Murder Most Royal

The junior cousins were first, followed by her youngest son Edward, the Earl of Wessex and other Wessexes, large and small, then Andrew and his girls and, shortly afterwards, Anne and her husband, accompanied by Prince Harry, who had got a lift with them from St James’s Palace.

Among the freshly polished royal vehicles, a mud-spattered old Subaru estate car incongruously drew up in the courtyard and its driver got out alone. The Queen happened to be looking out of the saloon window as he did so. She turned to the butler who was standing beside her.

‘What’s the chief constable of Norfolk doing here?’

‘I don’t know, ma’am,’ he said, looking as surprised as she was. ‘I’ll redirect him round the back.’

The Queen shook her head. Surely the most senior policeman in Norfolk wouldn’t visit Sandringham on a day like today unless it was very important? It must be to do with Ned St Cyr, and yet it had only been twenty-four hours since she had identified the hand. Was that enough for significant progress? She didn’t know whether to hope or dread what he might say.

‘Show him in, would you? One might as well say hello.’

The lugubrious, angular man who came in from the cold, shrugging off his waxed jacket and handing it to a waiting footman, looked astonished to be ushered into the saloon itself, and to find Her Majesty waiting for him. The circumstances were unusual, but this was by no means the first time they had met. Nigel Bloomfield had been head of the Norfolk constabulary for five years. He was a keen and thoughtful officer who had joined as the son of local farmers and risen quickly through the ranks.

The Queen admired him for sticking with the Norfolk force and not seeking flashier jobs elsewhere. ‘They call Yorkshire God’s own county,’ he’d said once, ‘but we know where it is really, don’t we, ma’am?’ She was pleased that his loyalty hadn’t held him back. He was well regarded among other senior officers she knew. She found him both imperturbable and affable, which was an attractive combination, despite his general demeanour of a disappointed bloodhound.

‘Chief Constable! It’s good to see you,’ she announced. ‘Very kind of you to come on Christmas Eve.’

He bowed at the neck, and apologised for his off-duty outfit of neatly pressed corduroy trousers and smart red jumper.

‘I’m off to a carol concert later. My wife’s singing with a choir in Burnham Market. I hope you don’t mind, ma’am.’

‘Not at all,’ the Queen said. ‘Very appropriate.