A Death in Diamonds

‘The women in the Private Office do not live in Bow. It’s in the East End of London. Too far, in every sense. It risks making you look unprofessional.’

‘I—’

‘So I’ve arranged alternative accommodation. Something more suitable, closer to home. A decent address in Pimlico. It’s walking distance from the palace – a good twenty minutes, but think of it as exercise.’

Oh. This was a complete surprise.

‘That’s very kind of you, but . . .’

‘But what? I’m not really offering, Joan. I’m informing.’ He pursed his lips and regarded her across steepled fingertips.

‘I see, but I’m afraid . . . I don’t see how I can afford it,’ Joan admitted.

Didn’t he think she’d live closer if she could? As it was, a bedroom in her aunt’s flat, shared with her three young cousins, was the best she could do.

‘Westminster rents are problematic,’ Sir Hugh agreed. ‘I understand that. And good places are hard to find – unless one knows the right people. You’re smiling. I read that to mean that you don’t know the right people, and I do, and you’re probably right. As it turns out, we know someone who can help. The rent is perhaps still a little out of your league, even on higher wages . . .’

‘My wages are higher?’

‘Didn’t anybody tell you? Yes, quite considerably. Even so, that part of Pimlico might be a stretch, but don’t worry about it for now. The important thing is that you’re here when we need you, and that you get safely home.’ He shook his head. ‘One doesn’t like to think of what can happen the other side of Fleet Street.’

‘It’s pretty friendly,’ Joan assured him. ‘You’d be surprised.’

His nose twitched, as if he’d thought of something. ‘I notice you don’t really have the accent, by the way,’ he said. ‘How did you avoid it?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Cockney. Growing up in the East End . . .’

‘I didn’t,’ Joan said. ‘I went to school in Cambridge. My father works there.’

‘Oh! Does he? At the university? What college?’

‘St Anselm’s.’

Sir Hugh brightened suddenly. ‘Ah! I had no idea. What’s his field?’

‘His field?’

‘Academically. One of my godsons is up at St Anselm’s now, reading Classics. I wonder if he might know him.’

Joan gave him a wry smile. ‘I’m sure he does. My father’s the head porter.’

Sir Hugh looked momentarily derailed. ‘Ah. Oh. Mmm. I see. Important job.’ The warmth of genuine interest faded, to be replaced by something more distant, if not unkind. ‘I remember I was scared witless of the head porter at Trinity. Six foot four in his bowler hat.’

‘My father’s six foot five.’

Sir Hugh frowned. ‘Wait a minute. My godson mentioned something . . . He wasn’t at the Somme, was he? Decorated for valour?’

Joan nodded. Vincent McGraw was a bit of a legend among the undergraduates, having single-handedly rescued four officers of the Coldstream Guards who were trapped under fire in their collapsing trench. He was nearly seven feet tall in his head porter’s bowler, powerful as a boxer, firm but fair, the night-time nemesis of drunken student revellers. At home, he was soft as a pussycat, a prizewinning solver of The Times crossword, and a soppily fond single parent to his only child.

‘You must be very proud of him,’ Sir Hugh suggested.

Joan shrugged. ‘I am.’

After that, Sir Hugh’s expression was neutral. He didn’t give away whether he was pleased to be working with the daughter of a hero from the First World War or alarmed at having to make conversation with the offspring of a college servant. He steepled his fingers again.

‘The thing is, it’s going to be all hands to the pumps until we find your replacement. Fiona’s replacement, I should say. We have a particularly intense few months ahead. Lots of diplomatic visits abroad. Denmark is . . . Denmark. Always good to be friends with the Scandinavians. And they’re related, of course.’

‘I’m sorry, who are?’

‘Her Majesty and their royal family. So is the duke. That always helps. But then we have the trip to Canada and America coming up, and that must absolutely not go wrong. Canada is a jewel in the Commonwealth crown. Her Majesty already knows the country and is fond of it. And the United States . . . I need hardly say . . . after Suez . . .’

‘I understand,’ Joan said.

Sir Hugh looked sceptical. ‘Washington’s reaction to the intervention in Egypt was alarmingly hostile. They threatened our economic stability.’

‘I know,’ Joan said. ‘It must have come as a shock to Mr Eden, after the close relationship during the war.’

‘It did, rather. He had overplayed his hand.’

‘And I suppose they’re still angry about Burgess and Maclean.’

Guy Burgess and Donald Maclean were British diplomats who had suddenly fled to Moscow in 1951, provoking a national scandal. Both had worked in Washington on sensitive issues while reporting to the Foreign Office and – as it turned out – the KGB. Too late, it had been discovered that they had been pouring secrets into Russian ears for years.

Sir Hugh gave Joan an appraising glance through his spectacles. She sensed that transatlantic political tensions hadn’t been Fiona’s strong point.