A Death in Diamonds

‘Actually, I was thinking of the tiara,’ the elder Elizabeth said. ‘Clement told Cissy that the police showed him a picture of the diamonds, in case he knew where they came from. Of course, he had no idea, but he said the tiara was made up of roses and daisies in pink and white diamonds, with pale green peridots for the leaves. It’s quite an unusual combination and it reminded me so much of the Zellendorf tiara, from ’twenty-four. Cartier, very delicate, made for Lavender Hawksmoor-Zellendorf. It was supposed to resemble an English country garden. So pretty. I wondered about trying to buy it for you, Margaret, when it came up for auction last year, but of course it was much too expensive.’ She sighed. ‘One has to manage one’s spending money so carefully.’

Margaret looked disappointed. ‘Margaret Rose,’ she said pointedly, stressing her middle name.

‘Well, exactly.’

‘Who got it, Mummy?’

‘I don’t know, that’s the thing. Not that I didn’t ask, but everyone was very tight-lipped. Some foreign johnny I imagine. They have all the money nowadays. An American, probably, or the Aga Khan, or the Shah. Anyway, it disappeared. Such a pity as it’s a lovely piece.’

She stopped, sensing that while her younger daughter still looked wistful and slightly cross about the diamonds, the older one was staring at her with a hint of criticism. She raised her hands defensively.

‘You see, one didn’t know the girl, but one does know tiaras. What I meant to say was, if it is the Zellendorf, how on earth did she get hold of it?’

* * *

After lunch, the Queen suggested a walk outside, but instead Margaret inserted a cigarette into a long-handled holder and had one of the footmen light it for her.

‘Hmm.’ She stared up ruminatively through the smoke. ‘Cresswell Place. Anything goes on in that street. I think it’s exactly the sort of place you’d find a body and stolen diamonds.’

The Queen turned to her. ‘Oh?’

‘Absolutely. I’ve been there a couple of times. There’s an artist who hosts these fabulous little parties. Tiny mews house, like a doll’s house, really. You can hardly squeeze everyone in. They play the saxophone and dance on the stairs, it’s terribly funny. You never know if you’re going to be talking to a stockbroker or a demi-mondaine, or a spy. Or me.’ She arched an eyebrow. ‘I can see why the dean liked it there.’

Her mother was shocked.

‘I very much doubt that’s why he chose the street. Cissy says Clement is humiliated beyond belief. And so unsettled. To think that sort of thing was going on under his roof! And what if he’d been in when the killer came?’

‘I don’t think you could confuse the dean of a major English cathedral for a jewel thief and his paramour,’ Margaret said through another puff of smoke. She eyed her mother. ‘You know, I still don’t have a tiara of my own.’

The Queen said nothing at this, but was privately exasperated. The point was certainly not the tiara. Perhaps Margaret harked back to it because she really didn’t have one of her own, whereas the Queen couldn’t remember exactly how many she had access to. Such thoughts made her judge her sister less harshly than she might otherwise. On a good day, Margaret was the soul of generosity.

‘. . . yourself.’

‘Hmm?’ Margaret had been saying something she had missed.

‘I said, you’ll be going that way soon anyway, so you can see the place for yourself.’

‘Will I?’

‘Mummy said you’re visiting Deborah Fairdale in the Boltons. Creswell Place is right next door.’

‘Oh! Yes we are. For drinks on Friday.’

‘Well, look out. You’ll be practically on the murderer’s doorstep.’

Margaret said it with something approaching relish. The Queen was very much looking forward to seeing her friend, but that aspect of the visit came as a bit of a shock. And also, she realised, an opportunity.

Chapter 5

The thing Fred Darbishire really wanted to know – and it was a big thing – was why he’d got this gig at all. It should by rights have gone to Chief Inspector George Venables, who regularly nabbed the best cases in Chelsea and Kensington. Venables was on the cusp of being made detective superintendent at a record juvenile age and everyone circulated around him like little planets. A double murder on his doorstep? A society vicar in the frame? The mention of the Duke of Edinburgh, and the cover of every newspaper in the land, alongside the Queen and the Duke in Paris? Venables would normally go for it like a shot.

But apparently the Criminal Investigation Department’s darling was ‘indisposed’. Or he had holiday booked. The rumours varied and Darbishire believed none of them. Nothing short of his own deathbed would keep George Venables away from something he really wanted. So here was Darbishire, a mere detective inspector, along with his trusty, useless sergeant, Woolgar, in charge of the whole shebang, and expected to be grateful instead of suspicious, which he was.