A Three Dog Problem

Chapter 23

For years, it had been the Queen’s habit to take a few dogs for a walk in the grounds if she had a big problem to consider. Too many, and one ended up spending more time calling them to heel than thinking. Nowadays, she didn’t have the luxury of choice.

On her return to the Palace that afternoon, there was a small gap in her schedule before tea. She put her papers aside and checked the sky outside her window. It was grey and gloomy, with a likelihood of rain. No matter. She told her page to explain to anyone who asked that she was going out and she might be some time.

The dogs accompanied their mistress to the boot room, where she slipped into a raincoat, headscarf and sensible shoes before heading out into the garden. Candy and Vulcan’s dorgi ancestry resulted from an encounter years ago between her corgi, Tiny, and Margaret’s dachshund, Pipkin. Despite their stubby legs, these two were energetic creatures who appreciated the exercise. Willow, the corgi, did not look convinced she needed another walk after the one she’d had with a footman this morning, but she came along out of curiosity, if nothing else.

The cool, tangy air outside was an instant reminder that it was the first week of November, and winter was on its way. The Queen felt it prick her skin and catch in her throat. Ahead, the lawn stretched down towards the lake. Two weeks ago, with autumn at its height, the view had been awash with vibrant colour from the bright yellow ash, the flaming swamp cypresses and tawny horse chestnuts that flanked the lawn and encircled the water. Today, the trees were a patchwork of gold and brown, and the lawn was edged with flurries of fallen leaves. In the past, there would have been bonfires; now there were composters. Philip ensured they were all environmentally efficient, but she missed the smell of woodsmoke on the air.

She turned along the West Terrace, keeping the Palace to her right as she headed for the kissing plane trees. The dogs were already ahead of her; they knew this route. They padded along the path, sniffing the borders and pausing occasionally if she called. At the end of the terrace they trotted past the north-west pavilion, which Papa had converted into the pool. From here, it looked like a Greek temple with Georgian windows. The Queen looked up as she passed, considering its interior and the night the family got back from Balmoral.

‘What had happened to Mrs Harris, then?’ she asked the dogs, who were more inquisitive about what lay under the leaf piles than their mistress’s musings. She kept the rest of her thoughts to herself.

Why on earth would Cynthia Harris go there? The police were happy enough that she had done so alone, out of mere officiousness, or on a whim. She had arrived in her slippers, which were found in the ladies’ changing room, so it didn’t look like a romantic encounter – not that anyone had expected it to be. Outside, the grounds were full of hidden CCTV cameras that could be triggered by the slightest movement, all of which were working. No one had entered the Palace unofficially that night. If the housekeeper had met anyone, it was an insider. There were no signs of trauma on her body, other than the knock on the head and the cuts to the lower leg, no indication that she was hurt or forced.

Even the newspapers were happy: they had run dozens of articles about the dangers of cutting yourself on the ankle. In the absence of photographs, they had mocked up endless pictures of what Mrs Harris must have looked like, lying there, with images of crystal glasses of all shapes and sizes, and advice on where to procure similar items from Harrods and Thomas Goode.

Surprisingly, they never had picked up on the poison pen campaign. Their angle was that Mrs Harris was a tragic victim of cut crystal and bad luck – or possibly the lax habits of poor Beatrice and Eugenie, who were in fact several miles away at the time – so it didn’t fit that she might be unpopular. Simon had tried to explain this, but the Queen was quite aware of it already. She knew precisely how certain elements of the press decided their story first, then found the facts to fit. Her family had been at the receiving end of it all her life.

By now she had reached the plane trees planted by Victoria and Albert either side of the path, a hundred and fifty years ago. They arched above her, high into the sky, their spreading branches intertwining just as her great-great-grandparents must have planned. At this point she followed the path to the left, towards the rose garden. Was she stirring up trouble for nothing? What could she prove? Given all the trouble it would cause, why would she even want to try?