‘Yes.’ His eyes rose to meet hers eventually. ‘I could. But by then . . .’ He shrugged and looked defeated. ‘She was in hospital. There was nothing I could do.’
‘Judy Raspberry was not a badger, Mr Cassidy.’
‘I know that!’ His shame came out as a defensive bark. ‘But I made one mistake. I tried to cover it up, but . . . It’s happened and it’s ruined my life anyway. I can’t change anything.’ He shrugged again, helplessly. ‘Helena gave the witness statement. Now, she won’t talk to me.’
The Queen regarded him in silence for a while.
‘You seem to expect me to feel sorry for you.’ He flinched. She moved towards the door and paused. ‘I think you feel sorry enough for yourself. I can’t make you choose what to do, but I can tell you quite categorically, Mr Cassidy, that you
He muttered something so incoherent she didn’t catch it.
‘What?’
‘I said, I suppose you need my resignation in the morning, ma’am.’
‘I need honesty, and trust, Mr Cassidy. I need a certain amount of moral courage. When you’ve decided what to do, we’ll talk again.’
She made her own way out of the office, leaving him standing in a daze.
It had been a very difficult afternoon. She hoped there was chocolate biscuit cake for tea.
The following day was Sunday, which was designated for reflection. The Bishop of Guildford, who was visiting that weekend, gave what was no doubt an excellent sermon, but the Queen’s thoughts were elsewhere and she caught one sentence in ten. Fortunately, Philip would no doubt give a summary of its salient points over sherry before lunch. She would simply have to nod in agreement.
With two weeks to go until she returned to London, the Queen was keenly aware of time passing. She knew more clearly than ever what must have happened to Ned, and why. But she didn’t have a scrap of hard evidence. It still wasn’t enough to take to the chief constable. Or was it? As always with such cases, she was very keen to solve it, and equally keen not to be seen to do the police’s job for them. It was a difficult tightrope to walk.
After lunch, she joined the small shooting party who were going out after partridge. The sky was full of thick, grey cloud, promising more snow and lending an eerie light to the afternoon. She was surrounded by friends and dogs, which was delightful, but they found her much more quiet than usual. Philip asked if she was sickening for something again, but it wasn’t that. She was thinking over what she did and didn’t know, and of what she was and wasn’t certain – which were not exactly the same thing.
There was an edge to the house party this weekend, which included a couple of political grandees. It wasn’t only the Queen who was preoccupied. The new president of the United States had decided to launch the tone of his presidency by denying media reports of the size of the crowd at his inauguration. The Queen thought of the crowds that assembled in the Mall in front of Buckingham Palace on big occasions, and was silently grateful. Sir Simon was despairing. He was not a fan of a leadership style that involved bringing basic truths into question, and the prime minister was lining up to meet him at the end of the week.
Meanwhile Philip was edgy, too. This was their last stay at Sandringham during which he was in charge of the estate, as he had been for sixty-five years. Next year, Charles would no doubt be showing off his own new leadership style. She had every confidence in their son, and so did Philip, really, but relinquishing control was not his strong suit. The mood would pass. She would weather it. She was good at weathering things.
In the morning, she was the first person to come downstairs, which was unusual. She felt a great restlessness, and knew the best way to resolve it. Willow, Candy and Vulcan were duly assembled in front of the house. Scarf on head, she took them for a walk to the church and back, echoing the one she had taken yesterday. Gradually, as she knew they would, the last few details of the St Cyr case that had been bothering her slotted into place. There was one outstanding issue, but it wasn’t insurmountable. The trouble was, it was all conjecture.
