Murder Most Royal

Who had told him? Gossip spread among the staff like wildfire and tended to mutate like Chinese whispers. Goodness knew what they were saying in the servants’ hall.

‘D’you remember that white ball he and Patrick did here for your mother?’

The Queen did. It was in the early sixties, when they still saw him on a regular basis. Ned must have been in his late teens, no more, but he and his uncle Patrick were already in partnership as party organisers to the gentry in about five counties. The idea for the ball at Sandringham had come in part from Truman Capote’s Black and White Ball in New York, and in part from portraits of royal princesses by Franz Winterhalter, who romantically depicted them in off-the-shoulder white dresses with generous crinolines. There was one such picture of the young Queen Victoria opposite the chair where the Queen was sitting now. Her own mother had dazzled like a film star that night in several tiers of ivory tulle. Ned had gone to enormous lengths to decorate the house with flowers from the famous white garden at Ladybridge, along with elaborate paper decorations he had made himself and hung in every room. The night had been magical . . . until an over-oiled guest had managed to throw up in one of the pianos, but that was hardly Ned’s fault.

‘I’ll come up,’ the Queen said. This was not a conversation to have over the phone, with her lady-in-waiting listening intently and a footman standing at the door.

On the way upstairs, an image came to her of Ned’s glamorous mother, Georgina – Patrick’s oldest sister – descending this very staircase in velvet Dior that night. Georgina had been a frequent guest at Sandringham in the fifties and sixties. She was about the Queen’s age, a star of her starry generation. She rode, she farmed, she gardened to an international standard, she collected modern art (she was one of the first people to spot the potential of a young artist called David Hockney), she looked equally fashionable in Parisian couture or tweeds and a cardigan with pockets for her secateurs. She had once famously combined several of her passions by sitting for a portrait in a ball gown astride her favourite hunter in the drawing room at Ladybridge. Ned, an only child, adored her, and Georgina was a very indulgent mother. The Queen, who had tried to be one too, but with many absences and less opportunity to do so, had sometimes been a little jealous of their relationship.

Philip was sitting up against the pillows looking much less grey than he had this morning. The country air was already having its effect.

‘Ah, hello, Cabbage. So. As I said, we assume he’s dead?’

‘It’s hard to imagine otherwise,’ she agreed.

The Queen went over and perched on the edge of the bed, until her hip protested and she took Philip’s suggestion of a nearby armchair.

‘Of course, we know who did it,’ Philip said.

‘One of the family.’

‘Mmmm,’ the Queen said, which was her usual response when she didn’t necessarily agree.

‘It’s as plain as the nose on your face. D’you want a handkerchief, by the way? Yours is glowing like a beacon.’

‘No thank you. I’ll manage.’

‘It’s always the family, one way or another. I pitied those wives of his. Not surprised they didn’t last the distance. The man shagged half the county.’ The duke was thoughtful. ‘Or he owed money. He liked to give the impression of living off the fat of the land, but Abbottswood was hopeless for farming. Too many woods and wetlands. I often wondered how he managed to heat his pink monstrosity of a villa. We flew over it this morning, did you notice?’

‘Yes. I always thought it was rather pretty,’ the Queen admitted.

‘Yes, that was very odd,’ she agreed.

In a dressing room at Clarence House near Buckingham Palace, where he was reviewing some of the evening dress suggestions of his valet, the Prince of Wales greeted a footman bearing a telephone (he did not believe in mobiles) and accepted a call from the Princess Royal.

‘Charles speaking,’ he announced crisply.

‘Of course it’s you.’ Like their father, Princess Anne did not suffer fools gladly. ‘Listen, have you heard about the hand on the beach?’

‘Snettisham. Found yesterday, identified this morning. It was on the news just now. We’ll have to rally round Mummy. It’s the last thing she needs.’

‘Ned St Cyr. Georgina St Cyr’s son. That awful boy who used to chase you around the dining table at Sandringham.’

‘He didn’t chase me,’ Charles protested.

‘He did. Anyway, he’s dead. Or minus an extremity at the very least.’

‘Do they know how he died?’

‘I assume losing your left hand doesn’t help,’ Anne answered caustically. ‘According to the news, he’s been missing for several days. Poor Astrid’ll be devastated.’

‘Astrid who? Why?’ Charles asked, still getting to grips with the news.