He derived his strongest comfort from Polly Sweeney’s report from her meeting with Lady Greaves.
‘It was about two weeks ago, Peregrine came home in a very disturbed frame of mind. He told me that he’d heard something astonishing. Utterly astonishing. So incredible he just did not want to believe it — could not believe it. He said he was going to his study to write it up in his diary. In code, of course. I asked him to tell me what it was, but he said that if it was true, it would be utterly explosive. Then he said he could not believe it was true and he didn’t want to set off any kind of rumour mill.’
Shortly after 3 a.m., while Cleo slept soundly beside him — something he really envied about her, she truly slept the sleep of the innocent — feeling totally wired, he slipped out of bed, as carefully as he could not to wake her, pulled on his dressing gown, and padded downstairs to the kitchen.
Neither Humphrey nor Kyla — an adorable golden doodle, their recent acquisition from the Brighton RSPCA — in their respective baskets, batted an eyelid as he switched on the lights, turning the dimmer down as low as possible. He filled the kettle, hit the switch, and perched at the breakfast bar, alongside Molly’s high chair. Then he leaned forward with his head in his hands, toying with the thought that had woken him for the second time tonight.
The very positive thought.
The more he went over what Lady Greaves had said, the more certain he was that his hypothesis was correct.
The Private Secretary, by all accounts, was an honourable man and a loyal servant to both his bosses. If Sir Peregrine had had even the slightest suspicion that there was something as massive as a plot to kill The Queen, surely he could not have contained himself? He would have had to tell people — and his wife, for sure. Grace knew that he would have told Cleo in the same circumstances. With something as big as that knowledge, he would have had to unburden himself — anyone would.
He was desperate to know what Sir Peregrine had written in his diary, and wondered if he had made the right decision trusting the deciphering to the strange, quirky Scroope. But, he convinced himself, he trusted Andy Westinghouse’s judgement.
The kettle flicked off. Grace brewed himself a mug of tea, then sat back down, staring for some moments at the blackness of the window in front of him. The blackness of the night beyond. But inside the blackness of his mind, it felt like the clarity of dawn was finally breaking. If Sir Peregrine had known there was going to be an attempt on The Queen’s life on that train journey to Brighton, he would have alerted everyone, immediately, and no way would he have allowed her to make that journey. Surely? None of this would have happened. No way. The whole trip would have been cancelled.
So it had to be something else. But what?
Had Sir Peregrine stumbled across something going on within the Palace that had made him a target? Something he was about to expose? Something that required him to be silenced — eliminated?
Might he have been aware that what he had learned had put his life in grave danger? Was that why he had written it all down in code and not simply told someone about it?
Or could it be that he had something to hide, himself? Was he compromised in some way? Could someone have been blackmailing him?
Polly had reported that Lady Greaves said her husband did not seem scared, more outraged and concerned about the political ramifications within the Royal Household — which did not sound like the behaviour of a blackmail victim.
If Sir Peregrine had discovered something, then whatever that was, the scale of it had to be massive — so big as to warrant his killers going to great lengths to cover up that he was the intended victim? An elaborate plan to derail the Royal Train and make it look like Queen Camilla was the target?
The notion might seem absurd. And yet it was the only thing that actually made sense to Roy Grace about the events of Monday.
He carried his mug upstairs to his den, opened his laptop and made a series of notes to enter into his Policy Book when he was back in the office later in the day.
Elaborate plan to derail the train and shoot Sir Peregrine — suggesting something very big at stake. What? A scandal that could damage the Monarchy? Sexual or something financial? Involving who? Could it be as high as the Lord Chamberlain or the Keeper of the Privy Purse?
He was so tired, he realized, he was going round in circles. Closing his laptop he walked along the landing and crawled, totally spent, back into bed. And fell asleep instantly again.
It wasn’t the crowing of their rooster, Billy Big Balls, as Cleo had named the strutting grey and red arrogant little bastard, nor the noise of the dawn chorus outside their window, that woke him just a couple of hours later. It was the buzzing of the thoughts inside his head that sprang him wide awake with the absolute certainty that he was right about Sir Peregrine being the target, and had been from the start.
But at the same time he was mindful of the fact that he needed to find evidence that would speak for itself. Thanks to Polly having worked her charm on Sir Peregrine’s widow and obtaining the diary, he was hopeful he would find at least some pieces of that jigsaw puzzle before the end of the weekend. It wasn’t just his immediate boss, ACC Downing, who was waiting for answers. Nor the Chief Constable of Sussex or the Police and Crime Commissioner. It wasn’t even The King of England or The Queen.
From the newsfeed that poured in relentlessly, it was much of the entire world.
Waiting for answers from him.
52
Saturday 25 November 2023
Grace eased himself up in bed gently, trying not to disturb Cleo. Feeling barely refreshed at all, but well aware that any further sleep was not going to happen, he reached for his phone. Still nothing from Denton Scroope. Then, out of dutiful habit, he checked the daily Chief Officer’s Briefing Sheet. There was nothing to trouble him on it, and he said a silent prayer to the god of Senior Investigating Officers’ Downtime that there were no major incidents or developments overnight to distract him, or call on his already stretched resources.
Outside, Billy Big Balls crowed. There were mornings when he loved the sound of that rooster, and there were mornings when he could have cheerfully strangled him. Today was one of the latter.
He slipped out of bed, and five minutes later, dressed in his running kit, holding Kyla on her lead and with Humphrey alongside, went out into the garden and opened the rear gate. As Humphrey bounded off ahead a short distance up the hill, then stopped to do a dump, Grace, keeping Kyla on her lead, did his leg swings and a short programme of stretches.
Then, with an excited Kyla running beside him, he headed off up the steadily increasing gradient, chasing after Humphrey. As he ran he was thinking again. What was he missing, overlooking, not getting in the mix? The name Geoffrey Bailey popped up again. The footman who Jack was concerned about, and the only Person of Interest they had from their interviews of the Buckingham Palace staff so far, was due to be formally interviewed on Monday morning by two of his team — Sir Tommy had made the arrangements.
Jack, still very young, was rapidly proving himself to be a smart detective with good instincts. Maybe Geoffrey Bailey would turn out to be a significant witness. Or more? But right now Grace was pinning most of his hopes of a breakthrough on the contents of the diary.