Murder Most Royal

‘Ah, and see the woman two pegs along, in lilac tweed, with the fur-trimmed hat?’

‘I assumed it was a novelty outfit the first time I met her. That’s Helena Fisher. You wouldn’t think so to look at her, but she’s a phenomenal shot. She’s half Swedish, half American, and she was on the national Olympic team, I can’t remember which. Her husband Matt runs Muncaster, which is the next estate along. It’s between here and Abbottswood, so I assume they knew Ned quite well.’

‘Ned was very charismatic and Helena’s charming and attractive, so if he had anything to do with it .

 . . She’s much younger than him, of course. She can’t be more than forty-five. But, as we know, age was no barrier to Ned’s interest in a woman. Matt’s an average shot, so he’s over with the pickers-up somewhere. I overheard Prince Philip saying he felt obliged to invite them because we poached his bean counter for the estate. I think that’s the bean counter there, see? At the end of the line, in the bright yellow ear defenders. You could see them from space! I assumed Prince Philip meant he was an accountant, but apparently he really does count beans.’

‘He’s some sort of conservation manager. His thing is organic farming. Of course, that’s catnip for the Prince of Wales. He has to show how good the organic yields are or something. Hence—’

‘He counts them. Not individually, I presume,’ Rozie said.

‘By the tonne, I imagine,’ Lady Caroline agreed. ‘And blackcurrants, too. Did you know they supply them for Ribena? I’m surprised he’s shooting with the guns today.

Staff don’t usually . . . But I’m sure Prince Philip has his reasons. And that’s it, as far as I know,’ Lady Caroline concluded. ‘Oh, look, they’re about to start and the duke is glaring at me because I’m talking.’

She gave Rozie an unrepentant grin and headed back to the group of wives and other guests who were watching from a suitably safe distance. Rozie noticed the bean counter with the yellow ear defenders had turned his head and was looking in her direction.

It was a little unnerving. Had he not seen a six-foot black woman in tweeds before? She stared back at him until he looked away.

After the third drive, Rozie decided she had had enough of tweed for the day. She was contemplating the long walk back across farmland and paddocks to her lodgings, when a Range Rover stopped beside her. Princess Anne was at the wheel.

‘Oh, good! It’s you,’ she said. ‘Hop in.’

Rozie did as she was told.