A Three Dog Problem

‘But Grampa—?’

Already, he was gone. Betsy would tell her parents that Grampa Billy had said the Queen of England had called again, and they would laugh and explain that that was Grampa’s little joke, because he used to work for her a long time ago. They probably suspected that this was really his code for problems with his waterworks, or maybe a secret girlfriend – who, frankly, he would be perfectly entitled to since Grandma Deidre died twenty years ago. MacLachlan didn’t really care what they thought, as long as it was not the suspicion that he might be telling his granddaughter the truth. Anyway, it wasn’t the Queen of England exactly: it was ‘Queen of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland, and of her other Realms and Territories, Head of the Commonwealth, Defender of the Faith’. He had used a kind of shorthand: synecdoche – the part for the whole.

‘Yes, Your Majesty?’

‘I hope I’m not disturbing you this evening?’

‘I was just talking to my second-favourite Elizabeth, ma’am.’ This wasn’t entirely true – Betsy was the light of his life – but Disraeli said that when talking to royalty, flattery should be laid on with a trowel. ‘What can I do for you?’

This time it was the Queen’s turn to tell him a story. It started with some forgotten paintings found in storage at another royal palace, and ended with the body in the Buckingham Palace pool last month, which he had always thought extremely fishy, despite what the media said.

It was only a few months ago that he and the Boss had discussed another murder. After working as her protection officer, he’d risen through the ranks to chief inspector, built up a tidy pension and retired to the genteel borough of Richmond, where he was bored witless and grateful for any opportunity to stretch his brain beyond the Times crossword and the Polygon. The Queen turned to him every now and again. It was always on the QT and he was glad when she did.

‘So if I’ve got this right, four paintings were discovered, but they weren’t by the artist everyone hoped they were.’

‘Exactly. It looked as though they must have been copied from the originals. It was quite a common practice in the seventeenth century, I was told. They were quite well done, but once they were cleaned up, they weren’t nearly as impressive as we all at first thought.’

‘And you say a curator was injured, ma’am. Is that where you’d like me to start?’

‘Yes, please. It was in the mid-nineteen eighties. I don’t remember the year precisely, but I’m sure the Royal Collection Trust will be able to tell you exactly when the paintings were discovered, and it was a few weeks after that.’

‘Can’t Rozie help?’ He wasn’t trying to be difficult, but he knew the Queen’s APS had done sterling work last time and was surprised she wasn’t better suited to this particular task, being on-site, so to speak.

‘I fear she might have disturbed a hornet’s nest already. As I say, she was talking to the Surveyor shortly before Mrs Harris died. If it was someone there that she alerted . . .’

‘I get it, ma’am. New face, different story.’

‘Yes. But I don’t know how you’ll do it.’

‘Nor do I, ma’am. That’s the fun of it. I’ll let you know as soon as I’ve found anything. Actually, I’ve got a few mates from my old days working in your service. I can ask around. I don’t think it’ll be a problem.’

‘And there’s one other thing.’

She asked him to look into the recent whereabouts of an ex-staff member of hers. After he put the phone down, he went over to his drinks cabinet and poured himself two fingers of Johnnie Walker Red Label. Then he sat for an hour with his laptop and a notebook and pen, researching, writing, thinking. He hadn’t felt this energised for weeks.

Maybe she and Betsy were his joint-favourite Elizabeths. Was that really bad? One was named after the other, so perhaps that made it OK.