A Death in Diamonds

The Queen tipped her head to one side and looked at her harder still. ‘It went very well, thank you. Do you have one of those, what do they call it, photographic memories?’

‘I don’t think so, ma’am. I just . . . if I see something, I can generally remember it.’ Joan felt acutely embarrassed. She didn’t understand why other people had trouble recalling the images they had recently seen. What was so difficult about it? Like her father, she’d been able to do it all her life. He didn’t understand the problem, either.

‘I think that is a photographic memory,’ the Queen said. ‘Ah, here we are. Outside my study with . . . what?’ She looked at her watch and smiled. ‘Three minutes to spare!’ She paused on the threshold and turned back. ‘What’s your name, by the way?’

‘McGraw, ma’am. Joan McGraw.’

‘That’s Irish, isn’t it?’

‘Yes. My grandfather was Irish.’

‘Mmm. And you speak French fluently?’

‘I do. My mother was French. I also speak German.’

The Queen nodded thoughtfully. ‘How old are you, if I might ask?’

‘I’m thirty-seven, ma’am.’

She nodded again. ‘I see. Did you have an interesting war?’

They held each other’s gaze for just long enough for Joan to signal that she knew what the Queen meant. ‘Interesting’ wars for clever young linguists at the time tended to involve spying or, in Joan’s case, decoding work at Bletchley Park, before moving on to other, equally interesting things.

‘Yes, ma’am.’

The Queen gave her the briefest nod. ‘Yes, well, thank you for your message. And now I must see what Mr Eisenhower wants from me.’

* * *

That evening, the Queen had a question for Sir Hugh as he discussed her schedule for the following day.

‘I gather Fiona won’t be coming back for a little while. Is that right?’

‘Ah. Do you? I—’

‘She wasn’t an ideal APS anyway, Hugh. She was always confusing Austria and Australia.’

Sir Hugh was alarmed. He was very fond of Fiona. She was the great-niece of a duke, one of his own distant cousins, and an excellent horsewoman with a weakness for cocker spaniels and couture fashion she couldn’t afford. She could be a little scatty, in an endearing way, but he would argue she made up for it with her cheerful nature, the boxes of pastries she brought in each morning, made by her family’s exceptional London chef, and her uncanny ability to know when he, Miles or Jeremy needed soothing or cheering after a fraught encounter.

‘She was deb of the year, ma’am, if you recall. I think it’s simply a matter of training. With time, she—’

‘Anyway, we need someone new. I like the girl I met yesterday. I think she shows promise.’

‘The redhead? McGinty? She’s just a typist, ma’am. She—’

‘So she told me. I think there’s more to her than that. She helped you out in Paris, didn’t she?’

‘Dictating over the telephone? Yes, she did, but—’

‘She got us out of a hole. I’m very grateful. Don’t search for a replacement for Fiona just yet. Let’s see how this one gets on. And her name’s McGraw.’

‘Ma’am?’

‘Not McGinty. You’re thinking of the nursery rhyme. Thank you so much, Hugh.’

This was a dismissal, and he knew it. He was astonished.

‘Ma’am.’ Sir Hugh bowed and left.

Afterwards, the Queen smiled to herself. His grey whiskers had quivered with indignation at the very idea of a lowly secretary taking on such a valuable role in the Private Office. As she had known they would.

It was inevitable that the men in moustaches would provide acute resistance to a girl with an Irish name, a typist, no less, taking her place alongside them. But the Queen needed an ally, someone outside the close-knit institutional world she had inherited from her father. She sensed this morning, looking into those clever, frank hazel eyes, that she had found one.

Hence her forcefulness with Sir Hugh just now, which was rare. Her private secretary wasn’t going to make Joan’s life easy, but he would at least give her a chance, because he had no choice. The rest would be up to her.

Chapter 7

Inspector Darbishire made his way to the interview room at a police station in Southend. After a nationwide search lasting two weeks, Beryl White had finally been tracked down by a sergeant working for the Vice Unit. DS Victor Willis had discovered the missing escort at the home of her brother and his family. She refused to return to London, so Darbishire and Woolgar travelled to Essex while Willis stayed with her to ensure she didn’t do a flit.

‘Nice work, Sergeant,’ Darbishire acknowledged, as the man waited at the door to greet them.

Willis gave a friendly smile. He had a record of helping out with reluctant witnesses. His slick good looks and a kindly manner seemed to have a special effect on women of ill repute.

‘Would you like me to sit in with you, sir?’ he asked, eyeing Woolgar, who lurked further down the corridor.

‘That won’t be necessary,’ Darbishire assured him, although he briefly wondered what it would be like to employ Willis’s sharp wits and good looks, instead of Woolgar’s bulk and lively imagination. ‘Anything I should know? What frame of mind is she in?’