The taxi deposited her safely outside the gates to the forecourt of the palace and Joan strode as confidently as she could in her heels and pencil skirt to the Privy Purse door on the right, which led to the North Wing corridor. Despite the bruising under her eye, and her arm being in a sling, the sentry in his bearskin gave her as much of an up and down as his sideways glance would let him. His facial muscles didn’t flicker, but there was something about the way he stood taller to attention. She stood taller, too.
On reaching the secretaries’ shared office, she asked one of them to collect her typewriter, and said they could probably make better use of it than she could. They clucked over her bruises and her broken wrist and they asked if she’d want the typewriter back when her hand was better. She told them she wouldn’t.
One of the women offered to get Joan a cup of coffee and she accepted as if it was her due. When they asked what had happened to her, she gave them a two-line answer, avoiding all follow-up questions. No attempt at chattiness. Sir Hugh wouldn’t chat. Miles Urquhart didn’t know how. Jeremy Radnor-Milne only did it when he wanted something. Then she retreated to her desk.
Alone at last, she sat down and smiled to herself. That wasn’t so bad.
Meanwhile, Urquhart wouldn’t be back from Scotland with the Queen until tomorrow and the peace and silence of the deputy private secretary’s office – broken only by the removal of the typewriter and delivery of the coffee – gave Joan the opportunity to think.
She was less worried about Tony Radnor-Milne and his co-conspirators now that she knew MI5 was watching out for her, but when and why exactly did Hector and his friends take notice of her? This had been her first thought when he had talked to her last night, but she knew he would never tell her, so there was no point asking.
It must have been before she started visiting the Artemis Club. He mentioned the ‘little old lady’ disguise, and she had only used that the first time she visited Piccadilly to stake the club out, so her follower must have already been on her trail at Victoria Station, where she changed and left her suitcase at the left-luggage desk. Ironically, she had used the station to avoid Hector himself encountering her quick change at home. Fat lot of use that had been.
Had they spotted her when she had visited Beryl? Joan thought that was a distinct possibility. She’d been wearing her posh black outfit, which would have looked odd in the circumstances to anyone who knew her. Why would MI5 be watching Beryl’s flat? The police might be, she supposed, but would they recognise her? Beyond the senior people she had met through the Private Office, she didn’t know anyone in the police.
The same applied to MI5 as the police, surely, when she thought about it: she wasn’t famous in any way, and anyone who didn’t know her personally was unlikely to clock her face. So either she had just been very unlucky, or she must have been somewhere that made them so nervous they did some research to discover her identity.
Where? After joining the Private Office, Joan’s social life had dwindled significantly, even when the Queen was away. Since her return from Balmoral in mid-August, three weeks ago, she had met a couple of old friends for tea in a coffee bar in Soho and gone to the flicks with another to see the latest Dirk Bogarde. One of Prince Philip’s equerries had taken her to the Café Royal on what he hoped would be a romantic encounter, but though she enjoyed his company, she had sadly disappointed him – or rather, he had disappointed her. Other than that, there had only been a couple of perfectly unexceptional shopping trips and the abortive visit to Cresswell Place.
She breathed deeply, and took a contemplative sip of coffee.
Cresswell Place: the street where the murders took place. The murders that happened the night Prince Philip went AWOL without an alibi. Joan didn’t know what the men in the Security Service looked into specifically – she’d assumed it was mostly Russian spies these days – but the activities of the royals, extra-curricular and otherwise, were certainly a matter of security.
And there she was, a member of the Queen’s Private Office, standing literally opposite the scene of the crime, looking around like some sort of foreign tourist. What an absolute fool she had been.
Chapter 46
On the journey to Windsor from Balmoral the Queen told Miles Urquhart that she needed to practise her Canada speech with her APS after church the next day, and that he was to let Joan know, so she could travel from the palace, and set aside an hour in her diary.
His eyebrows shot up halfway to the ceiling. ‘On a Sunday, ma’am? After a long journey? I hardly think—’
‘I need it, Miles,’ she said grimly. ‘I’ll be perfectly all right.’ And the problem was, she did need the practice, but she had no intention of getting it with Joan tomorrow. Since the last time they saw each other, Joan had done some dangerous investigating and the Queen had done quite a lot of thinking. They had far too much else to talk about.
Joan arrived at the Oak Room at Windsor Castle at the appointed time, and the Queen made it clear to the footman at the door that under no circumstances were they to be disturbed. In the light of Joan’s accident, she invited the poor young woman to sit down on one of the comfortable sofas.
The rain fell steadily outside, but the room was warmed by a small electric fire. One of the corgis made herself at home at Joan’s feet, and the Queen took this as a good sign. Corgis were an excellent judge of character. They tended to nip the ankles of people they didn’t approve of.
Joan brushed off the Queen’s solicitous enquiries about her wrist, just as she brushed off Joan’s thanks for the soup and flowers. The Queen had wanted to discuss her theories about Ginette Fleury first but, looking at Joan’s bright face, she decided it could wait. There was something different about her APS today. It wasn’t the fading bruise under her right eye. Was it her new hairstyle or her recent adventures? Whatever it was, it suited her.
‘I can see you have news,’ she said. She was glad she had decided not to wait any longer. ‘Tell me everything.’
‘First of all,’ Joan said, ‘there’s something I wanted to tell you last month, but I felt I had to do it face to face. I didn’t trust it to a letter, even in code.’
This was alarming. ‘What?’
Joan took a deep breath. ‘I think the press secretary might be working with your uncle.’
The Queen had been fearing all sorts of developments, but not this.
‘The Duke of Windsor?’
‘Yes, ma’am.’
‘Impossible. He has no role here any more. He knows that.’
Joan held her ground. ‘I saw a letter. The contents included the words “plan” and “delay” and “Washington”. The letterhead was his. There were two sheets of paper, handwritten, and Jeremy didn’t want me to see them. I don’t think he knows I did see them, by the way.’
‘That certainly puts things in a new light,’ the Queen said, stiffening.
Her uncle meant trouble, and had done all his adult life. He was a very self-indulgent man, who had chosen his love life over the Crown. It was difficult to forgive the burden he had placed on her father as a result of his decision not to remain as king. Although, given the warmth Uncle David and his wife had showed to Hitler before the war, she had to admit the abdication wasn’t altogether a bad thing. She would deal with that thought later.
‘Was there anything else?’
‘Yes, ma’am,’ Joan said readily. ‘Tony Radnor-Milne is working with the Duke of Maidstone. I saw them together at the Artemis Club. That’s why I was run over.’