Murder Most Royal

‘“Passionate?”’

‘Did she know?’ the Queen asked. ‘Who the father was? I suppose perhaps she didn’t.’

‘She was worried about Hugh’s reaction? And Valentine’s, too?’

‘Well, certainly Hugh’s. She had no intention of ever telling Valentine. This was long before the days of DNA, of course, but even now, if you don’t take a test, how would you know? And the title and the estate were at stake. She and Hugh didn’t have any other sons as time went by – only Flora. So there was the question of inheritance if it all came out and it turned out they had no legitimate male heirs.

Also, Hugh adored her, and she was very worried he might do something idiotic and go to jail if he found out, and the shame it would bring on her was unthinkable.’

‘But it did come out.’

‘Yes. They were very unlucky with that blood test. It was terribly simple: Valentine cut himself quite badly on some barbed wire at the farm and developed septicaemia. They thought they might need to do a transfusion and tested him . . . and I can’t remember what the blood type was – O, I think – but it was about the only one that couldn’t be a product of Hugh’s blood type and Lee’s.

Hugh stupidly checked. He should have left well alone.’

‘It’s a natural temptation, I should imagine,’ the Queen said. ‘Given the consequences. I’m sure he did it to reassure himself rather than anything else.’

‘Yes, I suppose so. Lee was laughing at the sheer, unlucky madness of it when she told me.’

‘And what was Hugh’s reaction?’ the Queen pressed.

Moira had a point. The Queen realised she had found this story all too easy to believe, but she knew many, many men – most men, perhaps – who would have at least wondered about such a seemingly convenient explanation.

A thought occurred to her, and she had been so busy thinking of the impact on the St Cyrs all those years ago that she was surprised she hadn’t thought of it before.

‘And you, Moira?’ she asked. ‘Did you believe her?’

‘Of course I did!’ Moira said, surprised even to be asked.

‘I was the only person she confided in at the time. Well, me and the shepherdess. She and Lee were close, too.’

‘And yet, you wanted your daughter to marry Ned next month.’

Moira’s mouth fell open and she stared back, wordlessly. It was as if the thought had only just occurred to her.

‘But . . .’ she said, colouring, ‘it was decades ago! One time. Entirely out of character. And Ned was very drunk, Lee said so.’

‘And yet . . .’ the Queen persisted.