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?
‘I’ll be careful, I promise. Have a good evening.’
The Queen intended to. She felt much better now. She glanced at her watch. In forty-five minutes she would be appearing through the hidden doorway in the White Drawing Room, and there were a few miracles to perform with lipstick, powder, diamonds and curlers between now and then.
Rozie made a succession of phone calls, all of which were dead ends. Eric Ferguson hadn’t been at his desk for days, and he certainly wasn’t at the Palace, or his team’s second office in SJP. Sensing what the Boss might be thinking, she rang Mary van Renen’s family home in Shropshire, trying to keep any note of panic from her voice. She’s out, her mother said. You can try her mobile, but reception’s terrible in that place. Rozie asked what place and Mrs van Renen explained, rather excitedly, that Mary was on a date with a new man, someone she’d met in London, who was visiting the area and who between you and me, gave the strong impression he’d come up to see Mary specially. Isn’t that lovely?
Was it, Rozie wondered? Was it really? She felt sick.
Mary’s mother was right about the mobile reception in the restaurant. Or maybe the date was going well. Either way, Mary didn’t pick up, and the restaurant itself wasn’t answering their landline number. Rozie wrote a brief but urgent text, asking Mary to call.
Sitting at her desk, alone in her office, she racked her brains about where else to try. Then she remembered the little breeze block office in the cellars. There had been various drawers that she hadn’t had time to go through. She sensed that was where Mick Clements did his thinking. Perhaps Eric Ferguson did too. It was a very long shot, but she was really scared for Mary, and you never knew.
Chapter 42
It wasn’t yet seven o’clock and Sir Simon was preparing to knock off early for once. He wasn’t needed for the reception upstairs: that was the Master’s domain, and no doubt he had it under control. There was a drinks party at the In and Out club across the square from the Rag, and another at the Foreign Office on Whitehall, and Sir Simon was wondering whether he had time for both. His wife was deeply into a drama series on BBC One and it was the finale tonight, so she wouldn’t mind if he wasn’t back before eleven.
As usual, before tidying up for the night, he scrolled through various newsfeeds on his computer. There was more fallout from President-elect Trump’s decision to pull out of the Trans-Pacific Partnership. Definitely drinks at the Foreign Office: they’d all be apoplectic. More reports of Mr Trump’s meeting with the press, post-election, which according to his new spokeswoman was ‘very candid and very honest’, and according to the New York Post was ‘like a f–-ing firing squad’. Drinks at the club, then, too, where one of Sir Simon’s good friends had gone to the Economist after a short career in the navy. He’d have a thing or two to say.
He slipped on his coat and popped his head round Rozie’s door to see if she was still working, and to say goodbye.
She was in her office, but not at her desk. In fact, she was standing in the middle of the room, wearing her coat and her emergency trainers. She started guiltily.
‘Where on earth are you going?’
Rozie quickly recovered her composure. ‘Just downstairs. It’s nothing.’
‘It’s clearly not nothing.’ Sir Simon gestured at her jacket and shoes.
She hesitated for a fraction. ‘It’s to do with that painting of Britannia. Just a couple of loose ends. I thought I’d look around and see if I can . . .’ She trailed off with a smile and a shrug.
‘Downstairs?’
‘Yes.’
‘Downstairs where?’
‘Just, you know, the cellars. It’s fine. I’ve been there before. I just thought I might find . . . Honestly, you go. Have you got something on?’
‘A drinks, actually. Two. Look, stop trying to distract me. You’re not going to the cellars on your own, Rozie. Definitely not at night. I saw what happened to you last time.’
‘Nothing happened,’ she said brightly. ‘Honestly. Go.’
But he was already taking off his coat. ‘You had blood on your lip and you scared the life out of me. Let’s go down and find whatever it is you need and get the hell out of here. We’ve both earned a decent drink.’
She tried to remonstrate, but he wouldn’t be moved. Sir Simon glanced at his watch: a quarter to eight. Hopefully they’d find this ruddy thing soon, whatever it was, and they could both get on with their evenings.
It was abominably cold down there. He regretted leaving his overcoat in Rozie’s office. She saw him shiver and offered him hers, but naturally he refused. It would have to be a question of hypothermia or frostbite before a gentleman accepted warm clothes from a lady, even if she was a decorated army officer.
The door ahead was clearly marked with a freshly-made sign:
DO NOT ENTER.
PROPERTY DEPARTMENT ONLY.
BY ORDER OF THE DUKE OF EDINBURGH.
Rozie opened it and he followed. Inside, it was dark and she had to feel around for the light switch.
‘You can’t hear anything, can you?’ she asked, just before turning it on. He listened. There was nothing.
‘No. Why?’
‘Just checking.’
She flipped the switch and the lights slowly buzzed into life, illuminating an Aladdin’s cave of royal discards. They passed rack upon rack of fascinating artefacts peeping out of boxes or simply stacked on shelves. It was a bit like how he imagined the storerooms at the British Museum.
Rozie seemed to know where she was heading. Beyond the racks there was a small office with rough, unpainted walls, built into the far corner. She opened its door with some caution and poked around inside while Sir Simon waited nearby, rubbing his arms through his jacket and watching his breath form condensation in the air.
When she came out, he asked, ‘Anything?’ and she shook her head. He was about to head back, but she said she just wanted to have a quick look in the room beyond. This one had a barrel-vaulted ceiling that took him straight back to his history books. It couldn’t be Tudor, so must be late Georgian, he judged. Berating himself for not coming down here before, he followed Rozie with considerable enthusiasm now, noting the old, thin bricks peeping through where a couple of tiles were missing, and the well-worn stones of the floor.
She looked around and, following her gaze, he spotted a trio of rather nice Chinese-looking pots standing in a row in front of one of the racks. Rozie glanced towards the far end, where another door was just about visible behind a tower of trunks and boxes.
He gestured towards it. ‘I suppose that’s where the tunnels start.’
Rozie murmured her agreement. But her attention was caught by a patch of something dark on the floor ahead of them. She went over, crouched down and put her finger in it, then stood to rub whatever it was off her hand.
‘I think we should call someone,’ she said, staring back at him.
‘Oh? Why?’
‘Because I think that’s blood.’
He walked over and touched the stain too. It was like the swish of a paintbrush, rust brown, mixed with dirt on the stone. Adrenaline kicked in.
‘Go and get help.’
‘The blood’s dry,’ she pointed out.
‘You’re right.’ He was overreacting. Perhaps this was an ancient storeroom injury, or rusty paint. He was just starting to relax when he happened to follow Rozie’s gaze again towards the pile of trunks and boxes. ‘Oh my God.’ There was a smear of something ominous on the side of a tea chest in front of the tunnel door. ‘D’you see that?’ he asked, pointing it out.