A Death in Diamonds (Her Majesty the Queen Investigates #4)

by S.J. Bennett

‘Or heard it. A colicky baby that cries through the night?’

There’s no birth record of a Francis Gregson, or indeed Frances Gregson – I looked for both – in the last two years. Your wife is either in grave danger, or she never existed either. Which is it, Mr Gregson?’

Lies upon lies.

We don’t know who did it, and we’ve nothing to gain by lying. We just wanted to do our duty. Yes, she’s frightened. Frightened for her life. Do you blame her?’

‘Given how little she saw that’s of any real use to us, I rather do. If anything, she’s been wasting police time so far.

Mrs Gregson’s accent on the telephone had been posher than her husband’s just now.

Darbishire was a friendly man by nature and this aspect of the job didn’t always appeal to him: alienating bystanders in the interests of investigation. However, he was good at it.

‘Gunshot?’ She almost leaped out of her skin. ‘Yes, and unless it came from number forty-four, where we have no evidence of it, it must have come from this property, if it came from anywhere at all. The house in between is empty, you see.’

Do you mean the Gregsons at twenty-three?’ ‘The Gregsons? No. You mean the Hallidays. But they moved out last month because of the flood. I was in town for the ballet and I saw them put all their things in a van.’

Imposters.

One of the pipes sprang a leak. Mrs Halliday said it was going to take weeks to dry the place out. She has trouble with her lungs, so they found somewhere cheaper in Earl’s Court.’

He had arrived at Cresswell Place with one set of questions and found himself going away with a completely different set.

Inside, number 23 smelled powerfully of drains and mould. It had officially sat empty since the Hallidays left a month ago, exactly as Mrs Pinder suggested. Number 22, by contrast, was unnaturally neat and tidy.

Darbishire took the opportunity to venture out into the yard at the back, whereupon a dog in the yard of number 41 instantly set up a cannonade of furious barking. The same dog, as the saying went, who had curiously done nothing in the nighttime. Darbishire made a mental note.

Darbishire’s new companion looked determinedly ordinary. A pale face under a brown trilby, a standard mackintosh, soft-soled brown shoes. He swung Darbishire around, heading south.

‘Who sent you? I talk to organ grinders, not their monkeys.’

Who on earth had the chutzpah to threaten a detective inspector in broad daylight, in the centre of London?

He was more sure than ever that he was dealing with a gang. Who else would send someone with a prim little voice who called you ‘old chap’ and looked like a cut-price Humphrey Bogart?

And Venables was in on it. That’s why he took Darbishire to that particular pub. It was so obvious that the chief inspector didn’t feel the need to pretend to hide it. Which meant that either this went all the way to the top, or Venables was in with some extremely shady characters.

They might have worked well in the days of Queen Charlotte, but in 1957 the Georgian tradition had become decidedly quaint.

The Queen had already decided that next year would be the last of them, though it had yet to be announced.

Philip had no difficulty deciding on his costume. For a Danish prince – even one who had given up his title – the chance of going dressed as Hamlet was too good to miss.

Very on brand.

And the Queen did not have the luxury of carpeted bathrooms, which Nancy Astor seemed to think of as quite normal.

Ew.

She had chosen to be Ophelia, draped in ropes of herbs and wildflowers, which the Queen thought rather unfortunate, given what happened to the poor girl in the end.

But Philip was enjoying himself. The university students gathered round him, all talking at once, and they wandered off together, with Bridget in tow, arguing the merits and otherwise of mutually assured destruction.

What Shakespeare would have made of synchronised swimmers, the Queen didn’t know.

The Queen never missed an opportunity to meet a horse, and found herself cheerfully accompanied down the winding drive to the riverside.

An OG horse girl.

Windsor Castle had many things, including a medieval chapel and a thousand years of history, but it didn’t have a riverside mooring where one could keep a boat.

The boats were pretty to look at, but not entirely safe, she decided. Not with the flickering lights and the general level of inebriation.

Bunny Maidstone had been a very good-looking man in his youth, but the contents of many hip flasks over the years had made him go to seed.

Is Bunny his Goverment name?

The duke had been called this since his schooldays, for reasons lost in the mists of time.

She wished Philip was with her. He’d have told the duke exactly what to do in no uncertain terms, but she simply wasn’t made that way.

The Queen thought it infra dig to dismiss the prize possessions of one’s host, but she had often noticed that some dukes thought themselves above that sort of nicety.

Scathing!

She remembered Fiona Matherton-Smith’s mother telling her once about ‘NSITs – men who were ‘not safe in taxis’.

As Bunny insisted on walking her back to the house, which still seemed a long way away, she noticed that for once her costume was doing her no favours. No one recognised her and came to the rescue.

It was Lord Seymour who owned the tiara found on the Chelsea tart.’

Of course, everyone thinks Stephen did it, but I can categorically assure you he didn’t.’ ‘How do you know?’ she asked. ‘My brother was with him at Eton. He’s a thoroughly good egg. A sound junior minister. God knows how he got caught up in this mess.’

She found the man unobjectionable, but she thought the duke was being a little naive.

They impersonate famous women. Liz Taylor, Vivien Leigh. Marilyn Monroe. They’re very good, I’m told.

That's The Schtik.

Don’t worry, ma’am, you aren’t as much of a draw. I think the gentlemen are a little bit too intimidated.’

Who would want to hear that?

She had spent an hour or two sitting bolt upright in bed last night, contemplating whether to tell her sister about what she’d found out about the Raffles agency. Margaret would be fascinated and quite possibly flattered.

She would be.

There had been a gleam in his glassy eye as he told her the story last night, as if he were enjoying her reaction.

Execution.

Her official reason for doing so this time was tenuous and unsavoury, as she privately admitted to herself, but it would do. She wasn’t sure exactly what she was looking for, but she’d know when she’d found it.

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 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.

Eva 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.

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.’

Lol.

After nearly four decades on this earth, Joan’s life fitted into four suitcases, two of which belonged to Auntie Eva.

It was a jade silk kimono, lined with more silk in a cherry blossom pattern.

It was fit for a princess – or the sort of lady who mixed with neighbours in mink coats and reclined on plush blue sofas.

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.

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.’