A Death in Diamonds

‘I don’t, really,’ he admitted. ‘But my elder boy races with Paul’s outfit. He’s got a bit of a thing for Bridget. She’s fallen in with this Trotsky crowd, though. One hopes she’ll grow out of it.’

‘Mmm.’

The Queen looked desperately up the drive, but there was no sign of more horses.

‘Did you see the Astors have got a swimming pool?’ Bunny scoffed. ‘Terribly infra dig.’

The Queen thought it infra dig to dismiss the prize possessions of one’s host, but she had often noticed that some dukes thought themselves above that sort of nicety.

‘I ask you!’ he went on. ‘Astors. They may be viscounts these days, but they’ll always be hoteliers at heart.’

‘We have a pool ourselves,’ she reminded him. ‘My father had it put in when we were little.’

‘Ah yes!’ Bunny took another swig from his hip flask. ‘That makes sense. You wouldn’t want the whole of London crowding in to ogle at two girls’ adolescent bodies . . .’

‘I thought this one looked rather charming,’ she said quickly, eager to move off the topic of adolescent bodies – hers or anyone else’s. A buggy arrived at last, with room for two, and Bunny sat snugly beside her. So snugly in fact that she said she’d rather get out after a couple of minutes and walk back across the lawns. She remembered Fiona Matherton-Smith’s mother telling her once about ‘NSITs – men who were ‘not safe in taxis’. Bunny wouldn’t try anything, but she knew how it felt.

The lawns were full of people, at least. Fairies cavorted around them and the sound of laughter came from behind a thick laurel bush. Several Romeos and Juliets passed in the opposite direction. There were a couple of Queen Elizabeths in farthingales and ruffs, which the Queen thought was cheating slightly. As Bunny insisted on walking her back to the house, which still seemed a long way away, she noticed that for once her costume was doing her no favours. No one recognised her and came to the rescue. She realised that she relied on this happening more often than she cared to admit.

Her attention was caught by a very beautiful woman on the arm of a man in a toga. She was wearing sandals, turquoise jewellery and a tight, gold lamé dress that reminded the Queen of the one worn by Marilyn Monroe.

‘Cleopatra,’ Bunny said, following her gaze. ‘Clever. Oh my! Look who it is!’

‘Who?’ the Queen asked.

‘That’s Lucy Seymour, with her husband. Bit of an ice queen. No wonder Stephen . . . But anyway, I’m surprised to see them here tonight. Very brave. Ha!’

He bowed lavishly to them as they passed, and they both looked slightly horrified and walked on quickly. They, too, didn’t recognise the Queen, although she thought the man in the toga looked familiar.

‘Why brave?’ she asked Bunny.

‘Oh, didn’t you know?’ The duke gave her a conspiratorial look. ‘I shouldn’t be telling you this, ma’am, but everyone’s talking about it. It was Lord Seymour who owned the tiara found on the Chelsea tart.’

‘The one that went to auction? Was he the buyer? My mother was telling me about it.’

‘Yes, ma’am. My nephew works at Bonhams. They were in a quandary about whether to say anything to the police. A client, you know. But someone would have said something eventually, so they told Scotland Yard, and now it’s halfway round London. Of course, everyone thinks Stephen did it, but I can categorically assure you he didn’t.’

‘How do you know?’ she asked.

‘My brother was with him at Eton. He’s a thoroughly good egg. A sound junior minister. God knows how he got caught up in this mess.’

The Queen knew Lord Seymour vaguely through his work for the Government. She found the man unobjectionable, but she thought the duke was being a little naive.

‘Bunny, it’s not unheard of for politicians to be involved with escort agencies. Or old Etonians.’

He laughed.

‘Oh, no, ma’am. No indeed. But they try and stay out of murder.’

‘I’d like to think they do.’

His lips twitched as he watched Cleopatra and her Mark Antony walk out of sight. ‘The diamonds must have been stolen,’ he mused. ‘Curious how the tart got hold of them. The girl was obviously dedicated to her art . . .’ He frowned impishly. ‘I wonder who she was doing.’

‘I’d have thought that was obvious.’

‘No, who she was doing,’ Bunny repeated. He took a swig from his hip flask and gave her an unsettling look. ‘The tarts at Raffles have a speciality. Well known for it in clubland. Hasn’t anyone told you?’

The Queen felt vaguely alarmed. ‘Why would they?’

‘Because it involved you, ma’am.’

They were getting nearer to the golden light and laughter from the house. One of her friends recognised her at last and waved, but the Queen ignored the chance to escape. She needed to listen.

She stared at Bunny. ‘Me?’

‘Mmm. They impersonate famous women. Liz Taylor, Vivien Leigh. Marilyn Monroe. They’re very good, I’m told. Not that I’d know personally.’ The leer that accompanied this statement made clear he would very much know.