‘Why brave?’ she asked Bunny.
‘Oh, didn’t you know?’ The duke gave her a conspiratorial look. ‘I shouldn’t be telling you this, ma’am, but everyone’s talking about it. It was Lord Seymour who owned the tiara found on the Chelsea tart.’
‘The one that went to auction? Was he the buyer? My mother was telling me about it.’
‘Yes, ma’am. My nephew works at Bonhams. They were in a quandary about whether to say anything to the police. A client, you know. But someone would have said something eventually, so they told Scotland Yard, and now it’s halfway round London. Of course, everyone thinks Stephen did it, but I can categorically assure you he didn’t.’
‘How do you know?’ she asked.
‘My brother was with him at Eton. He’s a thoroughly good egg. A sound junior minister. God knows how he got caught up in this mess.’
The Queen knew Lord Seymour vaguely through his work for the Government. She found the man unobjectionable, but she thought the duke was being a little naive.
‘Bunny, it’s not unheard of for politicians to be involved with escort agencies. Or old Etonians.’
He laughed.
‘Oh, no, ma’am. No indeed. But they try and stay out of murder.’
‘I’d like to think they do.’
His lips twitched as he watched Cleopatra and her Mark Antony walk out of sight. ‘The diamonds must have been stolen,’ he mused. ‘Curious how the tart got hold of them. The girl was obviously dedicated to her art . . .’ He frowned impishly. ‘I wonder who she was doing.’
‘I’d have thought that was obvious.’
‘No, who she was doing,’ Bunny repeated. He took a swig from his hip flask and gave her an unsettling look. ‘The tarts at Raffles have a speciality. Well known for it in clubland. Hasn’t anyone told you?’
The Queen felt vaguely alarmed. ‘Why would they?’
‘Because it involved you, ma’am.’
They were getting nearer to the golden light and laughter from the house. One of her friends recognised her at last and waved, but the Queen ignored the chance to escape. She needed to listen.
She stared at Bunny. ‘Me?’
‘Mmm. They impersonate famous women. Liz Taylor, Vivien Leigh. Marilyn Monroe. They’re very good, I’m told. Not that I’d know personally.’ The leer that accompanied this statement made clear he would very much know.
‘Poor Marilyn,’ the Queen said faintly. She thought back to her encounter with the real Miss Monroe. So, prostitutes – to call a spade a spade – impersonated the actress professionally? How extraordinary. How uncomfortable for her. ‘I don’t see how that affects me, though.’
‘Ah. Well, it’s not just film stars. All sorts of famous women. The Duchess of Argyll, for example.’ The duke coughed. ‘I’ve heard your sister’s quite popular.’
The Queen couldn’t believe she was hearing this. She stopped dead. There was a sort of ringing in her ears. She couldn’t answer for a moment.
‘M-Margaret? Really?’ She had thought Bunny was the one being naive, but it was plain he thought she was.
The duke made a poor attempt at looking ashamed of himself.
‘Isn’t it awful? Don’t worry, ma’am, you aren’t as much of a draw. I think the gentlemen are a little bit too intimidated.’ He swept into an ironic bow. ‘Anyway, your hair . . .’ He gestured vaguely at her hat. ‘The tart in the tiara was a blonde, so nothing to worry about. My money’s on Lana Turner, or that new little French firecracker, what’s she called? Brigitte Bardot. Or Grace Kelly. She’s quite the—’
‘Darling! Are you all right? I’ve been looking for you for ages.’
Philip’s voice came from close behind her, and the Queen turned to him in shock and relief. The single look he shot at Bunny made the duke scuttle off into the night.
‘Was he being a bore? Look at you! Pale as death.’
Instinctively, she pressed herself against the comfort of his velvet doublet, and he put his arms around her.
‘Dammit, Lilibet, was he pestering you? I’ll kill him if he was.’
Her heart gradually stopped racing and she gathered herself. When she was sure she could sound at least relatively light-hearted, she asked, ‘Did you know about the tart in Chelsea? Bunny was telling me the most extraordinary things.’ She outlined her recent conversation as calmly as she could.
‘Oh that,’ Philip said with a smile, as if it wasn’t important. He straightened the feather in her hat, which had been squashed in their embrace. ‘Yes, I did. Didn’t think you’d be interested.’
‘You’d be surprised what interests me.’
‘Not bloody Maidstone, I hope.’
‘Very much not.’
‘Oh, listen.’ He raised his head. ‘They’re playing Cole Porter on the terrace. Shall we dance?’
As they headed towards the lights of the terrace, she took his hand in hers and determined not to let him out of her sight for the rest of the night.
Chapter 15
The following morning, the Queen asked to see her private secretary after breakfast. In a few hours, Margaret and her mother would be popping across to Windsor Castle from Frogmore House for lunch. They would both be keen for all the gossip from Cliveden last night. But first she had something to do.
She had spent an hour or two sitting bolt upright in bed last night, contemplating whether to tell her sister about what she’d found out about the Raffles agency. Margaret would be fascinated and quite possibly flattered. But even so . . . The Queen was annoyed at herself for letting Bunny see her personal shock. There had been a gleam in his glassy eye as he told her the story last night, as if he were enjoying her reaction.
No, she had decided not to tell Margaret. The whole thing was too disturbing.
However, the information had its uses.
When she was ready, her page knocked on the door to announce Sir Hugh’s arrival.
‘What can I help you with, Your Majesty?’ he asked.
‘I’m afraid I had rather a shock last night. I found out that I might be connected in some way with the murders in Chelsea.’
‘You, ma’am?’
‘The escort agency in question has . . . specialities.’ The Queen maintained a steady look as his eyebrows shot up. ‘You perhaps know about them. Lots of people seem to. Apparently, those specialities concern me. So I’d like to see the police reports.’
‘But, ma’am . . . !’
‘Is there a problem?’
‘You aren’t involved at all, I assure you! The girl in question was a blonde, for a start.’
‘She had dyed her hair. I read it in the papers.’
‘Yes. But before that she specialised in Vivien Leigh and Elizabeth Taylor . . .’
Goodness. Sir Hugh really did know a lot about it. ‘Was that in the papers?’ she asked.
‘No, but one learns these things.’
‘I see. Well, last night I learned some of them too.’
Sir Hugh’s whiskers twitched with indignation. ‘Ma’am, I’m sorry. Who on earth had the impudence to—?’
‘It doesn’t matter. But it will be reassuring to see how the police are getting on. You don’t see any obstacles, do you? To getting the report, I mean?’
He hesitated for several seconds before reluctantly shaking his head. He really didn’t want her to see this report for some reason, which made her want to see it all the more.
‘N-no obstacles, ma’am. But I imagine the Criminal Investigation Department will be very surprised to be asked.’
‘Perhaps.’
She held her nerve and didn’t waver. Whatever the reasons for his own reluctance, he was right about the CID. It was true that she didn’t usually involve herself directly with murder cases. Her official reason for doing so this time was tenuous and unsavoury, as she privately admitted to herself, but it would do. She wasn’t sure exactly what she was looking for, but she’d know when she’d found it.