A Three Dog Problem

‘I think you should know,’ Rozie announced to Sir Simon the next morning, ‘that secretary of Sir James’s . . . Mary, the one who’s leaving . . . she’s being stalked by a man who’s sending her foul messages and, on top of that, there’s an elderly housekeeper who’s being a real bitch to her. No wonder she wants to resign.’

Sir Simon frowned. ‘D’you mean Mrs Harris?’

‘So you do know.’

‘Yes. Horrible woman, by all accounts. She should have retired years ago.’

‘She did, but came back at the Master’s request, I gather,’ Rozie said, unimpressed. ‘Shouldn’t we tell him about this?’

The Master of the Household was Mike Green. He formed a triumvirate of senior courtiers with Sir James and Sir Simon. His office was near Sir James’s, in the South Wing, where he held ‘stand up, no coffee’ meetings with servants who had erred in their duties, known among the cognoscenti as the ‘rollicking bollockings’.

Mike Green was responsible for the domestic staff at all the Queen’s residences, from chefs, pages and laundrymaids to the yeoman of the cellars, the florists and French polishers. During his career in the RAF, where he had risen to Air Vice-Marshal, he had gained a reputation for knowing how to throw a good party. This was useful, because, including garden party guests, the royal family entertained nearly a hundred thousand people at the Palace each year. On top of that, the Master was required to help deliver the fateful Reservicing Programme proposal in the autumn, so it didn’t surprise Rozie that Cynthia Harris might have slipped under his radar.

But she hadn’t.

‘Believe me, Mike knows,’ Sir Simon said, stretching his arms and putting them behind his head. ‘The woman is a pest. But the Queen has always had a soft spot for Mrs Harris. She never sees her mean side, of course.’

‘Why doesn’t somebody say?’

Sir Simon straightened and looked at Rozie sharply. ‘We don’t worry the Boss with this stuff. She pays us to deal with it. Well, the Master, in this case. And he is dealing with it, but it’s tricky.’

‘Why?’

‘Well, the HR procedures are Byzantine, to say the least. And – I emphasise, this mustn’t go any further – Mrs Harris been on the receiving end of some rather vicious letters herself. If we got rid of her, she might get the lawyers in. She’s the type.’

‘But she was the one victimising Mary van Renen!’

‘I wouldn’t be surprised. However, the attacks Mrs Harris got were particularly awful. She and Mary are not the only victims, actually. There’s been a spate of poison pen stuff recently. Mike’s livid about it.’

‘Has he told the Queen?’ Rozie was horrified.

‘Absolutely not.’

Sir Simon stood up to his full height, which didn’t quite meet her six-foot-two-in-heels, and gave her a firm look. ‘It’s our job to protect Her Majesty from unpleasantness like this, not expose her to it. Mike’s launched an investigation, and no doubt he’ll find the perpetrator soon and deal with it. As you know, Rozie, our job is to come up with solutions.’

‘Yes, but—’

‘No buts. And you categorically mustn’t mention this to the Boss. I know you and she get on, but this is important, and highly confidential. I’m slightly regretting telling you now. Promise me.’

Rozie wasn’t often on the receiving end of Formal Sir Simon and it unnerved her a little. Staff who knew dogs said his normal demeanour reminded them of a friendly beagle. Their working relationship was smooth, but if the situation demanded, he was also a man who could quell an ambassador with a look, or bring a recalcitrant minister into line with a two-minute phone call. Right now, he was radiating the same ruthless authority as the sergeant major from her officer training days at Sandhurst.