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?
Standing here, in the rippling light, with the hum of the filter and the sloshes and plops of little waves, the Queen was aware that these were the last sights and sounds Cynthia had known before she lost consciousness. She felt the housekeeper’s presence, or rather her absence, very keenly.
Memories came back to her in quick succession: the swish of chic, bobbed hair, once almost black, now faded to almost white; the harmonious composition of any room whenever she had finished with it, which nobody else could match; the flash of joy on her face – fully explained now – when a painting had been reframed at her suggestion and they had jointly surveyed the happy result on a guest room wall.
The Queen felt a wave of sympathy for the woman. She was more convinced than ever of a different story to the one Sir Simon saw. This was not ‘difficult’. It was . . . there was a phrase for it. It was on the tip of her tongue. She called out to the footman:
‘What’s it called when an employer makes your job so unpleasant that you can’t do it?’
He thought for a moment. ‘Constructive dismissal, ma’am.’
‘That’s it! Thank you.’
There had been times in her reign when it felt as if the tabloid press were trying to do as much to her. But she was a queen, and Cynthia Harris was a curator. So why not simply get a different curatorial job elsewhere? The woman described by Miss Fisher adored her work.
The Queen looked across to the spot where the body had lain. Instead of an embittered woman in late middle age, she saw the university graduate with no family support, who liked silent film stars and dreamed of rising up in the art world. She also saw the shadow of the young woman’s boss, Sholto. The Queen knew from her personal experience how charismatic he could be. If he had wanted to prevent Cynthia from getting another decent job, he could probably have done so. In the tight-knit London art world, the word of the Deputy Surveyor could make or break a young career.
Why would he want to break it?
It seemed harsh punishment if all he needed to do was get Cynthia out of the way while he had the fake Gentileschi copies made and spirited the four originals out of the building. She was increasingly certain that was what Sholto had done – rolling them up like carpets and simply driving them out of Stable Yard under everyone’s noses.
She parked the thought of his treatment of his assistant. Sholto had never struck her as remotely vicious or vindictive. But then, of course, he had never struck her as criminal either. Yet Daniel Blake, the young conservator he had hired, had died. One couldn’t put anything past him, however eloquent he was on the subject of Leonardo da Vinci.
With the dogs beside her, she walked along the pool’s edge to the patch of tiles where Mrs Harris had collapsed. Ignoring her protesting knee, she bent over to inspect the grouting. It was far from pristine after several years of wear, but it was impossible to make out specific stains any more. She assumed the Housekeeping team had been extra diligent with bleach. Still, the woman had bled to death here, all alone. The Queen said a little prayer for her, hoping she had lost consciousness quickly, at least, and had not been afraid.
Sholto Harvie’s shadow seemed to haunt this place. Everything came back to him. Every note reinforced her theory – and yet he had not done it. He was not here. He wasn’t even in the country. If he had wanted to create a perfect alibi, he couldn’t have done a better job.
The answer must lie in the Breakages Business – which Rozie had demonstrated so clearly was still going on. Who would have thought a chocolate bar wrapper would be such comprehensive proof of dark deeds underground?
That wrapper now sat in a sealed envelope (she hoped it was sealed) in Rozie’s desk, in case they needed it. Meanwhile, there was no easy proof that the tunnels had been used. As she expected, they had acted fast to hide all trace of that secret hinge, and she couldn’t move against them until she was sure of her ground. The question still remained: who were they, exactly?
She was working on it. Unless she found something soon, she would have to take her suspicions to the proper authorities.
They think it was an accident, she said to the rippling shade on the tiles in front of her. But her original presentiment remained, that even if Cynthia had died alone, the exsanguination had not begun that way.
Chapter 37
The following evening, Rozie felt much better. She was sitting in the billiards room of the Chelsea Arts Club, ignoring the half-hearted game going on nearby and focusing on the elegant woman who nursed a glass of champagne in front of her.
Rozie had heard stories of the Chelsea Arts Club. She knew of its famous balls and secret garden and had pictured something posh and well upholstered, like Claridge’s perhaps. But it turned out that artists didn’t want Michelin stars, marble floors and silk furnishings – they wanted (and could afford) cheap wine, café tables and somewhere friendly to relax. The white walls were hung with paintings for sale. The rabbit warren of little rooms was full of people in jeans, lounging in armchairs or laughing over candlelit dinners. Rozie’s host, Eleanor Walker, was one of the smartest people there.
Eleanor wore a silk shirt and lots of gold jewellery. She explained that a friend was a jewellery designer and ‘I simply love her stuff, can’t get enough of it’. There were rings on most of her fingers, her ears were adorned with punkish gold spikes, and three chunky necklaces were hung with charms. All of which surprised Rozie, because Eleanor was in her sixties. She had briefly been a model in her youth. That bit didn’t surprise Rozie at all.
They were here to talk about Sholto Harvie. Eleanor was Lavinia Hawthorne-Hopwood’s aunt, and the artist had cheerfully put Rozie in touch with her yesterday. ‘Oh God yes, she knows all about Sholto. Get her drunk. She’s great company. And she’ll love an evening out.’
They talked for ten minutes about the Palace and Rozie did her party trick of sounding entertaining while saying nothing of any value whatsoever. Eventually, she brought up the subject of the ex-Deputy Surveyor of the Queen’s Pictures. Her excuse was that she was helping to collect anecdotes for a book about the Royal Collection. Eleanor’s features re-arranged themselves from curious and delighted to something more wary and disdainful. They reminded Rozie of someone else for a minute, but she couldn’t think who.
‘Have you met Sholto?’ Eleanor asked.
‘Yes, I have,’ Rozie said. ‘I stayed with him, actually.’
‘You liked him?’
‘Very much.’
‘Of course you did!’ Eleanor’s smile was disarming, but knowing. ‘Everyone loves Sholto. He’s just so . . . lovable.’
‘Go on,’ Rozie said, cautiously. She sensed honesty and scorn. She wasn’t sure what to make of it.
Eleanor rested her chin in a cupped hand and gazed at the bubbles rising in her glass. ‘He’s cultivated that image since childhood. You see, Sholto loves things. Beautiful things. He adores them. He covets them and cares for them and obsesses over them. He always did, even as a child. His mother always used to tell a story that at seven, he knew how to tell marble from alabaster.’
‘Is there a difference?’
Eleanor laughed. ‘Lavinia could tell you. Anyway, his parents were moderately well off. They had enough money to send him to boarding school and of course, once he was at Shadwell’s he made sure to befriend anyone who had more than him. Sholto learned very fast that what rich people love, more than anything, is entertainment. Because, you see, they’re so terribly bored. If they’ve made the money, or inherited it, what else is there to do? So Sholto became the party piece, the clown. He knew everyone who mattered across three counties. He was a gossip and a flirt, especially with the mothers. They adored that, of course. He was witty and well read, could cook divinely and deworm a recalcitrant dog. By seventeen, he was the most wanted party guest in the South of England.’