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

by S.J. Bennett

‘We need the kind of courage that can withstand the subtle corruption of the cynics so that we can show the world that we are not afraid of the future. It has always been easy to hate and destroy. To build and to cherish is much more difficult . . .

The Queen felt for an instant how so many people must feel, perhaps, coming face to face with her. The portrait carried a huge weight of expectation, but was remarkably human in scale, close to, in the flickering light.

Someone most definitely did not want this visit to succeed. Someone in her own circle. Someone she had always trusted implicitly until tonight.

Sir Hugh Masson’s solid grey whiskers were counterbalanced by a large pair of black-rimmed spectacles that emphasised his bookish tendencies.

He took his wife’s hands in his and kissed her palms, one after the other, and she was reminded how irresistible he was himself, and how hopelessly devoted she was. Not just because of his Viking-blond looks, but for his ability to make her weep with laughter one minute and to be quite serious the next,

A wartime Spitfire pilot had once said every landing was just a controlled crash, really.

Len Woolgar was six foot four, built like a brick shithouse, and unbelievably lazy for a man in mint condition. Put him in a rowing boat on the river and he was a demon

But put him on an actual police job, requiring thought and dedication to duty, and he was a liability. He was usually hungry.

The sergeant had beaned himself on the low door lintel again. You’d think, being six foot four, you’d learn to duck eventually.

Human faces do not fare well after a strangling and a week lying undiscovered on a bed. Her peroxide hair, soft and curled and lacquered into a sophisticated style, looked horribly out of place against the skin. Her eyebrows and eyelashes were dark, he’d noticed. As was – and it was necessary to look – the rest of her. The limbs were slim and athletic.

‘Since when did the likes of you ever protect the likes of me?’

She was at the centre of the world and loving every minute.

Never talk in the car, that’s what I’ve learned. Chauffeurs say nothing, but they hear everything.’

‘I’m a policeman,’ Darbishire muttered. ‘I don’t leave well alone. It’s my job not to.’

‘Bunny, it’s not unheard of for politicians to be involved with escort agencies. Or old Etonians.’ He laughed. ‘Oh, no, ma’am. No indeed. But they try and stay out of murder.’ ‘I’d like to think they do.’

She would miss all the girls, but even so, Joan deeply savoured her new-found independence. It felt like her last chance.

Joan slipped it on over her dress and wondered what might happen to jinx this moment. Because it felt too good to last.

His eyes were grey. Joan had always had rather a thing for men with grey eyes. Dammit again!

‘There’s more to me than serge suits, you know.’ ‘I can see that.’

She felt herself go rigid, unable to speak. In theory, she knew what to do – stab him with the nearest fork – but this was the Ritz. Duchesses might be watching.

Joan knew somehow that Hector Ross would be waiting up for her and used the time to shed all the hot, bitter tears she could manage.

Joan viewed these visits in an entirely different light now. Before, it had always looked easy enough to sit and wave, or stand and wave, or walk around and shake a few hands and nod at a piece of machinery. But knowing as she did that every ten-minute slot was accounted for, and each half-hour included a hundred people who could be inadvertently insulted if they weren’t smiled at or asked the right question, and twenty pressmen who would be happy to capture the moment on celluloid if it happened, Joan saw each day as an endurance test.

Joan still thought it was a strange gift, bordering on madness, to enjoy being in a goldfish bowl. No wonder the Queen enjoyed solitary dog walks when she got home.

It’s in the papers because of the tart in the tiara. Diamonds always make the papers.

The rapid speech and the eye contact, the fixed expression . . . They were all signs Joan had seen before, during her work with the captured German officers. When somebody didn’t want you to know something, they often overcompensated. The more a prisoner smiled at her and held her eye, the more he fidgeted, the more she probed with her questions.

Now, shall we go and say happy birthday? Only a small slice, I think. I need to watch my waistline.’

Ughhhh stop saying this

Hector paused to check the omelette he was finishing. It looked rich and golden. The sizzle and the smell were surprisingly good from such simple ingredients.

Hector whisked two more eggs in a mug with a sprinkle of salt and pepper. He poured the mixture into the sizzling pan.

‘I’m not sure what I’m doing wrong,’ the Queen said, more bewildered than upset.

‘They don’t want a pat on the head,’ Daphne explained. ‘They want to know that you feel what they’re going through.’ ‘But I do! Of course I do.’ ‘Do you, really, ma’am?’

If you want to connect, ma’am, you can’t be strong all the time. Sometimes, you have to admit you’re vulnerable.

‘Our stories are usually told by men. I wonder how often they do us justice.’

Little girls, picturing one as Queen, often assumed one had infinite powers, and would be horrified, she judged, to discover how very much she could not do.

Men were not good at telling women’s stories.

The flat smelled of damp and fried bacon.

Her diamonds were precious to her because each piece was a treasure trove of family stories, but in themselves, they were only stones, heavy to wear and difficult to keep clean.

‘I think of you as gone,’

‘Not everybody gets to kiss the Queen of England,’ he said, before doing so. Then he stood back to admire her dress. He was learning.

Nothing in this life is bloody simple.

It occurred to the Queen, not for the first time, that women were treated like delicate flowers, cosseted and protected at every turn. Men were always leaping forward to throw their cloaks over metaphorical puddles. But she was quite as strong as them, if not stronger. Men were like oak trees: they fell hard when things went wrong. She thought of herself more as a willow, bending in the wind and weather.

‘It never ends well when a woman kills a man.

Joan tried to keep her face neutral. She could, if she wanted, tell Her Majesty that Hector Ross no longer stayed at his club; that he was teaching her about whisky; that he was very fond of her kimono, and when he was tired, he liked to run his fingers along the silk.

Powerful men with an excessive regard for their own intelligence have been known to make stupid decisions. Truth is always stranger than fiction.