Murder Most Royal

Only three people that she could think of knew, or might guess, that she was personally concerned. She hadn’t mentioned the issue to anyone else. Those three were Mr Day, her loft manager, his wife, and Roland Peng, who had told her about it in the first place.

Fortunately, the article didn’t mention why she was interested. Her thinking had moved on now, anyway. But it did potentially solve a little problem.

* * *

Rozie was up to her neck in ice-cold water. The breath had been squeezed out of her body and everything tingled and hurt. And yet, it was life-affirming. How had she lived this long and not known how essential and fabulous wild swimming was? She was building up to a minute in the water. Around her, an assortment of swimming hats bobbed confidently in the sea.

Katie watched from the safety of the beach. She had resisted saying ‘I told you so’ when Rozie came back from her first wild swim, brimming with enthusiasm. Instead, she had introduced her to her own wild swimming group, based up the coast. She could see this was the start of a beautiful relationship: Captain Oshodi and cold water. On their way back, they spotted the Queen driving out to Wolferton.

‘D’you know where she’s going?’ Katie asked.

‘Wood Farm, probably,’ Rozie suggested. ‘She usually is.’

* * *

But she wasn’t.

The Queen had a very pleasant tour of the pigeon loft from Mr Day. Afterwards, he and his wife entertained her to coffee and home-made chocolate cake. They gave her some gin to take home and try after they had all regretfully concluded that it was a bit early to crack it open now, at 10 a.m. And the Queen was driving, after all.

‘Isn’t it good news about Lord Mundy’s son?’ Mrs Day said. ‘We were talking about it this morning. You must be pleased, personally, ma’am. You know him, don’t you?’

‘Yes, I do.’ The Queen was relieved. They had indulged in several topics of conversation leading up to this one, but at last they were here.

‘Did you ever think he could be a murderer?’

‘No, I didn’t,’ the Queen said, not entirely truthfully.

‘There isn’t any hope that Mr St Cyr’s still alive, is there?’ Mr Day asked.

‘None, I’m afraid.’

‘I can’t help picturing him in a shallow grave somewhere,’ Mrs Day added solemnly.

‘It’s dreadful when there isn’t a body, isn’t it?’ the Queen suggested. ‘Everyone is left with so much uncertainty. The family can’t move on in so many practical ways.’

‘It’s nasty,’ Mrs Day said. ‘Sadistic, I’d say. To kill someone is something, but to hide the body . . . that somehow makes it worse, don’t you think?’

‘I do.’

‘There’s no burial, no peace. It’s un-Christian. I suppose if you’re a murderer you don’t care about things like that.’

‘I suppose not,’ the Queen agreed. ‘Although no doubt you’ve heard the rumour.’

Mrs Day sat up straighter. ‘What rumour’s that, ma’am?’

‘The one that says he never did go up to London.’

‘No! Who said that?’

‘I can’t remember where I heard it.’ The Queen looked vague. ‘Sandringham is a fount of gossip. But someone said they knew for a fact the person who left Abbottswood that day in his car wasn’t him.’

‘Goodness! Who was it?’

The Queen shrugged. ‘I can’t imagine, can you?’

‘Do the police know?’

‘I’m not sure,’ the Queen said, innocently.

‘You know what they think of gossip, pet,’ Mr Day said to his wife. ‘The way they treated poor Judy.’

‘True.’ Mrs Day rolled her eyes. She frowned with concentration, trying to remember Ned’s last movements, based on what they’d heard. ‘It could’ve been a parcel delivery man who saw the car. Fred Sayle supplies heating oil. He could’ve spotted someone driving out as he was going in . . .’

‘Perhaps they felt they wouldn’t be believed,’ the Queen said. ‘Or they didn’t trust their own judgement. I wish one knew more, so one could do something about it.’

‘I suppose you could tell the police, ma’am.’

The Queen gave a perfectly honest reply. ‘Without any evidence, I don’t think I could help.’

‘Mmm.’

Mrs Day was still thinking hard. The Queen decided that this was a good time to leave her to it. One useful thing about being the monarch – something that was often as much of a burden as a gift – was that every little thing you said was weighed and measured. She would be astonished if there were no ripples from the pebble she had cast into this particular pond.

‘It’s a difficult issue, isn’t it? If you discuss it with anyone, please don’t mention me. I don’t approve of gossip.’

‘Ooh, I wouldn’t dream of it, ma’am,’ Mrs Day said reverently.

PART 4 NOTHING GOLD CAN STAY

Chapter 32

Ollie Knight, the young stringer for the Recorder, next to a van parked on the meadow, watching as a team of police divers dressed in dry suits and yellow face masks prepared to lower themselves into the moat at Ladybridge Hall.

This ringside view was part of his reward for the tip-off of where to look for the body. Mrs Day had rung him in great anticipation three days ago.