‘Yes, she was. Could she have been . . . oh, I don’t know . . . his daughter? From a secret liaison in France? And he
‘I dearly hope not,’ the Queen said with feeling. What an awful thing that would be. ‘But it’s the sort of thing the police could investigate, if they knew the truth about her.’
‘Then he could be the father of Marianne, too,’ Joan added. ‘He’s old enough. Or they could have been half-sisters, I suppose.’
‘Wasn’t Lord Seymour at the House the following morning?’ the Queen reminded her. ‘How could anyone sit in a technology briefing after . . . after what he would have endured?’
‘I don’t know, ma’am. But I’ve seen people do the most extraordinary things after a traumatic experience. It only hits you later, sometimes.’
The Queen shook her head sadly. ‘I hope it’s not Stephen Seymour. He’s always struck me as a decent man. Anyway, it’s really not for us to find out.’ She straightened up and became more businesslike. ‘Inspector Darbishire should be doing it. All he needs is a little prod to connect the victims. Once he knows where to look I’m sure he can ask all the questions we can’t.’
‘Yes, ma’am.’
‘You did very well while I was away. I trust you can find a way of getting him back in the saddle.’
‘I’m sure I can.’
‘Without knowing how he got there.’
Joan smiled. ‘I think I can manage that. If Major Ross’s reaction is anything to go by, it will never cross his mind who’s helping him.’
The Queen was pleased. ‘Good. That suits us rather well.’
After Joan left, the Queen walked across to a table by one of the windows to examine the photographs in silver frames displayed there: her mother and sister at the races, her beloved father on his coronation day, Philip looking suave in sunglasses and a natty blazer, Charles, who would be off to school the day after tomorrow, Anne on her little pony . . .
These were the people who mattered to her. She didn’t know the victims in Cresswell Place, didn’t know their families, and feared now, more than ever, that finding out what happened to them would open a Pandora’s box of secrets that she would rather not discover.
She closed her eyes. What were MI5 doing there? Given what Joan had told her, it was almost certainly something to do with her uncle or her husband. And most probably the latter, though she still longed for it not to be.
Better to find out now, than be told by Sir Hugh at the start of a national scandal over which she had no control. And those victims deserved the truth, whatever the cost.
As always, the Queen thought of her grandmother, Queen Mary, who had taught her humility and self-discipline. This job was not about her wants, her weaknesses or her feelings: it was about the country and the Commonwealth, and from the age of twenty-one, she had devoted herself to their service. It might seem priggish to some, but she had better get on with it.
She lifted the heavy receiver from the Bakelite phone on the table and played absently with the cord while she waited.
‘Sir Hugh Masson, please.’
‘Putting you through, ma’am.’
After ten seconds, the line crackled.
‘I’m very sorry, ma’am, Hugh’s away from his desk. Can I help?’ It was the voice of her DPS.
‘Yes, Miles, you can. I’d like to see a file,’ the Queen said. ‘From the Security Service. On Cresswell Place.’
She sounded slightly more confident than she felt that the file in question existed. Joan had suggested that Beryl White’s flat was another possible location. But the odds were shorter on the mews. And she had never lost sight of Philip’s reaction when it was first mentioned.
‘Are you sure, ma’am?’
‘Quite sure,’ the Queen insisted.
‘How, if I might ask, did you hear about it?’
She smiled to herself. Urquhart’s voice was so light with casual curiosity it was almost a squeak. He knew exactly what she was talking about. And if he did, Sir Hugh did, and they’d been discussing it among themselves. Joan was right. She could only pray they hadn’t mentioned it to Jeremy.
‘Oh, I hear things,’ she said calmly. ‘And Miles, you might enquire as to why I wasn’t given sight of this report in the first place.’
There was a brief silence.
‘Of course, ma’am. I’ll see what I can do.’
Three days later, with young Charles safely ensconced in his new boarding school, the Queen was back at her desk at Buckingham Palace when the red boxes of paperwork were delivered for her to review.
Having dealt with the first one efficiently, she found the second to be unusually full. True, the wheels of Government were turning faster again now that September was nearly over, but some of the papers in this box were appendices that didn’t really need to be there. Suspicious, she did what her father had taught her, and lifted everything out, to see what Sir Hugh and the minions in the Cabinet Office had buried at the bottom. She was grateful that was where they still put anything they didn’t want her to see. It made it much easier to find it.
