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She held her nerve and didn’t waver. Whatever the reasons for his own reluctance, he was right about the CID. It was true that she didn’t usually involve herself directly with murder cases. Her official reason for doing so this time was tenuous and unsavoury, as she privately admitted to herself, but it would do. She wasn’t sure exactly what she was looking for, but she’d know when she’d found it.

‘Thank you very much, Hugh.’

He took this as the dismissal it was.

As the door closed behind him, the Queen felt a little sorry for her private secretary. He must be wondering what on earth she was thinking. But Philip had broken a cufflink at the mention of the goings-on in Cresswell Place, and things hadn’t been quite right ever since.

This wasn’t the first little mystery she had encountered. She had been solving them since childhood, but not always without pain, heartache and disappointment, so she had learned not to trust her inner thoughts even with the people she most loved. Their ideas of what was in her best interests and her own weren’t always aligned. Her interest this time was deeply personal and she would have to keep it to herself.

She didn’t think her husband was involved in anything nefarious – not exactly. She didn’t know anyone else in the world more dedicated and sincere in everything that really mattered. But Philip loved risk and silliness too. Was that it? Not all his friends were entirely reputable. Every time she thought about it, she felt a bit dizzy. And then she remembered that all you can do is keep going, trust in God and try your best to do the right thing, however small that might be.

She hoped the police report would be reassuring. At least, one way or the other, she would know.

PART 2

DAPHNE TO THE RESCUE

Chapter 16

‘Good Lord, Joan McGraw. Who’d you have to sleep with to get this?’

‘Auntie Eva! Stop it!’

Joan faced her grinning aunt across the art deco sitting room of the chichi flat in Dolphin Square. Her flat. It was clean and smart, with a bedroom all to herself and a downstairs lobby where she and her aunt had just passed two women in mink jackets, who had given them a friendly ‘hello’. Instead of the bus, Joan now had a brisk, pleasant walk through Westminster. She could no longer bring in babkas as peace offerings to the men in moustaches, but replaced them with sticky buns from a Pimlico bakery, which were almost as popular.

‘I thought the building was a hospital when we drew up outside,’ Auntie Eva said. ‘So grand.’

‘It was one, during the war,’ Joan agreed. ‘And the HQ of the Free French.’

‘La-di-da! Look at you!’

Eva was amused by Joan’s turn of fortune but, of the two of them, she was the one who looked the most at home here. She was a dressmaker who worked for fashionable ladies who couldn’t afford the top designers. Using the latest patterns, her suits and dresses were easily as stylish as the ones Joan saw in magazines. On her clients, it was difficult to tell them from the couture originals. It’s all about fit and fabric, she would say. Right now, in a slim-fitting H-line tweed dress and jacket, copied from Dior, she looked as well turned out as Deborah Fairdale – and not unlike her, if you gave her an expensive hairdresser and overlooked the nose.

Joan ran her hand along the edge of a plush blue sofa. The living room had a small, round dining table at the far end, next to an archway that led to a kitchen with a gas-ring stove and its own electric refrigerator.

‘Did you say it was the private secretary who put you here?’ Eva asked.

‘Yes. It’s owned by a Major Ross. An absentee landlord. Sir Hugh Masson has organised everything.’

‘A man of sense,’ her aunt pronounced with a nod. ‘You can’t look good for the Queen if you’ve traipsed halfway across London.’

‘It’s not about looking good!’ Joan protested.

‘What is it about then?’ Eva raised a perfectly plucked eyebrow.

‘It’s about the work. We connect. It’s about getting things right.’

‘Well, if you say so . . . Talking of which, if you ever get the chance to look at the boning in her evening gowns, can you let me know how Mr Hartnell does it? Because I’m sure he has a new technique.’

‘It’s not about her evening gowns either!’ Joan insisted with a laugh. ‘I don’t get to look inside them.’

‘More’s the pity.’ Her aunt sighed. She walked over and gave Joan a hug. ‘We’re going to miss you, you know. The flat won’t be the same without you.’

‘No. Alice can have a proper bed instead of a mattress on the floor.’

‘She never minded. She adores you.’ Eva placed a gloved hand affectionately against Joan’s cheek.

‘I love her too,’ Joan said, squeezing her aunt’s slim body tightly. ‘And you.’

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