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?
‘What?’
‘On the tea chest.’
‘Oh? Er, yeah.’
They went over together and Rozie lifted down the top trunk from the tower. He helped her lift down the tea chest, only to find it was nailed up.
‘We need to open this.’
‘I don’t think—’
‘It’s not nailed hard. We can easily lever the top off. I’m sure I saw a crowbar leaning against the wall in that other room. Can you get it?’
She went off in search of it and, as she did, Sir Simon’s attention strayed to the heavy trunk at the base of the tower, now sitting unencumbered. It was like the ones some of the boys had had at school. His own had been quite small, made of canvas bound with brass-studded wood. This one was similar, but larger and made of leather. Steamer trunks, they were known as. It was somewhat battered and there seemed to be a noise coming from inside it.
He bent down and listened harder. It was an unpleasant sort of scrabbling sound, reminding him of mice behind the wainscot at the cottage at Kensington Palace. With curiosity mixed with faint disgust – Sir Simon was no fan of vermin – he tested the lid. The two hinged buckles gave way easily; it was not locked. He lifted it up.
The smell hit him full on, sweet and sickly and nauseating, followed by the sight of a pair of small, frightened eyes that stared up at him, caught by the light, above a set of twitching whiskers. They belonged to a fat, filthy rat that leaped up at him suddenly, before throwing itself over the side and scuttling into the shadows. Holding his sleeve to his nose, he looked back at the hideous object the animal had been feasting on.
Inside the trunk, untidily folded, was the body of a man, face up. He had not been dead very long, Sir Simon judged – days at most – but the rat had been busy. The eyes and eyelids of the cadaver were already eaten away. Additionally, there were dark bullet holes in one marbled cheek and the opposite temple, and his navy waistcoat and white shirt were stained with blood. He’d been shot in the chest first, Sir Simon speculated, and then a lucky – or unlucky – bullet had caught his head as he turned it. Even so, enough of the face was left for him to know he had seen the man before, though he couldn’t put a name to him.
Rozie came over, clutching the redundant crowbar. ‘Shit!’ she said, reeling from the stench. She peered over his shoulder.
‘Do you know who this is?’ he asked. ‘I warn you, it’s not pleas—’
‘I met him over the summer,’ she said, oddly calm. ‘It’s Eric Ferguson.’
Chapter 43
This time, there was no avoiding it.
MURDER AT BUCKINGHAM PALACE!
QUEEN’S AIDE FINDS DEAD SERVANT
SECOND BODY PALACE HORROR!
QUEEN ELIZABETH IN MURDER QUIZ
The news was halfway round the globe by breakfast and was even picked up by astronauts on the International Space Station. Twitter went into meltdown. The first conspiracy stories hit Facebook as fast as they could be written and fed each other in a frenzy. Instagram spawned a thousand memes.
The Palace communications team worked hard to make sure at least some of the news stories bore a vague relationship to the truth. The team reported to Sir Simon, who was the hero of the hour. He firmly instructed them to keep him out of it as much as possible, but it simply wasn’t possible: everyone the world over was fascinated by the thought of the Queen’s right-hand man discovering not one body but two (this news quickly spread, too). Pictures of Sir Simon landing a helicopter on a ship’s heaving deck thirty years ago, or looking dapper in his current array of silk ties and Savile Row suits, only served to feed the fire.
LIFE STORY OF THE QUEEN’S REAL MR BOND!
YOU’LL BE AMAZED WHEN YOU SEE THE MAN BEHIND THE ROYAL BODIES!
WHO IS THE SILENT COURTIER WHO SOLVES MYSTERIES IN HIS SPARE TIME?
‘But I haven’t solved anything!’ Sir Simon pointed out, self-deprecatingly, when lightly teased by Sir James and Mike Green over lunch in the canteen. ‘If anything, I’ve only created problems for the police.’
He was working on it, though. They all were. It hadn’t taken long for Cynthia Harris’s recent, ugly death to be seen in a new light. The canteen was full of talk about how Eric Ferguson himself had been overheard talking about similar killing methods used during the Second World War. Several female members of staff had tales of times he had made them feel uncomfortable. Lots of people now reported their concerns to the Master, the Keeper, Sir Simon himself or DCI Strong – who was running a proper incident room now, based partly in Rozie’s office, while she camped with the Private Secretary.
Had Ferguson killed Mrs Harris, or given someone else the idea of how to do it? The police had found a cache of historical guns and knives at his flat. The man seemed quiet enough, but he was plainly a psycho. This was the common consensus among the staff. No one could work out exactly why he should want to kill the old housekeeper, but it was still universally agreed that she wasn’t missed.
Upstairs in her study, the Queen was slow with her boxes, which was very rare.
Suddenly, everyone around her was very sure of themselves – certain that Cynthia Harris had died violently, that Eric Ferguson had done it, and that he was therefore the person behind the poison pen campaign. Within minutes they had wrapped up the whole problem and tied it with a bow. Their very certainty made her more cautious. She had been considering this possibility far longer than they had, and saw more nuances to it than they did. For example, had Eric targeted Cynthia that way? The Queen had her own contradictory theory, but it was just a theory after all.
She picked up the phone and asked the operator to find Spike Milligan for her. They were quite miraculous in the way they could locate almost anyone at any time. Sure enough, four minutes later he was on the line, sounding slightly breathless and extremely nervous.
‘Your Majesty?’
‘I have a question for you, Mr Milligan, and I would be grateful if you would stop lying to me.’
She heard him gasp down the line. Shock and awe. Wasn’t that what the Americans called it these days? Usually, good manners were called for, but not today.
‘I-I’m sorry, I really d-don’t know what you mean.’
‘You do, Mr Milligan. Captain Oshodi asked you some questions about the poison pen letters two weeks ago and you pretended to know nothing about them. I happen to know this isn’t true.’
‘I-I don’t know what to—’
‘The problem has gone away now. At least, I assume that’s right. There’s nothing to stop you being honest at last, is there?’
He paused for a moment, clearly thinking. ‘I-I s’pose you’re right, ma’am. How did you—?’
‘That doesn’t matter. You were in cahoots with Lorna Lobb. She got the letters from you, yes?’
‘Yes, ma’am.’
‘And distributed them as you instructed?’
‘That’s right.’
‘So, tell me . . . who gave them to you?’
He was a broken man, talking to the monarch directly on the phone. He dropped the pretence and did as he was told.
‘Eric Ferguson did, ma’am.’
‘Why?’
‘He found out about Lorna and me. I think he overheard something in the canteen. Lorna’s married, and so am I. Happily married, if you want to know – or good enough. He said he’d tell my wife and I’d lose my marriage, and Lorna would too. He would have, he was the type. There was nothing he wouldn’t do.’ Milligan sounded bitter now, glad for the chance to get it off his chest. ‘Lorna didn’t like it, especially after she found out what some of the notes said. She didn’t know exactly, but the Master made it clear they were racist, ma’am. I’m very sorry about Captain Oshodi and so is she. Really we are, ma’am.’