And now he was in it up to his neck. Thanks to his hubris?
Last night he’d confessed his fears to Cleo. She’d reminded him that in over ten years in his roles as both a Senior Investigating Officer and more recently also as Head of Major Crime for Surrey and Sussex Police, his clear-up rate for murders on which he had been the SIO was one hundred per cent. Cleo told him to forget that The Queen was involved, and all that went with that, and just think of it as a murder like any other.
That thought sustained him now as they continued along the corridor of the North Wing of one of the most famous buildings in the world. Just another murder.
Yeah, right.
Ahead of him, the Master, who had greeted several people walking along the corridor, including a woman in a smart suit, two workmen and a liveried footman, had stopped. ‘Detective Superintendent Grace and Detective Inspector Branson, this is Matthew Corbin — Deputy Master of the Royal Household.’
A very tall man with rimless glasses, a light beard and a thick head of brown hair stepped out of an open office door to the left. He wore a dark suit and today’s obligatory black tie.
‘Matthew, this is Detective Superintendent Grace and his colleague Detective Inspector Branson. Detective Superintendent Grace is the Senior Investigating Officer on Sir Peregrine’s murder.’
‘Nice to meet you, gentlemen,’ Corbin said. He had a friendly but reserved demeanour, and spoke with an accent that sounded South African, Grace thought, shaking his large, firm hand. ‘Some of your colleagues are already here, Detective Superintendent, and established in the Billiards Room.’
Grace nodded. ‘Yes, I have detectives talking to everyone who worked with Sir Peregrine — to see if we can find any reason someone might have wanted to kill him.’
Corbin looked surprised. ‘Are you saying he was the target and not Her Majesty?’
‘I’m keeping all my options open at the moment,’ Grace replied. ‘Perhaps we could arrange a time later this morning to talk to you?’
‘Of course.’ He hesitated. ‘Yes, I’ll be here at my desk. Any time — except midday for fifteen minutes, when I have a meeting with The King.’
Grace looked past him at the interior of his long, narrow office, which reminded him of his own, except this was a lot less cluttered. There was a small round meeting table, with four chairs, a workstation beyond, and a view across the interior courtyard of the Palace. Then he thanked him and the Master continued leading the way along the corridor.
‘I’m afraid this corridor is a bit like the M25!’ he said, opening an internal door and looking over his shoulder at Grace and Branson. ‘Goes all the way around the Palace — we’re in the North Wing at the moment, this is where the royal apartments are, up on the second floor, and we’re currently heading for The Queen’s Sitting Room. We could just keep turning left at the end of each corridor, into the West Wing, South Wing, East Wing — which is the front of the Palace everyone sees, and then we’d end up back here again.’
‘Sir Tommy, how long did it take you to learn to navigate your way around the Palace?’ Branson asked.
‘Well, I was given a jolly useful tip by one of the royals just after I took up this post — for the late Queen. He said, “Navigate by the paintings, Tommy.” But then they moved the paintings!’ He gave his jovial laugh.
A short distance further on they went down a few steps and the Master stopped outside an ornate door. Just as he was about to open it, Grace noticed an elaborately gilded clock, with a yellow and red tag attached to it marked SALVAGE. ‘Salvage, Sir Tommy?’ he questioned. ‘What is that for?’
‘Ah, right, it’s while we have the builders here doing all the renovations, the Royal Collection team have tagged all the most valuable portable items — in the event of a fire they’re the ones everyone must try to save first.’
Then he opened the door, and in an almost hushed voice he said, ‘This is the Regency Room — which The Queen likes to use for meetings. Come in and make yourselves comfortable and I will go and bring her in. She’ll be accompanied by her own Private Secretary, Jayne Bennett. No objection to that, gentlemen?’ He looked at each of them in turn with a disarming smile that Grace felt could turn, in a flash, to chilling hostility if he received the wrong answer.
The room was cold and smelled of polish. Grace shook his head. ‘Not at all. She is very welcome to have anyone present she would like.’
‘Excellent!’ the Master said, and pointed at an embroidered and tasselled gold-coloured sofa, with two almost matching armchairs facing. ‘The Queen likes to sit on the sofa.’
It was an instruction, not a statement.
Then he was gone, closing the door behind him.
31
Wednesday 22 November 2023
Grace and Branson exchanged a glance, both feeling for a moment like schoolboys in the headmaster’s study, then looked around the emerald-carpeted room. It was finely furnished in a regal rather than homely way, and could have comfortably swallowed the entire footprint of his cottage, Grace thought. And yet, at the same time, here in the context of this palace, it didn’t really feel large at all.
High-ceilinged, with an imposing crystal chandelier, the wallpaper was a fern-coloured fleur-de-lis pattern. French windows with swagged gold-coloured curtains looked out onto balustrading and the gardens beyond. An ornate clock sat on the mantelpiece, framed by black marble statuettes holding lampshades. Below, a fire screen stood in front of an unlit wood-burning stove. Beautiful but dark and sombre paintings were hung from chains around the walls, and there was a handsome bookcase, each shelf tightly packed with leather-bound volumes. A round, antique wooden table, polished to a mirror shine, with four matching chairs, filled one of the window bays.
‘Cleo would go crazy if she saw this,’ Grace said. ‘She loves antiques.’
‘That why she likes you, is it?’ Branson quipped, getting in a dig at the ten-year age gap between Roy Grace and his wife.
‘Yeah, right, I—’
He stopped in mid-sentence as a polished, conservatively dressed woman in her forties came into the room, followed by the unmistakable figure of Queen Camilla.
Right behind her was Magellan-Lacey, who spoke in a brisk, businesslike manner. ‘Your Majesty, Detective Superintendent Roy Grace and Detective Inspector Glenn Branson from Surrey and Sussex Major Crime Team. And, gentlemen, if I may also introduce Her Majesty’s Private Secretary, Jayne Bennett.’
The Queen looked at each of the detectives for a moment, as if sizing them up. Grace forgot for a second to bow. It was Branson who did so first with almost theatrical exaggeration. Grace gave a more restrained and rather awkward lowering of his head.
The Queen was dressed in a black two-piece with a matching scarf around her neck. He was, momentarily, at a loss for words.
Fortunately, The Queen wasn’t. ‘Good morning, gentlemen. May we offer you some refreshments — I gather you’ve come up from Sussex. Some tea or coffee?’
‘Thank you, but we’re fine, Your Majesty,’ Grace said.
The Queen gestured them to the armchairs, then sat down on the edge of the sofa, facing them. The Master left the room and The Queen’s Private Secretary sat at the round table in the window and produced a notebook followed by a pen.
There was a brief silence, which Grace hastily broke, immediately aware as he spoke that, uncharacteristically, his voice was probably an octave higher than normal and had a nervous quaver.
‘Your Majesty, I believe you have quite a strong connection to Sussex?’