‘it was decades ago! One time. Entirely out of character. And Ned was very drunk, Lee said so.’

‘And yet . . .’ the Queen persisted. She didn’t want to, but she was so astonished that she was trying to make sense of the woman in front of her.

‘Ned’s been a model citizen for decades,’ Moira declared. ‘I know he hasn’t been particularly fortunate with his wives, but he and Astrid were wonderful together. He got the rewilding idea from her and worked so hard on it. He made her so happy.’ The Queen said nothing. ‘And anyway, it can’t have been that bad, what he did. I mean, I’m sure it was a shock, but it’s not like he dragged Lee into the bushes or anything ghastly. She was right as rain the next morning and she didn’t tell a soul. I’m sure she was furious with herself for letting him get away with it, but all she had to do was say no very firmly. Or put a door between them. Astrid would never . . .’

Moira stopped mid-sentence as she caught the Queen’s eye.

There was a long pause. The Queen remembered a young ambassador’s wife who hosted her on a tour not long into her reign. On the first evening of that visit to a distant country, the Queen had caught her hostess’s eye in the mirror, after the smiles and chatter of a convivial evening, while the men were drinking port and the servants were busy and the two women were replenishing their lipstick together. She wasn’t sure what she saw in those eyes, but she had asked if there was something wrong and, after a silence that seemed to last a lifetime, the woman had admitted, calmly and quietly that a senior politician had raped her in that very house two nights before.

She continued to apply her lipstick while she spoke. Her hand trembled, but she was careful. The Queen listened mutely while she described in brisk, bright tones, the attack that had happened in that very room. The act had been over in less than five minutes, she said.