‘Not that you can really tell, I suppose,’ the waitress sitting opposite her said, ‘when he’d had his throat cut and a knife in his eye.’
‘Well, no,’ Joan agreed. ‘But there were the pictures of ’im before, you know. ’E looked exactly like this gentleman I saw in the street outside. Right there. ’Ave they found who did it yet? I ’aven’t seen anything.’
‘No, they ’aven’t,’ Frank said gloomily. ‘And they won’t. One of ’is criminal associates, no doubt. Fled the country. Surprised they’re still bothered looking.’
A thought seemed to strike Joan. ‘Oo! Weren’t you lot in the papers too? The club, I mean. Wasn’t it some of your members that probably did it?’
‘They couldn’t have,’ the waitress beside Joan said with a shrug. ‘The police don’t seem to think so, anyway. Nobody was arrested. They’ve all been in since.’
Joan lowered her voice. ‘But do you think . . . ?’ she asked, eyes wide. ‘I mean, between us, did one of them . . . ?’
‘No!’ the first waitress responded firmly. ‘I mean, there’s a few I wouldn’t trust as far as I could throw them, fair enough, but I know all those three, and the dean too, and if anyone thinks they could have stabbed a man in the eye, they need their head examined.’
Joan kept her voice low, and her eyes as wide as they’d go, as if she was a fiend for gossip. ‘I heard a rumour. That same night . . .’ She let the line dangle in the air. If she was right, they’d all know what she was referring to. But she didn’t want to be the one to say it.
The first waitress sighed. ‘Oh, that! Give it up! That’s old hat now. You mean the D of E?’
‘Shh!’ the sous-chef said, obviously worried about even this subtle reference to the Duke of Edinburgh. He raised a hand to his lips, but the waitress beside him batted it away.
‘Oh, don’t be silly, Bill. We all know what he was up to.’ She rolled her eyes towards her female friend, who rolled them back.
‘No! What?’ Joan said breathily, leaning forward.
‘Shh!’ the sous-chef said again, drawing more attention to them as a group than anything else he could have done. But nevertheless, they all instinctively drew together across the table. They kept their voices down and spoke quickly, talking over each other.
‘It’s only a rumour.’
‘No, it isn’t! I saw it with my own eyes.’
‘You did not!’
‘Well, I heard it from Abel, who was right there on the street, putting the empties in the bins.’
‘And what did ’e say?’
‘He saw the coppers coming back round, circling, trying to see where the hell the duke was. They did it for twenty minutes.’
‘Was Abel out there all that time?’
‘No, he saw them the first time, and Jake or someone saw them twenty minutes later. Abel fell about laughing when he heard. Good on the duke! Job well done!’
‘Hmph.’ The women folded their arms in disapproval.
‘What job?’ Joan asked.
‘Giving his security the slip, of course,’ Frank said. ‘Not the first time. He ’ates having them looking over his shoulder all the time. One minute ’e was in the lobby, calling loudly for his coat, and the next ’e was . . .’ He imitated a puff of smoke with his hand. ‘Pouf. Ha!’
‘How?’ Joan asked.
‘With one of his friends,’ the sous-chef explained. ‘He’d parked his car round the corner. Prin— the D of E slipped out down our back stairs and roared off into the night with him. The security coppers were left standing outside the front door, looking like lemons.’
‘And where did he go with his friend?’ Joan asked.
Four pairs of eyebrows were raised sceptically at her.
‘Where d’you think?’
She shrugged.
‘Who knows?’ the waitress beside Joan said. ‘Somewhere he didn’t want to be seen in public, anyway.’
‘And nobody told the police about it?’
‘Why would they?’
The sceptical expressions turned to puzzled frowns. Joan had an answer, which was that Prince Philip had disappeared the night of the murders, and wasn’t where he said he was. She certainly wasn’t going to say that aloud though.
‘I dunno,’ she offered instead, with a smile and a shrug.
The others looked serious. It was interesting how they were working as a unit suddenly, even though the men and women obviously felt differently about the getaway, as those folded arms still showed.
‘What he does is his business,’ the waitress opposite said fiercely.
‘We’d never breathe a word,’ said her friend, looking shocked at the very idea of it.
The others nodded. Joan could tell from their pointed gaze and the pause that followed that they expected something from her.
‘Oh, right. Me too, Scout’s honour,’ she said, thinking they little knew how dependable she was. With one exception. And what on earth would they think if they knew who she intended to share their secret with?
She spent Sunday relaxing in the flat and rubbing her hands with Pond’s Cold Cream to get rid of the worst of the redness. On Monday morning, she got ready for the office while trying to work out the wording of her message to the Queen. Joan could see why Her Majesty was anxious: not only did Prince Philip not really have an alibi for the night, but a worryingly large number of people knew about it. Despite their protestations of loyalty, surely it was only a matter of time before somebody talked to someone in the press. And then . . .
It was a cold, damp day with a hint of autumn in it. Joan unearthed a heavy waterproof coat she hadn’t used since May and armed herself with an umbrella, just in case. Outside, the streets still shone from an overnight downpour. Schoolchildren filed along the streets in their fresh September uniforms. Avoiding puddles, she left Dolphin Square, crossed over Lupus Street into the heart of Pimlico, and headed towards Warwick Square.
Just as she reached the corner with Denbigh Street and started to cross, a black van came careering round the square at high speed. Joan spotted it just in time and stepped back towards the pavement to get out of its way. And yet, in slow motion, still it seemed to come towards her. Suddenly it was filling her vision and she could see it was going to hit her fair and square. There was something missing . . . something she should have . . . She was shocked and still trying hopelessly to avoid it when she felt a thump in her side. It knocked her clean off her feet and her head was about to hit the cold, hard ground. She flung out her left arm to save herself, hoping that her hat might somehow cushion her skull.
Then there was an almighty crack and the world went dark.
Chapter 43
‘Where is she now?’ the Queen asked faintly.
‘In bed, ma’am. With concussion,’ Miles Urquhart explained.
‘And Sir Hugh telephoned you just now?’
‘He did. I don’t have all the details. It was a terrible accident. Wet road . . . hard to stop. I’m not sure she looked before she tried to cross.’
‘Do they know who did it?’
The DPS saw that Her Majesty looked white as a sheet. But it wasn’t as if the girl was dead. Just a broken wrist and a sore head. Urquhart sought to be reassuring.
‘I don’t think so, ma’am. As I say, it was an accident. But a very helpful passer-by saw what happened and took her to hospital in a cab. She’s at St George’s, but she should be out tomorrow.’
‘I . . . Goodness me.’
The Queen was normally good with bad news, Urquhart reflected. She generally took it better than some men, remarkably. But not today.