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?
‘Two muses, ma’am. It’s a theme Artemisia addressed elsewhere. We’re not certain, but that one holding the flute looks like Euterpe, goddess of music, and the one with the garland could be the goddess of dance, Terpsichore. We’re trying to get the other two back from their current owners to join them. It may take a while. But these two would make a good centrepiece for a show we’re thinking of doing about women artists. Wouldn’t you agree?’
The Queen stood in front of these originals for a long time, remembering how quickly she had cast her eye over them before – so sure she would see them again soon, once they’d been cleaned. The copies had turned out much flatter and duller than expected. Now she knew why. These two, by contrast, were mesmerising. They were still grimy, but the faces shone out, each head thrown back at a challenging angle above an ample bosom or a half-turned shoulder. The eyes seemed to be posing a challenge: are you watching me or am I watching you? She loved their quiet subversiveness. They might be half-clothed goddesses, but in each of them she recognised a fellow souclass="underline" a woman who has more to think about than the act of being painted.
‘They’re delightful,’ she said. ‘Splendid. Didn’t everyone do a marvellous job? It’s good to have them back.’
Chapter 49
Another week went by. Rozie and her sister Fliss were up in Rozie’s set of rooms in the attics, getting ready for the staff Christmas party. Not the formal one the royal family would soon attend, but the fancy-dress shindig, where plus-ones were invited, wine flowed faster than gossip, and the bacchanalian vibe was designed to match the Caravaggios on the walls.
The bedroom smelled of tobacco, rum and rebellion. Fliss, dressed in a purple jacket and tight paisley trousers, was putting the finishing touches to her eyeliner using a magnifying mirror on the bedside table. Rozie sat cross-legged in front of the wardrobe mirror, adding a blue edge to the glittery red flash that covered half her face.
‘I wonder which hero Sir Simon will be going as,’ Fliss mused.
‘Guess,’ Rozie said.
‘Seriously, d’you think so? Which one?’
‘Sean Connery, I imagine. Or Pierce Brosnan. He’ll go for suave.’
‘Is he totally up himself these days?’
‘Actually, he’s fairly subdued,’ Rozie said. ‘He’s Mr Modest. They teach you that kind of thing at public school. But everyone’s wondering what kind of honour she’s going to give him.’
‘Ooh! Where do you go from “Sir”?’ Fliss asked. ‘Lord?’
‘She’s got loads of family medals up her sleeve that nobody’s heard of. He’ll probably go from KCVO to GCVO. It’s a big deal.’
‘OK, if you say so.’
‘She’s also given him and his wife the use of a cottage at Balmoral at Christmas so they can chillax.’
‘Nice. By the way . . .’ Fliss looked up from her finished make-up. ‘You seem a lot better. You OK now?’
‘Yeah, I am,’ Rozie admitted. ‘There are a few idiots here, but on the whole they’re a good bunch. They work as hard as we did at the bank for a fraction of the money. They’re proud of what they do. That whole . . . Gothic atmosphere seems to have vanished.’
‘Amazing what a difference just one or two people can make,’ Fliss said. ‘You think something’s endemic, but you get rid of a couple of sociopaths and . . . ewey!’’
Rozie agreed. Those little folded notes had lit a flame of fury that still flared inside her from time to time. But they had been written to scare her off because she was good at her job, as much as because of the colour of her skin. She could go back to viewing the unthinking racism of men like Neil Hudson with pity. He would be mortified if he knew that his ‘Nubian queen’ compliment came with centuries of problematic objectification. He was an academic, though. He ought to know better. It often amazed her who did and who didn’t. Sir Simon, despite his posh, white, public school, Establishment vibe, was always the perfect gentleman.
Fliss’s thoughts were elsewhere by now. ‘To think, you were heading to the house of a murderer when I called you in the car that night.’
‘Yeah. And I was about to sleep on two stolen paintings.’
‘And be given another one. By a murderer. I hope you’re not keeping it. At least you escaped the dreaded Mark.’
‘What d’you mean?’ Rozie asked, looking round sharply.
‘Whaaaat? I thought you knew. Jojo told me. It was the talk of the wedding.’
‘What talk?’
‘Mark was sleeping with Claire, no. You, know? Jojo’s sister, whose boyfriend was on a business trip?’
‘Um, no he wasn’t.’
‘He wa-as,’ Fliss assured her. ‘They got caught in flagrante by a guest who got the wrong room. He’d spent the evening chatting up one of the bridesmaids to throw everyone off the scent. It might have been you, but luckily you’d already gone.’
‘Yeah . . .’ Rozie said, shaking her head a little. Suddenly, she saw that stressful journey in the Mini in a totally new light. Sometimes bad decisions turned out to be very good ones. She studied her make-up in the mirror. The bolt of lightning was in perfect position. All she needed were her red boots. ‘Huh. Lucky for me.’
‘I never liked him,’ Fliss went on. ‘Sex on legs but . . . a total Backpfeifengesicht. Hey! Those boots look good on you. You should wear them more often.’
As they walked towards the Ballroom, among endless Wellingtons and Nelsons, Iron Men and Wonder Women heading in the same direction, they encountered Sir Simon in the Picture Gallery, accompanied by his wife. He sported a powdered wig, a cutaway red frock coat over parchment-coloured breeches and a white cravat. Lady Holcroft wore a wide silk court dress. James and one of his Bond girls they were not.
‘I don’t get it,’ Rozie admitted. ‘You’ll have to tell me.’
‘The Scarlet Pimpernel,’ he grinned. ‘It was my favourite book at prep school. I never miss a chance to dress up as Sir Percy. Rah is Marguerite St Just, my clever wife.’
‘She was always one of my heroines,’ Lady Holcroft said. ‘Lucky we found each other, really.’
‘And who’s your hero?’ Sir Simon asked, taking in Rozie’s tinted red hair, catsuit and boots. ‘Oh! Bowie! Of course. Aladdin Sane. Well done. And . . .?’ He looked enquiringly at Fliss.
‘Prince, dude. I’d have thought it was obvious.’
‘Oh, I’m sure it is. Sorry. I’m more into rock than pop.’
‘Funk, but OK. He just died, like Bowie, you know?’ Fliss said with a sigh. ‘April 21. It’s been a tough year.’
‘The Queen’s birthday,’ Sir Simon observed. ‘It was a wonderful day for us in Windsor. But how tragic for funk. Well, I must say you do him justice. Shall we go in?’
The four of them linked arms and walked past the serried ranks of Rubens and Vermeer, Van Dyke and Canaletto. Looking around, Rozie hugged the knowledge to herself that she was now the proud owner of her own Cézanne. She wouldn’t tell Fliss, but she had decided to keep her bequest. True, its last owner was a murderer and a thief, but he had come by this painting honestly at least. If Rozie didn’t take it, it would only go to auction and be bought by someone who didn’t love it as much as she did. She’d put it on her bedroom wall and take it down whenever her self-appointed moral compass came to visit. She still looked back fondly at that weekend in the Cotswolds. She shouldn’t, but she did.
As they reached the raucous laughter and thudding bass of the Ballroom, the DJ announced the Stones and the room began to rock to ‘Jumping Jack Flash’. She followed Sir Simon’s bobbing wig towards the dance floor.