Murder Most Royal

When she opened it, the screen came to life, revealing four grisly images. The Queen put on her bifocals to examine them more closely. They had been taken in a forensic laboratory and showed what was unmistakably a male left hand and wrist with a pattern of fair hairs below the knuckles, the skin deadly white, bloated, but largely intact. It looked, absolutely, like a gruesome theatre prop, or a model for a practical joke. Her eyes rested on the final image showing the little finger in close-up. Set tight into the ghostly flesh was the gold ring Rozie had mentioned.

It was indeed unusual: large for its type, featuring a reddish-black oval stone carved with a crest.

Rozie explained the situation. ‘The hand was found by a local girl, ma’am. She was out dog-walking from what I understand. They’re working on the identification now. It shouldn’t take longer than a few days, even with the Christmas holiday. They think it may belong to a drug dealer because a holdall containing drugs washed up further down the beach.

There’s a theory the victim may have been kidnapped and the hand cut off as some sort of message, or possibly for ransom. It was done with some violence, but there’s no proof the owner is actually dead. They’re casting the net widely. They—’

‘I can save them the trouble,’ the Queen said, looking up.

Rozie frowned. ‘Ma’am?’

‘Of casting the net widely. This is the hand of Edward St Cyr.’

In answer, the Queen pointed to the top left-hand photograph. ‘Do you see that flat-topped middle finger? He cut off the tip doing some carpentry when he was a teenager.

But it’s the signet ring, of course . . . Bloodstone. Quite distinctive. And that carving is of a swan from the family crest.’ She peered again at the final picture. The ring was a garish thing; she had never liked it. All the men in the St Cyr family wore one like it, but none of the others had lost the tip of their middle finger. Ned must have been about sixteen when he did it, such an eager, inventive boy. That was over half a century ago.

‘I take it he wasn’t a local drug baron, ma’am,’ Rozie ventured.

‘This will certainly speed them up, ma’am.’

The Queen’s blue eyes met Rozie’s brown ones. ‘We needn’t say exactly who recognised the ring.’

‘Not this time.’ The Queen was firm. ‘I think that will be enough.’

Terrible though the news was, she reflected with relief that Snettisham, though close, was a nature reserve run by the RSPB. This was not, to put it bluntly, her problem.