A Death in Diamonds

‘About anything, really,’ she replied, trying to maintain the same light tone and wondering if she was pulling it off as effectively. ‘The club or . . . what happened afterwards.’

Clearly, she wasn’t Hollywood standard. Deborah gave her one sharp, penetrating look.

‘There are always rumours,’ she said carefully. ‘I wouldn’t pay them any attention, ma’am.’

The Queen had hoped she wouldn’t need to. Deborah’s answer confirmed her fear that she very much did.

Meanwhile, the actress tilted her head back and dabbed at the skirts one more time. ‘There. I think we’re done! I don’t think we’ve made the stain any worse, anyway.’ She went to put the flannels in a laundry bin and added, ‘You know what men get up to when they’ve had a few too many. High jinks and stupidity. I make a point of not asking Paul for any details. I’m sure I’d be so disappointed if he told me.’

The Queen felt reprimanded. Deborah was one of her most candid friends and if she wouldn’t talk, no one would. Perhaps that was a good thing, all things considered, but the Queen dearly wished her friend had made an exception for her.

‘Thank you so much for all that dabbing,’ she said, standing up and brushing her skirts down. ‘Does the stain show?’

They decided it did, but that everyone outside would pretend not to notice, and made their way back to the party.

When they got there, Philip was turning down an offer to race in Paul’s Lagonda at Goodwood.

‘My God! The men in moustaches would never let me! They’d be dragging me out by the lapels.’

‘You must have some fun sometimes,’ the big game hunter insisted.

‘I never do. Not allowed. My life is simply too boring for you to imagine.’ Philip glanced across at the Queen. ‘Isn’t it, darling?’

She smiled at him blandly. ‘I wouldn’t say too boring. I’d like to think we do the odd interesting thing.’

‘We don’t! We never do!’

She would have loved to prove him wrong, but it was time to go. She still had paperwork to catch up with back at her desk, and a very busy day tomorrow. Their hosts accompanied the royal couple to the hall.

‘I suppose the next time we’ll be seeing you is at the palace, next week,’ Paul said, taking the Queen’s fur from the butler and giving it to Philip, who placed it round his wife’s shoulders.

‘The palace?’ Philip queried. ‘God, poor you. Why?’

‘Because it’s Bridget’s presentation – had you forgotten? It’s her coming out year.’

‘Oh, I had. She’s a deb, is she? We’ll look out for her, won’t we, Lilibet? Poor kid.’

‘Poor kid?’ Paul asked.

‘Lining up like a lamb to the slaughter. It can’t go on,’ Philip said. ‘I always feel so absurd, nodding to them all. And they look like frightened rabbits and afterwards their mothers are the cat that got the cream.’ He didn’t mention that his sister-in-law had unkindly remarked that the presentations had to stop because ‘every tart in London’ was getting in.

‘Well, I’ll be the cat that got the cream,’ Deborah said. ‘And Bridget may well be a frightened rabbit, but you’ll smile at her, won’t you?’

Philip looked sheepish. ‘I promise I’ll make an exception for Bridget.’

‘And I know you’ve already said you probably can’t make it, but we’d love to see you at her party next month,’ Paul added. ‘Debutantes are passé, I get it. But we’re pulling out all the stops anyway. Bill Astor’s given us the use of Cliveden. It’s a masked ball, and the theme’s Shakespeare. You can go incognito if you like.’

The Queen was wondering what to reply, when the doorbell rang and Deborah’s hand flew to her heart.

‘Oh! At last!’

Her other special guest had finally arrived. A distinguished-looking black man in a smartly tailored dinner suit was divested of his overcoat by the butler. The Queen took in his gently waving hair, his lugubrious eyes, his familiar smile . . . She was amazed, and thrilled, and only sorry they were leaving. Deborah had done it again.

‘Ma’am, I’d like to introduce Mr Duke Ellington,’ Deborah said. ‘He was held up at the 400 Club, but we forgive him.’

The musical maestro bowed. ‘I’m sorry I’m late, Your Majesty. A little matter of paid employment. I got here as fast as the audience would permit.’

The Queen beamed at him. ‘How wonderful to meet you, Mr Ellington.’

‘Likewise, ma’am.’

‘Is this your first visit to London?’ Philip asked him.

‘No, sir. That was back in ’thirty-three.’ Ellington turned to the Queen. ‘Long before you were born, ma’am.’

He held her eye. Having, in fact, been born in 1926, the Queen admired his gallantry. ‘Oh, really?’ she said, throwing him a cool look, letting it stand.

The maestro’s eyes twinkled. ‘Yes, indeed. I remember I played four-hand piano with your uncle, the Duke of Kent.’

‘Was he any good?’

‘Not bad, for a prince. He sat in on drums with the band as well. There was no getting away from him. Anyway, it’s nice to be back. Do you like jazz?’

‘I’ve loved it all my life,’ she assured him.

‘I promised Miss Fairdale here that I’d play a little something. Have you got time for a song or two?’