A Three Dog Problem
- Автор: Беннет Си Джей
- Серия: Her Majesty the Queen Investigates #2
- Год: 2021
- Язык: английский
- Год: Zaffre - Bonnier Publishing Fiction
- ISBN: 978-1-83877-485-1
- Жанр: Другие детективы
Электронная книга - «A Three Dog Problem». Краткое содержание книги:
When a body is found in the Palace swimming pool, she finds herself once again in the middle of an investigation which has more twists and turns than she could ever have suspected. With her trusted secretary Rozie by her side, the Queen is determined to solve the case. But will she be able to do it before the murderer strikes again?
‘I promise,’ she said reluctantly.
‘Thank you. And don’t think I won’t know, just because you’re at the other end of the country.’
Rozie would soon be travelling to Balmoral with the Queen and the first wave of staff. Sir Simon was heading for Tuscany for a couple of weeks, after which he intended to keep an ear to the ground in Whitehall and Westminster as the new Prime Minister set about building a Cabinet and creating a response to the Brexit vote. Everything seemed quiet on the surface, but all hell would be being let loose behind the scenes. His job was to interpret what he could from the screams.
Chapter 7
A month passed happily in the Highlands. Here, the Queen felt, one could surround oneself with sensible people – the Scots were so much more down to earth than the Sassenachs – and participate fully in the life of the place. The castle might look imposing, with its granite walls and Gothic turrets, but it was surrounded by gardens and made for enjoying nature, for relaxation and for fun.
At Buckingham Palace one necessarily had to rely on servants for everything because it took a cast of thousands to make it all work. At Balmoral, she could tack up a horse or take a Land Rover for a spin. The family could all go for a picnic at a moment’s notice, if the weather was good. This August, particularly, she could sit glued to the Olympics in her tartan-carpeted study, with whoever wanted to keep her company, cheering on Nick Skelton in the show jumping and Charlotte Dujardin in the dressage from her armchair until her voice was husky from the effort. It was all very jolly. The only cause for concern was Holly, a very elderly corgi in dog years, who was increasingly uninterested in food and walks. The Queen kept her close eye on her faithful companion, fed her the choicest titbits and hoped, against reason and experience, that she would recover some of her old vitality.
With September fast approaching, it wouldn’t be long before the traditional visit of the Prime Minister. She had been thinking about this.
‘Cameron may have messed up the country,’ she said to Philip over a barbecue, ‘but at least he was a joiner-inner. I have a feeling the new one won’t be.’
Philip nodded his agreement through a fug of sausage smoke. ‘I always liked Samantha. Very easy on the eye. Excellent manners, too. And she was always game for a laugh. What do you do with a PM whose biggest party trick is wearing leopard-print shoes?’
The Queen looked at him with a perfectly straight expression. ‘Strip poker?’
He laughed so hard he had a coughing fit.
But the problem remained. The United Kingdom’s second female prime minister, much like the first, did not shoot, fish or display any particular fondness for animals. She was not renowned for her sparkling repartee, nor her dancing. She was most famous for her colourful footwear, being tough on the police and saying ‘Brexit means Brexit’ ad nauseam – which meant nothing at all. Sir Simon had mentioned that she was fond of walking. One would simply have to take her on a lot of walks.
After four weeks at Balmoral, Rozie was replaced at the Queen’s side by Sir Simon. Though single, Rozie did not live life as a hermit, and one of the royal equerries had become a friend with benefits, one of which turned out to be a family cottage in the Caribbean. She spent a happy fortnight soaking up the tropical warmth, sipping pina coladas at a beachside bar and listening to live music under the stars.
Back at work, she spent her weekends in the country houses of various political grandees, eating salmon en croute with junior ministers and going on duck shoots with government advisers, gleaning what she could about the plans for a post-Brexit world. She duly reported back her findings to Sir Simon up in Scotland, but the more she learned, the less she understood. The one thing that was clear was that nobody really knew, but everyone was happy to argue about it with anyone who could bear to raise the subject.
She spoke to various people around the Palace about the Britannia painting, but made little progress. Her much greater concern was the mental health of Mary van Renen, who was still working out her notice – Sir James Ellington had said he couldn’t do without her – and who was a shadow of her former self. The notes in her clothes had stopped, but only, Mary thought, because she made sure she was never alone. Friends had formed a rota to travel to work with her and she rarely went out. She couldn’t imagine socialising for pleasure now.
Keeping out of the way of the half a million paying visitors who trooped through the State Apartments over the summer, Rozie and Mary swam regularly in the Palace pool in the early evenings. Rozie had suggested the idea. She had seen how much her friend was suffering and this was the best way she could think of to help. The two women usually chatted for the first few lengths, doing a leisurely breaststroke together, then Mary watched from a rattan chair as Rozie sped up and down at her normal pace, her long limbs carving through the water as she chased her personal best. Occasionally, one of the male staff members would offer to take her on in a quick competition. They usually regretted it. Rozie enjoyed it very much.
‘I’m glad to see you’re not in kitten heels,’ Philip joked, as they piled out of the Land Rovers and started off up the hill.
Theresa May gave him a tight smile. Every politician needs a gimmick and, to start with, she had been rather proud of her footwear which, as Home Secretary, had often guaranteed a front-page picture when the contents of her speech could not. The shoes played well in the Tory heartlands, but there was more to her than a kitten heel, and the way the Duke said it led her to suspect jokes had been made on the subject of which she would not approve.
‘I thought about it,’ she said, game as ever. ‘But they didn’t go with my Barbour.’
He barked a laugh and gave her a friendlier look. They set off together up the path between the pines and larches, past a couple of cairns built of stones to honour the marriages of Queen Victoria’s children. There is only so much you can say about a neatly arranged mound of stones, and the Prime Minister said it, but she was relieved to find that what they were really heading for was the view from the ridge.
This was something she could genuinely admire. Ahead of them, clouds scudded across a wide blue September sky and below, grassy slopes alternated with jagged trees all the way to the distant hills, which faded from bottle green to midnight blue against the horizon. The bright patches of soft grass nearby reminded her of Alpine meadows and, with a brief sense of being Maria in The Sound of Music, she was tempted to spread her arms and run through them all.
‘You must love coming here,’ she said to the Duke beside her. However, when she didn’t get a reply she turned to find empty air. He was a few paces back, talking to a ghillie. She caught the last two words.
‘Really? Bugger.’
‘Is there a problem?’ she called.
He gestured past her. ‘Change in the weather. Rain. Coming in fast. We’d better get going.’
She looked to the east, where he was pointing – and sure enough, dark grey columns of cloud were moving in from the direction of the North Sea. The air was changing; there was an edge to it now. The Duke was impressively sprightly as he led the way back down the path towards the Land Rovers, where the Queen was waiting with the dogs. But they were not quite in time. Theresa felt one fat raindrop land on her nose, and another on her cheek, before the heavens opened.