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?
‘Oh, I’m sorry!’
‘Not at all, I bought them specially for you. Now, please don’t offer to help, because I don’t need it and I hate it. Just relax. I’ll be with you presently.’
She rested her elbows on the island and watched as he worked. Sausages were put in a pan to sizzle, bread was carved and oranges pressed to make fresh juice. He seemed to move in a little dance to the piano music coming from a speaker on a nearby worktop, his movements practised and fluid, humming as he went.
‘Who’s this?’ she asked. ‘The composer?’
‘Mmmm? Chopin. Played by Horowitz. Perfect for a Sunday morning. One, two, three . . . And!’
She thought he was counting to the music, but as soon as he said ‘And’, the little steel pot on the Aga started to bubble fiercely. Steam emerged energetically from its spout. Sholto watched it for a moment or two, conducting to the music with a wooden spoon he happened to be holding, then whisked it off and poured thick, dark coffee into a couple of waiting porcelain cups.
‘Enough for us both,’ he said. ‘I’ve already had my first, but the day doesn’t really start until the second. Chin-chin.’
He had heated some milk in a tiny copper pan and poured it into their cups. The resulting blend was the most delicious thing she had ever tasted. He waved a hand. ‘It’s the only way to make it. I learned in Florence, years ago. I’ll teach you before you go.’
‘Yes please.’
Rozie was starting to realise that this was not a work weekend to endure, but a masterclass in good living. Anything Sholto Harvie wanted to teach her was something she’d be happy to learn.
While he cooked the eggs and sausages, she took the chance to look around properly. The kitchen was large and square, with stone-framed windows overlooking a courtyard garden through a curtain of honeysuckle. Old oak beams were hung with copper pots and sheaves of lavender. Cream-painted cabinets displayed mismatched china, artfully arranged, and an open door led to a neatly stocked larder. This was a cook’s kitchen, full of well-used implements, but an artist’s space too. No doubt the lustrous green platter of fresh lemons in the corner would be useful if you wanted to make lemonade, but its principal job was simply to look fantastic, which it did.
Rozie very, very much wanted all of it, just as it was, for herself. She hoped it didn’t show.
‘Here we are. Let me know if you want brown sauce or ketchup. Bon appetit.’
Sholto served her where she sat. The smell of fresh-cooked sausages was only beaten by the tingle of champagne and orange juice on her tongue. The room by now resounded with the orchestral crescendo of Gershwin’s Rhapsody in Blue, which she had loved since uni.
If he’s awful, she thought, remembering Lulu, he’s my kind of awful.
‘Now, tell me all about you,’ Sholto said. ‘You must have led a fascinating life to be working so closely with Her Majesty. I want to know every little thing.’
They spent the day in conversation, doing some light gardening in the courtyard and cooking together in the evening, where Sholto allowed Rozie to prepare a salad while he put the finishing touches to a casserole.
Sholto had been surprised when she called, out of the blue, and a little nervous about entertaining her, but it was really very pleasant to remember his time working for the Boss. It was a privilege that few get to experience – a bit like going into space. They had formed a connection back then, he thought, he and the Queen. He was touched to think she must have thought so too. Rozie, he could tell, had also fallen under the Boss’s spell. It was easily done. He was a little jealous of the girl right now, if he was being honest with himself.
She had been fascinating on the subject of her childhood in Notting Hill, and her rather brilliant – though she was reluctant to share details – army career. All very impressive. Now it was her turn to ask about his time in as Deputy Surveyor. She’d asked about the summer of a particular year, but he wasn’t sure what he’d be able to tell her. However, he could give her a flavour.
‘London in the eighties. I can’t tell you how glamorous it was. Were you born then, Rozie?’
‘In 1986.’
‘Oh, just the time we’re talking about! Where?’
‘In Kensington.’
‘That’s where I lived, in Kensington Palace. Don’t laugh at me – lots of us did. I had a little flat at the back. It was fantastic. It was the days of Charles and Di, when it was all starting to go pear-shaped, of course, but hardly anybody knew. He used to weekend round here; Highgrove’s just up the road. She’d stay in town with the boys. I used to see Diana at KP all the time. Cigarette pants and fluffy jumpers, great ankles, great hair. She had the dirtiest, sweetest smile from under that blonde mop. “How are you doing, Sholto?” She always gave the impression she thought – hoped, even – you were up to no good. I only wish I was.’ He sounded wistful.
‘What was your job, exactly?’
‘I didn’t have a job exactly.’ He took a swig of wine and poured some into the casserole. ‘I mean, I had a job, but it wasn’t exact. The Surveyor’s department was terribly old-fashioned then. It was all very serious art history, don’t you know, like it was some sort of Oxford college, or the Courtauld. But we had this fabulous collection, and people needed to know about it and see it. The people, I mean. Everyone, not just us courtiers. It needed cleaning and cataloguing properly and . . . Oh, we were very busy. We made it up as we went along, but we were very good.’
‘I don’t think they do that now. Make it up, I mean.’
‘Oh no, they don’t!’ He laughed. ‘There’s an army of them now at the RCT – it’s a Trust now, of course – hundreds of ’em. You lose track. All those job titles! We were only a dozen or so. We had more of a free hand . . .’ He paused and Rozie looked up. She must have seen the bittersweet look on his face. ‘I helped to set up the conservation department. Probably the most important thing I did.’
They ate at a round table draped in a vintage tapestry. He explained that the ‘cottage’ was in fact an old haberdashery, converted from a shop a hundred years ago. Sholto watched Rozie drinking in what he’d done with the place, seeing what she could learn. In this room, an antique Venetian mirror above the mantel was flanked by symmetrical collections of modern porcelain and vintage glass. Elsewhere, he was more abandoned in his taste. There were paintings wherever the bookshelves allowed: oils and watercolours, old and new, in a wide variety of frames, hung from floor to ceiling in unpredictable patterns. He was convinced that in a few years’ time, when she could afford it, she’d do the same.
Once they’d finished their casserole, and the claret, and the cheese she’d so kindly brought from Fortnum’s, they took their drinks into the sitting room. Rozie curled her feet under her on one of the sofas. He asked what she was thinking about.
‘I was thinking how comfortable this room is. And wondering who painted that picture of trees on the stairs near my room, whose signature looks like Cézanne. And why you left London, if you loved it so much.’
He drummed his fingers against his glass for a while, reflecting.
‘Well, it took me twenty years to get this room right, but thank you for noticing. The rug was lugged back from Kathmandu, for example. My wife had some rather nice furniture.’