Murder Most Royal

The winter visit was Not Going As Intended. It was New Year’s Day and he itched to be back at his desk, on the phone to the people that mattered, sorting everything out for the Boss and showing Rozie how it was done.

The newspaper interview with Jack Lions had been particularly difficult. Especially with its picture of the chief constable himself visiting Sandringham on Christmas Eve. Someone should have stopped that from happening. It made it look as if the police were in the palace’s pocket, which they most certainly were not.

Although, admittedly, the chief constable had been very helpful on the phone.

For the second Sunday in a row, Her Majesty was missing from the usual royal line-up at St Mary Magdalene Church at Sandringham. This is unprecedented for the elderly monarch, who hasn’t missed a service in decades. Royal sources say she has a bad cold, but rumours have it that she is upset by the violent death of family friend Ned St Cyr, whose dismembered hand was found within walking distance of the Sandringham Estate.

Locals are concerned for the Queen’s health, but say the plucky monarch will ‘get through this somehow’ with her usual Dunkirk spirit.

‘What fresh hell?’ Philip asked, scrumpling up the page in question and chucking it in the direction of the fire. ‘What “locals” are concerned for your health? Who in God’s name calls you “plucky”?’

The Queen was too irritated to reply. She decided to take her mind off it by visiting the horses in the stud.

Drawing up outside the mare barn in her favourite Land Rover, she found the immaculate yard empty.

It had been a last-minute decision to come, and no one walked over to greet her. She didn’t mind – in fact she was rather relieved. She didn’t quite have the energy yet for a discussion of every mare’s and foal’s progress with the manager: she just wanted to greet some old equine friends, hand out some festive mints and get back to the warm.

Leaving her protection officer at the car and walking across the frosted cobbles, she paused by the tack room to catch her breath, cough, and curse the flu for making her feel so light-headed.

A glossy, coal-black cocker spaniel puppy looked up at her. He was sitting alone, waiting for his owner. The Queen was impressed by how well behaved he was, and bent down to stroke his eager head. Through a gap in the tack room window, she could hear a female voice was talking about parasites. She idly wondered if they were discussing equine diseases.