A Death in Diamonds

The Queen fiddled with her pen. ‘It is. I saw him surveying the room in Paris, where I was surrounded by excited Frenchmen and women, and he looked both disdainful and slightly furious. It’s supposed to be a good thing if we’re popular. He seemed to disagree.’

‘He could have quite easily organised the disappearance of your speech,’ Joan suggested. ‘He has the senior ladies in the typing pool wrapped around his finger.’

‘He might well have, but that’s not how it was done, supposedly.’

‘Oh?’

The Queen hadn’t told Joan this part yet. ‘Sir Hugh looked into it for himself when he got back from Paris. Apparently, the instruction had come directly from the Embassy there – and it had come from Sir Hugh himself.’

‘Oh!’

‘A junior girl swore that Sir Hugh had spoken to her personally on the telephone. If someone was doing an impression, it was a good one.’

Not Urquhart, Joan thought. His impressions were terrible. But Jeremy Radnor-Milne was good.

‘And any of the three men could have slipped a message about my food preferences to the chefs at the Hôtel de Ville,’ the Queen went on. ‘Just as they could have typed that message about Ingrid Kern. Well, I’m not entirely sure Hugh or Miles has ever typed anything, but if it was part of a conspiracy, they could find someone who can.’

Joan agreed that none of these things was hard. ‘The question is, why would they want to?’

‘Quite. And until we know that, I don’t want to interfere by starting a proper investigation. Whoever he is, he’d just stop for a while. I need him to carry on so we can find him. Ideally, before he does any real damage.’

Joan nodded. ‘I’ll do whatever I can.’

* * *

At lunchtime, she was surprised by the arrival of two dozen long-stemmed pink roses, with a note saying, ‘I hope you’re not allergic to these’.

Joan was relieved that Miles Urquhart was in conference with the other men in moustaches, so she had the office to herself. She removed the note and burned it in the fireplace with a lighter. She’d recognise the handwriting again if she saw it.

What to make of it?

She had assumed Tony Radnor-Milne would instantly see through last night’s flimsy excuse, and had been worried about his reaction. She certainly hadn’t expected roses. Was this some sort of double bluff? Or was he really so self-opinionated that he assumed she would only reject him if she was genuinely physically incapacitated?

She gave the bouquet to the secretaries.

‘The smell makes me a little nauseous. I’m sure you’ll enjoy them more than me.’

‘But they’re so heavenly! You must have made an impression, you lucky thing!’ one of the younger women said, before the others stared her down for being spontaneous and friendly.

That wasn’t the end of it.

‘Ha! I hear you have a secret admirer,’ Urquhart told her on his return to his desk. ‘Tony Radnor-Milne, no less.’

‘Not so secret, then,’ Joan said. There was clearly no point denying it. ‘How did you know?’

‘Jeremy told me. Tony was quite taken with you, apparently.’

‘I hadn’t realised he was married,’ she said, watching for his reaction. Was this part of the plot? Was Urquhart in on it after all? Why on earth was he being so friendly, suddenly?

‘Oh, that! He means no harm. His wife, Lady Jessica, is quite intimidating. I’m not surprised he enjoys little distractions.’

Joan kept her seething to herself. ‘He invited me down to the Abbey,’ she explained. ‘He wants me to go shooting.’ Since they were discussing Tony, she might as well tell him everything. She didn’t want there to be any secrets, or the suggestion of them. She felt compromised enough.

‘Ah. He does that to all the pretty girls,’ Urquhart said. ‘Harmless fun, but I wouldn’t go, if I were you. Lady Jessica – Topsy, we call her – doesn’t like it. And it’s her home, after all.’

‘Yes, I suppose so,’ Joan said, unsure why he needed to stress the point.

‘I mean, her ancestral home,’ Urquhart said. ‘Tony married into money. And nobility. Topsy’s the niece of the Marquess of Middlesex. Of course, Tony’s a millionaire in his own right now, but the Abbey is hers, strictly speaking. It’s been in her family for generations.’

‘Oh. What about Tony’s family?’ Joan asked.

‘Lawyers, I think. His grandfather worked at the Old Bailey. Why?’

‘I didn’t know, that’s all.’

Urquhart grunted. ‘He likes to give the impression he’s the Lord God Almighty, but he’s terribly bourgeois. His father had to save for him to go to Eton.’

‘I see.’

Joan resisted a sudden impulse to laugh. Urquhart’s raging snobbery put him inadvertently on her side. So, the star of the Ritz was ‘bourgeois’, was he? His father had to save up for boarding school fees? The landed gentry performance was just an act? It probably didn’t make him any less dangerous, but Tony had made her feel foolish last night, and now she knew he was.

‘He’s undoubtedly clever,’ Urquhart acknowledged. ‘He got a first in PPE, went into the City and made a fortune in rubber during the war, selling essentials to the military.’

‘What, tyres?’

‘Ah, um, yes, tyres . . . if you like.’