‘It’s not easy to derail a rain,’ Glenn Branson said. ‘I spoke to the senior instructor on Network Rail yesterday: the weight of a train would crush most objects put across the rail – scaffold poles, corrugated iron, the sort of thing that idiotic vandals often put on the rails. The one thing that would stand up to the weight of a train is a length of actual rail – but it is extremely heavy.’

  ‘How many would it need to lift it?’

  ‘I did the maths,’ Branson replied, frowning glumly at his coffee, which now looked like a disaster zone. ‘A metre of track weighs about fifty kilograms. It was a length of almost two metres that was used.’

  Sir Tommy looked like he was doing a mental calculation. ‘That’s a hundred kilograms – about sixteen stone – the weight of a pretty hefty human being.’

  ‘But if it had been placed upright against the tunnel wall – which is only a few feet from the track, one strong person could easily topple it, making it fall onto the track.’

  The Master frowned again. ‘So it would have taken only one person in the tunnel to push it over to cause the derailment?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Branson said. ‘I spoke to a manager – a Christopher New – at Three Bridges who told me there was a fifteen-minute gap between a southbound express train exiting the south entrance to Clayton Tunnel and the Royal Train entering the north entrance. Yet the line fault signal was triggered only three minutes before the Royal Train entered. Either whoever was in the tunnel struggled to topple the rail,’ Branson posited, ‘or it was deliberate timing.’

  ‘Which is my hypothesis,’ Grace said. ‘They wanted to derail the train but they wanted to slow it down enough to avoid casualties.’

  The Master looked baffled. ‘Why on earth – I mean – this is not making any sense to me.’

  Grace shrugged. ‘You’re a former general and you were in combat many times in your career, in war zones, both on land and in helicopters. I read your background – it is extremely impressive.’

  ‘Thank you, but what’s your point?’

  ‘My point is you must have used many different strategies, sir. Did you ever use the one called “strategic ambiguity”?’

  ‘Of course. It’s a tactic to confuse or mislead an opponent, by keeping intentions ambiguous.’

  ‘I would say that’s what was in play with the derailment. It had an apparent purpose and a hidden purpose. The apparent was to stop The Queen’s visit to Sussex. But I think the hidden purpose wasn’t that at all. It was to get everyone off the train and out into the open, where the Private Secretary could then be shot, while everyone would think, as with the derailment, that Her Majesty was the target.’

  29

  Wednesday 22 November 2023

  The Master frowned and shook his head as he absorbed this. He looked quite bewildered. ‘Astonishing,’ he said. ‘This is quite astonishing. Was anyone seen entering or leaving the tunnel prior to the derailment?’

  ‘No, sir,’ Grace replied. ‘There is no CCTV and so far we have no witnesses who actually saw anyone near the tunnel.’

  ‘Something we wanted to ask you again, Sir Tommy,’ Branson said, seemingly abandoning his coffee. ‘If you can really think hard: might the Private Secretary have had any enemies? He was in a pretty influential position in the Royal Household, we understand.’

  ‘He was indeed in a very senior and influential position.’ He frowned. ‘But did he have any enemies? By which I presume you mean someone who might have wanted him dead?’ He eyed the two detectives and received their nods of affirmation. ‘No, absolutely not – well – I can’t imagine so for a moment.’ He reflected for a few seconds. ‘He was a very decent man and always played with a straight bat. Although of course there are plenty of undercurrents in the Household – you are always going to get them in any sizeable organization. Used to happen all the time in the units under my command.’ He smiled. ‘I suppose if you wanted to list the Private Secretary’s enemies, you’d have to take a look at the following three groups.’

  He raised one finger, a second, then a third. ‘Those former staff members who have been sacked; staff bitter that they’ve not received a medal they felt they were due; then staff who are feeling passed over for promotion.’ He frowned. ‘You never know who might have a screw loose, do you?’

  ‘Do many of the Royal Household staff come from the armed forces, like yourself, Sir Tommy? Quite apart from those who are of course current serving members of the armed forces?’

  Magellan-Lacey nodded. ‘Quite a percentage – at all pay grades.’

  ‘How many staff in total are working in the Royal Household?’ Grace asked.

  ‘There are five hundred people on the Royal Household staff paid for by Sovereign Grant – in other words from public funds. The Household comprises five departments. First is the Private Secretary’s Office, which deals with policy, handles The King and Queen’s correspondence, speeches, engagement with Government, the Realms and Commonwealth. Then we have the Lord Chamberlain’s Office, which deals with all ceremonial aspects, the military, horses and carriages as well as the medical and ecclesiastical households. The Master of The King’s Household, which is responsible for all entertaining and events for The King and Queen and all the other members of the Royal Family. And, very importantly, the Privy Purse and Treasurer’s Office, which handles all financial affairs. The final department, the Royal Collection Trust, is a self-funding charity, which does not draw on public funds.’

  ‘Wow!’ Branson exclaimed.

  ‘We have seven hundred people employed by the Royal Collection Trust. They are essentially the curators of more than a million highly valuable works of art.’ The Master paused. ‘I can tell you, with very rare exceptions, they are all good people, proud to be in royal service and aware of the privilege. Of course they have their foibles and one of them is that they are mostly traditionalists, so any changes can stir up a hornets’ nest.’ He smiled and raised his hands in a gesture of mock despair.

  Continuing, he said, ‘I do get a fair amount of resentment, jealousy, that sort of thing. The footmen you’ll see around in the Palace wear magnificent uniforms, they get noticed by people, whereas the cleaning staff and the maintenance staff, who do just as important a job, are all but invisible because they’re in civvies. That creates resentment. But most of all, the staff here do not like change. I’d be a very rich man if I got a pound for every time I heard the grumble, but this is how we’ve always done it.’

  ‘Didn’t Einstein say the definition of insanity was doing the same thing over and over and expecting a different result?’ Branson said.

  The Master smiled and nodded. ‘Exactly. And we’ve had a lot of changes to the status quo, recently. We’ve had a new King and Queen, and now part of my role is to oversee the major renovations at Buckingham Palace. We have 775 rooms and a budget of £369 million, we need both to modernize and to become more energy efficient and environmentally friendly.’ As he sipped some water, Grace’s eyes went from the Master’s face to Glenn’s coffee disaster. The Master didn’t appear to have noticed it.

  ‘In some people’s eyes,’ Magellan-Lacey said, ‘I’m the bad guy. I’ve stopped a lot of people from having their own credit cards and I’ve been moving individuals out of their coveted, grandly furnished private offices, with magnificent art on the walls, into new open-plan areas I’m creating – which a lot of them don’t like.’ He smiled and raised his arms in another despairing gesture. ‘I get people moaning at me all the time. “Oh, Sir Tommy, but there’s no room for that Canaletto from the Royal Collection on my wall now.” That kind of stuff.’ He smiled again and continued.

  ‘I even have to contend with The King not liking the whole concept of open-plan – he feels people should have more privacy. But I’m afraid it’s all about delivering on a budget that’s coming from the public purse.’ He gave a rueful smile and tapped his own chest. ‘If anyone would be a target for assassination in this Household it should be me, not poor Peregrine.’ Then he looked at his watch. ‘Right, gentlemen, we’ll head over to Buckingham Palace – it’s just five minutes’ walk. As I mentioned, The Queen is expecting you at 10 a.m. and she’s a stickler for punctuality – as I know most police officers are too,’ he said, looking at them pointedly. ‘And after that The King would like a private word with just you, Detective Superintendent. I assume that will be all right?’

  ‘Of course,’ he replied.

  The Master stood up with a breezy smile, walked into the hallway and checked the knot of his tie in the mirror. Then he turned back and looked briefly at each detective, his tone turning both cutting and slightly imperious. ‘No disrespect, gentlemen, but I sincerely hope you’re going to make a better fist of this operation than DI Branson just did of dunking his biscuit in a mug of coffee.’

  30

  Wednesday 22 November 2023

  Glenn Branson gave Roy Grace a look that said it all.

  I can’t believe this!

  Grace nodded in acknowledgement. Nor could he. Not really.

  Accompanied by the Master of the Royal Household, they had just walked past Clarence House, crossed Green Park and Constitution Hill, with the gleaming gold Victoria Monument to their left, and were now walking through a gawping crowd of several thousand tourists from around the world towards the gates of Buckingham Palace.

  Moments later, after cursory inspection of their IDs, they were nodded through by two heavily armed officers who greeted the Master with respectful familiarity, and then they were striding across the hallowed quadrangle.

  ‘Are we seriously here?’ Branson murmured, rhetorically.

  Close up, the facade of Buckingham Palace was even more beautiful and imposing than when he had seen it in the past, driving by or on television, Grace thought. Branson, who was rarely quiet, was rendered mute.

  Tommy Magellan-Lacey walked at a brisk pace and both of them had to step on it to keep up with him. They strode past a guard in a bearskin, motionless as a statue, at the entrance to the famous archway through the building into the inner courtyard. The guard only acknowledged the Master’s breezy greeting with a brief friend-or-foe swivel of his eyes.

  On the far side of the archway the Master made a right turn and headed for a door. The warm yellow colour of the stone in this vast courtyard was quite different from the coldly imperious white Portland stone exterior of the public-facing front of the Palace. Ahead was the famous covered courtyard where the royal cars – and on state occasions, carriages – pulled up to collect or disgorge royalty and significant dignitaries.

  Magellan-Lacey was holding a huge, ancient key that looked like it could unlock a dungeon. He plunged it into the door, opened it and ushered them into a hallway. There was a short flight of stairs with shiny mahogany banister rails, which led them up into a long, red-carpeted corridor with a magnificently arched ceiling.

  Grace stared around in awe. Everything was spotless. Polished to a gleam, and the carpet immaculate. It felt a little as if they had boarded a flagship that was awaiting imminent inspection by the Admiral of the Fleet.

  The walls were lined with paintings, one, of Westminster Abbey, filled with extraordinarily realistic faces, Grace thought. Another they passed was of a grand outdoors event, with two regal ladies arriving in a horse-drawn carriage, the faces of everyone present painted in such detail, it looked to Grace, as he tried to spot the artist’s name, more like a gilt-framed photograph.

  The magnificence of the art sent a thrill through him, further making him feel the weight of responsibility that rested on his shoulders. The stakes were far higher than anything he’d ever encountered in his career.

  Was The Queen in very real danger from a terrorist group – homeland or foreign – out there and planning their next move?

  He thought back to his battle two days ago, with the smug Met Detective Superintendent Gregory Mosse, over whose crime scene this should be. A battle he had won. But he was now thinking of the words of the late Duke of Wellington after the Battle of Waterloo: The only thing worse than losing a battle is winning one.

  Would it have been more sensible – or at least less stressful – to have abdicated responsibility to Mosse? Had he been stupid, greedy – just plain crazy even – to insist on taking the case? Something far too big for him to chew?

  And now he was in it up to his neck. Thanks to his hubris?

  Last night he’d confessed his fears to Cleo. She’d reminded him that in over ten years in his roles as both a Senior Investigating Officer and more recently also as Head of Major Crime for Surrey and Sussex Police, his clear-up rate for murders on which he had been the SIO was one hundred per cent. Cleo told him to forget that The Queen was involved, and all that went with that, and just think of it as a murder like any other.

  That thought sustained him now as they continued along the corridor of the North Wing of one of the most famous buildings in the world. Just another murder.

  Yeah, right.

  Ahead of him, the Master, who had greeted several people walking along the corridor, including a woman in a smart suit, two workmen and a liveried footman, had stopped. ‘Detective Superintendent Grace and Detective Inspector Branson, this is Matthew Corbin – Deputy Master of the Royal Household.’

  A very tall man with rimless glasses, a light beard and a thick head of brown hair stepped out of an open office door to the left. He wore a dark suit and today’s obligatory black tie.

  ‘Matthew, this is Detective Superintendent Grace and his colleague Detective Inspector Branson. Detective Superintendent Grace is the Senior Investigating Officer on Sir Peregrine’s murder.’

  ‘Nice to meet you, gentlemen,’ Corbin said. He had a friendly but reserved demeanour, and spoke with an accent that sounded South African, Grace thought, shaking his large, firm hand. ‘Some of your colleagues are already here, Detective Superintendent, and established in the Billiards Room.’

  Grace nodded. ‘Yes, I have detectives talking to everyone who worked with Sir Peregrine – to see if we can find any reason someone might have wanted to kill him.’

  Corbin looked surprised. ‘Are you saying he was the target and not Her Majesty?’

  ‘I’m keeping all my options open at the moment,’ Grace replied. ‘Perhaps we could arrange a time later this morning to talk to you?’

  ‘Of course.’ He hesitated. ‘Yes, I’ll be here at my desk. Any time – except midday for fifteen minutes, when I have a meeting with The King.’

  Grace looked past him at the interior of his long, narrow office, which reminded him of his own, except this was a lot less cluttered. There was a small round meeting table, with four chairs, a workstation beyond, and a view across the interior courtyard of the Palace. Then he thanked him and the Master continued leading the way along the corridor.

  ‘I’m afraid this corridor is a bit like the M25!’ he said, opening an internal door and looking over his shoulder at Grace and Branson. ‘Goes all the way around the Palace – we’re in the North Wing at the moment, this is where the royal apartments are, up on the second floor, and we’re currently heading for The Queen’s Sitting Room. We could just keep turning left at the end of each corridor, into the West Wing, South Wing, East Wing – which is the front of the Palace everyone sees, and then we’d end up back here again.’

  ‘Sir Tommy, how long did it take you to learn to navigate your way around the Palace?’ Branson asked.

  ‘Well, I was given a jolly useful tip by one of the royals just after I took up this post – for the late Queen. He said, “Navigate by the paintings, Tommy.” But then they moved the paintings!’ He gave his jovial laugh.

  A short distance further on they went down a few steps and the Master stopped outside an ornate door. Just as he was about to open it, Grace noticed an elaborately gilded clock, with a yellow and red tag attached to it marked SALVAGE. ‘Salvage, Sir Tommy?’ he questioned. ‘What is that for?’

  ‘Ah, right, it’s while we have the builders here doing all the renovations, the Royal Collection team have tagged all the most valuable portable items – in the event of a fire they’re the ones everyone must try to save first.’

  Then he opened the door, and in an almost hushed voice he said, ‘This is the Regency Room – which The Queen likes to use for meetings. Come in and make yourselves comfortable and I will go and bring her in. She’ll be accompanied by her own Private Secretary, Jayne Bennett. No objection to that, gentlemen?’ He looked at each of them in turn with a disarming smile that Grace felt could turn, in a flash, to chilling hostility if he received the wrong answer.

  The room was cold and smelled of polish. Grace shook his head. ‘Not at all. She is very welcome to have anyone present she would like.’

  ‘Excellent!’ the Master said, and pointed at an embroidered and tasselled gold-coloured sofa, with two almost matching armchairs facing. ‘The Queen likes to sit on the sofa.’

  It was an instruction, not a statement.

  Then he was gone, closing the door behind him.

  31

  Wednesday 22 November 2023

  Grace and Branson exchanged a glance, both feeling for a moment like schoolboys in the headmaster’s study, then looked around the emerald-carpeted room. It was finely furnished in a regal rather than homely way, and could have comfortably swallowed the entire footprint of his cottage, Grace thought. And yet, at the same time, here in the context of this palace, it didn’t really feel large at all.

  High-ceilinged, with an imposing crystal chandelier, the wallpaper was a fern-coloured fleur-de-lis pattern. French windows with swagged gold-coloured curtains looked out onto balustrading and the gardens beyond. An ornate clock sat on the mantelpiece, framed by black marble statuettes holding lampshades. Below, a fire screen stood in front of an unlit wood-burning stove. Beautiful but dark and sombre paintings were hung from chains around the walls, and there was a handsome bookcase, each shelf tightly packed with leather-bound volumes. A round, antique wooden table, polished to a mirror shine, with four matching chairs, filled one of the window bays.