The Windsor Knot
- Автор: Беннет Си Джей
- Серия: Her Majesty the Queen Investigates #1
- Год: 2021
- Язык: английский
- Год: William Morrow
- ISBN: 978-0-06-305002-0
- Жанр: Другие детективы
Электронная книга - «The Windsor Knot». Краткое содержание книги:
It is the early spring of 2016 and Queen Elizabeth is at Windsor Castle in advance of her 90th birthday celebrations. But the preparations are interrupted when a guest is found dead in one of the Castle bedrooms. The scene suggests the young Russian pianist strangled himself, but a badly tied knot leads MI5 to suspect foul play was involved. The Queen leaves the investigation to the professionals—until their suspicions point them in the wrong direction.
Unhappy at the mishandling of the case and concerned for her staff’s morale, the monarch decides to discreetly take matters into her own hands. With help from her Assistant Private Secretary, Rozie Oshodi, a British Nigerian and recent officer in the Royal Horse Artillery, the Queen secretly begins making inquiries. As she carries out her royal duties with her usual aplomb, no one in the Royal Household, the government, or the public knows that the resolute Elizabeth will use her keen eye, quick mind, and steady nerve to bring a murderer to justice.
SJ Bennett captures Queen Elizabeth’s voice with skill, nuance, wit, and genuine charm in this imaginative and engaging mystery that portrays Her Majesty as she’s rarely seen: kind yet worldly, decisive, shrewd, and most importantly a great judge of character.
“I didn’t sleep,” Masha muttered huskily. Several heads swiveled to look at her, except her husband, who frowned into his juice. “I was thinking all night about the beauty, the music, the . . . сказка . . . How do you say in English?”
“The fairy tale,” the ambassador murmured from across the table, with a crack in his voice.
“Yes, the fairy tale. Isn’t it? Just like being in Disney! But classy.” She paused. This had not come out as she intended. Her English held her back, but she hoped her enthusiasm carried her through. “You are lucky.” She turned to the racing manager. “You come here often, yes?”
He grinned, as if she had made a joke. “Absolutely.”
Before she could investigate the cause of his amusement, a new footman, resplendent in a red waistcoat and black tailcoat, walked up to her husband, bending to mutter something in his ear that Masha could not catch. Yuri flushed, pushed his chair back without a word, and followed him out of the room.
Looking back, Masha blamed herself for mentioning fairy tales. Somehow, this was all her fault. Because when you consider them, fairy tales always have dark forces at their heart. Evil lurks where we most desire it not to be, and evil often wins. How stupid she had been to think of Disney, when instead she should have remembered Baba Yaga in the forest.
We are never safe. No matter how many furs and diamonds we wrap ourselves in. And one day I shall be old and all alone.
2
“Simon?”
“Yes, ma’am?” The Queen’s private secretary, Sir Simon Holcroft, looked up from the paper agenda he was holding. The Queen was back from her ride and sitting at her desk, dressed in a grey tweed skirt and a favorite cashmere cardigan that brought out the blue in her eyes. Her private sitting room was a cozy space—for a Gothic castle—filled with sagging sofas and a lifetime of treasures and keepsakes. He liked it here. However, there was an edge to Her Majesty’s voice that made Sir Simon slightly nervous, though he fought not to show it.
“That young Russian. Was there something you didn’t tell me?”
“No, ma’am. The body is on its way to the morgue, I believe. On the twenty-second, the president intends to arrive by helicopter and we were wondering if you’d like to—”
“Don’t change the subject. You had a look on your face.”
“Ma’am?”
“When you broke the news earlier. You were trying to spare me. Don’t.”
Sir Simon swallowed. He knew exactly what he had been trying to spare his aged sovereign. But the Boss was the Boss. He coughed.
“He was naked, ma’am. When he was found.”
“Yes?” The Queen peered at him. She pictured a fit young man lying nude in bed under the covers. Why would this be unusual? Philip in his youth was known to spurn pajamas.
Sir Simon peered back. It took a while to realize she didn’t see this as odd. She needed more; he girded his loins.
“Um, naked, except for a purple dressing gown. By whose cord, most unfortunately . . .” He trailed off. He couldn’t do it. The woman would be ninety in a fortnight.
Her stare resolved sharply as she grasped his meaning.
“Do you mean to say, he was hanging by the cord?”
“Yes, ma’am. Most tragically. In a cupboard.”
“A cupboard?”
“Strictly speaking, a wardrobe.”
“Well.” There was a brief silence while they both tried to picture the scene and wished they hadn’t. “Who found him?” Her tone was brisk.
“One of the housekeepers. Someone noticed he wasn’t at breakfast and”—he paused fractionally, to remember the name—“Mrs. Cobbold went to check he was awake.”
“Is she all right?”
“No, ma’am. I believe counseling has been offered.”
“How extraordinary . . .” She was still picturing the discovery.
“Yes, ma’am. But by the look of it, accidental.”
“Oh?”
“The way he was . . . and the room.” Sir Simon coughed again.
“The way he was what, Simon? What about the room?”
He took a deep breath. “There were ladies’ . . . underwear. Lipstick.” He closed his eyes. “Tissues. It seems he was . . . experimenting. For pleasure. He probably didn’t mean to . . .”
By now he was puce. The Queen took pity. “How dreadful. And the police have been called?”
“Yes. The commissioner has promised absolute discretion.”
“Good. Have his parents been told?”
“I don’t know, ma’am,” Sir Simon said, making a note. “I’ll find out.”
“Thank you. Is that everything?”
“Almost. I’ve called a meeting this afternoon to contain publicity. Mrs. Cobbold has already been very understanding on that point. I’m quite certain we have her absolute loyalty and we’ll make it clear to the staff: no talking. We’ll need to tell the guests about the death—though obviously not the manner of it. Because Mr. Peyrovski brought Mr. Brodsky here last night, he has already been informed.”
“I see.”
Sir Simon stole another look at his agenda. “Now, there is the question of where exactly you wish to welcome the Obamas. . . .”
They returned to business as usual. It was all very unsettling, though.
To have happened here. At Windsor. In a cupboard. In a purple dressing gown.
She didn’t know if she felt more sorry for the castle or the man. It was much more tragic for the poor young pianist, obviously. But she knew the castle better. Knew it like a second skin. It was awful, awful. And after such a wonderful night.
It was the Queen’s habit to spend a month at the castle in spring, for the Easter Court. Away from the excessive formality of the palace, she could entertain in a more relaxed, informal style—which meant parties for twenty, instead of banquets for a hundred and sixty, and the chance to catch up with old friends. This particular dine and sleep, a week after Easter, had been somewhat hijacked by Charles, who wanted to use it to curry favor with some rich Russians for one of his pet projects that needed a cash injection.
Charles had requested the presence of Yuri Peyrovski and his preternaturally beautiful young wife, as well as a hedge fund manager called Jay Hax who specialized in Russian markets and was known for being crashingly dull. As a favor to her son the Queen agreed, though she had added a few suggestions of her own.
Sitting at her desk, she considered the guest list, where a copy still sat among her papers. Sir David Attenborough had been there, of course. He was always a delight, and one’s own age, which was rare these days. He had been very gloomy about the state of global warming, though. Oh dear. And her racing manager, who was staying for a few days and was never gloomy about anything much, thank goodness. They were joined by a novelist and her screenwriter husband, whose gentle, funny films were the epitome of Britishness. And there was the provost of Eton and his wife, who lived round the corner and were regular stalwarts.
For Charles’s sake she had included various people with Russian connections. The recently returned British ambassador to Moscow . . . the Oscar-winning actress of Russian descent, who was rightly famous for her embonpoint and acerbic tongue . . . Who else? Ah, yes, that star British female architect who was building a rather grand museum annex in Russia at the moment, and the professor of Russian literature and her husband (you could never assume the sex or sexuality of professors these days—as Philip had learned the hard way—but this was a woman, married to a man).