Murder Most Royal

’

‘I remember, when we came here for Christmas and there were days I just couldn’t move. Mrs Maddox thought I was malingering. She said her staff had better things to do than bring me breakfast in bed. In the end, Lady Caroline found a consultant for me. He’d worked with her great-niece who has it, too. Even her just believing me was such a relief, I can’t tell you. Anyway, he put me in touch with this new programme. I needed a new diet, new exercise regime, no stress, no pressure. I needed to stop, basically. You took over. I was going to move in with my mother, but she didn’t know how to look after me. The Boss said I could come here.’

‘But you’re getting better, right?’ Rozie asked.

‘It’s a different life,’ Katie admitted. ‘I’m still working it out. I miss the old me. I miss being taken seriously by people in smart offices with fancy titles. God, I sound so self-indulgent. I’ve got Daphne, and I can bake now. I’ve gone totally Marie Kondo. I can knit. I’m doing a degree in nutrition so I can get to the bottom of what works for me. Just don’t make me hit the freezing water, OK? Anyway, like I say, you’ll love it.’

‘I can absolutely promise you,’ Rozie assured her, ‘I won’t.’

The Queen, meanwhile, was visiting Wood Farm with Philip. They were out towards the marshes, where the Boxing Day shoot had started. This was where Philip would retire to the modest farmhouse in less than a year. He was already looking forward to a life of painting, birdwatching and visits from friends. The Queen loved the little farmhouse, too, where it was possible to relax without servants or fuss, with the rugby on the radio and an uninterrupted view of the sky towards the sea.

She would visit as often as she could, though she knew he would manage perfectly well without her, and even better without the panoply of advisers and attendants who inevitably followed in her wake. Today, meanwhile, they were outside in their coats and binoculars, walking back from the hides Philip had had built so they could watch the waterfowl side by side.

‘You’re looking thoughtful, Lilibet,’ he said. ‘Anything up?’

She was glad he’d asked. She wanted to talk to him about something. He was one of the few people who would understand her concerns without thinking them medieval – which in many ways they were.

‘It’s Hugh St Cyr,’ she said.

‘I’m not surprised. Still grieving hard for Lee, no doubt. It was good of you to visit yesterday.’

‘It wasn’t exactly that.’ She looked across at her husband, who was as always adapting his long stride to match her much shorter one, and bending down slightly to listen. ‘It was something he said about Valentine. Hugh sounded very forward-thinking. Rozie was most impressed.’

Philip glanced at her sharply. ‘Forward-thinking? Hugh? Are you sure?’

‘I know. I was surprised, too.’

‘I always had him down as mentally stuck in the Renaissance. Solid man, very sound. But many’s the time I’ve talked about one of my innovations on the farm and he’s raised his eyebrow at me a good half-inch. I mean, the man’s an expert on the Metaphysical poets, for God’s sake.’

‘Mmm,’ the Queen agreed. ‘And yet, he’s leaving Ladybridge to Flora in his will.’

‘And Valentine’s getting married.’

‘What? Really? To a girl? I thought he was with that feller who came round at Christmas. Business partner, my foot.’

‘And what does Hugh think about it all?’

‘He seems pleased that it will put the St Cyrs in the history books.’

‘No. Not close family. The line will die out.’

The Queen nodded, to him and to herself. She wasn’t being absurd to think this situation unusual.

Philip knew what she knew – and what Sir Simon would explain to Rozie, if she asked: that it was impossible in the British aristocracy for a male married couple to produce a legitimate heir. A peer of the realm could have as many children as he liked, in wedlock and out of it, adopted or whatever he chose, but only the genetic child of married parents could inherit the title. It was the law, and there were forces that wanted to change it, along with the stipulation that the child who inherited should if at all possible be male, but they weren’t making much headway.

Surrogacy didn’t count because the genetic parents weren’t married, even if the legal parents were. Therefore, as it was impossible for two men, or two women, to produce a child that genetically belonged to both of them, gay married aristocrats could not pass their titles down. Which might perhaps explain why so far there had not been a single such couple. A man might subsequently marry his gay partner, having ‘done his duty’ and created an heir within a heterosexual marriage, and no doubt that would happen in time, but it hadn’t yet. Anyway, Valentine wasn’t doing that. This would be his first wedding.