Murder Most Royal

While Philip took them on a final shoot, the Queen was on her way to Newmarket for lunch with her racing manager and various trainers she knew and liked. Having heard about the recent police breakthrough in the St Cyr case, and their expectation of at least one imminent arrest, she could relax at last. She had been looking forward to the day tremendously. There was nothing like a good meal and an afternoon spent viewing horses and discussing the racing calendar with people who knew exactly what they were talking about.

January was drawing to a close. In a week, she would be heading back to London, and the gilded office block on the roundabout. Now that she knew the police were busy at Ladybridge, she was perfectly sanguine about this. Julian Cassidy, too, had handed himself in yesterday. She didn’t know what would happen to him, but now that he had done the decent thing, she would support him as best she could. Whatever he did now, it would be better than drinking himself into an early grave.

Meanwhile, despite the flu at the beginning, Norfolk had done its job and given her and Philip the dose of fresh air they needed. She felt ready to tackle whatever the new year had to throw at her.

Lady Caroline would be joining her at the racecourse, travelling from Cambridge, where her brother was master of one of the colleges. And so, once again, it was Rozie who kept the Queen company on the journey. They alternated between discussing the next few weeks’ events in the royal diary and quietly waiting for news from Ladybridge.

The Queen was hopeful that by the end of the day they would have a body and a murderer in custody. If they didn’t, it wouldn’t be for lack of trying on the royal part. She had done what she could.

‘Is that it?’ she asked, as the phone on the leather armrest beside Rozie lit up with an incoming message.

‘No, ma’am. I’m sorry.’ It was Rozie’s sister, asking if she was free for cocktails in Kensington next weekend. Rozie discreetly flicked the message away.

The car had turned off the main road to avoid a traffic jam ahead. It wound its way through country lanes for a couple of miles, where the sun created jagged shafts of light through the naked branches of overhanging trees. Several fields away, the Queen caught sight of scarlet coats moving at speed in the distance. The hunt must be out. It was extraordinary, after all the controversy of recent years, that they could still do it.