Murder Most Royal

The idea for the ball at Sandringham had come in part from Truman Capote’s Black and White Ball in New York, and in part from portraits of royal princesses by Franz Winterhalter, who romantically depicted them in off-the-shoulder white dresses with generous crinolines. There was one such picture of the young Queen Victoria opposite the chair where the Queen was sitting now. Her own mother had dazzled like a film star that night in several tiers of ivory tulle. Ned had gone to enormous lengths to decorate the house with flowers from the famous white garden at Ladybridge, along with elaborate paper decorations he had made himself and hung in every room.

The night had been magical . . . until an over-oiled guest had managed to throw up in one of the pianos, but that was hardly Ned’s fault.

‘I’ll come up,’ the Queen said. This was not a conversation to have over the phone, with her lady-in-waiting listening intently and a footman standing at the door.

On the way upstairs, an image came to her of Ned’s glamorous mother, Georgina – Patrick’s oldest sister – descending this very staircase in velvet Dior that night.

Georgina had been a frequent guest at Sandringham in the fifties and sixties. She was about the Queen’s age, a star of her starry generation. She rode, she farmed, she gardened to an international standard, she collected modern art (she was one of the first people to spot the potential of a young artist called David Hockney), she looked equally fashionable in Parisian couture or tweeds and a cardigan with pockets for her secateurs. She had once famously combined several of her passions by sitting for a portrait in a ball gown astride her favourite hunter in the drawing room at Ladybridge. Ned, an only child, adored her, and Georgina was a very indulgent mother. The Queen, who had tried to be one too, but with many absences and less opportunity to do so, had sometimes been a little jealous of their relationship.

Philip was sitting up against the pillows looking much less grey than he had this morning.

The country air was already having its effect.

‘Ah, hello, Cabbage. So. As I said, we assume he’s dead?’

‘It’s hard to imagine otherwise,’ she agreed.

The Queen went over and perched on the edge of the bed, until her hip protested and she took Philip’s suggestion of a nearby armchair.

‘Of course, we know who did it,’ Philip said.

‘One of the family.’

‘Mmmm,’ the Queen said, which was her usual response when she didn’t necessarily agree.