A Death in Diamonds

The Queen thought about her busy week ahead. She should really go home and get some sleep, but right now, at this minute, she was in heaven. She took off her fur and handed it back.

Chapter 11

As April drew to a close, the Queen and Prince Philip got ready to embark on a packed programme of visits round the country. Joan was not invited to join the men in moustaches on these trips. Miles Urquhart had managed to convince Sir Hugh that there wasn’t room for her on the royal train.

One morning as she waited to pick up the red boxes, Joan heard the confident tread of Dilys Entwistle’s court shoes as they clacked down the linoleum of the North Wing corridor. The private secretary’s personal secretary stopped at the DPS’s open door and coughed. Joan looked up from her desk.

‘Sir Hugh would like a quick word before he goes,’ Dilys said.

Joan frowned. ‘With me?’

‘Yes, Miss McGraw.’

Joan saw the way Dilys pinched her lips when she said ‘Miss McGraw’. She had suggested that Dilys should continue to call her Joan, as she had in Joan’s typing pool days, but the other woman primly insisted on ‘Miss McGraw’ now. Joan felt judged and found wanting. But it didn’t do to let it show.

‘I’m coming. Do you have any idea what it’s about?’

‘None at all. Sir Hugh doesn’t let me into his confidence.’ With a sour look, Dilys waited to accompany her down the corridor.

An uneasy truce had emerged between Joan and the men in moustaches in the days since the Queen had made her feelings known about the ‘gross insubordination’ report. Joan’s place in the Private Office was safe for now, but Urquhart, whose office she shared, had effectively sent her to Coventry. His detailed instructions for what Joan was to do while he was away were delivered via his personal secretary, Sarah, even though she worked down the corridor and Urquhart’s desk, by contrast, was literally opposite Joan’s.

It hadn’t escaped her notice that Urquhart was also the person in charge of the royal couple’s upcoming Danish schedule, where Ingrid Kern had made her strange appearance. Technically, it was easier for him than anyone else to sabotage the Queen abroad. But in reality, any of the three men had access to the files and diaries in question, and were senior enough to instruct staff to do their bidding and keep quiet about it.

Of all of them, Urquhart was the least likely to get away with it, Joan thought. Now that she was experiencing his more childish and stubborn side, she saw a man who simply couldn’t hide his feelings. Dealing with him was a walk in the park compared with Brigadier Yelland.

So far, she hadn’t seen much of Jeremy Radnor-Milne, the press secretary. He was either locked away in his office or out wining and dining his contacts, but Joan noticed he had a large framed photograph of the Queen on the wall behind his desk. The real person working two floors up wasn’t enough for him, it seemed.

Sir Hugh Masson also hadn’t crossed paths with Joan much, but she knew that he was a canny operator, respected for getting difficult things done without losing good relationships. Sir Winston Churchill himself was an admirer and a friend.

The private secretary’s own war service wasn’t easy to investigate, meaning he had probably worked in military intelligence, and he was understated and academic in his manner. Some people mistook his politeness for weakness. They did so at their peril. He would make a formidable adversary, she thought – if that’s what he turned out to be.

Sir Hugh’s office sat across the corridor from Joan’s and exactly two floors under the Queen’s, overlooking the treetops of Green Park beyond the palace wall. The room was tall and airy, with Georgian windows, a marble mantelpiece and several pieces of antique furniture. It spoke of quiet power and a strong sense of history. Unlike Her Majesty, he kept his desk free of memorabilia, and immaculately tidy. He indicated a wing-back chair beside the fireplace. Joan took it.

‘We appear to have a problem,’ he said, sitting down opposite her. He removed his spectacles and gave them a polish. ‘With your accommodation.’

‘I see.’ Joan paused. She had been preparing for much worse. ‘No, actually, I don’t see. What problem?’

‘As you know, your lack of punctuality has caused Miles great concern. I’ve looked into it, and I understand that you travel across London each morning from Bow – a matter of six or seven miles. Is that right?’

‘Yes.’

‘Which would be all right, I suppose, if the buses were reliable, but I gather there have been various traffic incidents recently. It’s quite unsustainable. Her Majesty has made it clear that she wants you to be on hand, and I don’t want you getting here tired and flustered. And we really can’t have the Queen’s temporary APS eating jellied eels on Brick Lane, or whatever else they do.’

Joan’s hackles were rising fast. She did her very best to keep calm.

‘I wouldn’t say I was ever flustered—’ she protested, but he cut her off again.