Murder Most Royal

He had arrived with a home-made bird table, she seemed to remember, to be given as penance, and a couple of jokes from school that had made Philip hoot with laughter.

Ned usually got away with his naughtiness. Like his mother and his beloved uncle Patrick, his charm and charisma made him ‘one of those special people’, as her own mother always put it, and she should know, because the Queen Mother had been the very definition of ‘one of those special people’ herself.

Perhaps it was an accident. Perhaps Ned had died at sea and a boat propeller had somehow caused the hand to become detached.

Except, no – there was the bag. Somebody must have . . .

She prayed that at least they would find the body soon, otherwise intact. She really must not indulge her worst imaginings. The Queen brought her mind back to the jigsaw and tried to lose herself, unsuccessfully, in Constable’s feathery trees.

Back at her desk, Rozie stared in frustration at her computer screen. After a stint as a captain in the Royal Horse Artillery and a couple of years on a fast-track role in the City, she could strip and reassemble a rifle blindfold, disarm an attacker, tack up a horse and break down a P & L statement – but the kind of estate she grew up on in West London did not feature farms and country houses, and there was still a lot the royal family took for granted that she had yet to learn.

Sir Simon Holcroft hadn’t risen to the heights of private secretary without being a bit of a control freak.

He had exhorted her to call him in Scotland ‘at any time, day or night’ if she had any questions or concerns of any kind. For her part, Rozie hadn’t survived several years as a black female officer in the British Army without developing a strong sense of self-sufficiency, so she had equally vowed to herself that she wouldn’t. Yet the Queen had been here for less than two hours, and already Rozie’s finger was hovering over Sir Simon’s number in her phone. She could hardly call the police to identify the victim if she didn’t know who he was. And one didn’t ask Her Majesty for the same information twice.

Sir Simon was all charm. There was the clinking of glasses and the hum of congenial chatter in the background. He sounded as if he was in a bar or social club of some sort, having a good time.

‘Rozie, Rozie. Edward Sincere, d’you say? How did you spell it?’

He voiced the thought as it entered her brain.