The Windsor Knot
- Автор: Беннет Си Джей
- Серия: Her Majesty the Queen Investigates #1
- Год: 2021
- Язык: английский
- Год: William Morrow
- ISBN: 978-0-06-305002-0
- Жанр: Другие детективы
Электронная книга - «The Windsor Knot». Краткое содержание книги:
It is the early spring of 2016 and Queen Elizabeth is at Windsor Castle in advance of her 90th birthday celebrations. But the preparations are interrupted when a guest is found dead in one of the Castle bedrooms. The scene suggests the young Russian pianist strangled himself, but a badly tied knot leads MI5 to suspect foul play was involved. The Queen leaves the investigation to the professionals—until their suspicions point them in the wrong direction.
Unhappy at the mishandling of the case and concerned for her staff’s morale, the monarch decides to discreetly take matters into her own hands. With help from her Assistant Private Secretary, Rozie Oshodi, a British Nigerian and recent officer in the Royal Horse Artillery, the Queen secretly begins making inquiries. As she carries out her royal duties with her usual aplomb, no one in the Royal Household, the government, or the public knows that the resolute Elizabeth will use her keen eye, quick mind, and steady nerve to bring a murderer to justice.
SJ Bennett captures Queen Elizabeth’s voice with skill, nuance, wit, and genuine charm in this imaginative and engaging mystery that portrays Her Majesty as she’s rarely seen: kind yet worldly, decisive, shrewd, and most importantly a great judge of character.
“Will she need cheering?” Rozie asked. The idea of an unhappy Queen made her edgy.
“Yep,” Sir Simon said, before glugging back the last of the whiskey. “I think she probably will.”
5
The Queen was not cheered by the news of the hair. She wasn’t cheered by any of it. A young man had died—died horribly—in an ancient castle that was supposed to be a modern fortress. Yet over twenty-four hours had gone by and nobody seemed any the wiser as to who had done it or how. It did not make one feel entirely safe. However, it did not do to give the impression that she was nervous and upset, so she carried on as normal as the week wore on, nodding grimly as Rozie or Sir Simon passed on the persistent lack of developments.
Sir Simon and the communications team had done a good job with the press, at least. The story that “leaked out” was bland and unremarkable: a visitor to the castle, not one of the Queen’s guests, had died unexpectedly at night. The thoughts of Her Majesty were with his family. Initial rumors that he had had a heart attack in his sleep were not contradicted. A few sordid web-based news rags carried unsubstantiated gossip that the dead man had been found in a sexually compromising position with a member of the Household Cavalry—but these seemed so outlandish and, frankly, predictable for the online sites in question that no respectable news agency picked up on them.
Meanwhile, four detectives and two officers from MI5, the Security Service, beavered away under glowering skies, high up in the Round Tower. In the opinion of King George IV, the medieval version of that great tower was not impressive enough, so he had added a couple of extra stories and some Gothic battlements. The internal space thus created was normally reserved for the royal archivists, but they had been moved downstairs temporarily to create an incident room. Whiteboards had been erected in front of floor-to-ceiling glazed cabinets containing boxes of royal files. Computers were set up with high levels of security. A request for a kettle was politely denied because the steam could do untold damage to ancient documents, but a hotline to the kitchens was installed, and endless rounds of sandwiches readily supplied to the detectives and their new colleagues from MI5.
Increasingly senior people came and went across the drizzle-soaked paths. Gossip around the castle was rife. According to the Queen’s dresser, most bets were on Mr. Peyrovski’s valet and a secret gay love affair gone wrong. Her racing manager, however, who got it from the grooms, informed her that unofficial sources were giving odds of seven to four that it was accidental suicide all along and the police were simply being cautious.
They didn’t know about the second knot, the Queen thought to herself. It was always dangerous to give generous odds if you weren’t up to speed with the stables. It was all in extremely poor taste, but one had to acknowledge that betting was in Windsor’s blood. It was only seven miles to Ascot, down a road created for the purpose, and the races were not far off.
People were people, she considered. They did what they did. In Tudor times, attending public executions used to be a regular cause for celebration. The odd wager was tame by comparison.
It wasn’t until Friday, three days since the discovery of the body, that the Round Tower team finally emerged from their stuffy, windowless room. They met with their bosses’ bosses, who would in turn report to Her Majesty. An hour before lunch, the Queen was getting ready to walk the dogs when her equerry told her a delegation would like a word.
“Tell them to put some wellies on,” the Queen said. “It’s muddy.”
It was a sorry band who arrived at the East Terrace ten minutes later, in borrowed raincoats and boots. There were three of them and the most junior, who was introduced to her as Detective Chief Inspector David Strong, looked as if he hadn’t slept for days. He was the man who’d been leading the police team in the Round Tower. There were blue-grey bags under his eyes and cuts to his sallow skin where a recent shave had been too hasty. He needed daylight and exercise, the Queen judged. The walk would do him good.
The other two were on better form and needed no introduction. Ravi Singh was an experienced and competent commissioner of the Metropolitan Police who had come in for a lot of stick recently for various incidents that were outside his control. The Queen had the urge to put a hand on his and commiserate, but obviously she didn’t.
The third man was Gavin Humphreys, appointed last year as the new director general of the Security Service, known generally as MI5 and in government circles as Box. There had been two excellent, highly qualified candidates for the job, whose keen supporters had lobbied hard on their behalf. In the way of these things, bitter infighting had allowed a third, uncontroversial candidate to emerge from the shadows, and that was Humphreys.
Uncontroversial, because no one had taken a deep enough interest in his personality or leadership credentials to care. Humphreys was one of the new breed: a managerial technocrat. The Queen had met a few technical experts who were spellbinding when they discussed the ins and outs of cyberspace—but Humphreys, whom she had met various times in his anodyne rise to power, was not among them. He was grey of hair, suit, and mind. He was also convinced that, at eighty-nine, one had no possible means of understanding the complexities of the modern world. He didn’t seem to grasp that she had lived through all the decades that had created it, and she had perhaps a more nuanced understanding of it than he did.
In short, she didn’t like him. Thank God for the dogs.
“Willow! Holly! Come on, come on.”
The last remaining corgis, as well as two friendly dorgis, scurried around her ankles and the group set off.
“I’m sorry it’s taken so long,” Humphreys said, as they headed downhill towards the gardens. “This case has turned out to be much more complicated than you would think. We’ve been up all night putting the pieces together.”
The Queen stole a glance at DCI Strong, whose pallor suggested late sessions in front of a computer screen. Humphreys’s dewy glow did not.
“And I’m afraid it’s bad news.”
The Queen turned to look at him. “Oh? Who’s responsible?”
“We don’t know that yet, exactly,” Ravi Singh admitted. “But we know at least who ordered it.”
“Ordered it?”
“Yes,” Humphreys confirmed. “It was a government hit. An assassination.”
She stopped in her tracks, calling briefly to the dogs, who were keen to keep going. “Assassination?” she repeated. “That seems unlikely.”
“Oh, not at all,” Humphreys said, with an indulgent smile. “You underestimate President Putin.”
The Queen considered that she did not underestimate President Putin, thank you very much, and resented being told she did. “Do explain.”
They headed off again, Humphreys walking slightly too fast for Holly and Willow, two nonagenarians in dog years, with the commissioner right beside him and poor, exhausted DCI Strong lagging slightly behind. The drizzle formed a fine mist against the horizon through which the tall trees loomed from the park below. Their footsteps crunched on gravel, then sank into the damp grass as they followed the younger dogs down the slope. The Queen usually loved these walks—but she wasn’t loving this one.
“Brodsky was apparently a very good pianist,” Humphreys began.
“I know. I heard him.”
“Oh, right, of course. But that was just a front. We discovered he was the brains behind an anonymous blog attacking Putin’s Russia. A blog is a kind of website. It’s short for ‘weblog.’ . . .”