Murder Most Royal — читать онлайн бесплатно полностью

Willow, Candy and Vulcan were duly assembled in front of the house. Scarf on head, she took them for a walk to the church and back, echoing the one she had taken yesterday. Gradually, as she knew they would, the last few details of the St Cyr case that had been bothering her slotted into place. There was one outstanding issue, but it wasn’t insurmountable. The trouble was, it was all conjecture.

Could a Sovereign of the Realm accuse a member of the nobility of murder, with no concrete evidence at all, on the basis of one passing remark made over coffee? She thought not.

Mr Bloomfield and his team of twenty-first-century technicians would get there on their own, surely? With one exception as to motive, they had access to the same information she did. She just needed to be patient.

But the Queen was not patient when it came to the certain knowledge that someone in her circle was a killer who was surprisingly adept at getting away with it. In a way, it was almost admirable, but she kept thinking of the sea, and how it had claimed Chris Wallace.

How long could justice wait?

The week began promisingly: DNA tests confirmed the relationship between Ned and Valentine St Cyr. Surely an arrest was imminent? Instead, Rozie reported that Valentine was free again and no further action was planned. The Queen was not a panicker, but this was alarming. If anything, they were going backwards, for goodness’ sake.

On Friday, she and Philip made an official visit to the University of East Anglia.

The chief constable himself was there, so she took the opportunity to ask him how they were getting on, and to her huge frustration, he seemed as stumped as he had been in December, and much less sanguine about finding a solution soon.

‘Valentine St Cyr admitted he suspected Edward was his father,’ Bloomfield told her, during a brief lull in the reception. ‘That’s what they’d been talking about in their little meetings, of course. He doesn’t want it made public yet, until he’s talked to Lord Mundy about it.

And you, I imagine, ma’am. It’s quite explosive for his family, him not being the next baron, et cetera.’

‘Isn’t that a motive?’ the Queen asked, surprised that he seemed so phlegmatic about it.

‘Absolutely, ma’am. But St Cyr has challenged us to find concrete evidence. He has a nice team of expensive lawyers. Given what happened last time . . . ahem.’

‘Yes, I see what you mean.’

‘Because Mr St Cyr is a friend.’

‘Ah. I see what you mean.