Could a Sovereign of the Realm accuse a member of the nobility of murder, with no concrete evidence at all, on the basis of one passing remark made over coffee? She thought not. Mr Bloomfield and his team of twenty-first-century technicians would get there on their own, surely? With one exception as to motive, they had access to the same information she did. She just needed to be patient.
But the Queen was not patient when it came to the certain knowledge that someone in her circle was a killer who was surprisingly adept at getting away with it. In a way, it was almost admirable, but she kept thinking of the sea, and how it had claimed Chris Wallace. How long could justice wait?
The week began promisingly: DNA tests confirmed the relationship between Ned and Valentine St Cyr. Surely an arrest was imminent? Instead, Rozie reported that Valentine was free again and no further action was planned. The Queen was not a panicker, but this was alarming. If anything, they were going backwards, for goodness’ sake.
On Friday, she and Philip made an official visit to the University of East Anglia. The chief constable himself was there, so she took the opportunity to ask him how they were getting on, and to her huge frustration, he seemed as stumped as he had been in December, and much less sanguine about finding a solution soon.
‘Valentine St Cyr admitted he suspected Edward was his father,’ Bloomfield told her, during a brief lull in the reception. ‘That’s what they’d been talking about in their little meetings, of course. He doesn’t want it made public yet, until he’s talked to Lord Mundy about it. And you, I imagine, ma’am. It’s quite explosive for his family, him not being the next baron, et cetera.’
‘Isn’t that a motive?’ the Queen asked, surprised that he seemed so phlegmatic about it.
‘Absolutely, ma’am. But St Cyr has challenged us to find concrete evidence. He has a nice team of expensive lawyers. Given what happened last time . . . ahem.’
‘Yes, I see what you mean.’
‘His explanation about scattering his mother’s ashes at sea was supported by several sources,’ Bloomfield said. ‘We did wonder if he was in cahoots with his sister, but if so, they managed it without leaving a trail. We’ve searched his flat, and that of his partner, and all vehicles they have access to. There are no signs of suspicious cleaning, and not a scrap of Edward’s DNA anywhere, except on a suit jacket of Valentine’s that he claimed to have been wearing when he met up with his father. Nor was any of
‘Oh?’
‘Because Mr St Cyr is a friend.’
‘Ah. I see what you mean.’
Philip was staring daggers at them from across the lobby of the university. She had been talking too long. ‘Did you wonder about the dogs?’ she asked, before saying goodbye.
‘The dogs, ma’am?’
‘Yes. Being left alone at Abbottswood.’
‘Oh, those dogs! Yes, we did. The suspiciousness of the damage they did, you mean, left to their own devices. Don’t worry, we looked into it. It was all above board.’
‘And now I must go. Thank you, Chief Constable.’
She smiled and kept her frustrations to herself.
Back at Sandringham, the news bulletins featured images of the prime minister at the White House, standing next to the new president. The very first thing she mentioned was the state visit to London, ‘as soon as possible’. The Queen felt once again as if she was being dangled, like a treat.
She couldn’t affect what was happening in Washington at the moment, but surely she could make some progress in north Norfolk? She had ten days left and she sensed the chief constable needed as much help as she could provide, ideally without ever knowing she had given it. It was time to talk to Rozie.
They met in the Queen’s office that evening, while the others dressed for dinner. Rozie was ostensibly giving the Boss a detailed debrief on the prime minister’s Washington visit. It might seem unnecessarily long for something one could simply watch on the news, but a handy thing about being the monarch was that one was rarely questioned about one’s need for information on international events.
‘I want you to talk to the vicar of St Agnes at Ladybridge,’ the Queen said instead. ‘You might suggest that I have a friend who is likely to be in his congregation on Sunday and would appreciate the sermon on truth and beauty that he gave when he came to West Newton.’
‘Truth and beauty, ma’am.’ Rozie nodded. She got out her personal notebook, which was disguised to look like bad poetry and song lyrics, should anyone happen to pick it up. Its key pages contained the essentials from the police reports, and the additional information she, Katie and the Queen had found. She made a new note. ‘I assume there’s someone in particular who needs to hear it.’
