A Death in Diamonds

Joan knew what she was implying. Prince Philip was known to have an eye for pretty women, especially blondes. Equally, they had an eye for him. When his engagement was announced in 1946, there had been a song about the loss to the debutante world of the dashing ‘Philip Mountbatten RN’. Recently there had been talk while he was touring the Pacific at Christmas. His private secretary’s wife had asked for a divorce while they were away, and rumours were still flying around about what both men had got up to on Britannia. Today, if he was seen with a blonde who shouldn’t be there, conclusions would be drawn as fast as newspapers could be printed.

In the silence that followed, the frost turned to ice.

‘Did you find out who asked for her?’ the Queen asked in glacial, clipped tones.

‘No, ma’am. I didn’t dare go too far because . . . because . . .’ Joan knew she sounded ridiculous, and especially in light of the reason for her presence here in the first place. But in for a penny, in for a pound.

She went on defiantly, ‘Because I don’t know who to trust, ma’am. Everyone in the Private Office seems incredibly dedicated, but . . . The way the text of your speech went missing in Paris – that just can’t happen. There are too many backups, it’s just not possible. For example, I’d kept a carbon of my own draft of it, as a memento, if you must know. It was in the drawer of the desk I was using, but that copy disappeared too. The head of the typing pool was going frantic. The whole thing was just so . . . strange. And when I asked casually about Ingrid Kern this morning, everyone claimed never to have heard of her. But someone put that note in the file, ma’am. It was typed and unsigned. Before I go, do you want me to rescind it? Anyway, I thought you should know.’

‘I see. Please do.’

‘And there’s the issue of Blair House in Washington. That was odd too.’

‘I know about Blair House,’ the Queen said quietly, dismissing it. Her thoughts were elsewhere. ‘A misunderstanding.’

‘Oh. I’m sorry, ma’am.’

Joan ground to a halt. She’d said everything she needed to say, and it was probably too much, as usual. Her father had always told her she needed to learn diplomacy, and she meant to, but what always tripped her up was a fierce regard for what felt right at the time, or what she thought that was, anyway, and she just couldn’t shake it. She looked briefly around the lamplit room, with the dogs snoozing on the floor and the family in photograph frames, and felt in her bones how much she’d have enjoyed working for this woman, and how sad she was to give it up.

‘Don’t be,’ the Queen said.

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘Don’t be sorry.’ The Queen seemed to gather herself. ‘Not for the Blair House business. And thank you for warning me about Miss Kern in Denmark. In fact, I’d been meaning to ask you to do some work for me.’ She sat back and smiled faintly. ‘I wasn’t sure if you were ready, but it seems you’ve been doing it anyway. That makes things much easier.’

‘But I thought . . . ?’

‘Ah, yes. The chain of command. Your act of gross insubordination.’

Joan said nothing.

‘For the good of the country.’

Oh. That wasn’t how the bewhiskered major at her court martial had put it. It sounded quite different when the Queen described it.

The Queen pushed the report away from her. She smiled. ‘That’s what my father thought. General Eisenhower too.’

‘Did they? But—’

‘The chain of command . . . It does rather require every link to be reliable, doesn’t it?’

Yes, it did. Yelland was an incompetent bully in a position of extreme sensitivity, and he was the only person Joan was allowed to turn to with her complaint. She had never regretted causing his departure. So, Her Majesty appreciated irony after all.

However, Joan hadn’t forgotten how the conversation started. ‘You said there was a problem, though, ma’am. With my record.’

‘Oh, there is.’ The Queen gestured at the file. ‘You were demoted from third officer back to ordinary Wren, and as far as I’m concerned you should have been promoted. However, I can hardly undo the decision-making processes of the navy. Rather, I can, but I won’t. I rely on my admirals, and they rely on me.’

‘Oh,’ Joan said, feeling suddenly like a cork rising from the bottom of the ocean.

‘But we’ll think of something. “Gross insubordination”. At least you can’t go over my head. Where would you go?’

The monarch kept a straight face, but Joan permitted herself a grin. ‘I’m not sure there is anywhere, ma’am.’

‘Well, quite.’

The Queen glanced at her watch and reached for the telephone on her desk. She told the palace operator to tell the duke that she would be with him in five minutes before leaving for the Boltons. Then she turned back to Joan.

‘I mentioned getting you to do some work for me.’

Joan’s pulse quickened. ‘Yes, of course. What is it?’