A Death in Diamonds полностью

The start of August was marked by Philip heading south to the Isle of Wight to join Britannia again and participate in the sailing festival at Cowes. He was joined by Charles for the first time, as a special treat before he went away to school. The Queen and Anne meanwhile would travel north by train, spend a few days at Balmoral and meet up with the princes later.

The royal diaries had been full since Philip’s arrival in Portugal in February, and they were busy again from October. So the Queen was looking forward to high summer in Scotland, with islands to visit, grouse moors to walk on and rivers to fish in, and only the mizzle and midges to worry about.

But as she was preparing to leave for King’s Cross to board the royal train for the overnight journey, Sir Hugh appeared at her study door with the same sort of expression he’d had when her speech went missing in Paris. Only, this time it was worse.

‘There’s been an article about you in a magazine,’ he said.

This wasn’t at all unusual. In fact, it seemed rare for magazines to publish without including an article about her these days. The Queen frowned at him. ‘Which one?’

‘The National and English Review.’

‘Do we know it?’

‘I read it occasionally, ma’am. It’s generally quite sound. But I’m afraid this time the editor has had some sort of psychological episode. He’s written things that are . . . Well, I won’t bore you with them now, ma’am, but suffice it to say they are rude to the point of treachery, not just about you, but about the whole fabric of the court and . . .’

Pink with outrage, he struggled to finish the sentence. This was very unusual for her unflappable private secretary. The Queen was more curious than alarmed, though.

‘Does it matter? Does anyone read what’s in the National and English Review?’

‘Not normally, ma’am. But the problem is that the Daily Express has got hold of it and Lord Beaverbrook has published an article roundly defending your interests. And so now of course everyone will read it. By the time you get to Scotland, I’m afraid there will be talk of little else.’

‘Put a copy in my boxes. I’ll read it on the way up. I’m sure we’ll manage, Hugh. Who wrote it, by the way?’

‘John Grigg – Lord Altrincham – the editor. He’s a historian; an Oxford man, who should know better.’

‘I’ll read it with interest,’ the Queen promised, still amused at Sir Hugh’s pink-faced reaction.

She read it twice that evening, between Stevenage and Peterborough, and had to wait until morning, when she finally got to Balmoral, before she could commandeer a telephone to talk to Philip in Cowes. By that stage, he’d already been briefed by his private secretary. His rage reverberated down the line.

‘The treacherous bastard! He should be hung, drawn and quartered! Who is this weasel?’

The Queen agreed up to a point. The article in question was much worse than she had imagined. It contained some very personal attacks that were quite upsetting. Her style of speaking was ‘a pain in the neck’. The words ‘priggish schoolgirl’ lingered in her mind. Was she really like that? She’d always considered herself rather approachable and open-minded.

The author claimed to be on her side. She was a good person, he surmised, but surrounded herself with ‘tweedy sorts’ (no wonder Sir Hugh was apoplectic) and failed to connect with her people. The Daily Express, in coming to her defence with loyal outrage, had made a small problem infinitely worse. The trouble was, in August there was little real news to fill the front pages.

‘It’ll be all over the world by next week,’ Philip shouted. ‘It’s already in the New York Times. How dare he? Six thousand people came to wave flags for you in the Forest of Dean. Six thousand! Did they think you were priggish?’

She really wished he wouldn’t go on about that word. It smarted.

‘They seemed happy enough,’ she said.

‘Bloody Altrincham had better watch out. Mind you, he’s got a point about the men in moustaches. Tweedy sorts, was it? Ha! Spot on. You know my thoughts on Hugh and Miles. But . . . hire trade unionists and socialists to take over from them? What in damnation?’

‘I’m not sure he thinks I should really hire them.’

‘Then he makes you the butt of his joke!’ Philip’s outrage reasserted itself. ‘And he has no right to attack you, by God. None.’

She felt sorry for whichever shipmates were accompanying him that morning. However, his temper was squally, and would probably blow itself out by lunchtime. The Queen on the other hand, more quiet and reserved, was still smarting when she went to bed. The line about her losing her ‘bloom of youth’ one day lingered in a particularly sour fashion.