Murder Most Royal

A biblical lifetime, although now one could easily live to a hundred, as witnessed by her own mother and all the centenary birthday telegrams one sent these days.

Ned, when he visited the next time, took his scolding with good grace. He had arrived with a home-made bird table, she seemed to remember, to be given as penance, and a couple of jokes from school that had made Philip hoot with laughter.

Ned usually got away with his naughtiness. Like his mother and his beloved uncle Patrick, his charm and charisma made him ‘one of those special people’, as her own mother always put it, and she should know, because the Queen Mother had been the very definition of ‘one of those special people’ herself.

Perhaps it was an accident. Perhaps Ned had died at sea and a boat propeller had somehow caused the hand to become detached. Except, no – there was the bag. Somebody must have . . .

She prayed that at least they would find the body soon, otherwise intact. She really must not indulge her worst imaginings. The Queen brought her mind back to the jigsaw and tried to lose herself, unsuccessfully, in Constable’s feathery trees.

Back at her desk, Rozie stared in frustration at her computer screen. After a stint as a captain in the Royal Horse Artillery and a couple of years on a fast-track role in the City, she could strip and reassemble a rifle blindfold, disarm an attacker, tack up a horse and break down a P & L statement – but the kind of estate she grew up on in West London did not feature farms and country houses, and there was still a lot the royal family took for granted that she had yet to learn.

Sir Simon Holcroft hadn’t risen to the heights of private secretary without being a bit of a control freak. He had exhorted her to call him in Scotland ‘at any time, day or night’ if she had any questions or concerns of any kind. For her part, Rozie hadn’t survived several years as a black female officer in the British Army without developing a strong sense of self-sufficiency, so she had equally vowed to herself that she wouldn’t. Yet the Queen had been here for less than two hours, and already Rozie’s finger was hovering over Sir Simon’s number in her phone. She could hardly call the police to identify the victim if she didn’t know who he was. And one didn’t ask Her Majesty for the same information twice.

Sir Simon was all charm. There was the clinking of glasses and the hum of congenial chatter in the background. He sounded as if he was in a bar or social club of some sort, having a good time.

‘Rozie, Rozie. Edward Sincere, d’you say? How did you spell it?’

He voiced the thought as it entered her brain. ‘Don’t tell me it was “S-i-n-c-e—”

‘Yes it was,’ she said crossly, tapping a nail on the leather-topped desk in front of her.

‘Have I taught you nothing about the British upper classes? Think “Chumley”.’

‘Is it “Saint” Something?’

‘Exactly. S-t C-y-r.’ He spelled it out for her. ‘It’s the family name of Baron Mundy. They’re based at Ladybridge Hall. It’s a lovely place with a moat, not very large, about a forty-minute drive from you. The Mundys are ancient Norfolk aristocracy. They were first ennobled by King John in the thirteenth century,’ he went on. Of course, Sir Simon, the amateur historian, would know. ‘He was the king who famously lost the Crown Jewels in the Wash. Why?’

‘Why what?’ Rozie asked. She was still thinking about the Crown Jewels, lost at sea, a bit like the hand with the signet ring.

‘Why d’you need to know?’

‘Nothing to worry about,’ she said firmly. It was true: the recent discovery was hardly the Private Office’s business. Now she had the name right, the police could take care of it.

‘Nothing is ever nothing to worry about,’ Sir Simon countered, unhelpfully. Rozie couldn’t hear the clinking glasses in the background anymore. He had gone somewhere quiet to concentrate. She reluctantly explained about the hand and the ring.

‘Oh, Lord,’ he said. ‘How grotesque.’ He was silent for a minute, contemplating the news. ‘Was it literally just the hand? No sign of any other body parts?’

‘Be very careful, Rozie.’ He was suddenly deadly serious. ‘Keep the Boss out of it, whatever it takes.’

‘Absolutely,’ she agreed, crossing her fingers. Rozie knew that keeping the Boss out of anything the Boss wanted to be into was very unlikely, regardless of what she did or didn’t do. Sir Simon didn’t know Her Majesty in quite the way she did. ‘She mentioned that the victim was a baron’s grandson.’

‘Not this baron,’ Sir Simon said. ‘Distant cousin, I think. However, we should probably call Ladybridge Hall; let Lord Mundy know.’

‘Why?’ Rozie asked. ‘If he’s a distant cousin?’

‘He’s a friend of the Boss. And family’s family.