‘Wow!’ Branson exclaimed.
‘We have seven hundred people employed by the Royal Collection Trust. They are essentially the curators of more than a million highly valuable works of art.’ The Master paused. ‘I can tell you, with very rare exceptions, they are all good people, proud to be in royal service and aware of the privilege. Of course they have their foibles and one of them is that they are mostly traditionalists, so any changes can stir up a hornets’ nest.’ He smiled and raised his hands in a gesture of mock despair.
Continuing, he said, ‘I do get a fair amount of resentment, jealousy, that sort of thing. The footmen you’ll see around in the Palace wear magnificent uniforms, they get noticed by people, whereas the cleaning staff and the maintenance staff, who do just as important a job, are all but invisible because they’re in civvies. That creates resentment. But most of all, the staff here do not like change. I’d be a very rich man if I got a pound for every time I heard the grumble, but this is how we’ve always done it.’
‘Didn’t Einstein say the definition of insanity was doing the same thing over and over and expecting a different result?’ Branson said.
The Master smiled and nodded. ‘Exactly. And we’ve had a lot of changes to the status quo, recently. We’ve had a new King and Queen, and now part of my role is to oversee the major renovations at Buckingham Palace. We have 775 rooms and a budget of £369 million, we need both to modernize and to become more energy efficient and environmentally friendly.’ As he sipped some water, Grace’s eyes went from the Master’s face to Glenn’s coffee disaster. The Master didn’t appear to have noticed it.
‘In some people’s eyes,’ Magellan-Lacey said, ‘I’m the bad guy. I’ve stopped a lot of people from having their own credit cards and I’ve been moving individuals out of their coveted, grandly furnished private offices, with magnificent art on the walls, into new open-plan areas I’m creating — which a lot of them don’t like.’ He smiled and raised his arms in another despairing gesture. ‘I get people moaning at me all the time. “Oh, Sir Tommy, but there’s no room for that Canaletto from the Royal Collection on my wall now.” That kind of stuff.’ He smiled again and continued.
‘I even have to contend with The King not liking the whole concept of open-plan — he feels people should have more privacy. But I’m afraid it’s all about delivering on a budget that’s coming from the public purse.’ He gave a rueful smile and tapped his own chest. ‘If anyone would be a target for assassination in this Household it should be me, not poor Peregrine.’ Then he looked at his watch. ‘Right, gentlemen, we’ll head over to Buckingham Palace — it’s just five minutes’ walk. As I mentioned, The Queen is expecting you at 10 a.m. and she’s a stickler for punctuality — as I know most police officers are too,’ he said, looking at them pointedly. ‘And after that The King would like a private word with just you, Detective Superintendent. I assume that will be all right?’
‘Of course,’ he replied.
The Master stood up with a breezy smile, walked into the hallway and checked the knot of his tie in the mirror. Then he turned back and looked briefly at each detective, his tone turning both cutting and slightly imperious. ‘No disrespect, gentlemen, but I sincerely hope you’re going to make a better fist of this operation than DI Branson just did of dunking his biscuit in a mug of coffee.’
30
Wednesday 22 November 2023
Glenn Branson gave Roy Grace a look that said it all.
I can’t believe this!
Grace nodded in acknowledgement. Nor could he. Not really.
Accompanied by the Master of the Royal Household, they had just walked past Clarence House, crossed Green Park and Constitution Hill, with the gleaming gold Victoria Monument to their left, and were now walking through a gawping crowd of several thousand tourists from around the world towards the gates of Buckingham Palace.
Moments later, after cursory inspection of their IDs, they were nodded through by two heavily armed officers who greeted the Master with respectful familiarity, and then they were striding across the hallowed quadrangle.
‘Are we seriously here?’ Branson murmured, rhetorically.
Close up, the facade of Buckingham Palace was even more beautiful and imposing than when he had seen it in the past, driving by or on television, Grace thought. Branson, who was rarely quiet, was rendered mute.
Tommy Magellan-Lacey walked at a brisk pace and both of them had to step on it to keep up with him. They strode past a guard in a bearskin, motionless as a statue, at the entrance to the famous archway through the building into the inner courtyard. The guard only acknowledged the Master’s breezy greeting with a brief friend-or-foe swivel of his eyes.
On the far side of the archway the Master made a right turn and headed for a door. The warm yellow colour of the stone in this vast courtyard was quite different from the coldly imperious white Portland stone exterior of the public-facing front of the Palace. Ahead was the famous covered courtyard where the royal cars — and on state occasions, carriages — pulled up to collect or disgorge royalty and significant dignitaries.
Magellan-Lacey was holding a huge, ancient key that looked like it could unlock a dungeon. He plunged it into the door, opened it and ushered them into a hallway. There was a short flight of stairs with shiny mahogany banister rails, which led them up into a long, red-carpeted corridor with a magnificently arched ceiling.
Grace stared around in awe. Everything was spotless. Polished to a gleam, and the carpet immaculate. It felt a little as if they had boarded a flagship that was awaiting imminent inspection by the Admiral of the Fleet.
The walls were lined with paintings, one, of Westminster Abbey, filled with extraordinarily realistic faces, Grace thought. Another they passed was of a grand outdoors event, with two regal ladies arriving in a horse-drawn carriage, the faces of everyone present painted in such detail, it looked to Grace, as he tried to spot the artist’s name, more like a gilt-framed photograph.
The magnificence of the art sent a thrill through him, further making him feel the weight of responsibility that rested on his shoulders. The stakes were far higher than anything he’d ever encountered in his career.
Was The Queen in very real danger from a terrorist group — homeland or foreign — out there and planning their next move?
He thought back to his battle two days ago, with the smug Met Detective Superintendent Gregory Mosse, over whose crime scene this should be. A battle he had won. But he was now thinking of the words of the late Duke of Wellington after the Battle of Waterloo: The only thing worse than losing a battle is winning one.
Would it have been more sensible — or at least less stressful — to have abdicated responsibility to Mosse? Had he been stupid, greedy — just plain crazy even — to insist on taking the case? Something far too big for him to chew?