A Three Dog Problem

Prologue

Sir Simon Holcroft was not a swimmer. As a trainee pilot in the Royal Navy, about a thousand years ago, the Queen’s Private Secretary had endured being dunked in the water on various training exercises. He could, if necessary, escape from a sinking helicopter in the Atlantic Ocean, but ploughing up and down an indoor pool held no allure for him. However, as he approached the grand old age of fifty-four, his trouser waistline was two inches larger than it should be and the palace GP was making noises about cholesterol levels. Something needed to give, and it wasn’t just the button above his flies.

Sir Simon felt tired. He felt flabby. On yesterday’s long, uncomfortable car journey back from Scotland he had come to the conclusion that here was a man who had eaten too much Dundee cake and not offered to accompany the Queen on enough cross-country walks. His first thought on arriving back at his cottage in Kensington Palace was that he needed to jolt himself out of this slump.

Those last few weeks in Balmoral had been bloody. It was as if the midges had been staging a Highland Games of their own. He had been busy most mornings with Prince Philip, discussing the details of the impending Reservicing Programme, and then up most nights on the phone, conferring with fellow courtiers about the Duke’s latest suggestions and questions, as well as adding several of his own. If they hadn’t done all their homework by the time they presented it to Parliament, the proverbial ordure would hit the fan like a fireworks display.

Vigour was what he needed. And freshness. Despite his lack of enthusiasm, the Buckingham Palace swimming pool seemed like the best solution. Staff tended to avoid it when the royals were in residence. The problem was, when the family were away, he tended to be so too, and vice versa. However, catching sight of himself in an ill-advised full-length mirror in the bedroom at KP that night, he made the decision to take a risk and nip in early. He prayed that, with his midge-bitten body stretching the seams of his Vilebrequin trunks, he wouldn’t encounter a super-keen young equerry in peak physical condition or, worse, the Duke himself, fresh from a royal dip.

Sir Simon walked across Hyde Park and down through Green Park – one of the few forty-minute commutes you could make through central London that was entirely green – in time to arrive the Palace by 6.30 a.m. He had stupidly put his trunks on under his trousers, which made both uncomfortable. He parked his briefcase on his office desk, hung his suit jacket on a wooden hanger on a hat stand, and took off his brogues. Neatly rolling his silk tie, which today featured tiny pink koalas, he placed it safely in the left shoe. Then, shouldering the backpack containing his swimming towel, he walked the short distance to the north-west pavilion in his socks. By now it was 6.45.

The pavilion, attached to the North Wing that overlooked Green Park, had originally been designed as a conservatory by John Nash. Sir Simon always thought they should have kept it that way. His mother had been a plantswoman and he saw conservatories as paeans to the natural world, whereas heated swimming pools were a little bit naff. Nevertheless, the Queen’s father had decided to convert this one in the thirties for his little princesses to swim in, so there it was, with its Grecian pillars outside, and its somewhat-the-worse-for-wear art deco tiles within, as much in need of updating as so many nooks and crannies of the Palace that the public didn’t see.

The pool area was reached from inside the main building through a door papered with instructions for what to do in case of fire and reminders that nobody should swim solo, which he ignored. The corridor beyond was already uncomfortably humid. He was glad he’d left his tie behind. In the men’s changing room, he divested himself of his shirt, socks and trousers and draped his towel across his arm. He noticed a cut-crystal tumbler abandoned on one of the benches. Odd, since the family had only arrived back from the Highlands last night. There must have been a homecoming celebration among the younger generation. All glass was banned in the pool area, but you didn’t tell princes and princesses what they could and couldn’t do in their granny’s home. Sir Simon made a mental note to tell Housekeeping so they could deal with it.

He showered quickly and walked through into the pool area, with its windows overlooking the kissing plane trees in the garden, bracing himself for the shock of coolish water lapping against this too, too solid flesh.

But the shock he got was quite different.

At first his brain refused to register what it was seeing. Was it a blanket? A trick of the light? There was so much red. So much dark red against the green tiled floor. In the centre of the stain was a leg, bare to the knee, female. The image imprinted itself onto his retina. He blinked.

His breath came short and punchy as he took two steps towards it. Another two, and he was standing in the gore itself and staring down at the full horror of it.

A woman in a pale dress lay curled on her side in a puddle of darkness. Her lips were blue, her eyes open and unseeing. Her right arm reached towards her feet, palm-up. All were soaked and stained with congealed blood. Her left arm was stretched towards the water’s edge, where the dark puddle finally stopped. Sir Simon felt his own blood pulse, pounding a one-two, one-two rhythm in his ears.

Gingerly, he knelt down and placed reluctant fingers against the neck. There was no pulse, and how could there be, with eyes like that? He longed to close the lids, but thought he probably shouldn’t. Her hair lay fanned around her head, a halo soaked in red. She looked surprised. Or was that his imagination? And so fragile that, had she been alive, he could have easily scooped her up and carried her to safety.

Rising, he felt a sharp pain in his knee. As he tried to wipe some of the sticky blood from his skin, his fingertips encountered grit. Examining it, he could just make out small shards of thick glass. Now his own blood, freshly seeping from a cut on his leg, was mingling with hers. He saw it then – the remains of a shattered tumbler, sitting like a crystal ruin in the crimson sea.

He knew the face, knew the hair. What was she doing here, with a whisky tumbler? His body didn’t want to move, but he forced it back outside to seek help. Though he knew it was too late for any help worth having.

Chapter 1

‘Philip?’

‘Yes?’ The Duke of Edinburgh raised half an eyebrow from the folded Daily Telegraph, which was propped up against a pot of honey on the breakfast table.

‘You know that painting?’

‘Which painting? You have seven thousand,’ he said, just to be difficult.

The Queen sighed inwardly. She had been about to explain. ‘The one of Britannia. That used to hang outside my bedroom.’

‘What, the ghastly little one by the Australian who couldn’t do boats? That one?’

‘Yes.’

‘Yes?’

‘Well, I saw it yesterday in Portsmouth, at Semaphore House. At an exhibition of maritime art.’

Philip stared pointedly at the editorial page of his paper and grunted, ‘That makes sense. For a yacht.’

‘You don’t understand. I was launching the navy’s new digital strategy and they’d put up a few paintings in the lobby.’ The digital strategy was a complicated business, bringing the Royal Navy up to date with the latest technology; the art exhibition had been more straightforward. ‘Mostly grey things of battleships. A J-Class yacht in full sail at Southampton, because there’s always one. And next to it, our Britannia, from ’63.’

‘How d’you know it was ours?’ He still didn’t look up.

‘Because it was that one,’ the Queen said sharply, feeling suddenly and vertiginously sad at his lack of interest. ‘I know my own paintings.’

‘I’m sure you do. All seven thousand of ’em. Well, tell the staff johnnies to hand it over.’

‘I have.’

‘Good.’

The Queen sensed that the Daily Telegraph article was probably about Brexit, hence her husband’s more than usually prickly mood. Cameron gone. The party in disarray. The whole thing so fiendishly botched . . . A single painting by an unremarkable artist, presented long before Britain joined the Common Market, was hardly important. She glanced up at the landscapes by Stubbs, with their wonderful horses, that adorned the walls of the private dining room at the Palace. Philip himself had depicted her here, reading the paper, many years ago. And he had done it better, one could argue, than the man who had painted Britannia. But that picture had once been very precious to her.

It had become a favourite in ways she had never shared with anyone. She intended to get it back.

A couple of hours later, Rozie Oshodi arrived at the Queen’s study in the North Wing to collect the morning’s red boxes containing Her Majesty’s official papers. Rozie had joined as the Queen’s Assistant Private Secretary a few months ago, after a short career in the army and then at a private bank. She was still relatively young for the role, but so far had performed admirably, including – and perhaps especially – in the more unconventional aspects of it.

‘Any news?’ the Queen asked, looking up from the final paper in the pile.

Yesterday, Rozie had been tasked with finding out how the painting of the ex-royal yacht had ended up where it was and organising its swift return.

‘Yes, ma’am, but it’s not good.’

‘Oh?’ This was a surprise.

‘I spoke to the facilities manager at the naval base,’ Rozie explained, ‘and he tells me it’s a case of mistaken identity. The artist must have painted more than one version of Britannia in Australia. This one was lent to the exhibition by the Second Sea Lord. There’s no plaque on it or anything. It’s from the Ministry of Defence’s collection and it’s been hanging in his office for years.’

The Queen eyed her APS thoughtfully through her bifocals.

‘Has it? The last time I saw it was in the nineteen nineties.’

‘Ma’am?’

There was a belligerent glimmer behind the royal spectacles. ‘The Second Sea Lord doesn’t have another version. He has mine. In a different frame. And he’s had it for a long time, you now tell me.’

‘Ah . . . yes. I see.’ From the look on her face, it was clear that Rozie didn’t.

‘Go back and find out what’s going on, would you?’

‘Of course, ma’am.’

The Queen blotted her signature on the paper on her desk and put it back in its box. Her APS picked up the pile and left her to ponder.

Chapter 2

‘This place is a deathtrap.’

‘Oh, come on, James. You’re exaggerating.’

‘I am not.’ The Keeper of the Privy Purse glower-ed at the Private Secretary across the latter’s antique office desk. ‘Do you know how much vulcanised rubber they’ve discovered?’

‘I don’t even know what that is.’ Sir Simon’s raised left eyebrow managed to convey curiosity and amusement. As Private Secretary, he was responsible for managing the Queen’s official visits and relations with the Government, but he ended up taking an interest in everything that might affect her. And the deathtrap status or otherwise of Buckingham Palace most definitely fell into that category.

His visitor, Sir James Ellington, was in charge of the royal finances. He had worked with Sir Simon for years, and it wasn’t unusual for him to make the brisk ten-minute walk from his desk high up in the South Wing to Sir Simon’s spacious, high-ceilinged ground-floor office in the North Wing, so he could complain about the latest fiasco. Behind every stiff upper lip lies an Englishman bursting to share his withering irritation in private. Sir Simon noticed that his friend was unusually exercised about the vulcanised rubber, though. Whatever it was.

‘You treat rubber with sulphur to harden it,’ Sir James explained, ‘and use it to make cable casings. At least, they did fifty years ago. It does the job, but over time it degrades, with exposure to air and light, and so on. It becomes brittle.’

‘A bit like you, this morning,’ Sir Simon observed.

‘Don’t. You have no idea.’

‘And so . . . What’s the problem with our brittle, vulcanised rubber?’

‘It’s falling apart. The cables should have been replaced decades ago. We knew it was bad, but when we had that leak in the attics last month, they discovered a nest of the blasted things that practically disintegrated on contact. It means the electrics around the building are being held together by a wing and a prayer. A hundred miles of them. One dodgy connection and . . . pffft.’ Sir James made a gesture with his elegant right hand to suggest smoke, or a minor explosion.

Sir Simon briefly closed his eyes. It wasn’t as if they didn’t know the dangers of fire. The Windsor Castle disaster in ’92 had taken five years and several million pounds to put right. They had opened Buckingham Palace to the public each summer to help pay for the repairs. Unfortunately, when they’d done a survey of this place, to be on the safe side, they discovered it was even more hazardous. Plans to fix it were under way, but they kept discovering complications.

‘So what do we do?’ he asked. ‘Move her out?’

No need to specify who may or may not need to move.

‘We probably should, pronto. She won’t want to go, of course.’

‘Naturally.’

‘We ran the idea up the flagpole last year and she didn’t exactly salute,’ Sir James mused, glumly. ‘I don’t blame her. If she did go, it would have to be to Windsor, so she could keep up her schedule, and we’d clog up the M4 with ambassadors and ministers and garden party guests zipping up and down. The castle itself would need to be reconfigured to cope. She’ll soldier on as is, if she possibly can. If it ain’t broke . . .’

‘But it is broke, you say,’ Sir Simon pointed out.

Sir James sighed. ‘It is, as you rightly remind me, broke.’ He raised his eyes heavenwards. ‘Buckingham Palace is broken. If it were a terraced house in Birmingham the experts would stick a notice on the front door and forbid the family to return until it was fixed. But it’s a working palace, so we can’t. We were just finalising the Reservicing Programme to work around her – this will add another million or two, no doubt. Oh, and I almost forgot: you know Mary, my secretary? The efficient one who always answers emails on time and knows everything in the Reservicing planning agenda and is a bit of a genius?’

‘Yes?’

‘She’s just handed in her notice. I didn’t hear all the details, but she was in floods of tears this morning. So—’

He was cut off by the arrival of Rozie with the boxes, which she placed on a marble-topped console table by the door, ready for collection by the Cabinet Office later.

‘All good?’ Sir Simon asked her.

‘Mostly. How do I find out if we loaned the Ministry of Defence one of the Queen’s private paintings back in the nineties?’

At this question of negligible interest, Sir James stood up and took his leave.

Rozie observed his departure with curiosity. Leaning forward, meanwhile, Sir Simon steepled his fingers and focused on the matter in hand. He was good at leaping from one problem to another – like a gymnast on the asymmetric bars, Rozie had often thought, or a squirrel on an obstacle course.

‘Hmm. Talk to the Royal Collection Trust,’ he suggested. ‘They look after her private art as well as Crown stuff, I think. Why do we care?’

‘The Boss saw it in Portsmouth,’ Rozie explained. ‘The MOD say it’s theirs. The thing is, she says it was a personal gift from the artist. You’d think she’d know.’

‘She tends to. What’s the MOD’s excuse?’

‘They’re suggesting there must be two of them.’

Sir Simon whistled to himself. ‘Brave move on their part. Can you ask the artist?’

‘No, he’s dead, I checked. His name’s Vernon Hooker. He died in 1997.’

‘Did he paint a lot of boats?’

‘Hundreds. If you google him, you’ll see.’

Rozie waited while Sir Simon duly typed in the artist’s name to Google Images on his computer and instinctively recoiled.

‘By God! Did the man ever sail?’

Rozie was no expert on maritime paintings, but Sir Simon’s reaction didn’t surprise her. Vernon Hooker liked to depict his subjects in bright colours, with exuberant disregard for light and shade. The images featured more emerald green, electric blue and lilac than you might expect for scenes that were largely sea and sky. But then, one of the Queen’s favourite artists was Terence Cuneo, whose paintings of trains and battle scenes were hardly monochrome. And to Rozie’s surprise, when she looked up Hooker online yesterday, it turned out that his work generally sold for thousands. He was quite collectable.

‘They’re probably right, aren’t they?’ Sir Simon concluded, peering back at his screen. ‘The Ministry, I mean. There are dozens of the bloody things. I bet this Hooker would get more money for a Day-Glo royal yacht than a bog-standard seascape. He probably did loads of them.’

‘She’s adamant. And actually, he didn’t do any others of Britannia that I could find.’

‘As I say, talk to Neil Hudson at the RCT. See if we loaned it. Twenty years is long enough for the MOD to hang onto it.’

‘OK.’ Rozie changed the subject. ‘Why did Sir James look so uncomfortable just now? I hope I wasn’t interrupting anything.’

‘Only existential despair. It’s the bloody Reservicing Programme. His secretary’s leaving, and they’ve discovered vulcanisation or something. Dodgy electrics, anyway. The Palace is a deathtrap, apparently.’

‘Good to know,’ she remarked breezily, heading for the door. ‘It sounds expensive.’

‘It will be. The budget has sailed past three hundred and fifty million already. We need Parliament to sign it off in November, and they can’t even give themselves a pay rise.’

She paused at the threshold. ‘Yeah, but this is the second most famous house in the world.’

‘But . . . three hundred and fifty million.’ Sir Simon folded his shirtsleeved arms and stared despondently at his computer. ‘When it was only three hundred it didn’t sound so bad, somehow.’

‘Over ten years,’ she reminded him. ‘And it’ll come in ahead of time and under budget, like Windsor Castle did. And the bill for the Houses of Parliament refit was four billion, the last I heard.’

The Private Secretary brightened slightly. ‘You’re absolutely right, Rozie. Ignore me, I need a holiday. How d’you stay so chipper?’

‘Fresh air and exercise,’ she said decisively. ‘You should try it some time.’

‘Do not cheek your elders, young lady. I’m very fit for my age.’

Rozie, who was very fit regardless of age – hers happened to be thirty – threw him a friendly grin before heading back to her office next door.

He tried not to show it, but her remark rankled with Sir Simon. She was a tall, attractive young woman, with a short, precision-cut Afro, an athletic physique and a fitness level that had hardly dropped since she left the Royal Horse Artillery. He, meanwhile, was a quarter-century older, and his knees were not what they were. Nor was his back. As a young helicopter pilot and then a diplomat at the Foreign Office, he had been reasonably athletic: an ex-college rower who was handy on the rugby pitch and a demon at the wicket. But over the years, his consumption of good claret had increased in inverse proportion to the time spent wielding an oar, a ball or a cricket bat. He really ought to do something about it.

Chapter 3

Back at her desk, Rosie clicked on a series of images stored on her laptop. She had asked the facilities manager at the naval base in Portsmouth to send her a photo of the Britannia painting, so she would have some idea of what she was talking about. The image he’d sent showed the royal yacht, flags fluttering, surrounded by smaller boats with a flat blob of land in the background. She wondered briefly why the Boss was so attached to it. This was a woman who owned Leonardos and Turners, and a small, very lovely Rembrandt at Windsor Castle that Rozie would have cheerfully sold her Mini for.

The facilities manager had been quite firm. The Second Sea Lord – a vice admiral in charge of all ‘people’ matters in the navy – had a variety of paintings in his office, all legitimately sourced from the Ministry of Defence. Any loans from other places were quite clearly recorded and always returned shipshape and Bristol fashion. This wasn’t one of them. There must simply be two paintings.

And yet the Boss was equally certain there were not.

Rozie made a phone call. The artist’s dealer in Mayfair wasn’t aware of any other paintings of Britannia by his late client, but suggested she talk to the son.

‘Don’s the expert on his father’s stuff. He’s in his late sixties, sharp as a tack. He lives in Tasmania. It’ll be evening there now, of course, but I’m sure he won’t mind talking to you.’

Rozie considered what a generous offer that was, then remembered on whose behalf she was calling. No – the artist’s son probably wouldn’t mind talking to her about the Queen’s little problem. People were usually fine with it.

Don Hooker was everything the dealer had promised.

‘The royal yacht in Hobart, for the regatta? Oh yeah, I know the one. It was 1962 or ’63 – something like that, and Her Majesty was on one of her tours. I remember Dad telling me the story. He was so proud of that painting! He was a big monarchist, was Dad, and there she was, this beautiful lady, travelling the world on her boat. He followed her on all the news broadcasts and made us listen too – even though, to be perfectly honest with you, Rozie, I was a callow youth at the time and I didn’t really care. But Dad loved the whole thing. He had a map on the wall and he marked off where she went with little green pins. Collected postcards, mugs, the lot. He said she looked so happy on that trip, and he wanted her to have something to remember it by. “A piece of that joy”, that’s what he said. He copied the picture from a newspaper photo, added the colours, you know . . . And he got a proper Pommie thank you on Palace notepaper, with a big red crest. It said the Queen had never seen Britannia look so colourful. It was the only one he did. We’ve probably still got that letter in Dad’s archive somewhere. I can look it out if you want . . .?’

When Rozie rang him back, the facilities man from the Ministry of Defence was much less confident about his multiple-paintings theory.

‘Perhaps ours is a copy?’ he suggested. ‘I agree it’s very unusual, but I can absolutely assure you it’s not a loan from the Palace.’

Sir Simon was due to see the Queen next and, at Rozie’s request, he updated the Boss while he was there.

‘She says it’s not a copy, it’s her original,’ he informed Rozie on his return. ‘Find out how they got it and tell them to stop stalling. She’s pretty pissed off.’

‘How can she tell it’s the original?’ Rozie wanted to know. After all, the Queen had only seen the painting for a couple of minutes in bad light in a makeshift exhibition at a naval headquarters building on a visit about something else.

‘No idea. But she’s certain.’

If she was certain, Rozie would get the job done.

‘Just a little closer towards the light.’

The Queen adjusted the tilt of her neck, which was getting stiff.

‘Like this?’

‘Lovely, ma’am. Perfect.’

She closed her eyes, briefly. It was nice and peaceful in the Yellow Drawing Room. Beyond the heavy net curtains, sunrays gleamed off the golden statue of Winged Victory on the Victoria Memorial – or the Birthday Cake, as the guardsmen called it. Warm shafts of light fell on her left cheek. If only one didn’t have to maintain this wretched pose, one could quite easily fall asleep . . .

But she did have to maintain it. The Queen opened her eyes sharply and rested her gaze on a Chinese pagoda in the corner, which was nine tiers high, reaching almost to the ceiling. Her third-great-grand-uncle, George IV, did not do things by halves.

‘Are you getting what you need?’ she asked.

‘Absolutely. Won’t be long. You can roll your shoulders in a couple of minutes.’

Lavinia Hawthorne-Hopwood, who stood at an easel making preparatory sketches of her, was a considerate artist. She knew what her sitters went through and tried to minimise the trouble. It was one of the reasons the Queen liked to work with her. This wasn’t their first rodeo, as Harry would say. (What a marvellous expression. The Queen was delighted by rodeos. She had always thought that, under different circumstances, she might have been rather good at them.)

‘Which bit are you working on now?’

‘The eyes, ma’am. Always the trickiest.’

‘I see.’ Through the window, she watched several people posing for photographs outside the Palace gates. One seemed to be doing dance moves. Was this for one of those social media crazes Eugenie had told her about? The Queen craned slightly forward to get a better view.

‘If you wouldn’t mind, ma’am . . .’

‘What?’ The Queen was jolted out of her thoughts and realised she had changed position. Lavinia had stopped drawing. ‘I’m so sorry. Is that better?’

‘Thanks. Just another minute or so and . . . there. That one’s done. Phew! Would you like a glass of water?’

‘A sip of tea would help.’

A porcelain cup and saucer appeared at the Queen’s elbow, proffered by Sandy Robertson, her page. After a welcome hit of Darjeeling, she stretched discreetly and rubbed her stiff knee, while the artist reviewed her sketches.

Nearby, two video cameras on tripods and a boom microphone on a stand recorded the session. A small team of three, dressed in practical T-shirts and trousers, moved softly between these and their assigned chairs against the far wall. A lanky young man in the red and navy-blue Royal Household uniform stood by to help or corral them, as appropriate. A documentary was in progress: The Queen’s Art, or something like that – they hadn’t finalised the title. Not just what one owned, but also what one contributed to.

Today they were filming the making of the latest artwork she had agreed to sit for: a bronze bust. There really should be someone recording the filming, the Queen mused, just to round the whole thing off. Or someone to write about the recording of the filming of the sketching . . . ad infinitum. She was used to being watched and used, by now; to being such a source of fascination that her watchers were watched too.

‘Is it going to be life-size, the bust?’ she asked Lavinia.

She knew the answer to this question, but also knew the need to make small talk for the cameras, and the need for that small talk not to be about Lavinia’s recent, horrendous divorce, or her son’s arrest for drug dealing at boarding school. The poor woman was entitled to some privacy.

‘Yes,’ Lavinia said, peering at a group of sketches spread out on a table near her easel. ‘Actually, slightly larger. They want you to stand out at the Royal Society.’

‘Mmm. Was the last one larger too?’

‘I think it was, ma’am, from memory. Did you like it?’

‘Oh, yes. I thought it was rather good. You managed to avoid making me look . . .’ She puffed out her cheeks and made Lavinia laugh. ‘Too much like my great-great-grandmother.’ Heavy. Jowly. Old.

Lavinia went back to her easel. ‘My aim is to make you shimmer. Even in bronze. Right, are you ready, ma’am? If you can turn your head to look at my hand, here. Just a bit more. That’s lovely . . .’

The artist kept up a gentle patter of conversation while she worked. She got more from her subjects when they talked than when they stayed silent. The Queen’s face, in particular, lit up when she was animated. At rest, it could look grimly forbidding, which gave quite the wrong impression of her.

‘Have you been to any good exhibitions recently?’ Lavinia asked, and then regretted it. She should have asked about racing.

But the Queen didn’t seem to mind.

‘We’re opening one next year that I’m looking forward to,’ she said. ‘“Canaletto in Venice”. We have rather a lot of Canaletto.’ By which she meant the largest collection in the world. ‘Bought in bulk by George III from Joseph Smith. He was the consul to Venice at the time. A dull name for a rather interesting man, I’ve always thought.’

Lavinia gulped. ‘Goodness.’

The Queen smiled to herself. She’d had a lively chat on the subject with her Surveyor of Pictures recently. After several decades of living with them, she knew her Canalettos very well, although she preferred her own impressions of the place. Sailing from Ancona to Venice on board Britannia in 1960 – or was it ’61? – visiting the ancient little island of Torcello with Philip, and taking a moonlit gondola ride . . .

She thought back to those early tours on the royal yacht. Italy, Canada, the Pacific Islands . . . Britannia had been fitted out after the war, in another time of austerity, and its interior was practical, rather than extravagant. It suited the Queen’s temperament better than the gilt and grandeur that surrounded her now. How happy they had been, she and Philip and the ‘yotties’, visiting the furthest corners of the globe together. So many marvellous memories. The ‘ghastly little painting’ uniquely conjured some of them in particular.

‘I saw one of my personal paintings at an exhibition by the Royal Navy recently,’ she said aloud. It still rankled.

‘Oh, that’s nice,’ the artist said absently.

‘It wasn’t really. I hadn’t lent it to them. The last time I saw it, it was hanging opposite my bedroom door.’

Lavinia’s head jerked up in shock. ‘Oh dear.’

‘Oh dear precisely,’ the Queen agreed.

‘How did it get there?’

‘That’s a very interesting question.’ A minute later she added, ‘There. I think we’re done.’

Her tone was friendly but firm. The artist looked up, then glanced at her watch. The hour was up, precisely, and her subject was already removing the diamond tiara she had kindly agreed to wear for the sculpture, which had looked delightfully over the top above her shirt and cardigan. The documentary team took charge of their cameras, watched over by the eagle eye of the lanky young man from the Household. The Queen’s equerry was already hovering in the doorway, ready to accompany Her Majesty to her next appointment.

‘Thank you very much, ma’am,’ Lavinia said.

The Queen nodded. ‘I look forward to seeing the shimmer.’ Her tone was dry, but there was a twinkle in her eye.

Chapter 4

With her usual efficiency, Rozie took the opportunity of a cancelled meeting to visit the Royal Collection Trust, as Sir Simon had suggested. The sun was shining and it would be nice to stretch her legs and tick the problem of the Queen’s little painting off her list.

She strode briskly across the dusty pink tarmac from the side gate near her office, dodging between a black cab and a couple of tourists on Boris bikes. The air was warm, the bright sky brushed with pale clouds. Nipping across the edge of Green Park, she passed Clarence House on the corner, tall and white, where Prince Charles lived when he was in London. Behind it was her destination, St James’s Palace.

This collection of buildings was quite a different proposition. Tudor, squat and red-brick, they were much older than the rest. Sir Simon was a history buff who enjoyed telling her endless anecdotes about the place. Rozie’s favourite was about Prince James, the younger son of Charles I, who had been imprisoned there by Oliver Cromwell. He’d escaped by playing games of hide-and-seek with his jailers. Each time, the young prince would make himself a little bit harder to find, until one day he let himself out of the garden gate with a stolen key, and was halfway across Westminster before they realised he was gone. He made it all the way to France. According to Sir Simon, who was an old romantic, Charles I had been led from here to the scaffold in Whitehall wearing three shirts so he wouldn’t shiver and seem to be afraid.

Rozie walked round to the staff entrance at Stable Yard, musing on the fact that all ambassadors were still appointed ‘to the Court of St James’, for reasons she failed to understand. At the gate, a guardsman in a scarlet tunic and a bearskin stood impassively as she showed her pass to a security officer. She was escorted down miles of corridors to an office on the first floor. Here Neil Hudson, the current Surveyor of the Queen’s Pictures, welcomed her in with a puzzled smile.

‘What on earth brings you here, Captain Oshodi? I do visit, you know. No need to beard me in my den.’

Rozie looked around. It wasn’t bad, as dens went. A pair of windows overlooked the wide street that led up to Piccadilly, a stone’s throw from Fortnum’s and the Ritz. One panelled wall was lined from floor to ceiling with small but priceless works of art; the others were lined with books. The Surveyor’s walnut desk – so huge it looked like two abnormally large ones pushed together, was a riot of papers, paperweights, bronze statuettes and photographs in silver frames. There was no sign of a computer. Rozie assumed Neil Hudson hid it in a drawer when he had visitors. Surely he didn’t work with a quill? His yellow waistcoat and chin-length wavy hair gave the impression of a man who would love you to believe that he did.

‘I’m here to trace a painting,’ she explained. ‘One of Her Majesty’s. We know where it is, but not how it got there. It went missing a while ago.’

‘Stop!’ Hudson raised his hand. ‘Stop right there. I can assure you it didn’t. We don’t lose things in the Royal Collection.’

‘I think you do,’ Rozie said firmly, meeting his eye. ‘Sometimes.’

‘Very occasionally. Hardly ever. I resent the implication that we did.’

‘Well, that’s great. You’ll know what happened then.’

She explained as much as she knew, and the Surveyor nodded non-committally.

‘The nineties? Should be fine. The records are pretty good. But if it was . . . mislaid, shall we say, much earlier, we were still working in a fairly ad hoc way, especially for Her Majesty’s private paintings. I can’t really imagine her lending it, though. We lend Crown stuff all the time, if it’s in a fit state to travel. But something small and private like that . . .’ He wrinkled his nose. ‘Apart from anything else, who would’ve seen it to ask? However, you’re welcome to check.’

He called for an assistant, who dutifully led Rozie down several drab corridors, up half-sets of stairs and down others, past a couple of well-lit studios, through whose open doors she saw various conservators quietly at work. Eventually they arrived at a stuffy back room a couple of buildings away, with a window that wouldn’t open and a ceiling light that constantly flickered. Three walls were lined with glass-fronted cabinets housing a motley collection of boxed paper records going back to 1952. A computer on a desk under the grimy window gave access to a database of everything that had been digitised.

‘I’ll leave you to it,’ the assistant said, after she’d explained what was where. ‘You don’t need gloves or anything. We’re not that precious about the twentieth century. Just put everything back where you found it and turn out the light. Good luck.’

Rozie thanked her, but luck was elusive. After an hour of painstaking searching among the boxes of files, all she found was a line in a yellowing ledger acknowledging receipt of ‘Oil painting: HMY at the 125th anniversary of the Hobart Regatta, 1963, gilt frame, 15” by 21”, by Vernon Hooker, received 1964’. There was no mention of it ever leaving the Palace, though she trawled through every available box and digital database up to the year 2000.

Before leaving, she decided to pull the original box file down again and take one last look at the ledger from 1964. Had she missed something? She lined up the page to take a picture of it on her phone. At this point, she noticed the positioning of a word scrawled in pencil in the margin. She had assumed it applied to the sculpture listed below, but it might just as well have been meant for the painting. It was scribbled at an angle, and hard to make out. She peered at it.

RUBBISH.

Did it say ‘Rubbish’? Really? It couldn’t, surely? Although, thinking back to the photos of it that she’d seen, perhaps it did. Did record keepers write their true thoughts about acquisitions in the margins? Had they meant to rub it out?

Rozie peered again. There was a slight gap between the first few letters and the last two. Wait – they weren’t letters, those last two, they were numbers. Eight something. Could it be ‘82’? Or ‘86’? And there was an ‘f’ or ‘g’ in the first word, so it couldn’t be ‘Rubbish’. ‘Ref’-something, perhaps? She couldn’t make it out.

She made sure the picture she took of it was as well-lit as possible, so she could examine it properly back at her desk.

At lunch, however, she was distracted by an earlier remark Sir Simon had made in passing.

Rozie had just loaded up her tray in the staff canteen. ‘Canteen’ was typical Royal Household understatement. Here, it consisted of a servery and two panelled dining rooms adorned with Old Masters from the Royal Collection and guarded by a statue of Burmese, one of the Queen’s favourite horses, a gift from the Royal Canadian Mounted Police.

According to Sir Simon, until quite recently the staff here had eaten in different rooms according to hierarchy, but now they all mucked in together and that was the way Rozie liked it. You never knew who you were going to bump into. The atmosphere was generally relaxed and the food as good as you would expect from kitchens that catered for heads of state on a regular basis.

Today, it was different. At tables in the outer dining room, set as always with pristine white linen cloths and silver cutlery, people sat in twos and threes, holding desultory conversations. The restaurant-quality meal on Rozie’s tray looked as appetising as ever, but the mood was tense. Was it the recent Brexit referendum that had done it? She had heard senior courtiers speculating that the vote had swirled the waters of private opinion and brought previously unspoken rivalries to the surface. Were you nationalist or European? Did you support the Commonwealth, or Germany and France? You could support all of them, Rozie thought. Until a few months ago, everybody had. Now there were sides to be taken. Whatever it was, Rozie felt the mood had shifted during her few months working in the Private Office.

Her eye was drawn to a couple in the far corner: a younger woman and an older one, heads together. She recognised the younger woman, whose flame-red hair hung, Pre-Raphaelite style, halfway down her back. This was Mary van Renen, one of the assistants to Sir James Ellington. Rozie gave her a nod of hello and went over to join her. Only when she was nearly at the table did she notice that Mary’s eyes were red-rimmed, her expression bleak.

‘Oh, I’m sorry. D’you want me to go elsewhere?’ Rozie offered.

‘No, do join us.’ Mary gestured to the seat opposite. ‘Please.’

The smile appeared again, but it was watery and forced. She had hardly touched the roast chicken on her plate, while her companion, prim and sharp-faced, had nearly finished hers.

‘You can help me,’ the older woman said, as Rozie sat down. She seemed quite unruffled by Mary’s distress. ‘I was just trying to tell this young lady what a silly girl she’s being.’

Rozie threw her friend a questioning look. ‘This is Cynthia Harris,’ Mary said, dully. ‘Cynthia, this is Captain Oshodi, the Queen’s APS.’

‘It’s Rozie,’ Rozie said, holding out her hand.

‘I thought that’s who you were,’ Cynthia Harris said, flashing a set of dull, uneven teeth, busily loading her fork with carrot and potato. Rozie withdrew her hand. ‘I’ve seen you around,’ Cynthia went on. ‘How exciting, Mary, having one of the bigwigs sitting with us.’

‘Not that much of a bigwig,’ Rozie insisted.

‘Oh, but you are. You’re Private Office. Top of the tree. We’re honoured by your presence, aren’t we, Mary?’

Rozie couldn’t tell if she was being serious or not. Mary, whom she knew fairly well because she was always popping over on various errands for Sir James, was staring miserably at her plate. Then Rozie remembered what Sir Simon had said about one of the secretaries.

‘Don’t tell me you’re leaving? Is it you who handed in your notice?’

Mary nodded without looking up. A pair of tears fell on the untouched mashed potato.

‘She says she will,’ Cynthia Harris said from the seat beside her. ‘Thoughtless child. Overreacting.’

Rozie, whose instinct was to like people unless proved otherwise, gave the older woman a penetrating look. Cynthia Harris was whip-thin, with straight, almost-white hair cut in a sharp bob and dark, beady eyes that reminded Rozie of an inquisitive bird. Her uniform was that of a housekeeper: a spotless white cleaning dress worn with a dark blue cardigan. She looked fit and wiry, but older than average for such a job. She couldn’t be under sixty-five, Rozie thought, though she wondered if her face made her seem older than she was. Her cheeks were gaunt. Deep lines were etched around thin lips and between the eyes. Her beaky nose had a small pink bloom of broken veins. Rozie tried to interpret her expression as the housekeeper calmly forked the remaining carrots into her mouth. Was she calm? Triumphant? Disapproving? Suddenly those beady eyes were looking straight into hers. Rozie realised she was staring and shifted her gaze to Mary.

‘Are you really leaving?’ she asked.

The younger woman nodded. ‘I have to. I can’t go on.’

‘Such theatrics!’ Cynthia Harris said with a little laugh.

‘I don’t feel safe.’

‘You should feel flattered, if anything.’

‘Not safe? Why?’ Rozie asked.

Mary looked up at last. ‘I’ve had . . . Someone’s watching me. A man. Sending things to me.’

‘You don’t know that,’ the other woman scoffed.

‘I’ve seen him outside my flat.’

‘Do you know who he is?’ Rozie asked.

‘I’ve had messages, from a name I don’t recognise. He says we met via Tinder and I brushed him off.’

‘And did you? Meet, I mean.’

‘I don’t think so. I’ve gone over and over the guys I’ve met and there have been some weirdos, sure, but I don’t think any of them would’ve . . .’ Mary trailed off.

Rozie silently absorbed the fact that her friend was on Tinder. Mary van Renen – shy, methodical, old-fashioned – had always struck her as the sort of girl who would be happily single, or loved-up with a gentle boyfriend she’d known for years. At least she was looking for love – Rozie rarely had time even for that.

‘What did he write?’ she asked.

‘It doesn’t matter,’ Mary said, looking so upset Rozie didn’t want to pursue it.

‘And you don’t know it was him outside your flat, do you?’ the housekeeper added. ‘It could have been someone just pausing to have a conversation on his mobile phone.’

‘He wasn’t holding a phone.’

‘People have earphones these days, you know,’ Cynthia Harris countered. ‘Or buds, or whatever they call them. Or he could have been waiting for someone.’

‘He was there three times, at least.’ Mary closed her eyes.

‘So you say.’ The housekeeper rolled her eyes and shrugged at Rozie. ‘And even if he was, the police said it doesn’t prove anything.’

‘You went to the police?’

Mary nodded. ‘But they said I need more evidence before they can do anything. They seemed to think I was imagining it. But – but afterwards there was my bicycle.’

Rozie saw how her arms trembled as she twisted her hands in her lap. Mary was deeply upset – traumatised, even – and Rozie simply couldn’t understand why Cynthia Harris kept belittling her feelings, without a shred of sympathy.

‘What about your bicycle?’ Rozie asked.

Mary had to take a deep breath before she could get the words out. Her eyes were closed, her words spoken in a low rush.

‘He left a note taped to the seat. Said he liked this was where my . . .’ She looked as if she was going to be sick, and carried on. ‘I can’t say it. Where a part of me rested against the saddle. Where I sat. Said he liked to watch me.’ She opened her eyes. ‘I cycle here every day to work. I can’t do it any more. Mummy says to come home and that’s where I’m going, as soon as I can.’

‘Oh, Mary, I’m sorry. Did you tell the police about that too?’

Mary shook her head. ‘I couldn’t.’ More tears raced down her cheeks. ‘Each time you say it you live it again. I just . . .’

Rozie reached out across the table and Mary tentatively placed a hand in hers. Rozie squeezed it in sympathy.

Cynthia Harris gave a hiss of disapproval. She was looking indignantly at Mary.

‘It’s you who’ll be sorry. For a note on a bicycle! Go on, then! You just head home to mummy and leave Sir James in the lurch. You girls are all the same. One date gone wrong and look at you, you’re a snivelling wreck. When you think what the Queen’s been through in her life. Call yourself loyal?’

‘I just . . . I can’t . . . Excuse me.’

Mary scrabbled for her handbag, which hung on the back of her chair, and got up to make her way unsteadily for the door.

‘Well.’

Rozie looked at the older woman, who had an odd smile on her face. The housekeeper gave Rozie an apologetic shrug. ‘Like I say – no backbone. These look nice.’

She took a grape from a bowl beside her plate and popped it into her mouth.

Chapter 5

It was mid-July, the height of summer. Parliament was about to rise and the usual business of state was winding down. This gave the Queen the odd precious hour of unstructured time. After lunch, her next appointment was a dress fitting for a couple of evening gowns, but that wasn’t for a while. And the racing wasn’t on yet. What to do with this gift of freedom?

In the East Wing at the front of the Palace, overlooking the Birthday Cake and the Mall, there had recently been a leak in one of the attics. A half-century-old water tank had developed hidden cracks and deluged a couple of bedrooms in the corridor below. She had seen the damage the day it was discovered: drenched carpets and sodden furniture. The tank had since been taken away, to be replaced with something more suitable. According to the Master of the Household the bedrooms would be all right after an airing and a new coat of plaster.

Still, one liked to be certain. She thought about taking one or two of the dogs with her, but they’d had a long walk at lunchtime and seemed content to keep snoozing. She told her page where she was going and headed up on her own, happy to be alone with her thoughts for a while.

She was picturing the Highlands. The next two weeks would be dominated by the upcoming move to Balmoral for the rest of the summer, and the Palace already felt as if it was in a state of flux. Philip, who loathed all the fuss, was taking himself off to Cowes to watch the racing for a few days. For herself, she simply couldn’t wait to go north. There, one could breathe good, clean, Scottish air, and be ‘Lilibet’ a bit more, and ‘ma’am’ a bit less. The great-grandchildren and the dogs could romp about without fear of breaking much. She was looking forward to watching George tear around, and getting to know baby Charlotte better.

Reaching the second floor, in the corridor leading to the damaged rooms, she felt a tingle up her spine and could have sworn she got a sudden ghostly whiff of cedar. How very odd; she had been expecting damp. Instead, she was instantly transported eighty years into the past. Was it thinking about George and Charlotte that had done it? Why this sudden, powerful feeling of being a little girl herself, and slightly naughty, and the sense that Margaret should be beside her, urging her on to be naughtier still?

She walked along further, peering into rooms either side of her and sniffing for that elusive scent. Gradually, her attention fixed on a large mahogany wardrobe half hidden in the corridor behind a pillar. One of its doors was slightly open and as she approached, she noticed the dull gold tassel hanging from its key. Ah, yes!

Memories floated through the fog of time, sharpening with each step. This was the piece of furniture that had sat outside the nursery, adopted by Mummy’s chief dresser as an overflow for grown-up clothes. It was wide and solid, polished to a rich, red patina over time. She laid her hand flat against the nearest door, like greeting an old friend.

The half-open door revealed a barren space, marked with battens along each side that must have been used to hold wide shelves – to store linen, she assumed, in more recent times. But the wardrobe had been stripped of everything, shelves and all, ready to be moved, and now it was almost back to the way she remembered it.

When Uncle David abdicated as Edward VIII in the dying days of 1936, the family hadn’t wanted to locate to the large, cold, shabby Palace from their comfortable home in Piccadilly, but this was where Papa worked now and Mummy said they needed to ‘live above the shop’. Mostly, it was a series of endless corridors lined with tall footmen in red coats, and the feeling of being watched and needing to be a proper princess, and not being sure quite how. But it had its compensations. It was simply marvellous for hide-and-seek.

Mummy’s long furs had hung on the right-hand side of the wardrobe, covered in cloth bags, and her cashmere shawls had been carefully rolled and stored in a hanging rack on the left. In the middle had been mink jackets and opera coats, and if you stepped up onto the solid floor, you could disappear among them. She remembered Margaret Rose hissing, ‘Lilibet! Quick!’ as she secreted herself among the protective cotton bags. And not being able to resist joining her. Her sandals were clean (she checked), their small, slim bodies both fitting neatly inside without ruining the clothes. It was lovely to be surrounded by Mummy’s evening things and to catch a faint wisp of her scent mixed up with the powerful smell of the cedar lining, to keep the moths away.

She must have been about eleven and Margaret six or seven. They were hiding from Crawfie, their governess, who didn’t know she was playing a game. It was terribly, terribly wrong, and that’s what made their hearts pound faster. Poor Crawfie. She called and called, and Margaret’s body shook with laughter.

They hid there several times and only got caught and punished once. She couldn’t remember what the punishment had been – probably something to do with missed treats at teatime – but Margaret had declared it was worth it and she was right. Now that the wardrobe was empty of clothes one could probably still fit inside, even at this great age. Even with a dodgy knee.

The Queen grinned at the thought and then, to her own astonishment, found herself stepping up, just to see. She braced a hand against the closed door on the right. The wardrobe floor was only six inches above the ground. Her right knee complained, but as she brought the left one up to join it, she could feel Margaret’s presence, and Mummy’s too, though the velvety scent of L’Heure Bleue was gone, along with the cedar smell. She must have imagined it.

It was warm and dark inside, and peaceful. In the fifties, Anne used to hide here in her turn – just as scornful of the punishment – and she said it reminded her of Narnia. Yes, you could imagine Narnia behind the wall, a hidden world of magic, accessible only to children. The Queen half closed the door behind her and paused to breathe in that air again. She only had to stoop very slightly. The wardrobe was capacious and there were occasional – very occasional – advantages to being a shrinking five-foot-three. She said a silent hello to her sister, who would have laughed like a drain to see her here.

Then, without warning, the image came back to her of the poor young Russian who had been found dead in a wardrobe not long ago. She suddenly needed to get out fast, but just as she was turning round to step out backwards, safely, she heard voices at the top of the distant stairs, and the footsteps of two people rapidly approaching.

What to do?

Of course, the obvious thing was to keep calm, carry on with her exit and pretend nothing out of the ordinary was happening. It wouldn’t be that easy, though. Climbing down would be harder than climbing up. Could one bear the staff to have the sight of their monarch appearing clumsily from inside a piece of furniture, bottom first? No, of course not.

The pair were only a few steps away. She pulled the half-open door a little closer, leaving barely a six-inch gap. They would be able to see her if they looked, but surely nobody would ever search for a queen in a cupboard?

She waited anxiously. They stopped. They had opened a door into one of the nearby bedrooms, but lingered on the threshold, talking. Her knee was screaming, but there was nothing to do except wait.

They lowered their voices. Up to now, they had been chatting noisily about preparations for Scotland. There was a rustling. The mood changed, the tone was furtive.

‘There’s three here. You get her to do one in a fortnight and two after that. You know the timing?’

‘Yes. Christ! You said. I’m not stupid.’

‘Same method as before.’

‘She’s doing OK, isn’t she? No complaints so far. She effing hates it, though.’

‘D’you think I give a rat’s arse about her feelings?’

Sulky. ‘No.’

‘Then kindly do as you’re bloody told. If you mention any of this . . .’ The menacing tone was followed by a pause. ‘Come on – this place gives me the creeps.’

They headed back quickly the way they’d come. As soon as the Queen heard the door in the corridor close behind them, she staggered out of her hiding place and bent to rub her knee, which was puffing up in agony. Her eleven-year-old self would have shivered with delight at the adventure, but at ninety, she should have known better. She paused for a long time to let her aching body recover while she mused over what she’d heard.

Had they both been men? Or did one of those voices belong to a gruff older woman? What on earth were they cooking up? She would have to think about this some more.

Meanwhile, she hobbled back downstairs to the dogs with what dignity she could muster, which right now didn’t feel like very much at all.

Chapter 6

The Queen was surprised when, at teatime, her page asked her if she would mind having a quick word with her APS. She looked a little longingly at the slice of chocolate biscuit cake, of which she had only eaten a forkful so far. It was very moreish. ‘Do show her in,’ she said – but she hoped she wouldn’t be long.

‘I thought you might want to know, ma’am,’ Rozie said, ‘I think I know how your painting disappeared. Or at least, when.’

This was worth a teatime interruption.

‘How interesting. Tell me.’

Rozie explained about the morning’s visit to Stable Yard and the note in the ledger. ‘Looking closely, I think it says “Refurb ’86”. Does that mean anything to you?’

The Queen thought for a moment. ‘Not exactly. I’ll think about it. Go on.’

‘I spoke to the Operations team and they tell me there was a minor refurbishment of your private apartments at that time. The people I talked to weren’t there then – it was thirty years ago. But I’ll keep on it, ma’am. I’ll let you know as soon as I find something useful.’

‘Thank you, Rozie.’

After Rozie had left, the Queen had another forkful of chocolate biscuit cake and turned her mind to 1986. What had been happening then? Sometimes the years merged into each other, but surely she should remember the refurbishment of her own bedroom? It would have been highly inconvenient – so they must have done it while she was up at Balmoral. It still didn’t ring any bells. Unless . . . ah. Unless she wasn’t there at all, but far away. Back in those days she was as likely to be in Acapulco or Oslo as in Scotland. Where did she go in ’86?

She googled herself on her iPad. It was quicker than ringing anyone to ask.

Oh, of course: China. Such an important tour. It was all about preparing to hand back Hong Kong in ’97. She visited the terracotta warriors and hosted the Chinese government at a banquet on board Britannia. Then she and Philip sailed down the Pearl River from Canton to Hong Kong in the royal yacht. So beautiful and tranquil, watching the locals practise their early-morning tai chi on the riverbanks. There had been some interesting problem-solving moments in Victoria Harbour, too. Mary Pargeter, her APS in those days, had been involved, much as Rozie was now . . .

She had been very busy, not thinking of day-to-day practicalities at home. That must have been when the Works Department refurbished the rooms. They looked more or less the same when she returned: the familiar shade of pale jade, but slightly less shabby about the skirting boards and dado rails.

And one less picture on the wall opposite her bedroom door. Yes, of course, that’s when it had disappeared – half a decade earlier than she had assumed. She had temporarily replaced it with a sketch of the garden by Terence Cuneo, signed with his signature mouse. It was very nice, but not the same.

The sketch was still there. And that was thirty years ago. Time flew. It crawled. Sometimes, you didn’t know how you would endure until teatime. Sometimes, half a decade was gone in the blink of an eye.

Rozie, meanwhile, had been very unsettled by her meeting with Mary van Renen and the housekeeper at lunchtime. She needed to find out more and thought she knew a good place to start.

When she had started as APS eight months ago, she’d been given temporary accommodation at the Palace while she looked for a decent flat nearby. The rooms she’d been assigned were in the West Wing, on the top floor, above the dressmaking suite. There were three of them: all very small, hot and stuffy in summer, freezing cold in winter, surrounded by pipes that chuntered and gurgled incessantly through the night. Rozie had enjoyed a bigger bathroom as a cadet at Sandhurst – which was saying something – but here the windows overlooked the gardens, with the lake among the trees, and the view was never less than magical. She had grown up in a busy, full-on household with her mum, dad and sister, and her cousins popping in and out all the time. She liked the constant bustle of this place, and the rent was low. She still hadn’t moved out.

At seven forty-five that evening there was a tentative knock at the door. Rozie had carefully timed the quick visit to her rooms. Housekeeping usually came round at about this time to check who was in and might need fresh towels or bed linen. The regular housemaid for her corridor was a woman called Lulu Arantes, who was far more au fait with the backstairs gossip than poor Sir Simon.

Rozie shouted, ‘Come in!’ and Lulu popped her head round the door.

‘Evening, Captain Oshodi.’

‘How are you, Lulu? How’s the shoulder?’

Lulu rubbed at her right sleeve with her left hand. ‘It aches like you wouldn’t believe. I’m still taking the painkillers. I can’t lift it above here – look.’ She raised her bent right arm until it was level with her collarbone, winced and let it fall. ‘The ankle’s better, though, you’ll be pleased to hear. I just get the odd twinge now.’

For a woman who did such a physical job, it amazed Rozie that Lulu managed to be permanently injured in some way. A human dynamo, she didn’t ever use it as an excuse not to work, but winced and limped gamely from one task to the next.

‘I’m glad about the ankle,’ Rozie said. ‘I was wondering, actually . . . I met one of the housekeepers today and I thought you might know her. I was just a bit curious because she seemed very old to be doing the job and I—’

‘Oh, you mean Cynthia Harris. Poor you.’

Lulu glanced into the corridor behind her and came inside, shutting the door behind her. She leaned against it, nursing her right arm in her left. Rozie had prepared a series of gentle questions to tease out whatever gossip Lulu might know, but they proved unnecessary.

‘I’m surprised you haven’t encountered her before,’ Lulu said. ‘That cow! She’s been here since the year dot. She started off doing the Queen’s bedroom and wormed her way in. Then she got all the plum jobs. She was supposed to retire three years ago, and we all thanked God and chipped in for a present. Except, guess what? The lady who was hired to take over from her, who we all liked, very nice woman, calm and efficient, you know . . .? She had to leave. Apparently she just couldn’t do it right.’

‘Do what right?’

‘Prepare the Belgian Suite for heads of state, mostly. You must know how fussy the Queen is that everything should be just so, which is right and proper, no problem with that . . . Well, apparently only Cynthia Harris could do it to her standards. So anyway, the new woman was sacked and they promoted Solange Simpson. She’s been here for donkey’s years. Very capable, professional woman. D’you know her? So, she was in charge when the President of Mexico came to stay the following year, and still it wasn’t right. She said she’d done everything in the handover notes, and I’m sure she had – but who says the notes were the right ones? That’s what I want to know. Long story short, the poor man in HR who’d been trying to replace her gets given his marching orders and Cynthia comes back. Special request from the Master. Just for an “interim period”, they told us. They knew how much we all hated her.’

‘Ouch.’

‘And guess what? Suddenly it’s all fine again. The President of China comes to stay – big deal, obviously – and the Queen’s happy and Cynthia gets a pat on the back and a year goes by and she’s still here, and who knows how much longer she’ll be around for? She’s a right piece of work, that one.’

‘What is it about her, exactly? What do people hate so much?’

‘Well, you met her. What did you think?’ Lulu folded her arms, winced, unfolded them and put her hands on her hips.

Rozie sighed. ‘She was being unpleasant to someone,’ she admitted.

‘She always is. Was it Mary, from the Keeper’s office?’

‘I couldn’t say.’

‘I bet it was. Cynthia’s always sucking up to the people at the top. The “bigwigs”, she calls them. She made friends with Mary because she thought it would give her some kind of aura, knowing someone who works for Sir James Ellington. She was probably nice at first. She can be. But once she’s got you in her net, she likes to watch you squirm. Poor Mary – and those messages!’

‘What kind of messages?’ Rozie hadn’t wanted to press Mary in the canteen, but she was keen to discover more.

‘Oh, didn’t you know? It’s amazing what the Private Office doesn’t know, if you don’t mind me saying. Where was I? Oh yes. First off, he left her messages on Facebook, so she blocked him, whoever he was. Then she started to find little folded-up letters in her clothes. You know, like her coat pocket. Creepy. She thought he must be putting them on her on the bus, which was how she came in, so she took to riding a bike and he still did it.’

‘What did they say? The ones in her clothes?’

Lulu made a face and shrugged. ‘Calling her a you-know-what. A slag and a slut. The usual stuff guys do, you know?’ Rozie didn’t, from personal experience, but Lulu seemed to assume she would. ‘Saying what he wanted to do to her. Saying she deserved it. Saying he was following her.’

‘How d’you know all of this? Are you friends with Mary?’

‘Who? Me? Never met her,’ Lulu admitted. ‘But it’s all over WhatsApp. Everyone knows everything around here. Well, everyone except the Keeper and the Private Secretary, obviously. You wouldn’t want them finding out, or who knows what’d happen?’

She gave Rozie a friendly smile. Just two women, having a chat. It didn’t seem to occur to her that Rozie might mention any of this to Sir Simon, and Rozie was glad it didn’t, because it meant she didn’t have to make any promises she couldn’t keep.

Lulu heard a clock in the corridor chime and realised she’d better be going.

‘The police didn’t take Mary seriously.’ The housemaid paused at the door before returning to her trolley, screwing up her mouth at the memory.

‘She didn’t seem very happy about the way they treated her,’ Rozie agreed.

‘They don’t get it. Happened to my sister-in-law’s cousin. He drove her mad for six years, then he killed her.’

‘Oh my God!’

‘Oh, yes. With a hammer. Just a few feet from her front door. Said she drove him to it. She hadn’t said a word to the man in five years, had a restraining order against him. It meant nothing, of course. Right, I’ll just get your towels for you. Have a good evening.’

‘I think you should know,’ Rozie announced to Sir Simon the next morning, ‘that secretary of Sir James’s . . . Mary, the one who’s leaving . . . she’s being stalked by a man who’s sending her foul messages and, on top of that, there’s an elderly housekeeper who’s being a real bitch to her. No wonder she wants to resign.’

Sir Simon frowned. ‘D’you mean Mrs Harris?’

‘So you do know.’

‘Yes. Horrible woman, by all accounts. She should have retired years ago.’

‘She did, but came back at the Master’s request, I gather,’ Rozie said, unimpressed. ‘Shouldn’t we tell him about this?’

The Master of the Household was Mike Green. He formed a triumvirate of senior courtiers with Sir James and Sir Simon. His office was near Sir James’s, in the South Wing, where he held ‘stand up, no coffee’ meetings with servants who had erred in their duties, known among the cognoscenti as the ‘rollicking bollockings’.

Mike Green was responsible for the domestic staff at all the Queen’s residences, from chefs, pages and laundrymaids to the yeoman of the cellars, the florists and French polishers. During his career in the RAF, where he had risen to Air Vice-Marshal, he had gained a reputation for knowing how to throw a good party. This was useful, because, including garden party guests, the royal family entertained nearly a hundred thousand people at the Palace each year. On top of that, the Master was required to help deliver the fateful Reservicing Programme proposal in the autumn, so it didn’t surprise Rozie that Cynthia Harris might have slipped under his radar.

But she hadn’t.

‘Believe me, Mike knows,’ Sir Simon said, stretching his arms and putting them behind his head. ‘The woman is a pest. But the Queen has always had a soft spot for Mrs Harris. She never sees her mean side, of course.’

‘Why doesn’t somebody say?’

Sir Simon straightened and looked at Rozie sharply. ‘We don’t worry the Boss with this stuff. She pays us to deal with it. Well, the Master, in this case. And he is dealing with it, but it’s tricky.’

‘Why?’

‘Well, the HR procedures are Byzantine, to say the least. And – I emphasise, this mustn’t go any further – Mrs Harris been on the receiving end of some rather vicious letters herself. If we got rid of her, she might get the lawyers in. She’s the type.’

‘But she was the one victimising Mary van Renen!’

‘I wouldn’t be surprised. However, the attacks Mrs Harris got were particularly awful. She and Mary are not the only victims, actually. There’s been a spate of poison pen stuff recently. Mike’s livid about it.’

‘Has he told the Queen?’ Rozie was horrified.

‘Absolutely not.’

Sir Simon stood up to his full height, which didn’t quite meet her six-foot-two-in-heels, and gave her a firm look. ‘It’s our job to protect Her Majesty from unpleasantness like this, not expose her to it. Mike’s launched an investigation, and no doubt he’ll find the perpetrator soon and deal with it. As you know, Rozie, our job is to come up with solutions.’

‘Yes, but—’

‘No buts. And you categorically mustn’t mention this to the Boss. I know you and she get on, but this is important, and highly confidential. I’m slightly regretting telling you now. Promise me.’

Rozie wasn’t often on the receiving end of Formal Sir Simon and it unnerved her a little. Staff who knew dogs said his normal demeanour reminded them of a friendly beagle. Their working relationship was smooth, but if the situation demanded, he was also a man who could quell an ambassador with a look, or bring a recalcitrant minister into line with a two-minute phone call. Right now, he was radiating the same ruthless authority as the sergeant major from her officer training days at Sandhurst.

‘I promise,’ she said reluctantly.

‘Thank you. And don’t think I won’t know, just because you’re at the other end of the country.’

Rozie would soon be travelling to Balmoral with the Queen and the first wave of staff. Sir Simon was heading for Tuscany for a couple of weeks, after which he intended to keep an ear to the ground in Whitehall and Westminster as the new Prime Minister set about building a Cabinet and creating a response to the Brexit vote. Everything seemed quiet on the surface, but all hell would be being let loose behind the scenes. His job was to interpret what he could from the screams.

Chapter 7

A month passed happily in the Highlands. Here, the Queen felt, one could surround oneself with sensible people – the Scots were so much more down to earth than the Sassenachs – and participate fully in the life of the place. The castle might look imposing, with its granite walls and Gothic turrets, but it was surrounded by gardens and made for enjoying nature, for relaxation and for fun.

At Buckingham Palace one necessarily had to rely on servants for everything because it took a cast of thousands to make it all work. At Balmoral, she could tack up a horse or take a Land Rover for a spin. The family could all go for a picnic at a moment’s notice, if the weather was good. This August, particularly, she could sit glued to the Olympics in her tartan-carpeted study, with whoever wanted to keep her company, cheering on Nick Skelton in the show jumping and Charlotte Dujardin in the dressage from her armchair until her voice was husky from the effort. It was all very jolly. The only cause for concern was Holly, a very elderly corgi in dog years, who was increasingly uninterested in food and walks. The Queen kept her close eye on her faithful companion, fed her the choicest titbits and hoped, against reason and experience, that she would recover some of her old vitality.

With September fast approaching, it wouldn’t be long before the traditional visit of the Prime Minister. She had been thinking about this.

‘Cameron may have messed up the country,’ she said to Philip over a barbecue, ‘but at least he was a joiner-inner. I have a feeling the new one won’t be.’

Philip nodded his agreement through a fug of sausage smoke. ‘I always liked Samantha. Very easy on the eye. Excellent manners, too. And she was always game for a laugh. What do you do with a PM whose biggest party trick is wearing leopard-print shoes?’

The Queen looked at him with a perfectly straight expression. ‘Strip poker?’

He laughed so hard he had a coughing fit.

But the problem remained. The United Kingdom’s second female prime minister, much like the first, did not shoot, fish or display any particular fondness for animals. She was not renowned for her sparkling repartee, nor her dancing. She was most famous for her colourful footwear, being tough on the police and saying ‘Brexit means Brexit’ ad nauseam – which meant nothing at all. Sir Simon had mentioned that she was fond of walking. One would simply have to take her on a lot of walks.

After four weeks at Balmoral, Rozie was replaced at the Queen’s side by Sir Simon. Though single, Rozie did not live life as a hermit, and one of the royal equerries had become a friend with benefits, one of which turned out to be a family cottage in the Caribbean. She spent a happy fortnight soaking up the tropical warmth, sipping pina coladas at a beachside bar and listening to live music under the stars.

Back at work, she spent her weekends in the country houses of various political grandees, eating salmon en croute with junior ministers and going on duck shoots with government advisers, gleaning what she could about the plans for a post-Brexit world. She duly reported back her findings to Sir Simon up in Scotland, but the more she learned, the less she understood. The one thing that was clear was that nobody really knew, but everyone was happy to argue about it with anyone who could bear to raise the subject.

She spoke to various people around the Palace about the Britannia painting, but made little progress. Her much greater concern was the mental health of Mary van Renen, who was still working out her notice – Sir James Ellington had said he couldn’t do without her – and who was a shadow of her former self. The notes in her clothes had stopped, but only, Mary thought, because she made sure she was never alone. Friends had formed a rota to travel to work with her and she rarely went out. She couldn’t imagine socialising for pleasure now.

Keeping out of the way of the half a million paying visitors who trooped through the State Apartments over the summer, Rozie and Mary swam regularly in the Palace pool in the early evenings. Rozie had suggested the idea. She had seen how much her friend was suffering and this was the best way she could think of to help. The two women usually chatted for the first few lengths, doing a leisurely breaststroke together, then Mary watched from a rattan chair as Rozie sped up and down at her normal pace, her long limbs carving through the water as she chased her personal best. Occasionally, one of the male staff members would offer to take her on in a quick competition. They usually regretted it. Rozie enjoyed it very much.

‘I’m glad to see you’re not in kitten heels,’ Philip joked, as they piled out of the Land Rovers and started off up the hill.

Theresa May gave him a tight smile. Every politician needs a gimmick and, to start with, she had been rather proud of her footwear which, as Home Secretary, had often guaranteed a front-page picture when the contents of her speech could not. The shoes played well in the Tory heartlands, but there was more to her than a kitten heel, and the way the Duke said it led her to suspect jokes had been made on the subject of which she would not approve.

‘I thought about it,’ she said, game as ever. ‘But they didn’t go with my Barbour.’

He barked a laugh and gave her a friendlier look. They set off together up the path between the pines and larches, past a couple of cairns built of stones to honour the marriages of Queen Victoria’s children. There is only so much you can say about a neatly arranged mound of stones, and the Prime Minister said it, but she was relieved to find that what they were really heading for was the view from the ridge.

This was something she could genuinely admire. Ahead of them, clouds scudded across a wide blue September sky and below, grassy slopes alternated with jagged trees all the way to the distant hills, which faded from bottle green to midnight blue against the horizon. The bright patches of soft grass nearby reminded her of Alpine meadows and, with a brief sense of being Maria in The Sound of Music, she was tempted to spread her arms and run through them all.

‘You must love coming here,’ she said to the Duke beside her. However, when she didn’t get a reply she turned to find empty air. He was a few paces back, talking to a ghillie. She caught the last two words.

‘Really? Bugger.’

‘Is there a problem?’ she called.

He gestured past her. ‘Change in the weather. Rain. Coming in fast. We’d better get going.’

She looked to the east, where he was pointing – and sure enough, dark grey columns of cloud were moving in from the direction of the North Sea. The air was changing; there was an edge to it now. The Duke was impressively sprightly as he led the way back down the path towards the Land Rovers, where the Queen was waiting with the dogs. But they were not quite in time. Theresa felt one fat raindrop land on her nose, and another on her cheek, before the heavens opened.

‘Oh dear! You look quite bedraggled!’ the Queen said, laughing, as they finally reached her.

This was not how Mrs May had imagined spending her early days as Prime Minister, shaking herself down like a wet Labrador before climbing into the passenger seat beside the sovereign in borrowed wellies and a waxed jacket. However, none of the days so far had been what she’d imagined. Picturing this life had been quite pointless, she realised: you never knew what it would hold, and it was impossible to guess.

The Queen, meanwhile, was enjoying herself. The Mays were not the life and soul of the party, it was true, but they meant well and tried hard and, really, what more could one ask? The Prime Minister had talked through her plans for the next few months. She had a busy schedule of talks ahead with the European Union, and had ruled out a snap General Election after her appointment by the party, which was a relief. The country had had enough shocks recently. It was time for a steady hand.

They were talking about the unpleasant nature of surprises as the Land Rover pulled up outside the castle. One of the footmen was waiting for her with an umbrella.

‘You might want to come upstairs, ma’am,’ he said with some urgency. ‘They’ve got the nets out.’

‘Oh, have they? Where?’

‘Your bedroom.’

‘Goodness! Yes, of course. I’ll come straight away.’

The Prime Minister asked what the problem was. The Queen grinned, then grimaced.

‘Bats.’

It was as comical as it was frustrating. The poor creatures wanted to get out just as desperately as one wanted to move them from there, but their famous sonar seemed quite incapable of detecting a wide-open window. Usually they caused a nuisance in the white-walled Ballroom below, where the long-handled nets were kept on standby for the purpose of shooing them to freedom. It was rare for them to visit one’s bedroom, and the Queen tried not to think about the droppings that might be accumulating on the fixtures and fittings. Charles said the guano was good for the garden. Well, let the bats do it there.

Meanwhile, from a position of safety in the corridor (the Queen was not a huge fan of squeaky, unpredictable pipistrelles close up, despite appreciating them in principle), she and the Prime Minister urged the staff on as they manipulated the nets. There were only two bats, as it turned out, and they got outside eventually. She congratulated the man and woman who had done the work. They made a comical, mismatched pair; the housekeeper, small and slim, she recognised as the stalwart Mrs Harris, who always did such wonders with the Belgian Suite. They exchanged smiles as the housekeeper curtseyed. The large, balding, broad-shouldered man in the footman’s red waistcoat was not a familiar face.

‘And you are . . .?’ the Queen asked.

‘Spike Milligan, Your Majesty.’ He bowed at the neck.

‘Oh, really?’ She grinned, but was slightly confused. Spike Milligan was a comedian. Charles had been one of his most ardent fans as an adolescent. He was also most definitely dead.

The footman blushed slightly. ‘My real name’s Robert, ma’am, but with a surname like mine . . .’ He shrugged. ‘Some bright spark at school thought it was a good idea and it stuck.’

‘Have you ever chased a bat before?’

‘Indeed I haven’t. It was quite the exercise. I think I’ve burned some calories.’

The Queen laughed, as she was meant to, but something about Spike Milligan’s voice caught her attention. ‘You don’t normally work up here at the castle, do you?’ she asked – purely to hear him talk again.

‘Not at all, ma’am. It’s my first time. I must say, I’m enjoying it very much.’

‘I’m delighted. And thank you for your help.’

He bowed again and left. The Queen glanced at her bed. That top blanket would have to go. But she was thinking about something else. She was back in the wardrobe, listening to the furtive conversation. Had that been Spike Milligan, taking the orders, somewhat unwillingly?

It had been, she was fairly certain.

What on earth had he been asked to do?

Chapter 8

The season turned. Patches of lush green grass in the glens baked to sullen brown. Gin was now drunk at twilight, rather than in the fullness of a bright summer evening, and one needed a padded jacket to hand at all times, as well as a warm stole for after dinner. Soon it would be time to leave the peace of Balmoral and head back to the office on the roundabout.

Alongside the selection of letters from the public that she read each day, the Queen noticed her official boxes getting fuller as the new Cabinet got into its stride. There were more briefings on the US election too. In just over a month, America would be choosing its new president, but the clashes between candidates had taken on a sour note. It seemed very likely that Hillary Clinton would step into the Oval Office. And yet . . . for each story celebrating the notion of a first female president, an ex-Secretary of State with significant government experience and a big team, there was another to criticise and cast doubt on her judgement. Mr Trump, with his tiny team and diatribes on Twitter, had achieved extraordinary results. Nothing was certain. Would one really end up entertaining an ex-reality TV star at Buckingham Palace? He certainly had some very dedicated followers, if those rallies were anything to go by.

As things stood, there might not be much of a Palace for him to visit. If the Government could be persuaded to let the Reservicing Programme go ahead, the place would be dismantled around her, many of its treasures put into storage and work done to make it more manageable for all concerned. It was ridiculous that a footman should have to walk half a mile from the kitchens to the State Dining Room, and the ceiling of that room was so dangerous it had recently been taken out of commission. The Queen only needed six rooms for her personal use, and they were all perfectly serviceable. It was the other seven hundred and seventy that needed attention.

What would they do if the Government said no? She vividly remembered the failure of the Major government to get Tony Blair’s Labour Party to agree to replace Britannia. Thank goodness there were no elections coming up to make the thing contentious. She decided to worry about that when the time came.

Meanwhile, Holly’s health did not improve. As the return to London approached, the elderly corgi deteriorated rapidly. The vet was called and she agreed that it was time to take action. The Queen felt her heart constrict, but knew what she had to do.

At a cottage in the grounds, Cynthia Harris prepared to return to the Palace. It had been a difficult summer. She knew she wasn’t exactly popular with the others, but there seemed to be a real campaign against her now. Several housemaids and footmen weren’t talking to her. Soon after her arrival in Balmoral, one of her uniform dresses had been ‘damaged’ in the wash (hardly accidental: someone had taken a Sharpie to it). She carried on regardless, keeping herself to herself. There had been three letters, all disgusting, written with such hate. One of them even called her a murderess. There was a scribbled image of what had looked like a kidney bean at first, but was obviously supposed to be some sort of foetus, almost scratched out in red ink. That had been nearly thirty years ago.

She had told the head housekeeper of the castle about them . . . and now, of course, everyone knew. There was no privacy in the Royal Household. Dirty linen was very much aired in public, not just in the staff rooms and canteens these days, but on Snapchat and WhatsApp and StaffList, the Household intranet that was little more than a sewer of gossip and innuendo. Who knew what they were saying about her? She was probably the subject of half their mean, illicit conversations.

But she wasn’t alone. The other half would probably be about Leonie Baxter in the catering office, who was getting letters too, apparently, calling her a bitch and a whore. Nothing as . . . imaginative as Cynthia’s own persecution. Anyway, Mrs Baxter probably deserved it. She was always causing problems, throwing her weight around, criticising the way things were done. It was no surprise to hear the woman had enemies. Recent speculation in the servants’ hall had been all about her.

Cynthia tramped up the stairs to her bedroom. This summer, she had shared the cottage with three other hospitality staff. Needless to say, they treated her like a pariah. Her room was her sanctuary: transformed from dreary functionality with Indian sari fabric used as throws, and flowers begged from the chief gardener, who was one of her few abiding friends. Cynthia knew how to travel light and yet transport a sense of style. Off duty, her clothes were her glory. She wore mostly vintage, which suited her gentle bosom and slight frame. Some of her favourite pieces were by Ossie Clark and Zandra Rhodes, unusual items she’d unearthed in charity shops over the years, irreplaceable and perfect. But she also made things inspired by ideas from Instagram and Pinterest. Her dingy little plywood wardrobe concealed a riot of colourful silks and velvets, all stitched with infinite care.

She was thinking about this as she opened the bedroom door. A moment later, a piercing scream shattered the rural peace of the afternoon.

A dining room assistant, who was sharing the cottage, ran up the stairs two at a time to see what the problem was. Mrs Harris was standing just inside the doorway, trembling, incoherent, looking at the bed. It was covered in a pile of scraps of fabric, so many they took up the same amount of space as a human being. She was shaking so hard she could hardly speak.

‘What is it?’ the dining-room assistant asked.

‘M-my clothes,’ Mrs Harris managed to mutter. She pointed a bony finger in the direction of the bed. ‘They’ve c-c-cut up all my clothes.’

Mary van Renen was packing up her belongings, ready to move out of her Fulham flat. She had a few more days left to work and then she could flee to Ludlow, where her childhood bedroom was waiting for her, there were ponies in the field to feed, and her mother had already made a freezerful of coq au vin and stroganoff to celebrate her return.

Mary had chosen this room in the flat because it had the largest wardrobe, even though it was at the back and overlooked by half a dozen nearby offices and houses. At the time, clothes had seemed more important. London clothes, city clothes . . . for her posh job at the Palace and lunches with friends at Instagrammable cafés; for dates with men at glamorous restaurants where, in between the courses you ordered, they served you courses you hadn’t, where dishes arrived smoking under glass bell covers and a starter of shellfish was made to look like a beach.

They didn’t have restaurants like that in Shropshire, or at least, if they did, it was a big deal. So was finding a straight single man with an interest in art and culture and settling down. But then, that had proved equally impossible in London. Not for either of her flatmates, who had sexy, devoted, rugby-and-football-playing boyfriends, one of whom was a high-flyer at the National Gallery. But for Mary . . . all she seemed to attract were nutters. One nutter, anyway. One was enough.

She glanced out of the bedroom window at the patchwork of lights outside. In the summer, people tended not to draw their curtains. She’d recently seen a couple having sex in one of the windows above a row of garages. Today, that window was dark. The one above it and to the left was dimly lit, though, with a dummy of some sort propped against it, outlined by a pale amber glow. She peered to see what it could be, exactly, and thought for a moment she saw it move. With a familiar sensation of her body plummeting through space, she stifled the scream in her throat. Was it human? Was it watching her? How long had it been there?

‘Ella?’

She shouted for her nearest flatmate while trying to keep the panic from her voice. Ella had been at home half an hour ago, but now no one came. Mary closed her curtains and carried on watching through the gap, trembling as she muttered Ella’s name into the silence, unable to drag herself away.

The light behind the silhouette was turned out. The shadow merged into the darkness.

At the Palace, Rozie was coming back from a run. She had permission to do a few circuits down behind the lake when the public weren’t around. They had gone for good now. The place was being prepared for Her Majesty’s imminent return and Rozie’s thoughts were on the schedule for next year, which would be her main task in the coming weeks. She had a vast folder of requests for visits and there was not nearly enough time for the Boss to perform them all. Of course, she would want to do as many as she could.

Rozie had left her work clothes ready to change back into in the ladies’ toilets near her office, which were posh and contained a shower and comfortable dressing area. No Boss didn’t mean no sartorial standards, so her linen jacket was hanging on a wooden hanger behind the door and a Prada pencil skirt she’d found in the Selfridges sale was neatly laid out on a padded stool. Lifting the skirt to reach for the towel folded underneath it, she noticed a plain white envelope tucked between the two.

Strange.

It was not addressed to anyone. The toilets, like the corridor outside, were empty. With a feeling of increasing discomfort, she picked up the envelope and opened it.

Inside was a torn-off piece of paper from a child’s exercise book, folded three times so it was the size of a business card. Rozie opened it slowly. It contained three childish drawings executed in blue biro, and four words written in stencilled capital letters. The effect on her was visceral, like a punch to the stomach. For a moment she was suspended in time: a confused little girl herself, watching fear and fury flick across her mother’s face. Then, crumpling the note in her hand, she steadied herself while the shock tunnelled down to her core.