Murder Most Royal

On the way upstairs, an image came to her of Ned’s glamorous mother, Georgina – Patrick’s oldest sister – descending this very staircase in velvet Dior that night. Georgina had been a frequent guest at Sandringham in the fifties and sixties. She was about the Queen’s age, a star of her starry generation. She rode, she farmed, she gardened to an international standard, she collected modern art (she was one of the first people to spot the potential of a young artist called David Hockney), she looked equally fashionable in Parisian couture or tweeds and a cardigan with pockets for her secateurs. She had once famously combined several of her passions by sitting for a portrait in a ball gown astride her favourite hunter in the drawing room at Ladybridge. Ned, an only child, adored her, and Georgina was a very indulgent mother. The Queen, who had tried to be one too, but with many absences and less opportunity to do so, had sometimes been a little jealous of their relationship.

Philip was sitting up against the pillows looking much less grey than he had this morning. The country air was already having its effect.

‘Ah, hello, Cabbage. So. As I said, we assume he’s dead?’

‘It’s hard to imagine otherwise,’ she agreed.

‘Astonishing. Ned was one of the most alive people you could meet.’

The Queen went over and perched on the edge of the bed, until her hip protested and she took Philip’s suggestion of a nearby armchair.

‘Of course, we know who did it,’ Philip said.

‘Do we?’

‘One of the family.’

‘Mmmm,’ the Queen said, which was her usual response when she didn’t necessarily agree.

‘It’s as plain as the nose on your face. D’you want a handkerchief, by the way? Yours is glowing like a beacon.’

‘No thank you. I’ll manage.’

‘It’s always the family, one way or another. I pitied those wives of his. Not surprised they didn’t last the distance. The man shagged half the county.’ The duke was thoughtful. ‘Or he owed money. He liked to give the impression of living off the fat of the land, but Abbottswood was hopeless for farming. Too many woods and wetlands. I often wondered how he managed to heat his pink monstrosity of a villa. We flew over it this morning, did you notice?’

‘Yes. I always thought it was rather pretty,’ the Queen admitted.

‘Pink’s a Suffolk colour,’ the duke protested. ‘And did you spot those deer on the lawn?’

‘Yes, that was very odd,’ she agreed.

‘Right up to the house. Eating everything in sight, I shouldn’t wonder. God knows what that was about. Another of his godforsaken projects, no doubt. Do you remember the rock concerts? The commune? And that bloody book festival stuffed up the roads in half the county until the council shut it down. He was always in the papers for some violation. Didn’t know what he was doing, didn’t care who tried to stop him. I—’ Philip was interrupted by a cough and for a while his body was convulsed with them. But the Queen noticed his eyes cloud as he recovered, and it wasn’t just his cold that made him pause before he carried on. ‘God, the man was butchered, Lilibet. Wasn’t he?’ As if it had really hit him for the first time. ‘What did they do to him?’

* * *

In a dressing room at Clarence House near Buckingham Palace, where he was reviewing some of the evening dress suggestions of his valet, the Prince of Wales greeted a footman bearing a telephone (he did not believe in mobiles) and accepted a call from the Princess Royal.

‘Charles speaking,’ he announced crisply.

‘Of course it’s you.’ Like their father, Princess Anne did not suffer fools gladly. ‘Listen, have you heard about the hand on the beach?’

‘No. What beach?’

‘Snettisham. Found yesterday, identified this morning. It was on the news just now. We’ll have to rally round Mummy. It’s the last thing she needs.’

‘What hand?’

‘Ned St Cyr. Georgina St Cyr’s son. That awful boy who used to chase you around the dining table at Sandringham.’

‘He didn’t chase me,’ Charles protested.

‘He did. Anyway, he’s dead. Or minus an extremity at the very least.’

‘Do they know how he died?’

‘I assume losing your left hand doesn’t help,’ Anne answered caustically. ‘According to the news, he’s been missing for several days. Poor Astrid’ll be devastated.’

‘Astrid who? Why?’ Charles asked, still getting to grips with the news. Anne was, not for the first time, three fields ahead and going at a gallop.

‘Astrid Westover. Ned’s fiancée, the one who reported him missing.’

‘He was getting married again?’ Charles hadn’t seen the man for decades, and had only the sketchiest awareness of his circumstances.

‘Yes, Zara knows her. She used to be an eventer. Good seat, terrible hands. I went to Pony Club with her mother, back in the Dark Ages,’ Anne explained. ‘Astrid’s an interesting character. She’s only in her thirties – younger than Ned’s eldest. Zara says she’s an influencer, whatever the hell that is.’

‘I’d like to think . . . someone like me, perhaps,’ Charles suggested, aware that he was straying from the point.