‘Thank you very much, Hugh.’
He took this as the dismissal it was.
As the door closed behind him, the Queen felt a little sorry for her private secretary. He must be wondering what on earth she was thinking. But Philip had broken a cufflink at the mention of the goings-on in Cresswell Place, and things hadn’t been quite right ever since.
This wasn’t the first little mystery she had encountered. She had been solving them since childhood, but not always without pain, heartache and disappointment, so she had learned not to trust her inner thoughts even with the people she most loved. Their ideas of what was in her best interests and her own weren’t always aligned. Her interest this time was deeply personal and she would have to keep it to herself.
She didn’t think her husband was involved in anything nefarious – not exactly. She didn’t know anyone else in the world more dedicated and sincere in everything that really mattered. But Philip loved risk and silliness too. Was that it? Not all his friends were entirely reputable. Every time she thought about it, she felt a bit dizzy. And then she remembered that all you can do is keep going, trust in God and try your best to do the right thing, however small that might be.
She hoped the police report would be reassuring. At least, one way or the other, she would know.
PART 2
DAPHNE TO THE RESCUE
Chapter 16
‘Good Lord, Joan McGraw. Who’d you have to sleep with to get this?’
‘Auntie Eva! Stop it!’
Joan faced her grinning aunt across the art deco sitting room of the chichi flat in Dolphin Square. Her flat. It was clean and smart, with a bedroom all to herself and a downstairs lobby where she and her aunt had just passed two women in mink jackets, who had given them a friendly ‘hello’. Instead of the bus, Joan now had a brisk, pleasant walk through Westminster. She could no longer bring in babkas as peace offerings to the men in moustaches, but replaced them with sticky buns from a Pimlico bakery, which were almost as popular.
‘I thought the building was a hospital when we drew up outside,’ Auntie Eva said. ‘So grand.’
‘It was one, during the war,’ Joan agreed. ‘And the HQ of the Free French.’
‘La-di-da! Look at you!’
Eva was amused by Joan’s turn of fortune but, of the two of them, she was the one who looked the most at home here. She was a dressmaker who worked for fashionable ladies who couldn’t afford the top designers. Using the latest patterns, her suits and dresses were easily as stylish as the ones Joan saw in magazines. On her clients, it was difficult to tell them from the couture originals. It’s all about fit and fabric, she would say. Right now, in a slim-fitting H-line tweed dress and jacket, copied from Dior, she looked as well turned out as Deborah Fairdale – and not unlike her, if you gave her an expensive hairdresser and overlooked the nose.
Joan ran her hand along the edge of a plush blue sofa. The living room had a small, round dining table at the far end, next to an archway that led to a kitchen with a gas-ring stove and its own electric refrigerator.
‘Did you say it was the private secretary who put you here?’ Eva asked.
‘Yes. It’s owned by a Major Ross. An absentee landlord. Sir Hugh Masson has organised everything.’
‘A man of sense,’ her aunt pronounced with a nod. ‘You can’t look good for the Queen if you’ve traipsed halfway across London.’
‘It’s not about looking good!’ Joan protested.
‘What is it about then?’ Eva raised a perfectly plucked eyebrow.
‘It’s about the work. We connect. It’s about getting things right.’
‘Well, if you say so . . . Talking of which, if you ever get the chance to look at the boning in her evening gowns, can you let me know how Mr Hartnell does it? Because I’m sure he has a new technique.’
‘It’s not about her evening gowns either!’ Joan insisted with a laugh. ‘I don’t get to look inside them.’
‘More’s the pity.’ Her aunt sighed. She walked over and gave Joan a hug. ‘We’re going to miss you, you know. The flat won’t be the same without you.’
‘No. Alice can have a proper bed instead of a mattress on the floor.’
‘She never minded. She adores you.’ Eva placed a gloved hand affectionately against Joan’s cheek.
‘I love her too,’ Joan said, squeezing her aunt’s slim body tightly. ‘And you.’
Auntie Eva had the same figure as her mother, who had died when Joan was a teenager. These hugs always brought a wave of nostalgia that threatened to overwhelm her. Alice, the youngest of the three cousins whose room Joan shared, had her mother’s vivid red hair and the same dusting of freckles across her nose. She would miss all the girls, but even so, Joan deeply savoured her new-found independence. It felt like her last chance.
After nearly four decades on this earth, Joan’s life fitted into four suitcases, two of which belonged to Auntie Eva. As she unpacked their contents onto her bed so her aunt could take the empty luggage home with her, she found an unexpected package tucked into one of them. It was a brown paper parcel, neatly tied with ribbon.
‘Oh, that’s for you,’ Eva said airily. ‘I ran it up last night with some scraps I had left over. Open it later.’
After some more close-hug goodbyes, Joan went back to the package in her bedroom. She unwrapped the paper and held up the folded garment inside. It was a jade silk kimono, lined with more silk in a cherry blossom pattern. Auntie Eva had certainly not made it out of ‘scraps’: the fabric alone must have cost her a fortune. It was fit for a princess – or the sort of lady who mixed with neighbours in mink coats and reclined on plush blue sofas. Joan slipped it on over her dress and wondered what might happen to jinx this moment. Because it felt too good to last.
Chapter 17
It was now the second week in May, more than a month since the bodies in Chelsea had been found. Sir Hugh arrived at the Queen’s study to go over her diary.
‘I’ve allowed an extra fifteen minutes in your schedule this morning, ma’am. The police report you requested arrived on my desk last night. I’ve had time to go through it. If you’d like me to . . .’
‘Thank you, Hugh.’
There were one or two things in particular that the Queen wanted to know, but it would be better if she didn’t ask directly.
‘First of all, ma’am, I can confirm that it was a blonde princess that the male victim asked for. He probably meant Princess Grace of Monaco, which would explain the tiara. I hope that puts your mind at ease . . .’ he looked uncomfortable ‘. . . with regard to your family, et cetera.’
‘Not entirely,’ the Queen said. ‘But do go on.’
‘Inspector Darbishire has also made excellent progress in establishing how the murders were done.’
‘Not Chief Inspector Venables?’ the Queen interrupted. ‘I was rather expecting him to be in charge.’ She was familiar with Venables from several high-profile investigations, which always made the front page of the papers.
‘Not this time, ma’am. He was, er, otherwise occupied. But Darbishire is very thorough. And discreet.’
Sir Hugh’s eyes met hers with a look of brief intensity. She wondered if it was merely an effect of the light on his spectacles.