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?
Driving west through the dark, she saw her London life come into sharper focus. There was a force at work in the Palace that was undermining the ‘happy ship’, as Sir Simon liked to call it, that she had joined. It was hard to pin down, but it manifested itself in dark looks and broken friendships, in cruel messages and damaged personal possessions. And even in death. In such an atmosphere, how could the housekeeper’s tragic fall possibly be accidental, as she’d just assured her sister?
The Boss had called in the police. She was worried too, but if she was trusting David Strong to find the answer, it meant she didn’t know where to look.
Rozie rolled her shoulders. For now, she was just glad to be away from it all for a while. Eventually the road sign she’d been waiting for showed up in the beam of her headlights: ROYAL WOOTTON BASSETT.
She turned off the motorway. The sign brought back a whole different set of memories. The last time she’d been here, she was in the back of a four-tonner and the town had been plain ‘Wootton Bassett’. At this time of night, for military personnel returning from active duty as she had been, the place was nothing special. But by day, when the dead from Afghanistan were transported in their flag-draped coffins from the military airfield at RAF Lyneham, the locals had turned out to pay their respects to each one. It must have been a strange sight. Hard not to be moved, and the Queen had granted the whole town the title ‘Royal’.
This was the first time Rozie had seen the words written down and they brought a lump to her throat. They brought back the banter in the back of the four-tonner on the way home from Helmand, and unspoken thoughts about families who’d be meeting up with someone who had changed in ways the mums and dads would never really know; other families who’d be meeting a coffin . . . friends you’d never see again.
She drove on. According to the satnav she’d arrive at Easton Grey at close to midnight. Sholto Harvie had promised her that it didn’t matter what time she got there. ‘If I’ve gone to bed, help yourself to whatever you can find in the kitchen. Your bedroom’s the first on the left at the top of the stairs. I’ll see you in the morning.’
She parked up at two minutes past twelve. An owl hooted as she unloaded her bags from the car. The key to the house was where he’d said it would be, under a box plant beside the front door marked The Old Haberdashery. She let herself in.
Chapter 13
In one of the staff kitchens at Buckingham Palace, a debate was taking place between two liveried footmen, who had recently come off duty, and a telephone operator and a security night-shift manager who were about to start. The topics of conversation were the same as they had been for a week: England’s chances in the World Cup, the Access Hollywood tapes, and the latest news regarding the body in the swimming pool.
‘Word has it,’ the junior footman said, casting his eye around his audience, ‘Sir Simon came out covered in blood – face, hands, the lot – and went straight to the Queen’s bedroom. She nearly had a heart attack.’
‘He fainted in her room. They had to shut it up,’ the telephone operator interjected.
‘What? The bedroom?’ the night-shift manager asked.
‘No, the faint. Nobody was supposed to know, but I heard it from one of the housekeepers.’
‘What was he doing in her bedroom?’
‘You’re over-exaggerating,’ the senior footman said, casting a withering look at his companions. ‘It’s all rumours. Fainting in her bedroom? Don’t be an arse. What you’ve got to ask yourself is: what was he doing in the pool?’
‘What d’you mean?’
‘When was the last time Sir Simon Holcroft went swimming? Tell me that.’
‘Don’t look at me. How would I know?’
‘Never. That’s when. That’s all I’m saying.’ The senior footman leaned back and folded his arms.
The operator wasn’t quite sure what his point was, but it certainly sounded suspicious, now you came to mention it.
‘What was she even doing there?’ the junior footman said into the ensuing silence.
‘Cynthia Harris?’ the night-shift manager queried. ‘That woman would get anywhere. Probably spying on someone. The family, I should think.’
‘She’d never do that. She had her nose so far up their—’
‘Spying on one of us, then,’ the operator speculated.
‘Maybe she had a secret drink habit. You heard they found her with a bottle of whisky?’ the night-shift manager said.
‘I heard it was gin,’ the junior footman added.
‘Did they?’
‘Serves her right, anyway,’ the senior footman concluded. ‘The manky witch.’
‘All the same,’ the night-shift manager said – and this was something he was certain of, because he’d seen it with his own eyes – ‘she was lying there all night, they said. You can still see the stain on the grouting, if you look.’
Rozie awoke to the smell of fresh coffee and the sound of virtuoso piano coming from downstairs. Eyes closed, she took a moment to remember where she was. Ah yes, a strange man’s house in the countryside. All alone. In a very comfortable bed, to be fair, with smooth linen, soft pillows and a duvet light as air that enveloped her in a warm cloud of goose down. The room also smelled fantastic. Was it spices or woodsmoke behind that coffee aroma? She wasn’t quite sure, but it was gorgeous. She just wanted to lie there forever, but the strange man would probably think that was rude. Reluctantly, she got up. There was a vintage green kimono hanging on the back of the bedroom door. She ran her hands over her very short hair (her mother was always telling her to grow it), slipped the kimono over her T-shirt and shorts and padded downstairs barefoot to say hello.
‘Ah, you must be Rozie.’
The man at the ancient Aga was rotund, with swept-back hair and an easy, soft-lipped smile. He wore a striped cook’s apron over French-blue cotton trousers and a crisp cotton shirt. Rozie was grateful for the kimono: it looked as though she’d made more of an effort than she had.
‘And you’re Sholto. Hi. Thank you for having me.’
‘Not at all. So glad you made it safely. Was it easy to find?’
‘It was, with your instructions.’
He smiled. ‘Now, what can I get you? Coffee? Orange juice, eggs, sausages? What does your heart desire? I should say, the eggs are fresh this morning, from next door’s chickens. The bread is yesterday’s, but it’s a good loaf – I pride myself on my sourdough. If you need to freshen the juice with some fizz, there’s a bottle in the fridge.’
She laughed. ‘No, really. I couldn’t. Coffee’s fine.’
He made a slight moue, but set about filling the base of a basic-looking steel pot with water from the tap. She watched as he added grounds to a middle section, screwed on an upper part and set it to heat on the stove. Meanwhile, she found she had sat herself at a stool at the kitchen island between them, where a couple of bowls of fresh berries were temptingly to hand. Sholto turned to say something, but instead murmured, ‘I thought so,’ and walked over to a fridge, from which he extracted champagne and sausages. Rozie was about to demur again, but realised she’d eaten half the strawberries and made a serious dent in the raspberries too. She was hungrier than she’d thought.