Murder Most Royal

‘But don’t worry, as I say, I’ll ask around and find out for you about this gang business. Birds sold on the cheap, you say? Sold on the “cheep”! I think there’s a Christmas cracker joke in there somewhere. As soon as I hear any more I’ll let you know.’

‘Thank you, Mr Day. That’s very kind.’

‘Will you be coming over soon, ma’am, to visit the loft? You wouldn’t believe it, but my wife’s invested in a still and is making some rather impressive gin. We’d love to offer you a jigger or two to try, if you’re amenable.’

‘You have a very inventive family,’ she said, impressed as always by the industry and ingenuity of her tenants.

The Queen put the phone down and gazed out of the window again. Then she picked it up one more time and asked the operator to put her through to Rozie.

Rozie had been in the middle of some paperwork, but she was pleased to get the call. In London there was always something to grab her attention but here, in the depths of the country, and with Sir Simon now taking all the interesting phone calls, she had never felt so far away from the centre of the action. From her mother’s chatty texts about excursions with friends to West End theatres and Soho restaurants, to friends’ Instagram images of pools and ski slopes on far-flung holidays, she had the feeling the world was somehow carrying on without her. Norfolk had its attractions, but an open field, however beautifully lit by the rays of a setting sun, was never going to beat a poolside bar in St Barts.

‘I think I might have a little job for you,’ the Queen said, when Rozie arrived at her study.

Rozie positively grinned. ‘Of course, ma’am. What can I do?’

The Queen outlined her concerns, and the recent conversation with Mr Day.

‘I’d like you to look into it for me. Privately.’

Rozie thought she detected a certain glint in the Boss’s eye that she hadn’t seen since they’d left London.

‘With pleasure, ma’am.’

‘And I think I know someone who might help.’

That afternoon, Rozie closed her laptop and told Sir Simon that she was going out for a run. This wasn’t unusual: she worked hard to maintain her levels of fitness from her army days. Today, she covered the mile or so from the gates of Sandringham to the village of Dersingham, down the long alley of copper beeches and along the verges and paths beside the road. It was dusk and there wasn’t much traffic aside from the odd red double-decker bus – which came as a surprise to Rozie, so far from London – and a couple of mud-splashed four-wheel drives. Given the reason for her visit, she was very careful to stand right back as they passed by.

She noticed, as she passed, how the mathematical neatness of the grass and hedges of the estate gradually gave way to the rougher walls and lumpier fields of the village. She hadn’t realised how quickly she had become used to the standards of the Sandringham groundsmen. The estate had a film set quality to it: everything always tidy and in its place.

Beyond its boundaries, the winter gloaming cast a grey pall over the paddocks and the church. Rozie passed the Feathers pub, named after the three-feathered badge of the Prince of Wales, and a few buildings further along she came to the little knapped flint cottage the Queen had asked her to visit. The light peeping through its windows cast a friendly glow. She waited for a while, listening to the sound of a dog enthusiastically barking, until eventually the door was opened.

‘Hello!’ the occupant said.

‘Hello, Katie.’ Rozie grinned.

The other woman’s cropped auburn hair framed a wide, freckled face and clear, clever eyes behind stylish glasses. She was a few years older than Rozie and dressed for leisure in yoga pants and a red jumper featuring white sheep that looked like something Princess Diana might have worn. The dog leaping up behind her was a young dachshund, glossy and keen.

‘So it’s happened,’ she said, standing aside to let Rozie in.

‘Yeah.’ Rozie nodded and walked inside.

The last time they met, Katie had been handing over the role of assistant private secretary to Rozie. After that, she had dropped off the radar. This was unusual for the Royal household, where people tended to stay in touch unless there had been some sort of scandal. There had been mutterings about Katie ‘dropping the ball’ among some members of the household, but nothing major. According to Sir Simon she had had ‘a few mental health problems’, but he hadn’t gone into detail and Rozie had had too many other things going on to pay much attention. Until this morning, when the Boss had mentioned her out of the blue.

‘So, Boss thinks the killer’s in Dersingham?’

By now they were standing in the cottage’s little kitchen. Katie was pouring boiling water onto a fragrant selection of oriental leaves in a glass teapot while Rozie finished outlining the Queen’s concerns.