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?
The Queen explained. ‘The poor young woman – Mary van Something – was distraught. I spoke to the Master about it, and he tried to reassure me that he’d discussed it with her and it was nothing more than a “date gone wrong” and some ruffled feathers. He didn’t see it as relevant.’
‘Oh no!’
‘Exactly. The poor thing was being stalked. The man stood outside her house. Those aren’t “ruffled feathers”.’
‘Indeed they aren’t. Have you discussed it with the Duchess of Cornwall?’
The Queen had not, but she knew Camilla would be as alarmed as she was. Indeed, it was Camilla who worked with charities in the field and who had explained the extent and the dangers of domestic violence. She cared very deeply about this sort of thing. Did it count as domestic violence if the woman didn’t claim to know the man? The Queen wasn’t sure, and frankly didn’t care. Whatever it was, it was out of the Master’s purview, and he should have known it.
She sighed. The previous Master would have got it instantly. Blessed with tact and sensitivity to match his unquestioned authority, he’d been a real rock. It was why her family had always tended to go for senior officers for such positions. They generally combined an essential esprit de corps with the subtle but ruthless efficiency she required from her courtiers. Philip was right. As a man who considered the navy the Senior Service, he was never going to give an RAF officer his due, even an ex-fighter pilot like Mike Green, but in this case he had a point.
The following morning, at her desk, the Queen was reminded of the competence of senior officers who did, happily, live up to expectations. Along with the boxes was a letter from the Second Sea Lord in Portsmouth. She had written to him from Balmoral about the oil painting of Britannia, the ‘ghastly little painting’, as Philip always called it. The Duke had never quite understood why she was so attached to it.
As it happened, the Second Sea Lord, now an admiral, had been one of Philip’s equerries many years ago, and the Queen knew him well enough to dictate a note. Sometimes, it took the personal touch. She had explained politely but firmly that the painting was hers and had gone missing in the mid-eighties. She knew it was not the Second Sea Lord’s fault that it had ended up in his possession: he’d only been in the job since last summer, while the painting had been in his office for at least a decade. However, one would be grateful if he could facilitate its return.
His reply was apologetic. He explained that he had recently returned from holiday himself, hence the slight delay, but as soon as he had read her note he had put a very able young lieutenant on the case of establishing how on earth he could have inadvertently acquired the Queen’s private property. He had also examined the painting in person, realised it was filthy (more apologies) and arranged to have it cleaned at the Royal Navy’s expense.
The Queen sighed hard at this. No! Really? Was it too late to change his mind about that? She wondered what excuse she could make.
Anyway, unlike Rozie’s more laissez-faire contact in facilities at the MOD, the very able young lieutenant had rapidly discovered that the painting had been personally chosen by the Second Sea Lord of ten years ago and:
I contacted him myself, living in happy retirement in the New Forest, and fortunately for us both he’s not gaga yet. Daily crosswords, he tells me, and watching Pointless on the BBC. He remembered the painting well, and says he originally saw it in the MOD building in Whitehall back in the nineties, in the corner office of a procurement mandarin of some sort. Years later, when he got the 2SL posting, he asked if the painting happened to be available. He assumed it wouldn’t be, but it never hurts to ask. In this case they found it languishing in central storage. He had it installed at the office in 2004. It’s been on the wall opposite my desk ever since.
The MOD’s records had been better kept than her own, she mused. Although that was probably a little unfair. These days there were teams of archivists and conservators who could lay their hands on a hatpin at a moment’s notice, whereas early in her reign, you could lose a framed Caravaggio and be lucky to track it down in the bowels of one of the palaces. The eighties was the decade when all that had changed, in fact. It was around the time Sholto Harvie had arrived. She remembered the old Deputy Surveyor of the Queen’s Pictures fondly. Such a forward-thinker and planner, after the disaster of Anthony Blunt, and such good company. He was an expert on Leonardo, and he’d taught her more about art in a week than his predecessors had in a lifetime. It was a shame he’d stayed for so short a tenure.
Anyway, the ‘ghastly little painting’ was on its way home at last – though she wondered what state it would be in when the navy finally let go of it. However, that still left the troubling question of how the picture had ended up in the office of a Whitehall civil servant in the first place, when it should have been rehung in its usual place in her bedroom suite in 1986, while she was on her way back from China. If six decades of reigning had taught the Queen anything, it was that it was often the small things one should worry about. Big problems were obvious, with ministers and courtiers falling over themselves to fix them. Small ones were often a sign that someone wasn’t paying attention. Had that happened in this case? If so, what else had they missed?
She was musing on this thought when Sir Simon came back to retrieve the boxes and discuss the royal diary for the day.
‘The President of Croatia will be accompanied by her husband.’ He glanced at his notes. ‘She’ll meet the Prime Minister in the afternoon, and no doubt Brexit will be on the agenda. The Prince of Wales and the Duchess of Cornwall met her seven months ago, and so I’m sure you’ll want to pass on their good wishes. I have a printed copy of the briefing notes for you here.’
He opened the slim leather folder he’d been carrying, looked horrified for an instant, recovered himself and said, ‘I’m so sorry, ma’am. I appear to have left them on my desk. I can just go and get them if you’d like me to—’
‘Are you all right, Simon?’
‘Yes, ma’am. Perfectly. Absolutely.’
‘You look distracted.’
‘Not at all, ma’am.’ He adjusted his tie, while she watched him silently. ‘If you mean the incident in the pool, I can assure you, ma’am, I’m perfectly recovered.’
He was ‘ma’aming’ her like mad. He often did that when something was bothering him. He had seemed to recover well after finding the body last week, as she would have expected from a former naval officer, but perhaps she was wrong. ‘Are you sure?’
The piercing blue gaze made him stiffen with alarm. Sir Simon was not, it was true, feeling at his best. Normally he would have brazened it out, but he was appalled at the idea that the Boss should think he couldn’t handle the sight of a dead woman in a congealed puddle of her own blood. He was terribly sorry about the whole thing, of course, but absolutely fine. The problem was Rozie, and though the Queen seemed to be developing quite a bond with her and this would not go down well, he might as well be honest.
‘Just a few little wrinkles with the APS. I’m sure she’ll learn, but she’s created some local difficulties recently. We’re sorting them out. It’s all—’
Under control, the Queen thought, a microsecond before he said it. Yes, it would be.
‘Oh dear,’ she said. ‘Nothing I can help with?’
‘Nothing at all, ma’am.’
It would be the chief inspector’s arrival, the Queen reflected. The Master was probably ranting in his office even as they spoke. Poor Rozie: she had merely done as requested, in explaining about the letters. Sir Simon had confused ideas about where the young woman’s loyalties lay.