Murder Most Royal

The rider glanced back at the policeman who stood at the field’s edge, weapon in hand, then at Rozie. He seemed to make a decision. His body rocked back and forward in the saddle. He lifted a hand and Depiscopo fired before he had the chance to reach whatever weapon he might be going for. But the policeman missed. In the time it took him to correct his aim, the rider wheeled the horse around, undid his chinstrap and threw off his hard hat. Depiscopo fired again and missed again as the horse moved off at speed.

The rider gave the Queen one last, brief glance over his shoulder. Then they all watched as he turned back and headed at a gallop for the furthest corner of the paddock, where the hedging was highest. There was no way he would make it over. He flicked the horse’s flank twice with his crop and leaned forward in the saddle. Two paces from the hedge, he took off with all his strength, but it was an impossible task. There was a sickening scream, and then silence.

Chapter 33

‘Dead, ma’am.’

Sir Simon stood respectfully to attention. The Queen, sitting at a card table in the drawing room at Sandringham, sipped at a restorative brandy. It had been impossible to continue her journey to Newmarket after what had happened. Sir Simon was merely confirming what she already knew.

‘Was it instant, did they say?’

‘Yes, ma’am. Massive head trauma.’ Sir Simon shrugged helplessly. He was so super-smooth most of the time that it was easy to forget that his professional manner hid a sensitive soul.

‘And the horse?’ the Queen asked.

‘The horse is fine. Uninjured, as far as I know.’

‘Oh, good.’ The Queen didn’t want to be heartless, but the animal hadn’t killed anyone – or not deliberately, anyway. She had been worried about the horse.

‘What I don’t understand is why Lord Mundy was there at all. Shouldn’t he have been under arrest?’ she asked. ‘Or at least under some sort of police supervision?’

‘I’ve spoken to the chief constable about that. They thought he was under supervision. He slipped away somehow, and when he was challenged by a junior constable at the gatehouse, he simply said this was his land and he would do what he liked, and barged his way through.’

‘But wasn’t he a suspected murderer by then?’

‘They didn’t want to make the same mistake as they did with Jack Lions. They were waiting to see if they really would recover a body, and if they did, they weren’t absolutely sure which member of the family to arrest. An excess of caution, ma’am. The chief constable is extremely apologetic.’

‘He does have rather a habit of landing me in it.’

‘I think he realises that. When I rang to find out what the hell had happened, he offered to resign.’

‘Oh, for goodness’ sake,’ the Queen said, sipping her brandy, ‘he’s a good policeman. It’s always the good ones who offer to resign and the bad ones who don’t. Anyway, they have the body now. I’ll expect his report when he’s ready.’

Sir Simon promised she would have it. After the day he had just had, he was looking forward to a drink himself.

* * *

The following morning, the Recorder crowed its exclusive:

BODY FOUND IN MOAT

Missing aristocrat recovered by police after lifetime feud with family member who was friend of the Royals, killed in freak horse-riding accident

By Ollie Knight, Royal reporter

The body of Edward St Cyr, the landowner whose severed hand was sensationally recognised by the Queen, was recovered yesterday by police divers from the moat of his ancestral home. Ladybridge Hall, where the victim grew up, is owned by his cousin, Lord Mundy, who died yesterday in a riding accident. Police believe Mr St Cyr was killed as the result of a long-running family feud.

Ladybridge Hall and its estate, worth over £20 million at today’s market prices, is a popular Norfolk attraction for its picturesque gardens and Elizabethan architecture. It is not far from Sandringham, where the Queen spends Christmas every year. It is believed Mr St Cyr was visiting his cousin when he disappeared. The police are not thought to be looking for anyone else in connection with the murder.

The second of February was Candlemas: halfway between the middle of winter and the spring equinox. The festival marked forty days since the birth of Jesus, when he was presented as a baby in the Temple. Nearly six weeks since Christmas, and approaching the full length of time the Queen allowed herself at Sandringham. It had been a precious, restorative time – a sort of hibernation. She always thought of these days as an opportunity to take in the things she loved, so that the next few months could be about giving what was needed. The land was the same. Bare earth was already giving way to snowdrops and Candlemas marked the day when they could be brought into the house to brighten up each room with the promise of spring. The Queen wasn’t superstitious, but she found these traditions reassuring: the ebb and flow of nature, the repetition and renewal of life.