Murder Most Royal

That would make it some time between the nineteenth and twenty-first of December, four to six days after Mr St Cyr disappeared. The hand was in good condition before it went into the water, so the question is, where it – and he – was during those four to six days.’

‘I see. Do they have any thoughts?’

‘It looks as though it might have been in cold storage. It makes it harder to work out at which point it was detached. And that still leaves the question of why. Bloomfield is edging towards thinking that it might be a professional job after all. They have several lines of enquiry. Mr St Cyr had a certain amount of debt, for example; he liked to gamble.’

‘I remember,’ the Queen said. ‘He played cards for money here sometimes. He was very good at it. We had a roulette table once and he was glued to it all night.’

‘There’s a team looking into his finances. No obvious communication yet regarding large wagers that might have got him into hot water. No sign of unusual withdrawals from his bank accounts. Or at least, there were many, but lately they were almost exclusively for things like electric fencing and wild ponies. I can find out what that was all about if you—’

‘I know what it was,’ the Queen told him. ‘Rewilding.’

‘Look it up, Simon. It’s been the talk of north Norfolk. The duke thinks it’s the next big thing.’

‘I will, ma’am. “Rewilding”.’ He made a note. ‘Meanwhile, they’re searching Abbottswood itself for the body, in case the trip to London was some sort of double bluff. Then they’ll move on to Mr Fisher’s estate at Muncaster.’

The Queen’s eye roll did not escape her private secretary.

‘He did threaten to kill Mr St Cyr more than once, in front of witnesses,’ he reminded her.

‘Yes, but honestly, Simon. Mr St Cyr had that effect on some people. He wasn’t the easiest neighbour.’

The Queen sighed. ‘Anyway, I gather that Mr Fisher wasn’t in the country on the fifteenth.’

‘No, he wasn’t, ma’am – but then, nor is he the kind of person, I think the reasoning goes, to do his own dirty work, so to speak. Which becomes rather difficult for us.’

‘The last person Mr St Cyr called before he left for London was Julian Cassidy.’

‘Mr Cassidy? Our new conservation manager? The bean counter?’

‘Yes, ma’am. As you know, he was working for Mr Fisher until November. I understand there were various disputes about the land. Mr Cassidy was seen scuffling with Mr St Cyr in the car park of the Horse and Hound in Castle Rising in early December. Mr St Cyr didn’t press charges, but there were several witnesses.’

‘Oh, dear.’ The Queen sighed. ‘How unfortunate. Do we know why?’

‘Not really. He claims it was a parking dispute.’

‘But the police think Mr Cassidy might have killed Ned on Matt Fisher’s behalf, even though he stopped working for him several weeks before. I must say, Simon, that sounds incredibly unlikely.’

‘They don’t know what to make of it at the moment, ma’am. He doesn’t have an alibi for the fifteenth, unlike Mr Fisher. He did try to punch Mr St Cyr. But it seemed out of character.’

‘That’s a relief. We’re not aware of other violent incidents, are we? Is this something we need to worry about?’

‘Not as far as we know. I’ve had a quick chat to the estate manager. Cassidy’s references were immaculate, and in the way of these things, the staff know several people who’ve known him for years, back to his days as a biology student at Oxford. He was known for rescuing injured birds and hedgehogs and so on.’

‘Yes. There was quite a female following who thought of him as a bit of a St Francis of Assisi. They may not have known that he went shooting at weekends. He has a reputation for being laid-back, if anything.’

The Queen tried to picture the bean counter storming down to London from Sandringham with murderous intent . . . But of course, it wouldn’t have been ‘storming’: Ned was lured there, it seemed. It would have been planned. That was even harder to imagine. One didn’t want to harbour a cold-blooded murderer on one’s estate, but she really didn’t think she was.

Sir Simon was followed shortly afterwards by Mrs Maddox, who was armed with the week’s suggested menus for approval. The housekeeper saw the Queen’s dark expression and asked if she could help.

‘Not really,’ the Queen admitted. ‘It’s been an interesting morning. Actually, there’s one thing. Do you know how Mrs Raspberry from the WI is getting on? I gather she’s had an accident.’

Mrs Maddox was north Norfolk born and bred, and thought it a personal affront if she didn’t know what was going on in any village within a twenty-mile radius.

‘Oh, that! It was awful! We did wonder whether to tell you, ma’am, but we didn’t want to worry you so close to Christmas, with you so busy in London, and then with your cold. It was very upsetting.