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?
It wouldn’t be used any more, the Queen reflected. After a shock like that, they would shut it down immediately. Even now, there would probably be no evidence at either end that it had been in service. Doors would be properly bolted; dust applied to surfaces; duckboards spirited away. Nevertheless, she mentioned casually to Philip that Rozie had been down there and it had reminded her to wonder when was the last time they had done a health and safety inspection? Philip wasn’t sure, but said she was damn right to think about it, and he’d bloody well ask. It had been years since anyone checked, as far as he knew.
As she changed into a silk dress for the investiture, the Queen wondered what exactly Sholto Harvie had been thinking when he gave Rozie the tip-off about the Breakages Business. Should one be grateful? She had the strongest sense that he did it because he had something to hide. And yet, try as she might, she couldn’t make an adequate connection from that to the Gentileschis, to the notes to Mary van Renen, for example, and the body in the swimming pool. She felt certain a clue lay in Cynthia Harris’s former life. Chief Inspector Strong’s report on that was due imminently. Perhaps it would contain enough for her to take decisive action against Clements and whoever he was in cahoots with. She very much hoped so, because Rozie’s underground escapades had exposed her to potential danger. The girl could look after herself, but one didn’t like to think this was something she would need to do.
She was too busy to give it much further thought. After the investiture and various meetings with ambassadors and officials, there was a reception to attend in Cheyne Walk, beside the river in Chelsea, to celebrate Co-operation in Ireland. Her visit in the summer had been deemed a big success. It had been a diplomatic skating pond: how does one greet former terrorists, and indeed, how do they greet a reigning monarch? But everyone had got through it, and it had felt like the positive contribution to history she wanted it to be.
She had been very aware, back in June, that she was treading a path of peace and reconciliation that had been laid by many others before her. So many of them women, she reflected now – with a woman on the brink of becoming the most powerful person in the world. Mothers, daughters, sisters had joined forces in Northern Ireland to condemn the violence and find another way. The stop-start process had been helped from the British side by another renegade woman. The Secretary of State for Northern Ireland at the time, Mo Mowlam, had been a brave and charismatic campaigner too. She died of a brain tumour a few years later and the Queen still missed her. This was the Labour MP who had called for Buckingham Palace to be pulled down and replaced with something more modern. They had joked about it, the two of them.
‘There are times,’ the Queen had admitted, ‘when the soup is perfectly cold and the bill for new carpets arrives, that I don’t disagree with you.’
‘See?’ Mo said, ‘I’d be doing you a favour.’
Now, in a shimmering pink suit, with Philip at her side, the Queen entered the building beside the Thames that had once been home to Thomas More, transplanted brick by brick and stone by stone from one side of London to the other by someone with a greater love of history than common sense. Inside, among canapés and Tudor panelling, the mood was jolly.
The highlight of the reception was the unveiling of a portrait she had sat for in May, commissioned by the charity. After one ninety-minute sitting she had expected something small and neat. Instead, the canvas hiding behind the glossy purple satin curtain was as tall as she was – taller, in fact, balanced on its little stand. She hoped it wasn’t ghastly. Standing so close, Philip would find it hard to restrain himself and now was not the time. Everyone clustered around and she was handed the rope attached to the curtain. Making sure to hide any hint of anxiety, she pulled and the curtain fell.
There were smiles, a couple of cheers, a ripple of applause. She stared hard at the pink and turquoise canvas and breathed a secret sigh of relief.
‘I think it’s got all your wrinkles,’ Philip observed with a snort.
She stood back a little, to get a better view. It was true. Her face was the size of a horse blanket, with every crease and fold acquired over ninety years unflinchingly portrayed. But one was wrinkled – what was the point of denying it? The artist had caught the hair, which was never easy, and done a decent job with the jewellery. Best of all were the mouth and the eyes. She was almost smiling, but not quite. She looked quite wise in it, she thought, rather liking it. She would have liked it even more if he could have made it three foot tall instead of five.
The artist moved towards her.
‘What do you think, Your Majesty?’
‘It’s very big, isn’t it?’ she remarked.
‘They pay by the yard,’ he said, which made her laugh. ‘I like to think it looks as if you’re still talking to me.’
‘It does, a bit. Did I talk a lot?’
‘Oh, just the right amount, ma’am.’
He was being diplomatic. She remembered having a long, wide-ranging conversation while he worked. But the more she looked, the more satisfied she was, especially considering some of the horrors she’d unveiled in her time. He had captured something very few artists managed, which was a sense that she was reflecting on more than the act of being captured on canvas, or being Queen. In fact, she was rarely thinking about either. There was so much to absorb her attention. She was glad that future generations might get a glimpse of her actively contemplating a world beyond one’s own.
Chapter 35
It had been a long day.
The Queen woke up to the news that Hillary Clinton, poised to celebrate her victory under the largest glass ceiling in Manhattan, had admitted defeat and that a rather stunned Donald Trump had been voted in as the forty-fifth president of the United States of America. Which was not quite what one had been led to expect. Not only that, but Harry had thought to put out a press release – in the form of a tweet, God help him – asking for his new girlfriend’s privacy to be respected by the media. One sympathised, of course one did, but it never paid to take the press on at their own game. They always won. It was only a matter of time.
Philip had a lot to say on both subjects at breakfast.
‘Bloody fool.’ This in relation to his grandson. ‘What is it that model said? The Moss girl. Could have been about you, I always thought. Never something, always something. No, I’ve got it: Never complain, never explain. She could teach the lad a thing or two.’
Everyone would have a lot to say. But with decades of practice – like Kate Moss, who was a friend of Eugenie’s, the Queen seemed to remember – she herself would be sphinx-like and inscrutable. She was not her grandson – and in her experience, anything one said would inevitably be leaped on, taken out of context and almost deliberately misunderstood. Silence was the only safe option. Or rather, saying nothing worth repeating. Unlike her husband, who didn’t always practise what he preached.
Luckily, Philip was soon distracted. They went to open the new Francis Crick Institute in King’s Cross and he was in his element, talking about science. They were given a rather fascinating little lecture about the flu. Quite terrifying, these viruses, if unchecked – and how wonderful to have places like the Institute to stay on top of them. Then there had been the weekly audience with the Prime Minister. Mrs May was already keen to build relations with the new leader of the free world and wondering about booking in a state visit. The Queen observed that it was normally a couple of years before such things were put into the calendar and asked the PM to take it up with Sir Simon. One didn’t want to look too keen. If they weren’t careful, the UK might seem rather desperate, which wasn’t the impression one wanted to give at all.