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.
The Queen frowned. She was certain she reminded him of his doddery granny. It was tempting to remind him that she had signed several state papers this morning and could recite all the countries in Africa in alphabetical order, and the kings and queens of England from Ethelred up to herself. But she didn’t. She set her face grimly to the drizzle and prepared to be patronized.
“Brodsky ran it under an avatar—a fake Internet name, if you will—so we didn’t spot it straightaway, but analysis of his laptop quickly confirmed that he was a big Putin-basher. He kept a record of every journalist who’s died in suspicious circumstances in the ex–Soviet Union since Putin came to power. The most famous is Anna Politkovskaya, of course, who was killed ten years ago, but it’s a long, long list. Brodsky had done some quite intelligent research, for an amateur. He thought of himself as one of them, highlighting their cause. But it’s a very dangerous thing to do, even from London. Putin isn’t averse to killing Russian nationals on foreign soil. They made it legitimate ten years ago. He’s done it here before.”
“Not in one of my palaces.”
“It looks like he’s upping his game, ma’am. Perhaps he wanted to send us a message,” Humphreys persisted. “‘Look, I can get them anywhere, anytime.’ It’s just like him. Brazen. Brutal.”
“Even here?”
“Especially here. Right in the heart of the British Establishment. It’s classic Putin.”
The Queen turned to Mr. Singh. “Do you agree, Commissioner?”
“I admit I took some convincing. But the motive is strong. And Putin is unpredictable.”
“Candy! Stop that!”
The elder dorgi looked up sheepishly from the muddy puddle she had been wallowing in and padded back to their side. She shook herself energetically all over Humphreys’s trousers. The Queen hid her approval with sangfroid.
“I’m so sorry.”
“Think nothing of it, ma’am.” He bent down and brushed off a few filthy drops of water with his fingers. He really was rather soaked around the knees. “And, of course, you know what that means,” he added, straightening.
“Do I?”
“The thing is, we’ve been through the lives of Peyrovski’s staff and those ballet dancers with a fine-tooth comb and there’s no indication they’re agents, never mind of the caliber you’d need to pull this off. No—it’s more likely, I’m afraid, that the killer has been here for a while.”
“Before anyone knew Brodsky was coming?” The Queen threw a questioning glance across at Mr. Singh. But the commissioner got no chance to reply as Humphreys warmed to his theme.
“They wanted to be ready for anything. It’s how these people work, ma’am. They’re planted years in advance. Sleeper spies, just waiting for instructions when the right moment comes. Imagine it.” He gestured around them. “A killing here at Windsor Castle, right under your nose, so to speak. ‘Nobody’s safe now.’ The message has gone out.”
“A sleeper spy,” she echoed, unconvinced.
“Yes, ma’am. An insider. Here among your staff. At least one, but maybe more. It’s possible the killer was another visitor, of course, but to pick this venue it seems more likely they’d have tasked someone who knew it well.”
“I’m sorry, but I don’t think that’s likely.”
Standing under the shelter of one of her favorite beech trees, he gave her a pitying look.
“I’m afraid it is, ma’am. We need to face facts. It wouldn’t be the first time.”
The Queen pursed her lips and turned for home. The sodden little group of men followed, while the dogs appeared from the undergrowth and ran ahead.
“What are you going to do?” she asked eventually.
“Track him down. It won’t be easy. We’ll be discreet, of course.”
Singh added a detail that his colleague, in his Putin mania, had omitted.
“We think Brodsky arranged to meet up with his killer after the party, ma’am. At about two a.m. a man of his description was spotted smoking outside and escorted back to the visitors’ quarters. It must have been some sort of rendezvous. I’m sorry to be the bearer of such bad news.”
Singh did indeed seem genuinely sorry. Unlike Humphreys, he did not give the impression of treating this place like the location for an exciting game of spies, but as a home, where a lot of people would now be living under suspicion, and that never did anyone any good.
“Thank you, Mr. Singh.”
“And we’ll keep you informed.”
“Please do.” She would have liked to invite him to stay to lunch, but that would have meant inviting Humphreys, too, and she couldn’t do it.
What hurt most were those six little words: “It wouldn’t be the first time.” They were quite correct, but the Queen found them unforgivable.
6
That evening, Sir Simon needed to consult the Queen about some of the finer details of the Obama visit. The White House team kept finding new security issues to worry about. He found Her Majesty unusually downcast. He might have blamed it on the weather if he didn’t know she was impervious to wind and cold.
Maybe the murder’s got to her at last, he thought. She was tough as old boots, but there were limits. Perhaps he shouldn’t have told her those gory details. She had asked, but it was his job to protect her as much as to serve her. At least Box was on the case. He gently reminded her about Gavin Humphreys’s progress, but she didn’t seem as reassured as he hoped.
“Is Rozie here?” she asked.
“Of course, ma’am.”
“Can you send her in? There’s something I’d like to talk to her about.”
“Ma’am . . . if there’s anything Rozie’s done . . .” Sir Simon was aghast. He’d thought Rozie was coping rather well, for someone so new to the job. He certainly hadn’t noticed any issues and instantly blamed himself, whatever they were. “If I can help in—”
“No, no. It’s a small thing. Nothing to worry about.”
Rozie arrived ten minutes later, looking puzzled.
“Your Majesty? You wanted to see me?”
“Yes, I did,” the Queen said. She fiddled with her pen for a moment, deep in thought. “I was wondering if you could do something for me.”
“Anything . . .” Rozie offered, with more passion in her voice than she’d intended. It was true, though. Whatever the Boss wanted, she would do. Rozie knew most people in the Household felt this way. Not because of what she was, but because of who she was. She was a special human being who had been given an almost impossible job, and had taken it on and never complained, and done it brilliantly for longer than most people in the country had been alive. They adored her. They were all terrified of her, obviously, but they adored her more. Rozie felt lucky she was still going.
“Can you get someone for me?”
Rozie was snapped out of her reverie. The look accompanying the Queen’s request was an odd one, as if this time the answer might be no. Usually, they were simply polite instructions. This one seemed more philosophical.
“Of course, ma’am,” Rozie said brightly. “Who?”
“I’m not sure, exactly. There’s a man I’ve met before—an academic from Sandhurst or Staff College, I think. An expert on post-Soviet Russia. He has scruffy hair and a ginger beard and his first name is Henry. Or William. I’d like to invite him to tea. Privately. Actually, I think he’d like to meet my friend Fiona, Lady Hepburn. She lives in Henley and I’m sure she’d be happy to host. She can invite me to tea, and him, too, and we can talk.”
Rozie stood in front of the desk, trying to decode what was happening. She wasn’t sure exactly what she’d been asked, but that was a detaiclass="underline" she’d work out how to do it later.