Murder Most Royal

‘I was hoping to catch you,’ Anne went on, negotiating the car down the muddy track. ‘Any more news from the police?’

‘Not that I’ve heard,’ Rozie said.

‘Lady Caroline mentioned that you’re on the lookout for potential murderers among us.’

‘Not exactly, ma’am. I just thought it would be useful to know who knew the victim.’

‘Do they know what Ned was doing in town?’

‘I wonder if it was a gangland thing,’ Anne said. ‘Ned mixed with some dodgy types back in the seventies. It’s not hard to picture them luring him to London.

Though God knows what for, after all this time.’

‘It’s interesting that whoever did it came back to Norfolk,’ Rozie said, glancing beyond the stubble and dykes towards the marshes that led to the Wash. ‘Something must have drawn him here.’

‘Lunch!’ Anne declared.

Up ahead, an isolated building too small to be a house, and too delicate to be a farm building, stood solitary behind a sea of winter wheat. Already, various cars were disgorging their occupants on the track nearby and Anne swung her Range Rover alongside them.

‘You’ll join us, I take it?’ she asked as they got out.

‘I was going to head back. I don’t think I—’

‘Don’t be silly,’ Anne said. ‘You’re here now. Come on.’

They walked into the relative warmth of the building, at one end of which a team of chefs stood guard over a vast array of cold meats, pies, hot soups and sizzling sausages. Guests were already assembling around a long table, laid with silver cutlery and cut glass. Anne was hailed by various people and left Rozie to her own devices.

Henry wasn’t there yet, but she noticed Matt Fisher and the Earl of Mayfield sitting next to Prince Philip at the far end. Bearing in mind what Sir Simon had said, Rozie joined them.

The conversation was something to do with new opportunities for farmers now they weren’t going to be ‘tied up in Brussels red tape’. The Earl of Mayfield, fuelled by Bloody Marys and red wine, was holding court.

‘Of course, if people like Ned St Cyr had their way, poor bastard, we wouldn’t have farms at all.

It would all be trees.’

‘What?’ Prince Philip asked.

‘You might as well call it that,’ the earl said dismissively. ‘They want half the country to be wooded over and wild animals left to roam it. They’re supposed to look after themselves, summer and winter, without needing food or vets or accommodation. And somehow they don’t breed themselves into starvation. Of course, the natural way – the medieval way – would be wolves.