Murder Most Royal

Ollie had done a bit of research on swans for the long-form magazine article he’d be writing later. According to what he’d read, they used to be a major delicacy at medieval banquets, as a result of which the Queen could claim ownership of all swans not owned by a couple of livery companies in open waters. Presumably moat-based swans didn’t count. More pertinently for a day like today, they could be vicious if they felt under threat. If you weren’t careful, they could break your arm.

The divers were taking forever to adjust their kit before getting into the water. Ollie trained his binoculars on the house while he waited. Was that a ghostly face at one of the windows? He sharpened the focus. He wouldn’t swear to it, but it looked like Flora Osborne. What would she be thinking now?

The last guests of the season at Sandringham were finishing their stay. While Philip took them on a final shoot, the Queen was on her way to Newmarket for lunch with her racing manager and various trainers she knew and liked. Having heard about the recent police breakthrough in the St Cyr case, and their expectation of at least one imminent arrest, she could relax at last. She had been looking forward to the day tremendously. There was nothing like a good meal and an afternoon spent viewing horses and discussing the racing calendar with people who knew exactly what they were talking about.

January was drawing to a close. In a week, she would be heading back to London, and the gilded office block on the roundabout. Now that she knew the police were busy at Ladybridge, she was perfectly sanguine about this. Julian Cassidy, too, had handed himself in yesterday. She didn’t know what would happen to him, but now that he had done the decent thing, she would support him as best she could. Whatever he did now, it would be better than drinking himself into an early grave. Meanwhile, despite the flu at the beginning, Norfolk had done its job and given her and Philip the dose of fresh air they needed. She felt ready to tackle whatever the new year had to throw at her.

Lady Caroline would be joining her at the racecourse, travelling from Cambridge, where her brother was master of one of the colleges. And so, once again, it was Rozie who kept the Queen company on the journey. They alternated between discussing the next few weeks’ events in the royal diary and quietly waiting for news from Ladybridge. The Queen was hopeful that by the end of the day they would have a body and a murderer in custody. If they didn’t, it wouldn’t be for lack of trying on the royal part. She had done what she could.

‘Is that it?’ she asked, as the phone on the leather armrest beside Rozie lit up with an incoming message.

‘No, ma’am. I’m sorry.’ It was Rozie’s sister, asking if she was free for cocktails in Kensington next weekend. Rozie discreetly flicked the message away.

The car had turned off the main road to avoid a traffic jam ahead. It wound its way through country lanes for a couple of miles, where the sun created jagged shafts of light through the naked branches of overhanging trees. Several fields away, the Queen caught sight of scarlet coats moving at speed in the distance. The hunt must be out. It was extraordinary, after all the controversy of recent years, that they could still do it. It had been such a common sight in her youth, but these days they chased man-made trails, not foxes. Thanks to Jack Lions and his ilk, a thousand years of tradition had been reduced to a schoolboy game.

‘Ah. Trouble ahead, ma’am. Not to worry.’

The driver of the Queen’s Range Rover slowed down to let two cars past. Horns blared, whistles blew and flags waved from the windows. The Queen recognised the noise: these were saboteurs, keen to find the hounds and distract them. They were convinced that the hunts still went for foxes, either deliberately or if the hounds happened to find one by accident, and did whatever they could to put them off the scent. The result was a disturbing cacophony of noise that unsettled everyone in the car. Once it had passed, the Range Rover sped up again smoothly for half a mile. Then, without warning, it braked sharply.

‘There’s someone in the road ahead.’

‘Another saboteur?’ she asked.

‘No, ma’am. A body.’

From his vantage point in the meadow, Ollie Knight saw a hand rise out of the moat. It reminded him of a film he’d seen about King Arthur. There should be a sword somewhere. Except, this hand was inside a diving suit, and it was signalling that they had found something. It didn’t take long for the divers in the moat to bring their discovery to the spot where the forensic team were waiting. It took three men to lift it. As far as Ollie could tell, it was a man-sized tube made of sacking, wrapped in a heavy chain. As it rose above the water, a human arm slipped out of the sacking, bloated and discoloured, ending at the wrist. Ollie was transfixed.