Murder Most Royal

As I say, Lions needs to talk, you can feel it. You know, I feel almost sorry for the lad. New partner, young baby . . .’

‘And you think he did it in a sudden rage?’

‘I doubt he intended violence, but something snapped and he lost it. If he had a knife on him, it’s easy to do something you regret. Happens all the time.’

‘I see,’ she said sadly, though she didn’t, really.

‘Drugs,’ Bloomfield said with sombre finality. ‘He was worried about his mother, but he seems to be in denial about his own addiction. He was almost certainly under the influence when he acted. I’ve seen it so many times. It’s nice to think he’d get some help in prison, but he won’t. Cutbacks. But that’s politics, ma’am. That’s for the home secretary, not me. Anyway, I mustn’t keep you.’

After he’d gone, she reflected on what the men and women of the police forces must see, day in, day out, to make it easy for them to imagine a man dismembering a parent in the way he suggested Jack Lions had done, when she could not. Not at all. She also found it difficult to be pleased that they had got their man. An image of the new mother and her child refused to dislodge itself from her mind, especially at this time of year, when2 a newborn baby was very much the theme. All she could see was a wasted life and a missing father, and that was nothing to be glad about.

The next couple of days between Christmas and New Year were busy ones for Mrs Maddox, as some guests left to visit family elsewhere and others arrived to take their place. Philip got steadily better. He spent time closeted in his own library with Charles, the estate manager and the newly hired bean counter, discussing the future of Sandringham, which would soon be under his son’s control. Voices were raised and fists were thumped during the more dramatic moments. The Queen knew that Charles found the whole thing exhausting, but his father thrived on it.

Rozie stared at herself in the mirror of Henry Marshal-Ward’s little wardrobe. The plain blue dress was from an upmarket retailer called Fold that her sister used for special occasions. The neck was high, the silhouette demure, and the skirt came down to her calves. Her shoes were modest ballet flats. She missed her normal uniform of pencil skirt and heels. This dress had the advantage of being quick to put on, though. At Sandringham, you had to learn the art of the rapid change.

‘How do I look?’ she asked.

Henry, who was busy doing up the buttons of his sexy dress uniform, glanced up to give her the once-over.

‘Like a very expensive nun.’

She sighed. ‘Is that a good thing?’

She was learning, once again, about the shifting tides at Sandringham. Normally there was a clear distinction between senior household staff and their royal bosses. It was old-fashioned and hierarchical and to start with it made Rozie feel uncomfortable, but it kept things simple. However, on days like today, when the Queen was throwing a small drinks party and there were too many guests for the family to entertain easily, it became a question of all hands on deck. Many of the junior royals had already left to visit other family and friends, so Rozie and Henry would be expected to make small talk with the guests who might otherwise feel left out. She hadn’t felt this nervous in months.

‘Just put on a high voice and say, “And what do you do?”’ Henry suggested with a smirk. ‘Tell them . . .’ he did the voice again ‘. . . “I’ve just shagged Her Majesty’s assistant equerry and he was very good in bed.’

She shot him a look.

‘It’s a Sandringham tradition,’ he protested.

‘What, shagging equerries?’

‘Shagging people you can’t keep your hands off. What do you think the guest lodges in the grounds were for?’

‘Guests of the shoot?’

‘Mistresses. Mistresses who could shoot were ideal.’

‘I wonder what they think of me,’ Rozie mused. ‘At my lodgings, I mean. Constantly not turning up for breakfast.’

‘I wouldn’t worry about it. What happens at Sandringham stays at Sandringham. Are you ready?’

Today’s pre-lunch drinks was one the Queen had been slightly dreading, not helped by the lingering effects of her cold. It was a chance to see friends and neighbours, but it was difficult to know what to say when one of these had recently lost his beloved wife and his estranged, dismembered cousin was in the news. The Queen wanted to show her support to Lord Mundy, but she was more of a doer than an orator, and she was never quite sure what to say.

Charles, much to his credit, had intuited something of the sort and offered to postpone his trip to Scotland for Hogmanay, so he could be at her side for their visit. He had been a big fan of Lee’s, too.

‘Are you sure you’re up to this, Mummy?’

‘Of course,’ she told him, stoically.

She had wondered if the baron would come at all, and for much of the party there was no sign of him.