‘Mmm, I see,’ Darbishire cut in. ‘And was he also a magician? Did he become invisible? Did he hypnotise the witnesses?’
‘Not exactly, sir,’ Woolgar said cheerfully, finding sarcasm no obstacle to his flow.
‘Oh?’
‘He shut them up, sir, didn’t he? That’s why you’re not allowed to try and talk to them again.’ He folded his arms and smiled. Point proven, he seemed to say. ‘But if I could go to Monaco and do some digging . . .’
‘Hang on, Sergeant.’ Darbishire raised a hand. ‘I’m not allowed to what?’
It turned out that his encounter with the mysterious man in the mackintosh was an open secret among the local CID. One of the keener officers on the case had gone to the deputy commissioner to try and get Darbishire thrown off for not pursuing the loose end with the Gregsons, and had been told ‘in strictest confidence’ ‘not to go there’. Most of those who knew about it assumed the prime minister was behind the threat, or the Cabinet Office at least. They were taking bets. Some had gone for the Billy Hill gang, but increasingly thought it wasn’t his style. Or ‘modus operandus’, as Jimmy would say.
Mr O’Donnell Junior of Harvard, Boston, USA, didn’t know about the witness suppression, but Woolgar had tacked it on of his own accord. It explained some of the details that the oarsman had left out.
‘So, your theory is,’ Darbishire summarised, tetchily, ‘that Seymour booked the girl, gave her the incriminating diamonds, got surprised by Rodriguez somehow, killed them both single-handed in self-defence, left the diamonds on her head, then escaped in full view of everyone and bribed or blackmailed whoever it took, to feed me lies about what happened, or not to talk to me at all?’
Woolgar paused to think. ‘Um, that’s about it, sir.’
‘And no one has cracked?’
‘Well, he’s got away with it so far, hasn’t he? If I could just go to . . .’
Darbishire shook his head. As a theory, it didn’t make sense, but it didn’t exactly not make sense either. You had to give the man top marks for trying.
‘No, you can’t,’ he said.
Chapter 29
Early June meant the Derby, and a couple of days visiting the lovely course on the Epsom Downs. The Queen had high hopes for Aureole, her late father’s horse, who had nearly won in ’53, but agonisingly, he came second. She still hadn’t won a classic race. However, she fancied her chances the following day in the Oaks, where she had two horses running, both in excellent form.
Philip didn’t accompany her, because while he was an excellent rider himself, he wasn’t interested in the endless display of other people’s horses. She sensed he might have felt differently if he’d grown up with stables of his own. Instead, he was chairing a meeting at Windsor about his new award scheme. She didn’t mind, because she had her mother and Margaret for company, and plenty of friends who were nearly as passionate about racing as she was – including Bill Astor from Cliveden, who had a horse running against hers.
Her mother, meanwhile, loved horses of all descriptions. The elder Elizabeth had a slight preference for jump racing over the flat, but was knowledgeable about it all. Margaret loved the opportunity to wear dresses that showed off her tiny waist, and hats that showed off her rich, dark hair. She had worried that wet weather wouldn’t allow her to wear the outfit she’d chosen, but in the end the sun beamed fiercely, and she was content. To start with, anyway, but Margaret’s moods rarely stayed steady for long.
‘If the Duke of Maidstone paws me again, I swear I’ll hit him with my handbag,’ she announced, joining her sister in the royal box as they got ready for the first race.
‘Paws you?’ the Queen asked.
‘Don’t worry. I gave him a look to shrivel him to the size of a cherry stone. He’s trying to set me up with his horrible son, who’s having affairs with at least two women I know of. All he ever talks about is how much he’s looking forward to the grouse season. What they see in him, I have no idea.’
‘Probably ten thousand acres in Kent. Where’s Mummy?’
‘Oh, I left her downstairs, talking to the Dean of Bath. Clement Moreton – d’you remember? He’s the one with the tart in the tiara.’
The Queen was horrified. ‘The man’s a suspect in a murder case!’
‘I know! That’s why she went over. According to his cousin Cecily, he’s really not doing very well. Mummy was pleased to see him out and about. Looking very dapper, I must say, with a white rosebud in his buttonhole. He didn’t seem that under the weather.’
‘Well, I suppose that’s good.’
‘Unlike the Minister for Technology. You know, the one who bought the tiara. He looks absolutely dire.’
‘Lord Seymour?’
‘Is that his name?’
‘Where was he?’
‘Chatting to Mummy and the dean. And a very attractive woman in the strangest hat. His wife, I assume. I imagine the men were sympathising with each other. It must be awful to have the whole country assuming you committed a horrific murder. Even if one of them probably did. May I borrow your race card? I’ve lost mine.’
The Queen was dumbfounded. Her mother always thought that people worried too much about newspaper pictures, and that what mattered was to be kind to the people who deserved it, but the thought of her on the cover of the Daily Mirror in conversation with not one but two suspected murderers was too much. She called her racing manager over and sent him off to the rescue as quickly as possible. Then a thought occurred to her.
‘Was my press secretary there, by any chance?’
‘Jeremy?’ Margaret asked. ‘I’ve seen him around today. He has the tallest top hat you can imagine. It’s as if he’s wearing a chimney pot.’
‘But was he with Mummy?’
‘No. His brother Tony was, earlier. He rescued me from the duke.’
‘Hmm.’
The Queen wondered whether her mother had been led into some sort of trap. Was a press photographer waiting, ready to take a compromising picture? It seemed the sort of thing the plotters might do, although, as ever, why they would bother remained a mystery.
‘Ah, Lilibet! What a lovely atmosphere out there.’ Her mother appeared at the door to the royal box, looking bright and cheerful. ‘Everyone’s so excited about the Oaks. I really think this could be your day, darling. I know all the money’s on Mulberry Harbour, but I thought Carrozza was looking marvellous in the collecting ring. Someone said you wanted me?’
‘I just wondered where you were,’ the Queen said, evenly.
‘I was talking about the Highlands with Clement Moreton and Stephen Seymour, and then your press secretary popped up and collared a man with a very large camera, and persuaded him not to take any pictures. Very understanding, I thought. The last thing those two men want is to be on the front pages again.’
‘Oh.’ The Queen felt wrong-footed. She forcefully suspected Jeremy and his brother of being behind the plot, and yet here her press secretary was, doing the job he was paid for. It was hard to read anything into it but helpfulness. ‘Why the Highlands?’ she asked.
‘Clement goes there every summer, to contemplate the world, you know. I assumed he meant some sort of religious retreat, but actually, he’s a fly fisherman, like me. So, I invited him to Balmoral.’