Murder Most Royal

‘I’ll wear it when I solve my next case,’ she joked, and everyone grinned at the absurdity of the idea. Which was rather reassuring.

Her favourite gift, though, came from the absent little Prince George. Along with a framed, indecipherable crayon drawing was a mug that made her laugh out loud as soon as she opened it.

‘What is it?’ Anne asked.

‘Ha! Well done, Catherine,’ Anne observed. ‘I sense a mother’s hand in this.’

‘I think, actually, that drawing of his is supposed to be a pigeon,’ the Queen reflected. ‘I thought it might be a giraffe at first.’

‘Definitely pigeon,’ Anne agreed. ‘A man after your own heart.’

Afterwards, they all retired upstairs. The children were prepared for bed with the help of an assortment of nannies and stockings were hung in anticipation of a visit from Father Christmas, while the adults dressed for dinner. Tonight was the big occasion: black tie and evening gowns, diamonds and silk shoes, a chance to let loose in relaxed company, which was precious and rare.

Philip, showing enormous fortitude and the power of ibuprofen, arrived in the saloon for cocktails looking like a fashion plate. For her part, no amount of makeup and sparkles could disguise the Queen’s pink nose and red eyes, and now her voice was becoming so hoarse she could hardly talk. However, a little Dubonnet Zaza cocktail with a twist of orange helped her see the world in a rosier light.

Charles made his way across the saloon towards her and she raised her glass to him. The cocktail was hitting the spot.

He looked at her slightly mournfully. ‘I wanted to let you know, I understand how bad you must be feeling.’

‘Don’t worry. It’s just a cold. I’ll feel better tomorrow.’

‘No, I meant about the hand.’

‘I’ve been thinking about it all day.’

‘But I promise we won’t talk about it.’

‘Did you know,’ he added, after a minuscule pause, ‘that the police were searching Ned’s place in London? I saw it on the news while I was getting changed.’

‘Oh, are they?’ the Queen asked, adding firmly, ‘Isn’t Harry looking well?’

‘Is he? Yes, I suppose he is. They were wearing hazmat suits. You know, those white ones like beekeepers’ outfits.’

‘The police. In Ned’s flat in Hampstead. Goodness knows why, given the hand turned up in Norfolk. I was wondering if it might be a kidnap attempt gone wrong. Do you remember that Getty boy’s ear? Horrendous business. Got lost in the post. You could hardly make it up.’

‘No, you couldn’t. Ah! Sophie!’ The Queen rather desperately hailed the Countess of Wessex, Edward’s wife, who was halfway across the room. ‘Are the children all right? Did they enjoy the day?’

‘Oh, absolutely.’ Sophie joined them, wearing a slub silk evening gown that the Queen was pleased to note she had seen before; she didn’t approve of clothes horses and waste. ‘Did you hear the news about the missing man?’ Sophie asked. ‘He lived near here, didn’t he? I was just talking to Mrs Maddox about it and she said her daughter used to work at the Fen-Time Festival on his estate a few years ago. She met Stephen Fry there. D’you know, I think she had a bit of a thing for him?’

‘No, Edward St Cyr. I don’t think I ever met him. Did you know him well?’

Mercifully, the gong went, which meant dinner. The royal couple led the other adults into the dining room. Its pistachio wall colour, known as Braemar green, had been chosen by the Queen Mother to remind her of a favourite Scottish castle. It gave the room a jolly, feminine air that summoned up Mummy’s spirit and sense of fun. The Queen had once overheard a guest suggesting it looked like an ice-cream parlour at Harrods, but surely that wasn’t a bad thing? As always, the room was lit by candles alone, whose flickering glow, she hoped, could make even the most ravaged of cold-ridden faces look reasonably attractive. An artificial silver Christmas tree twinkled near the window. The wine was excellent and the venison was cooked to perfection. But every time the conversation veered away from the St Cyrs, it somehow veered back.

‘Of course, it’s a raging husband the police should be looking for,’ Andrew suggested. ‘Ned St Cyr famously had an eye for a posh girl in jodhpurs.’ He grinned at his sister, who told him to shut up.

‘Was he an artist?’ Camilla asked. ‘They said on the news his London place was an artist’s studio.’

But nobody could remember, or rather, they couldn’t agree. Simon, or possibly Paul, had given Georgina the surname Longbourn on her marriage during the war.