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?
But she wasn’t alone. The other half would probably be about Leonie Baxter in the catering office, who was getting letters too, apparently, calling her a bitch and a whore. Nothing as . . . imaginative as Cynthia’s own persecution. Anyway, Mrs Baxter probably deserved it. She was always causing problems, throwing her weight around, criticising the way things were done. It was no surprise to hear the woman had enemies. Recent speculation in the servants’ hall had been all about her.
Cynthia tramped up the stairs to her bedroom. This summer, she had shared the cottage with three other hospitality staff. Needless to say, they treated her like a pariah. Her room was her sanctuary: transformed from dreary functionality with Indian sari fabric used as throws, and flowers begged from the chief gardener, who was one of her few abiding friends. Cynthia knew how to travel light and yet transport a sense of style. Off duty, her clothes were her glory. She wore mostly vintage, which suited her gentle bosom and slight frame. Some of her favourite pieces were by Ossie Clark and Zandra Rhodes, unusual items she’d unearthed in charity shops over the years, irreplaceable and perfect. But she also made things inspired by ideas from Instagram and Pinterest. Her dingy little plywood wardrobe concealed a riot of colourful silks and velvets, all stitched with infinite care.
She was thinking about this as she opened the bedroom door. A moment later, a piercing scream shattered the rural peace of the afternoon.
A dining room assistant, who was sharing the cottage, ran up the stairs two at a time to see what the problem was. Mrs Harris was standing just inside the doorway, trembling, incoherent, looking at the bed. It was covered in a pile of scraps of fabric, so many they took up the same amount of space as a human being. She was shaking so hard she could hardly speak.
‘What is it?’ the dining-room assistant asked.
‘M-my clothes,’ Mrs Harris managed to mutter. She pointed a bony finger in the direction of the bed. ‘They’ve c-c-cut up all my clothes.’
Mary van Renen was packing up her belongings, ready to move out of her Fulham flat. She had a few more days left to work and then she could flee to Ludlow, where her childhood bedroom was waiting for her, there were ponies in the field to feed, and her mother had already made a freezerful of coq au vin and stroganoff to celebrate her return.
Mary had chosen this room in the flat because it had the largest wardrobe, even though it was at the back and overlooked by half a dozen nearby offices and houses. At the time, clothes had seemed more important. London clothes, city clothes . . . for her posh job at the Palace and lunches with friends at Instagrammable cafés; for dates with men at glamorous restaurants where, in between the courses you ordered, they served you courses you hadn’t, where dishes arrived smoking under glass bell covers and a starter of shellfish was made to look like a beach.
They didn’t have restaurants like that in Shropshire, or at least, if they did, it was a big deal. So was finding a straight single man with an interest in art and culture and settling down. But then, that had proved equally impossible in London. Not for either of her flatmates, who had sexy, devoted, rugby-and-football-playing boyfriends, one of whom was a high-flyer at the National Gallery. But for Mary . . . all she seemed to attract were nutters. One nutter, anyway. One was enough.
She glanced out of the bedroom window at the patchwork of lights outside. In the summer, people tended not to draw their curtains. She’d recently seen a couple having sex in one of the windows above a row of garages. Today, that window was dark. The one above it and to the left was dimly lit, though, with a dummy of some sort propped against it, outlined by a pale amber glow. She peered to see what it could be, exactly, and thought for a moment she saw it move. With a familiar sensation of her body plummeting through space, she stifled the scream in her throat. Was it human? Was it watching her? How long had it been there?
‘Ella?’
She shouted for her nearest flatmate while trying to keep the panic from her voice. Ella had been at home half an hour ago, but now no one came. Mary closed her curtains and carried on watching through the gap, trembling as she muttered Ella’s name into the silence, unable to drag herself away.
The light behind the silhouette was turned out. The shadow merged into the darkness.
At the Palace, Rozie was coming back from a run. She had permission to do a few circuits down behind the lake when the public weren’t around. They had gone for good now. The place was being prepared for Her Majesty’s imminent return and Rozie’s thoughts were on the schedule for next year, which would be her main task in the coming weeks. She had a vast folder of requests for visits and there was not nearly enough time for the Boss to perform them all. Of course, she would want to do as many as she could.
Rozie had left her work clothes ready to change back into in the ladies’ toilets near her office, which were posh and contained a shower and comfortable dressing area. No Boss didn’t mean no sartorial standards, so her linen jacket was hanging on a wooden hanger behind the door and a Prada pencil skirt she’d found in the Selfridges sale was neatly laid out on a padded stool. Lifting the skirt to reach for the towel folded underneath it, she noticed a plain white envelope tucked between the two.
Strange.
It was not addressed to anyone. The toilets, like the corridor outside, were empty. With a feeling of increasing discomfort, she picked up the envelope and opened it.
Inside was a torn-off piece of paper from a child’s exercise book, folded three times so it was the size of a business card. Rozie opened it slowly. It contained three childish drawings executed in blue biro, and four words written in stencilled capital letters. The effect on her was visceral, like a punch to the stomach. For a moment she was suspended in time: a confused little girl herself, watching fear and fury flick across her mother’s face. Then, crumpling the note in her hand, she steadied herself while the shock tunnelled down to her core.
Part 2
The Breakages Business
Chapter 9
‘Simon, you look dreadful. What’s happened?’
On her first morning back at the Palace, the Queen emerged from her bedroom, dressed and coiffured, only to find her Private Secretary waiting for her in the corridor. This was hardly protocol.
‘Your Majesty.’ He bowed at the neck. ‘I wanted to be the one to tell you. I found . . . There’s been a most unfortunate accident. A terrible thing. I found . . . There’s a body in the pool, ma’am. Not in the pool, beside it. A housekeeper. Mrs Harris. I found . . .’
She stared at him. Sir Simon was one of the most competent men in the country. Ex-Royal Navy and Foreign Office, a pilot and a diplomat. She had never seen him like this. There was a smear of red on his earlobe. His tie was askew.
‘Come with me and tell me about it. Are you sure you don’t need to sit down?’
They walked briskly along the corridor to her study, while Sir Simon, limping slightly, poured out details in no particular order. The housekeeper had fallen, it seemed, and hit her head. The blood was caused by broken glass. The police were here. She looked very cold. He had found her first thing this morning.
The man was grey and she sensed that any minute the shock would kick in properly, and he would hardly be able to stand.
‘Get Rozie for me,’ she said, once they’d reached her desk and he was starting to repeat himself. ‘Then go home and don’t come back until I tell you.’
‘The police, ma’am . . .’