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?
Philip stared pointedly at the editorial page of his paper and grunted, ‘That makes sense. For a yacht.’
‘You don’t understand. I was launching the navy’s new digital strategy and they’d put up a few paintings in the lobby.’ The digital strategy was a complicated business, bringing the Royal Navy up to date with the latest technology; the art exhibition had been more straightforward. ‘Mostly grey things of battleships. A J-Class yacht in full sail at Southampton, because there’s always one. And next to it, our Britannia, from ’63.’
‘How d’you know it was ours?’ He still didn’t look up.
‘Because it was that one,’ the Queen said sharply, feeling suddenly and vertiginously sad at his lack of interest. ‘I know my own paintings.’
‘I’m sure you do. All seven thousand of ’em. Well, tell the staff johnnies to hand it over.’
‘I have.’
‘Good.’
The Queen sensed that the Daily Telegraph article was probably about Brexit, hence her husband’s more than usually prickly mood. Cameron gone. The party in disarray. The whole thing so fiendishly botched . . . A single painting by an unremarkable artist, presented long before Britain joined the Common Market, was hardly important. She glanced up at the landscapes by Stubbs, with their wonderful horses, that adorned the walls of the private dining room at the Palace. Philip himself had depicted her here, reading the paper, many years ago. And he had done it better, one could argue, than the man who had painted Britannia. But that picture had once been very precious to her.
It had become a favourite in ways she had never shared with anyone. She intended to get it back.
A couple of hours later, Rozie Oshodi arrived at the Queen’s study in the North Wing to collect the morning’s red boxes containing Her Majesty’s official papers. Rozie had joined as the Queen’s Assistant Private Secretary a few months ago, after a short career in the army and then at a private bank. She was still relatively young for the role, but so far had performed admirably, including – and perhaps especially – in the more unconventional aspects of it.
‘Any news?’ the Queen asked, looking up from the final paper in the pile.
Yesterday, Rozie had been tasked with finding out how the painting of the ex-royal yacht had ended up where it was and organising its swift return.
‘Yes, ma’am, but it’s not good.’
‘Oh?’ This was a surprise.
‘I spoke to the facilities manager at the naval base,’ Rozie explained, ‘and he tells me it’s a case of mistaken identity. The artist must have painted more than one version of Britannia in Australia. This one was lent to the exhibition by the Second Sea Lord. There’s no plaque on it or anything. It’s from the Ministry of Defence’s collection and it’s been hanging in his office for years.’
The Queen eyed her APS thoughtfully through her bifocals.
‘Has it? The last time I saw it was in the nineteen nineties.’
‘Ma’am?’
There was a belligerent glimmer behind the royal spectacles. ‘The Second Sea Lord doesn’t have another version. He has mine. In a different frame. And he’s had it for a long time, you now tell me.’
‘Ah . . . yes. I see.’ From the look on her face, it was clear that Rozie didn’t.
‘Go back and find out what’s going on, would you?’
‘Of course, ma’am.’
The Queen blotted her signature on the paper on her desk and put it back in its box. Her APS picked up the pile and left her to ponder.
Chapter 2
‘This place is a deathtrap.’
‘Oh, come on, James. You’re exaggerating.’
‘I am not.’ The Keeper of the Privy Purse glower-ed at the Private Secretary across the latter’s antique office desk. ‘Do you know how much vulcanised rubber they’ve discovered?’
‘I don’t even know what that is.’ Sir Simon’s raised left eyebrow managed to convey curiosity and amusement. As Private Secretary, he was responsible for managing the Queen’s official visits and relations with the Government, but he ended up taking an interest in everything that might affect her. And the deathtrap status or otherwise of Buckingham Palace most definitely fell into that category.
His visitor, Sir James Ellington, was in charge of the royal finances. He had worked with Sir Simon for years, and it wasn’t unusual for him to make the brisk ten-minute walk from his desk high up in the South Wing to Sir Simon’s spacious, high-ceilinged ground-floor office in the North Wing, so he could complain about the latest fiasco. Behind every stiff upper lip lies an Englishman bursting to share his withering irritation in private. Sir Simon noticed that his friend was unusually exercised about the vulcanised rubber, though. Whatever it was.
‘You treat rubber with sulphur to harden it,’ Sir James explained, ‘and use it to make cable casings. At least, they did fifty years ago. It does the job, but over time it degrades, with exposure to air and light, and so on. It becomes brittle.’
‘A bit like you, this morning,’ Sir Simon observed.
‘Don’t. You have no idea.’
‘And so . . . What’s the problem with our brittle, vulcanised rubber?’
‘It’s falling apart. The cables should have been replaced decades ago. We knew it was bad, but when we had that leak in the attics last month, they discovered a nest of the blasted things that practically disintegrated on contact. It means the electrics around the building are being held together by a wing and a prayer. A hundred miles of them. One dodgy connection and . . . pffft.’ Sir James made a gesture with his elegant right hand to suggest smoke, or a minor explosion.
Sir Simon briefly closed his eyes. It wasn’t as if they didn’t know the dangers of fire. The Windsor Castle disaster in ’92 had taken five years and several million pounds to put right. They had opened Buckingham Palace to the public each summer to help pay for the repairs. Unfortunately, when they’d done a survey of this place, to be on the safe side, they discovered it was even more hazardous. Plans to fix it were under way, but they kept discovering complications.
‘So what do we do?’ he asked. ‘Move her out?’
No need to specify who may or may not need to move.
‘We probably should, pronto. She won’t want to go, of course.’
‘Naturally.’
‘We ran the idea up the flagpole last year and she didn’t exactly salute,’ Sir James mused, glumly. ‘I don’t blame her. If she did go, it would have to be to Windsor, so she could keep up her schedule, and we’d clog up the M4 with ambassadors and ministers and garden party guests zipping up and down. The castle itself would need to be reconfigured to cope. She’ll soldier on as is, if she possibly can. If it ain’t broke . . .’
‘But it is broke, you say,’ Sir Simon pointed out.
Sir James sighed. ‘It is, as you rightly remind me, broke.’ He raised his eyes heavenwards. ‘Buckingham Palace is broken. If it were a terraced house in Birmingham the experts would stick a notice on the front door and forbid the family to return until it was fixed. But it’s a working palace, so we can’t. We were just finalising the Reservicing Programme to work around her – this will add another million or two, no doubt. Oh, and I almost forgot: you know Mary, my secretary? The efficient one who always answers emails on time and knows everything in the Reservicing planning agenda and is a bit of a genius?’
‘Yes?’
‘She’s just handed in her notice. I didn’t hear all the details, but she was in floods of tears this morning. So—’