A Three Dog Problem

Rozie sat further back, with a notepad on her lap. A footman had originally positioned himself just inside the door, but the Queen informed him she would ring if she needed anything. Her equerry, likewise, was not required for this conversation. Murder among the servants . . . It was too close to home.

‘So tell me,’ she said, sitting upright on a Morel and Seddon sofa, with Willow by her side and the dorgis at her feet, ‘was it indeed Mr Ferguson who killed Mrs Harris?’

‘It was,’ Sir Simon informed her gravely.

‘And you’ve found the man who killed Mr Ferguson?’

‘We found him yesterday, ma’am,’ the chief superintendent confirmed. ‘After quite an elaborate investigation. I’m afraid it will come as a shock.’

The Queen blinked. ‘I’m so sorry,’ she said, pausing to adjust her handbag and looking up to give him a friendly smile. ‘I’m getting ahead of myself. Do tell me everything.’

It was, by agreement, DCI Strong who began the story. His team, after all, had worked out the details of how Eric Ferguson practised his murder technique and prepared the way for Cynthia Harris to arrive at the pool.

‘We don’t have a record of Ferguson’s contact with Mrs Harris before the fatal meeting, ma’am,’ the chief inspector said. ‘He was too clever to leave a trail – but we do know that it was he who consistently reported the internal CCTV cameras being out of action, and he, almost certainly, who had interfered with them to render them that way.’

‘It won’t be so easy with the new cameras,’ Sir James assured her from the seat beside Strong. ‘The old ones are practically museum pieces. Top of the list for change.’

‘What a relief,’ the Queen remarked. One might as well be living in the middle of a shopping centre. Although, on reflection, that would probably be better secured.

Strong returned to his theme. It was also Ferguson, they discovered, who had postponed delivery of the new carpet to the leak-damaged rooms in the East Wing, so their refurbishment ran over and there was a mad dash to get them ready in time for the family’s return from Balmoral. This meant that he had a reason to request an emergency room at the Palace for a couple of nights, to oversee the results.

‘This behaviour, along with the tumblers at his flat, leaves us in no doubt that he was the killer,’ Strong concluded. ‘We assume he lured Mrs Harris to the pool on some housekeeping pretext. Tumblers had been found there before and we think this was his doing too. She would have been tired after her journey down from Scotland, and unsuspecting. My thinking is that Ferguson had already arranged the broken glass in place. She bent down to look, he hit her over the head with something hard he’d brought with him for the purpose, and used the jagged tumbler base to cut the artery at exactly the right point on her ankle. We know from his reading material that collaborators in the Far East were killed this way in the Second World War. The blood loss would have been rapid. It’s possible she never came round again before . . .’

‘She died?’ the Queen finished for him.

‘Yes, ma’am.’

‘That certainly explains how he did it,’ the Queen agreed. ‘Might I ask why?’

‘Initially, as you know, we assumed it was pure misogyny connected to the poison pen campaign,’ Strong said, ‘while he targeted Mary van Renen because of a fraud he was operating here, called the Breakages Business. You’re aware of that, I understand.’

‘I am,’ the Queen agreed. In his seat, Sir James blushed faintly.

‘However, we then discovered that Mrs Harris was connected to the Breakages Business too,’ Strong went on. ‘We’ve traced the operation back to a man called Smirke in the nineteen eighties. Harris worked for him briefly at the time and they had a bit of a relationship. There were rumours of dodgy dealings, but everyone assumed they went away when he retired. In fact, he handed the business down to his successor, a man called Vesty, who handed it down to his. They kept it in the family, ma’am. It turns out they were all related. Eric Ferguson was Sidney Smirke’s second cousin once removed. Not immediately obvious, but we got there with a bit of probing. No doubt that’s how he was anointed as the new head, in his junior position, at the grand old age of thirty-two.’

‘Oh dear.’ The Queen’s tone was dry. Her courtiers swallowed. They were not enjoying this bit.

‘However,’ Strong continued, ‘we shifted our focus slightly, thanks to a suggestion by your Private Secretary. He gave us an invaluable insight.’

Strong nodded to Sir Simon, who smiled and did his self-effacing hand flap.

‘I must admit, I had a huge piece of luck.’

‘Oh, did you?’ The Queen was all polite curiosity.

‘It was your mention of Neil Hudson that started things off,’ Sir Simon informed her – pleased to share credit when he could, however small. ‘I can absolutely assure you there was no relationship of any sort between him and Mrs Harris. But in looking at her file I noticed that she had worked at the Royal Collection before working for Smirke. We were . . .’ He corrected himself. ‘The police were in the process of establishing the modus operandi of the Breakages Business. They had another look at the tunnels last week and found all sorts of evidence of activity between the palaces. We knew that they must have a man on the inside at SJP. If Mrs Harris was at the Royal Collection, she would have worked at Stable Yard. Was she the inside man, I wondered? Or woman, rather. I couldn’t quite make sense of it all, but I spotted another name in that file. Sholto Harvie, ma’am – your old Deputy Surveyor. According to the file, Mrs Harris worked directly for him. Was he the link?’