[Warning, spoilers, although I've read this one two or three times without any diminution of enjoyment]
“King and Joker” is sort of a hybrid of Dickinson’s two specialties, adult mysteries and YA fantasy. It is a mystery, but the viewpoint character, Princess Louise, is 13 years old, and the book takes place in an alternate universe. It’s not very alternate, though: Dickinson has simply created his own British royal family by having George V’s older brother not die, and instead become King Victor I. (This is made easier by the fact that George V married his late brother’s fiancee: British royalty is very strange.) The book takes place during the reign of Victor I’s grandson, Victor II, who ascended to the throne as a boy after his father died in a boating accident: Louise is Victor II’s daughter. Otherwise world history is exactly the same: Dickinson even has Louise’s ultra-reactionary, Nazi-sympathizing grandmother speculate that, should Victor I have died of the flu that in fact did kill him, nothing about the history of Britain would be any different (as a way of casting scorn on the ineffectualness of the British monarchy). The new royal family is, however, quite different from the real-world one: more middle-class, closer (on the surface, at least) to modern-day Scandinavian royalty. This is a consequence of the king’s father’s early death and the fact that his mother (I think she is supposed to be a Russian exile, though I’m not entirely sure) is both a diehard monarchist and an extremely poisonous individual: this gave the government of the day more influence than was usual on Victor II’s upbringing — at Labor PM Atlee’s insistence, he learned a profession, training as a doctor — and also gave the king himself a dislike of being too regal. Thus, when we meet the royal family at breakfast at the start of the book, they are trying to find palace expenses they can cut, to show solidarity with a nation that is in recession (following the first oil shock: the book is set in the mid-70s). Louise’s older brother Harry, the Prince of Wales, is attending the LSE (far more modern than Cambridge, where Charles went to university, much less Sandhurst, where both of Charles’s sons went): he is a typical ‘70s college student, a hairy leftist vegetarian. Louise herself goes to a comprehensive school, i.e. an ordinary public school, not a fancy boarding school. Breakfast is interrupted by a practical joke: somebody has replaced the ham (which is in a covered dish) with a toad from Harry’s zoo (he keeps a number of pets). The contrast with the real Windsors is clear.
And yet despite all the differences, it’s the continuities that matter most in the end. The book is largely a coming-of-age story, and Louise’s coming of age consists precisely of her arrival at a fuller understanding of what it means to be royalty. The impression that the reader initially gets — the one that Louise has at the start of the book — is that for Dickinson’s imaginary royal family, being royal is merely the outer surface, and the nice ordinary bourgeois family that they appear to be when alone is the truth. But in reality, the nice bourgeois family is just another surface: truer than the carefully stage-managed image they give to the public, but certainly not the whole truth. Royalty means the exercise of power, even for such a tame-seeming king as Victor II, and Dickinson drives this point home throughout the book. This is done in part through Durdy, the novel’s second most important character. Nursemaid to multiple generations of English royals — in a flashback, she is shown bringing Edward VII’s three daughters (as small children) to visit their grandmother, Queen Victoria — her memories allow us to see the commonalities between Victor II’s seemingly modern monarchy and his predecessors. In particular, there’s the fate of her fellow nursery-maid, Catriona, with whom Durdy has a brief but torrid affair before Catriona leaves the royal service in an attempt to avoid Edward VII’s attentions, an attempt at which she is not successful. Catriona’s great-grandson McGivan is the spitting image of his cousin Victor II, and hence is plucked from his job with the Scottish police to come be a body double for the King: alas, his acting ability proves to be insufficient for the part, and he is relegated to a minor position on the palace’s security detail. The reader will rapidly guess that he is the titular joker, partly out of resentment at the way his life has been upended for no reason and partly in an attempt to save his job, clearly on the chopping block as part of the cuts. And yet this turns out to be only the most minor example of Victor II thoughtlessly wreaking havoc. More consequential is the way that he uses his resemblance to McGivan to seduce McGivan’s girlfriend, the bed-bound Durdy’s nurse: when he is caught by Louise, he inadvertently gives McGivan an alibi, thus creating further confusion when McGivan turns up dead and the practical jokes get violent. (The King’s subsequent claims that he was really doing this for McGivan’s benefit and that it’s not the kind of thing he usually does are appropriately discounted by both the reader and his daughter.) And most important of all is the revelation that Louise is actually the daughter of Nonny, the Queen’s private secretary, the King having managed to arrange things so that his first love (who had no desire to be queen) could remain his mistress. It’s telling that, despite Durdy’s strict Victorian respectability — all she’s willing to tell Louise about it is that her father and Nonny were already “very good friends” before he before he became King — she knows of it all, as she was present at Louise’s birth, and is, if not approving, far from shocked. This is how royalty is, and who should know better than her? What’s exceptional is, first, the way that, in this book, Victor II’s sins — the ways that he rearranges the lives of those around him to suit himself — come down on his head, and second, the fact that, having learned this, Louise’s response is to want out. Yes, it’s her family, and she still loves her father, even if he’s not the person she thought he was, but she doesn’t want to be a princess any more. (Victor II, who has paid very little attention to the feelings of anyone in the book, including his daughter, responds by attempting to guilt-trip Louise out of this decision by appealing to her respect for the feelings of her birth mother and her adoptive mother, a brilliantly subtle way of demonstrating that if you scratch even the best of kings you get a slimy bastard.) In this way, “King and Joker” resembles Dickinson’s historical mysteries that are also assaults on English class society: even a nice ordinary respectable-seeming royal family is still a royal family.
Of course, since this is Peter Dickinson, the book is not at all didactic, but rather brilliantly written and wholly enjoyable. Louise is entirely sympathetic, and her voice — that of a precocious not-quite-adolescent who knows more than the adults sometimes realize but not as quite much as she thinks — is note-perfect. The other royals and their associates are also very well done, Dickinson being an expert at the little touches — such as the way that the Queen’s Spanish accent disappears when she gets upset — that make characters in a book seem like real people. Durdy also works very well, being a type of character that Dickinson likes to write (given his conviction that the mysteries of the present cannot be understood without understanding the past): old, mentally sharp but physically inactive (she is paralyzed from the neck down), with nothing to do but think and remember. The evolution of our viewpoint over the course of the book is also carefully handled: Victor II’s recurrent attempts to present himself as the voice of reason become steadily less credible as the book goes on. And of course the mystery is very well constructed along classical lines: the red herrings are expertly distributed, with McGivan’s seeming alibi being a very clever move to divert attention away from the murderer even though McGivan is the murderer’s first victim. As in all the best classic mysteries, the real killer is obvious in hindsight but somehow not guessed. But the key is that every time Louise digs further — the fact that everything starts with some practical jokes makes it reasonable that a 13-year-old girl should be the closest thing this mystery has to a detective — she uncovers more secrets that point, not towards the killer, but back to her own family. Thus the mystery pulls you through Louise’s arc of discovery — her breakdown (which feels entirely earned) coincides with its climax — even though in the end the two aren’t directly connected. Like most of Dickinson’s mysteries, “King and Joker” pulls off the rare feat of transcending the genre without giving up on its pleasures, and its small-r republican point of view is a pleasant bonus.