Murder Most Royal

Anne was, not for the first time, three fields ahead and going at a gallop.

‘Astrid Westover. Ned’s fiancée, the one who reported him missing.’

‘He was getting married again?’ Charles hadn’t seen the man for decades, and had only the sketchiest awareness of his circumstances.

‘Yes, Zara knows her. She used to be an eventer. Good seat, terrible hands. I went to Pony Club with her mother, back in the Dark Ages,’ Anne explained. ‘Astrid’s an interesting character. She’s only in her thirties – younger than Ned’s eldest. Zara says she’s an influencer, whatever the hell that is.’

‘I’d like to think . . . someone like me, perhaps,’ Charles suggested, aware that he was straying from the point.

‘Take it from me, you are categorically not, and never will be, an influencer.’

‘Don’t worry, you’re well out of it. According to Zara, it’s all Instagram and filters and taking pictures of your breakfast.’

‘Apparently it influenced Ned. Although Astrid does it with horses. He tried to go out with me, back in the day, you know,’ Anne added, pensively.

‘Said he’d take me to Corfu and show me a good time. I was tempted for about thirty seconds. He drove a Porsche Spyder and liked to think he was James Dean. He did look a bit like him in a good light, I suppose.’

‘But you turned him down?’

‘God yes! I took one ride in that Spyder and I swear he’d have killed me in ten minutes. Runs in the family.’

‘Absolutely. Think of his poor uncle Patrick in the Cobra. Anyway, Mummy’ll be terribly upset. We’ll have to rally round, as I said. Be supportive but not mention it. I thought I’d warn you.’

‘Thank you.’ Charles made a mental note to be as supportive as possible. ‘By the way, what d’you think of an embroidered sherwani jacket for after dinner? Silk and cashmere. It’s got quite a fashionable cachet, and it’s also very comfortable.’

‘Awful idea. Papa will have a fit. Bin it.’

Charles looked regretfully at the shimmering midnight-blue garment hanging in front of him. Anne was probably right. But when he was in charge at Sandringham, there was going to be a revolution in the indoor dress code that Beau Brummell himself would be proud of. Absently, he handed the handset back and returned to the matter in hand.

Thirty miles away from Sandringham, the daughter of the current Baron Mundy, Flora Osborne, had been contemplating the results of her labours in the flower room at Ladybridge Hall. She reached across a trug containing several large sprigs of holly and bunches of freshly cut mistletoe to answer the phone that she had placed out of reach of the splashing tap.

‘Val! Is everything OK?’

‘Are you busy?’ her brother demanded as she tucked the phone next to her ear.

‘Not exactly. Just finishing the greenery arrangements for the Long Gallery. It always uses up about six times as much foliage as I originally cut.’

‘Have you heard about cousin Ned?’

‘No, what? Have they found him? I was starting to get rather worried.’

Flora’s expression grew darker as she heard the news about the body part. She abandoned the holly she’d been holding and listened hard.

‘Do they know where it went into the water?’ Her voice was low, her mouth dry. She didn’t know whether or not to be reassured by the answer that the police seemed to know very little at this stage.

‘I was wondering . . .’ Valentine said. ‘Shall I call them? Explain about us? I mean, it’ll look rather—’

‘No,’ she said firmly. ‘It’s none of their business where we go, what we do. None at all.’

‘If the police ask us,’ he began tentatively, ‘I suppose I can just say . . . I mean . . . we have nothing to hide.’

‘Absolutely,’ Flora agreed. ‘But they won’t ask, why would they? I only met him in June. You the same, I suppose.’

‘Well . . . yes, but I—’

‘Say nothing,’ Flora insisted. ‘It’s not up to us to do the police’s job for them. Now, let’s talk about nice things. You’re coming with us on the thirtieth, yes? And you’re staying here overnight? Are you sure you don’t want to come for Christmas? You’re always welcome here, you know. Both of you.’

There was a brief bark of laughter down the line. ‘I don’t think so. Roland and I have plans. We’re dining at Claridge’s. Roland says he has a surprise for me.’

‘You don’t think . . .?’

‘I think nothing, Florette. If anything happens, I’ll tell you when I see you. Now go have fun with your greenery. Let Birnam Wood come to Dunsinane.’

Flora frowned. ‘Didn’t Macbeth die when that happened?’

‘I was thinking more of the aesthetics. I know you don’t do greenery by halves.’

‘Val?’ she said, uncertain of herself for the first time. ‘Does it matter that I feel lighter? I’ve suddenly realised I do.