Murder Most Royal

Does that make me a bad person?’

‘Nothing will make you a bad person,’ he reassured her. ‘Give my love to the girls. How’s the old man getting on, by the way?’

‘Still not well. It’s like he’s been knocked for six. He was even worse this afternoon. He spent an age in the chapel. Frankly, I’m dreading Christmas.’

Her brother’s voice was kind. ‘I’m sure you’ll make it wonderful for everyone. You’ve got Mummy’s template to follow. Just put your spin on it.’

‘Sure,’ she said. But she wasn’t really listening. Her thoughts were still with the hand in the water. When the call ended she found herself washing her own hands under the freezing water from the tap, even though they were already clean.

In his cottage on the Sandringham Estate, Julian Cassidy swirled the tot of whisky round his glass, inhaled its peaty smell and downed it in a couple of gulps. This was his third and it was taking the edge off.

It was funny – you thought you’d reached your lowest ebb, and then something came along to make you sink lower. Julian felt as if the inrushing tide was washing over his head. On his bookshelves a thicket of Christmas cards were interspersed with others congratulating him on his New Job! and New Home! Many featured crowns and corgis. ‘Proud of you, son.’ ‘Enjoy the moment.’ ‘Don’t shoot any royals!!!! Haha!!!!!’

For a minute, he allowed himself to imagine how it could have been, sitting back on this sofa with a beautiful woman snuggled up beside him, a glass of wine, her body heat, a head full of plans and a clear, bright future.

Then the thought disintegrated. One minute was all it took.

He relived that moment again and again, as he had done since it happened. There was only one answer. He eyed the bottle. But he was distracted by a whimpering sound. Billy, his elderly black Labrador, was sitting at the door, eyeing it keenly, desperate to go out. Julian eased himself up off the sofa and accompanied the dog outside, where he nosed around in the bushes for a while before doing his business.

The sharpness of the night air brought with it a moment of clarity. He realised how fuddled he was. The only noticeable effect of the whisky had been to amplify his sadness. He would stick to wine from now on.

‘Hey, boy,’ he called softly to the dog across the garden.

Billy trotted back to him, his dark eyes glistening in the moonlight, full of love and trust.

‘C’mon, let’s go inside.’

Drawing up at the stud, she was pleased to see that her timing was good. As she got out of the car, she spotted the brood mares and their foals returning two by two from the paddocks in the huge, old walled garden, where they had been getting a blast of fresh air. She stopped to watch them briefly, enchanted as ever by the sight of the leggy foals, who had grown dramatically since the last time she saw them. Each one was the progeny of a line of distinguished racehorses. They weren’t yet weaned, but already some stood out to her as potential champions. It took a combination of proportions, strength, character and temperament. Having watched foals grow up into racehorses for as long as she could remember, by now she had a sixth sense for spotting the perfect blend.

From ten o’clock onwards, a succession of Range Rovers began delivering their contents to the front door in strictly managed order of seniority. The junior cousins were first, followed by her youngest son Edward, the Earl of Wessex and other Wessexes, large and small, then Andrew and his girls and, shortly afterwards, Anne and her husband, accompanied by Prince Harry, who had got a lift with them from St James’s Palace.

Among the freshly polished royal vehicles, a mud-spattered old Subaru estate car incongruously drew up in the courtyard and its driver got out alone. The Queen happened to be looking out of the saloon window as he did so. She turned to the butler who was standing beside her.

‘What’s the chief constable of Norfolk doing here?’

‘I don’t know, ma’am,’ he said, looking as surprised as she was. ‘I’ll redirect him round the back.’

The Queen shook her head. Surely the most senior policeman in Norfolk wouldn’t visit Sandringham on a day like today unless it was very important? It must be to do with Ned St Cyr, and yet it had only been twenty-four hours since she had identified the hand. Was that enough for significant progress? She didn’t know whether to hope or dread what he might say.

‘Show him in, would you? One might as well say hello.’

The lugubrious, angular man who came in from the cold, shrugging off his waxed jacket and handing it to a waiting footman, looked astonished to be ushered into the saloon itself, and to find Her Majesty waiting for him. The circumstances were unusual, but this was by no means the first time they had met. Nigel Bloomfield had been head of the Norfolk constabulary for five years.