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?
‘Sorry isn’t good enough, is it?’ the Queen said. She had seen that letter. Seen the knife. Felt the shock. Seen poor Rozie’s distress.
‘No, ma’am,’ Milligan mumbled.
‘So. I’d like you to confirm exactly who you told Mrs Lobb to give the letters to.’
There was a silence on the line as Milligan hesitated.
‘Mr Milligan. I don’t have long.’
‘Sorry, ma’am. It was your APS, Mrs Baxter and Mary van Renen. But she didn’t do the bike, ma’am. Only the notes in the palace.’
‘Did Mrs Lobb also use social media for harassment?’
‘No, ma’am, that was Eric, like the bike. At least, I always assumed it was.’
‘And what about Mrs Harris?’
His tone shifted from shame to puzzlement. ‘I thought it was weird. She was the one person we didn’t do. Not even once, ma’am. Eric liked to laugh about that. He told Lorna to own up to it anyway, or else. Keep them guessing, he said. But on my honour—’
‘What honour, Mr Milligan?’ she demanded crisply.
‘I-I know. D-do you need me to hand in my notice, ma’am?’
‘I’ll think about it.’
She put the phone down. A tiny part of her felt a scintilla of sympathy for the man. He was being blackmailed – but with cause. At any point he could have taken some responsibility for the damage he could see he and his lover were doing, but for many months he had sacrificed the well-being of her Household for his own interests. He had let his mistress, and the entirely innocent Arabella Moore, risk their jobs and take the blame. He should go, of course. But, if she were to be brutally honest with herself, it would be very awkward indeed if he decided to explain what had precipitated his resignation. He had confirmed her assumptions about Ferguson, which was all she really needed. That was what mattered.
Eric Ferguson must have copied the style of Cynthia Harris’s notes having seen them somehow (the Queen grimly remembered how Strong had told her the HR department ‘leaked like a sieve’), but he did not target her as part of the poison pen campaign. He’d had other reasons for killing her, and the Queen was now confident that she knew what they were.
She had not yet had her proposed meeting with Chief Inspector Strong. When Sir Simon made his discovery last night, the policeman had understandably said he was very busy and had politely asked if she could postpone. Now, she wondered if she could, after all, stay behind the scenes. It was what she wanted, but was it perhaps selfish? It was her duty to tell him everything she knew. But then she would have to explain how she had worked out the historical connection between Cynthia and Eric, dating back to the nineteen eighties. That would bring Rozie in, and the awkward moment in the cupboard . . . Strong might start to wonder what else . . . It was all very difficult.
She lifted the telephone receiver again to ask to speak to him, then paused with it in her hand. She had, after all, been solving mysteries since her father was on the throne and so far, she had managed to keep it a secret. All it would take was a couple of carefully judged ‘senior moments’. One had dug oneself into an awkward hole and now one must dig oneself out of it.
Chapter 44
Instead of Strong, the Queen asked to see Sir Simon. They had spoken briefly a couple of times since his great discovery of the body, but he had been rushed off his feet managing the consequences. She was relieved to see that this time, he was perfectly compos mentis. The discovery of Cynthia Harris had briefly undone him. Was it because she was a woman, the Queen wondered? Or was it just the unexpected pool of blood? Either way, finding a man with his face half eaten off by vermin was all in a day’s work for her Private Secretary. He was, if anything, more on top of things than ever. As he entered her study in answer to her latest call, she was almost certain she detected a spring in his step.
‘Your Majesty.’ He gave the courtier’s bow, which started and ended at the neck. Otherwise they’d be up and down like cranes in a dockyard.
‘I thought I might be able to help,’ she said.
‘Oh, really?’
His face was a picture of politeness. She admired how it was almost, almost clean of disbelief.
‘Yes. I understand that now the death of Cynthia Harris is being seen in a new light.’
‘Yes, ma’am. Awful. It hardly bears thinking about.’
‘I suppose one must face up to the fact that someone working at the Palace could be responsible for . . .’
‘I know, ma’am. Dreadful. Ferguson, almost certainly.’
‘But was it? You see, I’ve always liked the man very much—’
‘Who? Ferguson?’
‘No, no. And I find it very difficult to imagine him as a – not to put too fine a point on it – a killer. But I’m sure I remember seeing something about Mrs Harris having a relationship with him.’
‘Who, ma’am?’ Sir Simon asked. He looked utterly baffled, which was much as the Queen expected.
‘Neil Hudson,’ she said, assertively.
‘Neil? At the Royal Collection? Your Surveyor of Pictures?’
‘Yes.’
‘That seems incredibly unlikely.’
‘I know. It all seems unlikely, though, doesn’t it? And we can’t forget his predecessor.’
Anthony Blunt (he had been knighted, but his knighthood subsequently revoked) was a famous Communist spy, as Sir Simon well knew.
‘But I don’t think all your art experts can be criminals, ma’am.’
‘I hope not.’
‘And surely she was too old?’
The Queen frowned. ‘I don’t mean that sort of relationship. Was she an aunt? A godparent? I forget, but I’m sure it was something. I’d just like to be reassured that he didn’t have anything to do with . . . any of this.’
Sir Simon regained his unflappable poise. ‘I’ll certainly look into it, ma’am.’
He was the consummate courtier. Eyes that refused to judge; a smile that refused to falter. Rozie couldn’t do it yet. You could always tell at a glance if she thought you were being absurd. The Queen would miss it when she, too, employed a poker face.
‘If you would be so kind.’
After he’d gone, she wondered if he would remember the little illustrated card. How fortunate that he had been the one she had mentioned it to at the time, even though she hadn’t wanted to. With any luck, Rozie would have left it at the top of the file.
‘Can you get me Bogroll’s file on Mrs Harris?’
‘Really?’
Sir Simon waited while Rozie rooted around in her desk drawer. She had had to empty the drawers before the porters shifted the desk into his office to make way for Strong and his team in hers. Inevitably, files got misplaced. Nothing was quite at her fingertips any more. It gave her a few seconds to think.
‘Is this for the Boss?’ she asked.
‘Yup. She has some idea that Cynthia was Neil Hudson’s aunt. And that therefore he killed her. Not Ferguson.’
‘What?’ Rozie popped her head up to stare at him. This was unexpected.
‘I know. I think she’s been watching too much Death In Paradise. Or what’s that one with Angela Lansbury as the writer?’