Murder Most Royal

Fortunately, the article didn’t mention why she was interested. Her thinking had moved on now, anyway. But it did potentially solve a little problem.

Rozie was up to her neck in ice-cold water. The breath had been squeezed out of her body and everything tingled and hurt. And yet, it was life-affirming. How had she lived this long and not known how essential and fabulous wild swimming was? She was building up to a minute in the water. Around her, an assortment of swimming hats bobbed confidently in the sea.

Katie watched from the safety of the beach.

She had resisted saying ‘I told you so’ when Rozie came back from her first wild swim, brimming with enthusiasm. Instead, she had introduced her to her own wild swimming group, based up the coast. She could see this was the start of a beautiful relationship: Captain Oshodi and cold water. On their way back, they spotted the Queen driving out to Wolferton.

‘D’you know where she’s going?’ Katie asked.

‘Wood Farm, probably,’ Rozie suggested. ‘She usually is.

’

The Queen had a very pleasant tour of the pigeon loft from Mr Day. Afterwards, he and his wife entertained her to coffee and home-made chocolate cake. They gave her some gin to take home and try after they had all regretfully concluded that it was a bit early to crack it open now, at 10 a.m. And the Queen was driving, after all.

‘Isn’t it good news about Lord Mundy’s son?’ Mrs Day said. ‘We were talking about it this morning. You must be pleased, personally, ma’am. You know him, don’t you?’

‘Yes, I do.

’ The Queen was relieved. They had indulged in several topics of conversation leading up to this one, but at last they were here.

‘Did you ever think he could be a murderer?’

‘No, I didn’t,’ the Queen said, not entirely truthfully.

‘There isn’t any hope that Mr St Cyr’s still alive, is there?’ Mr Day asked.

‘I can’t help picturing him in a shallow grave somewhere,’ Mrs Day added solemnly.

‘It’s dreadful when there isn’t a body, isn’t it?’ the Queen suggested. ‘Everyone is left with so much uncertainty.

The family can’t move on in so many practical ways.’

‘It’s nasty,’ Mrs Day said. ‘Sadistic, I’d say. To kill someone is something, but to hide the body . . . that somehow makes it worse, don’t you think?’

‘There’s no burial, no peace. It’s un-Christian. I suppose if you’re a murderer you don’t care about things like that.’

‘I suppose not,’ the Queen agreed. ‘Although no doubt you’ve heard the rumour.’

Mrs Day sat up straighter.