Murder Most Royal

‘Those pictures of Bloomfield arriving at Sandringham on Christmas Eve . . .’ Anne pointed out tersely. ‘Not ideal.’

The Queen was the last to see the paper, having overexerted herself the night before, and spent the morning incapacitated by the remnants of the flu. At ninety, her body occasionally reminded her that she needed to take care of it.

The paper didn’t help. The extensive exclusive interview with Jack Lions was splashed across pages four, five and six, accompanied by several photographs of Sandringham House, herself at a window (taken about ten years ago in Scotland), as if she was spying on events through a curtain, the chief constable arriving at Sandringham in his Subaru, and an alarming image of several officers of the Met Police in full body armour, as if dozens of them had been dispatched to drag Mr Lions into the street.

But it wasn’t! she thought. However, that was beside the point.

And there it was: the reason for the failure to produce an alibi earlier, the waiting, the triumphant smile on his release. Vandalising a laboratory was small beer in the mind of an animal rights activist compared with dragging the royal family themselves into the debate. The next four paragraphs were about previous kings and their love of hunting, coupled with images of various family members on a stag hunt near Balmoral and King Edward VII shooting a tiger from the back of an elephant. In Mr Lions’s circles, he would be a hero.

Back in the saloon, everyone was nervously waiting for her reaction, which was silent, but dour.

‘It’s outrageous,’ Edward said. ‘What are we going to do about it?’

But they all knew the answer: never complain, never explain. However difficult, frustrating and infuriating that could be.

‘Should we call Sir Simon?’ someone asked.

‘No,’ the Queen said decisively. ‘Rozie can deal with it. She knows the form.’

‘This won’t be the end of it,’ Anne muttered.

The Queen agreed. Cold-ridden and otherwise occupied, she had hoped she could avoid involvement with this case. Now, the press had placed her at the heart of it, whether she liked it or not.

Sir Simon Holcroft lay wide awake in his bed in London, after a long and complicated journey down from The Highlands. The private secretary had left his wife Sarah in the charming Balmoral cottage to finish their holiday alone. The Queen needed him at Sandringham, that was obvious. She hadn’t actually contacted him to say as much, but everything was clearly falling apart in his absence. Body parts in the mud . . . newspaper interviews . . . the Queen’s absence at church on Christmas Day. The winter visit was Not Going As Intended. It was New Year’s Day and he itched to be back at his desk, on the phone to the people that mattered, sorting everything out for the Boss and showing Rozie how it was done.

The newspaper interview with Jack Lions had been particularly difficult. Especially with its picture of the chief constable himself visiting Sandringham on Christmas Eve. Someone should have stopped that from happening. It made it look as if the police were in the palace’s pocket, which they most certainly were not. Although, admittedly, the chief constable had been very helpful on the phone.

For the second Sunday in a row, Her Majesty was missing from the usual royal line-up at St Mary Magdalene Church at Sandringham. This is unprecedented for the elderly monarch, who hasn’t missed a service in decades. Royal sources say she has a bad cold, but rumours have it that she is upset by the violent death of family friend Ned St Cyr, whose dismembered hand was found within walking distance of the Sandringham Estate. Locals are concerned for the Queen’s health, but say the plucky monarch will ‘get through this somehow’ with her usual Dunkirk spirit.

‘What fresh hell?’ Philip asked, scrumpling up the page in question and chucking it in the direction of the fire. ‘What “locals” are concerned for your health? Who in God’s name calls you “plucky”?’

The Queen was too irritated to reply. She decided to take her mind off it by visiting the horses in the stud.

Drawing up outside the mare barn in her favourite Land Rover, she found the immaculate yard empty. It had been a last-minute decision to come, and no one walked over to greet her. She didn’t mind – in fact she was rather relieved. She didn’t quite have the energy yet for a discussion of every mare’s and foal’s progress with the manager: she just wanted to greet some old equine friends, hand out some festive mints and get back to the warm.

Leaving her protection officer at the car and walking across the frosted cobbles, she paused by the tack room to catch her breath, cough, and curse the flu for making her feel so light-headed. A glossy, coal-black cocker spaniel puppy looked up at her. He was sitting alone, waiting for his owner.