Murder Most Royal

In London there was always something to grab her attention but here, in the depths of the country, and with Sir Simon now taking all the interesting phone calls, she had never felt so far away from the centre of the action. From her mother’s chatty texts about excursions with friends to West End theatres and Soho restaurants, to friends’ Instagram images of pools and ski slopes on far-flung holidays, she had the feeling the world was somehow carrying on without her. Norfolk had its attractions, but an open field, however beautifully lit by the rays of a setting sun, was never going to beat a poolside bar in St Barts.

‘I think I might have a little job for you,’ the Queen said, when Rozie arrived at her study.

Rozie positively grinned. ‘Of course, ma’am. What can I do?’

The Queen outlined her concerns, and the recent conversation with Mr Day.

‘I’d like you to look into it for me. Privately.’

Rozie thought she detected a certain glint in the Boss’s eye that she hadn’t seen since they’d left London.

‘With pleasure, ma’am.’

‘And I think I know someone who might help.’

That afternoon, Rozie closed her laptop and told Sir Simon that she was going out for a run. This wasn’t unusual: she worked hard to maintain her levels of fitness from her army days. Today, she covered the mile or so from the gates of Sandringham to the village of Dersingham, down the long alley of copper beeches and along the verges and paths beside the road. It was dusk and there wasn’t much traffic aside from the odd red double-decker bus – which came as a surprise to Rozie, so far from London – and a couple of mud-splashed four-wheel drives.

She noticed, as she passed, how the mathematical neatness of the grass and hedges of the estate gradually gave way to the rougher walls and lumpier fields of the village. She hadn’t realised how quickly she had become used to the standards of the Sandringham groundsmen.

Beyond its boundaries, the winter gloaming cast a grey pall over the paddocks and the church. Rozie passed the Feathers pub, named after the three-feathered badge of the Prince of Wales, and a few buildings further along she came to the little knapped flint cottage the Queen had asked her to visit. The light peeping through its windows cast a friendly glow.