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?
Before retiring, briefly, to her private rooms, she’d observed the Household staff in action, moving furniture and bringing in glasses, setting up flowers and ensuring the lighting was right. She and Philip would greet the principal guests in the White Drawing Room before shaking hands with everyone else in the Picture Gallery and having a private word with a select few in the Ball Supper Room. Then it would be time to award the life-saving medals. She always enjoyed that moment, particularly having trained here for her own certificate. To know that someone was alive today because of something one of these brave souls had done . . . How splendid.
She needed to change and touch up her make-up first. If she was quick, she could sneak in a catch-up on the racing. But as she sat in her private sitting room, fiddling with the remote control for the small television in the corner, she found herself thinking of Cynthia Harris again. It was the life-saving that did it, of course. All those people one would celebrate tonight, and no one had been there for her.
The Queen had had no luck during her little tour of the Property, Operations and Accounts Departments yesterday. Almost everyone had said something, but no one had produced the distinctive voice she was sure she’d recognise: the one who had tasked Spike Milligan (she was certain of it) with getting Lorna Lobb to deliver the poison pen letters. It wasn’t Mick Clements, with whom she’d had a two-minute conversation. His voice was a bass, whereas the one she’d heard had been a tenor. She had hoped to listen to Eric Ferguson and a couple of the porters, but they weren’t there.
Meanwhile, Sholto Harvie’s reasons for wanting Cynthia dead were stronger than ever. That card from Helen Fisher had been remarkably informative. It was Cynthia who had found the Gentileschis – it must have been. Unearthing those paintings should have been the highlight of her life. Her career was on the brink of a major coup, and then . . . Sholto’s cruelty was worse than the Queen had imagined. She was appalled that Cynthia had been used in such a way by him.
What was it about the Surveyors of the Queen’s Pictures and their deputies? She felt certain that Sholto had killed Daniel Blake. Cynthia would have known the young conservator quite well, working alongside him at Stable Yard. She might have had light to shed on that subject, if asked. But Sholto couldn’t have killed her too.
Which left ‘Mr X’ from the Breakages Business. Rozie had established that four of the people on Billy MacLachlan’s list had been at the Palace that night, working hard to finish off the leak-induced refurbishment and prepare the state and semi-state rooms for the family’s return from Scotland. But why would one of them kill Mrs Harris, when it was Sholto who had the most to lose? If they were worried about Rozie finding out about the business in the course of her research, all they had to do was shut up the tunnel and lie low for a bit. Everyone would assume it was a historical scam, surely? And why had Sholto told Rozie about the business after all this time? He could have told someone at any point in thirty years.
There was a brief knock on the door and Philip put his head round.
‘Ready to go soon, Cabbage?’
He’d come up to get changed for the lifesavers too.
‘Quite soon. How was the lunch?’
‘Spot on. Many war stories told. We’d heard them all before, of course, but they bear repeating. D’you remember Sergeant Pun in Afghanistan, during the elections, who fought off thirty Taliban single-handed? Caught by surprise in an ambush on his post. He ended up throwing the machine gun tripod at one of ’em. We got a blow-by-blow account of it. Extraordinary fellow. Typical Gurkha. His grandfather won the Victoria Cross in Burma. Are you there? You look as if you’ve gone gaga.’
‘No. I’m quite all right. I just need to think for a minute.’
‘If you must. See you in your glad rags shortly. I’m off to have a bath.’
He left her to it, and she let her mind drift back to the walk in the garden with Rozie and MacLachlan. There had been a discussion of war stories and something had struck her at the time. What was it?
She thought of Mick Clements, who was certainly aggressive. Look at the way he had tried to intimidate Rozie in the cellars that night. He was rash and impulsive, barely in control of himself, Rozie had said. But whoever killed Cynthia – if indeed someone had – had done it subtly, with premeditation. It was a bit like the way the Breakages Business was run: criminal, but not too greedy. Always flying under the radar. Dangerous, but restrained. Not like Mick Clements at all.
According to MacLachlan, one or two people discussing Cynthia’s death over drinks after work had been ‘encyclopedic’ on the subject of battlefield injuries. Quick ways, slow ways . . . They could have been security officers, but not necessarily.
The knife on the note sent to Rozie had been quite specific. It was a type of commando knife the Queen recognised, used by the special forces. Not a kitchen knife, or a vague approximation, but an historic model that a military buff would know. So who had been talking in the pub? The same man who’d written those notes to Rozie, she felt sure.
Quick ways, slow ways . . . Perhaps that sort of man, he wouldn’t need much . . . He’d do it as a favour. Do it carefully, so as not to get caught.
And then it all fell into place.
If she was right, that sort of man might even have taken pleasure in doing damage. He was quite possibly the same sort of man who would put a filthy message on Mary van Renen’s bicycle, when no one was looking . . . just because he could. It would explain what happened to Mary and Rozie and even poor Mrs Baxter, whose suffering was just a distraction: the unnecessary cruelty, the instinct to hit where it hurt.
It wasn’t Mick Clements, who might have the interest but didn’t have the self-control. Not anyone she had spoken to yesterday, because none of them had the voice she remembered from the unfortunate episode in the attics. Someone made interesting, in fact, by his absence during her tour of the departments. Someone who took care to stay in the shadows.
But given the extreme nature of the act, when Cynthia’s death hit the news, why didn’t Sholto say something?
He had his own dirty secrets. There were the paintings. And the nobbled motorbike. Anyone who knew about the paintings would probably know about the bike.
The Queen reviewed what she knew and felt certain she had it now, but all of it was perhaps and assuming and probably. She wasn’t absolutely sure she had the right person. She ran back over the events once more in her mind, looking for something that would constitute proof of the kind the police would need.
There was nothing. She might still be wrong. She would have to tell Strong anyway. If she was right, this was as far as she could go. Also, if she was right, there was no limit to what this man might do.
There was a phone on the desk and this time she had no hesitation. She used it to ask the Palace operator for Rozie, who answered promptly.
‘Can I help, Your Majesty?’
‘Rozie, this has gone far enough. Please can you fit in an appointment for Chief Inspector Strong to see me as soon as possible? First thing tomorrow, ideally. Half an hour will do.’
‘Of course.’
‘Meanwhile, can you find out what has happened to Eric Ferguson? I’d like to be sure one knows where he is.’
‘I’ll get onto it now.’
‘Don’t, for God’s sake, go near him. Just his location – that’s all I need.’