A Death in Diamonds

The Queen briefly outlined her concerns from Paris. She completely agreed about the inexplicable strangeness of the missing speech. On top of that, she described the unwelcome presence of the oysters and the unguarded expression of annoyance at her warm welcome at the Louvre, worn by one of her own courtiers.

‘And now this girl, Ingrid. It confirms my fear that my foreign visits are under threat. It might seem as if I’m overreacting, but I think I know when something’s off.’

‘I see.’

‘I need you to find out what this pattern means. It’s a lot to ask. For obvious reasons, you’d be acting alone. There’s no one else I can . . . D’you think you can manage it?’

‘Yes, ma’am.’ Joan had visions of Elizabeth I entrusting Lord Walsingham with similar missions. It sounded lonely and dangerous . . . and right up her street. ‘Yes, of course I can. Do you have any idea who it might be? Someone to keep an eye on?’

‘I do. But I have no idea why he would behave in such a way. I won’t tell you who it is for now. I find if I say something, people tend to take it as gospel. I want to see if you come to the same conclusion by yourself. And anyway, he might not be acting alone.’

‘I understand, ma’am.’

‘Now, I’m afraid I must go. I’m already late.’

Throughout the discussion, Joan had the impression that something else was preying on the Queen’s mind – more worrying, even than the fact that one of her closest advisers might be undermining her and was, in fact, a traitor. What could be worse than that? Joan also sensed that there was no one the Queen could talk to about it – no one at all. Which begged a few questions.

She had a lot to think about.

Chapter 10

The Victorian villas of the Boltons were a cut above most Chelsea houses. They sat in opposing crescent shapes either side of an oasis of green, where St Mary The Boltons church catered to a select little congregation. Deborah Fairdale’s home, which she shared with her husband and daughter, was the largest and loveliest of them all, as befitted a Hollywood star who had become as much loved on the West End stage as she was in America.

Born to a music teacher and his wife in South Carolina, Deborah never expected to be sharing jokes with the king of England and Sir Laurence Olivier, but after starring alongside Cary Grant, she had come to England to perform in a Noël Coward play, fallen for a Brit and stayed. In her West End dressing room back in 1937, Paul Locke had led her to believe he was a car mechanic, which was sort of true, but really, he was a racing driver. Now, at the grand old age of fifty-two, and minus a leg after the Battle of Monte Cassino, he ran his own racing team. He didn’t mind being ‘Mr Fairdale’ half the time, when really she should be ‘Mrs Locke’. It was one of the many things Deborah loved about him.

Together, they were the couple that every London socialite wanted to know. Miss Fairdale was a proud Southern girl and tried to maintain her home state’s reputation for hospitality. When it came to the Queen and the Duke of Edinburgh, she always liked to have someone special for them each to meet. They couldn’t always socialise with who they chose, and the duke in particular had an endless appetite for interesting people in the arts and sciences, so Deborah liked to mix it up a bit.

She had been excited all week, thinking of this particular soirée, but it wasn’t going the way she’d planned at all. Paul had found her a rocket designer whom Prince Philip would adore, but her special guest for the Queen was horribly late, and in the meantime all anybody wanted to talk about was murder. Deborah had tried several times to shift the conversation on to more enlightening topics, but by the second martini she realised Her Majesty was as interested as anyone else.

For her part, the Queen was having a fascinating time. She had grown up with some of the best gossips in the country – her mother’s household – so she was used to the interest that many people took in other people’s business. Tonight, she had her own reasons for being among them, so she didn’t judge. In fact, she was grateful.

‘So, tell me,’ the wife of a press baron asked, ‘can you really see the place where it happened from your house?’

‘Not quite,’ Deborah admitted. Standing beside the grand piano in her double-aspect living room, she gestured beyond the balcony windows. ‘The mews house backs on to a garden about five houses down. If you lean out of our top floor bathroom you could probably see the roof.’

‘Oh my God! How thrilling! Did you hear anything?’

‘Not a peep,’ Paul said smoothly, circulating with the cocktail shaker. ‘Although to talk to my wife, you’d think it happened in our basement.’

Deborah struck a theatrically affronted pose.

‘Paul! Don’t be rude. We did have the police round, to ask if we’d seen any sign of fugitives, but of course we hadn’t. I’m ashamed to say I was disappointed.’

‘How do you know there wasn’t anyone hiding in the garden?’ an old Hollywood pal of Deborah’s asked.