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?
‘There’s three here. You get her to do one in a fortnight and two after that. You know the timing?’
‘Yes. Christ! You said. I’m not stupid.’
‘Same method as before.’
‘She’s doing OK, isn’t she? No complaints so far. She effing hates it, though.’
‘D’you think I give a rat’s arse about her feelings?’
Sulky. ‘No.’
‘Then kindly do as you’re bloody told. If you mention any of this . . .’ The menacing tone was followed by a pause. ‘Come on – this place gives me the creeps.’
They headed back quickly the way they’d come. As soon as the Queen heard the door in the corridor close behind them, she staggered out of her hiding place and bent to rub her knee, which was puffing up in agony. Her eleven-year-old self would have shivered with delight at the adventure, but at ninety, she should have known better. She paused for a long time to let her aching body recover while she mused over what she’d heard.
Had they both been men? Or did one of those voices belong to a gruff older woman? What on earth were they cooking up? She would have to think about this some more.
Meanwhile, she hobbled back downstairs to the dogs with what dignity she could muster, which right now didn’t feel like very much at all.
Chapter 6
The Queen was surprised when, at teatime, her page asked her if she would mind having a quick word with her APS. She looked a little longingly at the slice of chocolate biscuit cake, of which she had only eaten a forkful so far. It was very moreish. ‘Do show her in,’ she said – but she hoped she wouldn’t be long.
‘I thought you might want to know, ma’am,’ Rozie said, ‘I think I know how your painting disappeared. Or at least, when.’
This was worth a teatime interruption.
‘How interesting. Tell me.’
Rozie explained about the morning’s visit to Stable Yard and the note in the ledger. ‘Looking closely, I think it says “Refurb ’86”. Does that mean anything to you?’
The Queen thought for a moment. ‘Not exactly. I’ll think about it. Go on.’
‘I spoke to the Operations team and they tell me there was a minor refurbishment of your private apartments at that time. The people I talked to weren’t there then – it was thirty years ago. But I’ll keep on it, ma’am. I’ll let you know as soon as I find something useful.’
‘Thank you, Rozie.’
After Rozie had left, the Queen had another forkful of chocolate biscuit cake and turned her mind to 1986. What had been happening then? Sometimes the years merged into each other, but surely she should remember the refurbishment of her own bedroom? It would have been highly inconvenient – so they must have done it while she was up at Balmoral. It still didn’t ring any bells. Unless . . . ah. Unless she wasn’t there at all, but far away. Back in those days she was as likely to be in Acapulco or Oslo as in Scotland. Where did she go in ’86?
She googled herself on her iPad. It was quicker than ringing anyone to ask.
Oh, of course: China. Such an important tour. It was all about preparing to hand back Hong Kong in ’97. She visited the terracotta warriors and hosted the Chinese government at a banquet on board Britannia. Then she and Philip sailed down the Pearl River from Canton to Hong Kong in the royal yacht. So beautiful and tranquil, watching the locals practise their early-morning tai chi on the riverbanks. There had been some interesting problem-solving moments in Victoria Harbour, too. Mary Pargeter, her APS in those days, had been involved, much as Rozie was now . . .
She had been very busy, not thinking of day-to-day practicalities at home. That must have been when the Works Department refurbished the rooms. They looked more or less the same when she returned: the familiar shade of pale jade, but slightly less shabby about the skirting boards and dado rails.
And one less picture on the wall opposite her bedroom door. Yes, of course, that’s when it had disappeared – half a decade earlier than she had assumed. She had temporarily replaced it with a sketch of the garden by Terence Cuneo, signed with his signature mouse. It was very nice, but not the same.
The sketch was still there. And that was thirty years ago. Time flew. It crawled. Sometimes, you didn’t know how you would endure until teatime. Sometimes, half a decade was gone in the blink of an eye.
Rozie, meanwhile, had been very unsettled by her meeting with Mary van Renen and the housekeeper at lunchtime. She needed to find out more and thought she knew a good place to start.
When she had started as APS eight months ago, she’d been given temporary accommodation at the Palace while she looked for a decent flat nearby. The rooms she’d been assigned were in the West Wing, on the top floor, above the dressmaking suite. There were three of them: all very small, hot and stuffy in summer, freezing cold in winter, surrounded by pipes that chuntered and gurgled incessantly through the night. Rozie had enjoyed a bigger bathroom as a cadet at Sandhurst – which was saying something – but here the windows overlooked the gardens, with the lake among the trees, and the view was never less than magical. She had grown up in a busy, full-on household with her mum, dad and sister, and her cousins popping in and out all the time. She liked the constant bustle of this place, and the rent was low. She still hadn’t moved out.
At seven forty-five that evening there was a tentative knock at the door. Rozie had carefully timed the quick visit to her rooms. Housekeeping usually came round at about this time to check who was in and might need fresh towels or bed linen. The regular housemaid for her corridor was a woman called Lulu Arantes, who was far more au fait with the backstairs gossip than poor Sir Simon.
Rozie shouted, ‘Come in!’ and Lulu popped her head round the door.
‘Evening, Captain Oshodi.’
‘How are you, Lulu? How’s the shoulder?’
Lulu rubbed at her right sleeve with her left hand. ‘It aches like you wouldn’t believe. I’m still taking the painkillers. I can’t lift it above here – look.’ She raised her bent right arm until it was level with her collarbone, winced and let it fall. ‘The ankle’s better, though, you’ll be pleased to hear. I just get the odd twinge now.’
For a woman who did such a physical job, it amazed Rozie that Lulu managed to be permanently injured in some way. A human dynamo, she didn’t ever use it as an excuse not to work, but winced and limped gamely from one task to the next.
‘I’m glad about the ankle,’ Rozie said. ‘I was wondering, actually . . . I met one of the housekeepers today and I thought you might know her. I was just a bit curious because she seemed very old to be doing the job and I—’
‘Oh, you mean Cynthia Harris. Poor you.’
Lulu glanced into the corridor behind her and came inside, shutting the door behind her. She leaned against it, nursing her right arm in her left. Rozie had prepared a series of gentle questions to tease out whatever gossip Lulu might know, but they proved unnecessary.
‘I’m surprised you haven’t encountered her before,’ Lulu said. ‘That cow! She’s been here since the year dot. She started off doing the Queen’s bedroom and wormed her way in. Then she got all the plum jobs. She was supposed to retire three years ago, and we all thanked God and chipped in for a present. Except, guess what? The lady who was hired to take over from her, who we all liked, very nice woman, calm and efficient, you know . . .? She had to leave. Apparently she just couldn’t do it right.’
‘Do what right?’
‘Prepare the Belgian Suite for heads of state, mostly. You must know how fussy the Queen is that everything should be just so, which is right and proper, no problem with that . . . Well, apparently only Cynthia Harris could do it to her standards. So anyway, the new woman was sacked and they promoted Solange Simpson. She’s been here for donkey’s years. Very capable, professional woman. D’you know her? So, she was in charge when the President of Mexico came to stay the following year, and still it wasn’t right. She said she’d done everything in the handover notes, and I’m sure she had – but who says the notes were the right ones? That’s what I want to know. Long story short, the poor man in HR who’d been trying to replace her gets given his marching orders and Cynthia comes back. Special request from the Master. Just for an “interim period”, they told us. They knew how much we all hated her.’