A Three Dog Problem

Somehow, in the strange way that meditative walking sometimes did, this suggested a different way to attack the problem. Turn it around. If she couldn’t persuade herself that Mrs Harris was murdered, she should try and convince herself that she wasn’t.

Very well. The Queen strode with more purpose now, counting off the arguments for an accident. First of all, Cynthia herself. It seemed unlikely that the housekeeper would have gone to the pool at night merely on the off-chance of clearing something up – but if anyone was going to behave in an odd, excessively conscientious way, it would be Cynthia. Second, it was perfectly possible she had not been killed by a poison pen letter-writer, because Lady Caroline’s theory about her writing to herself was quite compelling. Especially if there was something in her past that had made her unhappy. That was in the hands of Chief Inspector Strong now. And the stalker? The Queen was sure that was a separate business regarding Mary van Renen, and possibly Rozie. It hadn’t led to violence – yet. Thank God.

What about the Operations Team, who never mentioned Cynthia to Rozie? That was odd. Was it possible that none of them knew the history of the housekeeper – unpopular as she was – who came from the Royal Collection and used to work there when it was the Works Department, years ago? Cynthia had even been engaged to the manager, apparently. But ‘apparently’ wasn’t good enough. Perhaps the engagement was idle speculation, or a false memory. In the Queen’s experience, the Household loved nothing more than passing down Palace lore from generation to generation, but it was also possible that some details would be changed or forgotten over time. Cynthia herself might have been glad of it. Yes, she could accept the idea of collective amnesia about the housekeeper’s history, if she had to. And anyway, even if the Breakages Business was still running, and Cynthia knew about it, and Rozie was onto it, she was back to her first question: who would commit murder for the sake of a few gifts and bits of furniture that nobody had missed?

Vulcan appeared from the bushes with a disgusting tennis ball that must have been last used on a dog walk in the summer. It was green with slime, and slobbery. She told him to get rid of it and glanced to her left, where the lake was now fully visible through the trees.

What about Sholto Harvie? If Strong’s research was correct – and Rozie could check it for her – Sholto and Cynthia must have worked together closely in the mid-nineteen eighties. Was he being polite when he didn’t discuss Cynthia’s death with Rozie, beyond acknowledging that he knew she was dead? The Queen strode on, trying to fit the psychology to an innocent explanation. She remembered vividly how much he’d loved his job as Deputy Surveyor. She didn’t remember Cynthia being his assistant, but it was quite possible she simply hadn’t known.

From what Rozie had said, Sholto still thought of those days with immense fondness. It was such a pity he had left so soon. He had the makings of an excellent curator and art historian, and he was popular with the other staff at the Royal Collection. She had half expected him to run the department one day. No, it was not obvious to her why a man like Sholto would have lost interest in someone he’d been close to in those days that were so special to him. He had only been there a few years, and Cynthia must have been his assistant for at least two of them. One couldn’t help wondering why on earth she had left. And for a job that was much more menial.

The Queen slowed down and looked back at the shadowy grey-brown outline of the Palace emerging through the trees. It was so richly full of history – even if bits of it were practically falling down. The first-floor rooms had played host to a major statesman last night. They were lined with historic art and treasures that might be worth killing for, perhaps, if you were that way inclined. Sholto, indeed, had been partly in charge of looking after those treasures. But that’s not what Rozie had been asking about when she went to stay. Anyway, Sholto had been helpful. Even if he didn’t know what had happened to the ‘ghastly little painting’, he had given them the Breakages Business. She was back where she started.

Except . . .

What if it wasn’t that at all? Sholto had brought the Breakages Business up, but she began to wonder if it had been a screen for something else. In that case, the question was – what? This was all about Cynthia Harris in the end. What else could Cynthia have known about?

Picking up the pace of her walk again, the Queen cast her mind back furiously over those happy years when she had consulted him about her art collection. Try as she might, she didn’t remember anything of major interest going missing. Nothing she hadn’t subsequently resolved, anyway. There were only the Thingummies, and they were the opposite, really: they were found.