A Death in Diamonds

Auntie Eva had the same figure as her mother, who had died when Joan was a teenager. These hugs always brought a wave of nostalgia that threatened to overwhelm her. Alice, the youngest of the three cousins whose room Joan shared, had her mother’s vivid red hair and the same dusting of freckles across her nose. She would miss all the girls, but even so, Joan deeply savoured her new-found independence. It felt like her last chance.

After nearly four decades on this earth, Joan’s life fitted into four suitcases, two of which belonged to Auntie Eva. As she unpacked their contents onto her bed so her aunt could take the empty luggage home with her, she found an unexpected package tucked into one of them. It was a brown paper parcel, neatly tied with ribbon.

‘Oh, that’s for you,’ Eva said airily. ‘I ran it up last night with some scraps I had left over. Open it later.’

After some more close-hug goodbyes, Joan went back to the package in her bedroom. She unwrapped the paper and held up the folded garment inside. It was a jade silk kimono, lined with more silk in a cherry blossom pattern. Auntie Eva had certainly not made it out of ‘scraps’: the fabric alone must have cost her a fortune. It was fit for a princess – or the sort of lady who mixed with neighbours in mink coats and reclined on plush blue sofas. Joan slipped it on over her dress and wondered what might happen to jinx this moment. Because it felt too good to last.

Chapter 17

It was now the second week in May, more than a month since the bodies in Chelsea had been found. Sir Hugh arrived at the Queen’s study to go over her diary.

‘I’ve allowed an extra fifteen minutes in your schedule this morning, ma’am. The police report you requested arrived on my desk last night. I’ve had time to go through it. If you’d like me to . . .’

‘Thank you, Hugh.’

There were one or two things in particular that the Queen wanted to know, but it would be better if she didn’t ask directly.

‘First of all, ma’am, I can confirm that it was a blonde princess that the male victim asked for. He probably meant Princess Grace of Monaco, which would explain the tiara. I hope that puts your mind at ease . . .’ he looked uncomfortable ‘. . . with regard to your family, et cetera.’

‘Not entirely,’ the Queen said. ‘But do go on.’

‘Inspector Darbishire has also made excellent progress in establishing how the murders were done.’

‘Not Chief Inspector Venables?’ the Queen interrupted. ‘I was rather expecting him to be in charge.’ She was familiar with Venables from several high-profile investigations, which always made the front page of the papers.

‘Not this time, ma’am. He was, er, otherwise occupied. But Darbishire is very thorough. And discreet.’

Sir Hugh’s eyes met hers with a look of brief intensity. She wondered if it was merely an effect of the light on his spectacles.

‘Does he need to be discreet?’ she asked.

‘Always,’ he said, without further explanation. The Queen was about to press the point, but her private secretary moved on smoothly.

‘You’ll be pleased to know the Dean of Bath has been all but ruled out, although he’s still on the suspect list.’

‘Oh good. Does he have an alibi?’

‘Far from it, ma’am. But, without going into detail, it was a crime requiring two people to, um, subdue the victims. There’s no evidence he had an accomplice, or indeed a motive. It has since been established that the house was used entirely without his knowledge for illicit assignations.’

‘Ah. I knew about that.’

‘Did you, ma’am?’ Sir Hugh was too polite to express surprise verbally, but his bushy eyebrows shot up, leaving his spectacles behind.

‘Deborah Fairdale told me.’

‘Oh, I see.’ Sir Hugh retrieved a page of notes from the file tucked under his arm. He quickly consulted them. ‘However, there remain some unanswered questions. If the murders happened when the police think they did, then the dean either just missed the killers, or slept through the whole thing. Why didn’t he notice that the flowers he had bought for his bedside the day before were missing? Or that the back door was unbolted? Or – most importantly – that the door to the second bedroom, opposite his own, had been left partially open, as the charlady found it the following week? He would have to be very unobservant indeed.’

‘Did he give a reason?’ the Queen asked. The Clement Moreton she remembered was a sharp, quick-witted man, as you had to be if you were going to beat her mother at canasta, which he had done more than once.

‘He put it down to toothache, ma’am. He was in London in the first place so he could see his dentist in Harley Street on the Monday morning. He drank a little too much the night before, he says, to dull the pain. A hangover didn’t help.’

‘I see.’ This seemed plausible. The Queen knew how painful toothache could be. Earaches too . . .