He handed her back the dagger, courteously holding the blade, and she re-sheathed it then knelt, with another gasp of pain, and placed it on the floor beside the box in which, Grace noticed, was an unsheathed curved sword. He glanced at Branson, wondering if he was picking up the same vibes from this woman. But the DI was looking around the room in almost a state of rapture.

  Then, remaining on her knees, Rose Cadoret said, ‘But, much though I would be happy to talk about swords and daggers all day, I don’t imagine that’s actually what you’ve come here to talk about, is it, gentlemen?’

  Grace smiled, but it was an uneasy smile. ‘No, we have a few things we’d like to ask you, Ms Cadoret.’

  ‘Rose is fine. I don’t do the whole Miz thing.’

  ‘OK, Rose, thank you. The first question I wanted to ask you is whether there are any cuckoo clocks in Buckingham Palace?’

  ‘Cuckoo clocks?’

  ‘Yes.’ Grace ignored the WTF, have you gone nuts look Branson was giving him. But noted that his partner was strategically blocking the doorway. Smart.

  98

  Thursday 30 November 2023

  ‘Cuckoo clocks?’ Rose Cadoret shook her head in amusement. ‘You’ve driven all the way here from Brighton to ask me about cuckoo clocks?’

  ‘It’s one of my questions, yes,’ Grace replied, calmly.

  ‘We do actually have just three cuckoo clocks in the Royal Collection. My favourite is a particularly beautiful one acquired by Queen Mary. It features a unique gilt bronze chapter ring and cuckoo striking mechanism with a circular pendulum. There is another in the Collection with moon-shaped hands and a painted face, which also has a unique mechanism. But none are here in Buckingham Palace. One is at Sandringham, one is in the Lodge on the Balmoral estate. I’m not actually sure where the third one is – but I can find out for you. If you are interested, I could introduce you to the Keeper of the Clocks. There are over one thousand clocks spread across the Royal Palaces and five full-time clock winders.’

  Grace nodded. ‘Another time perhaps.’ Then he looked hard at her. ‘Do you have the duty roster for PC Jon Smoke, showing Monday November the twentieth for me?’

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘Sir Tommy Magellan-Lacey said he was going to give you the original copy of the duty roster of PC Smoke, which included that day, to hand to me.’

  She looked puzzled. ‘No, I – he – didn’t say anything about it. I do apologize. I’m sure I can get it for you quite easily.’

  ‘When we’ve finished, thank you, I need to see it,’ Grace said. ‘He also told me you were going to let me see the box of Granny’s Personal Chips. Where is that kept?’

  She looked hesitant. Her eyes darted around wildly for a moment and, just fleetingly, her face had a strange, almost feral expression. It reminded him of something but before he could think what, it morphed into a friendly smile. She said, ‘Yes, yes, of course, yes! It’s down in the vault, I’ll take you there. Do you want to go now?’

  He raised a placatory hand. A call was coming through on his mobile phone. He saw it was from Shannon and stepped to one side, taking the call, but said nothing in response to the information he was given, just a ‘Thank you, goodbye.’

  He turned back his attention to Cadoret. ‘Just a couple more questions before we go to the vault, please.’ He took a moment before continuing, watching her face very carefully now. ‘Rose, there’s something I wonder if you can tell us. I understand you recently paid a company in Bexhill, in East Sussex, called Silversands Residential, a substantial sum of money. I understand this is a very high-end care home for the elderly. Can I ask you where that money came from?’

  She hesitated again, her eyes looked wildly around once more and that feral expression fleetingly returned. ‘It was actually one hundred and eighty-two thousand, five hundred pounds and ninety-two pence, if you want it exactly, Detective Superintendent.’ Her eyes shot from Grace to Branson and back to Grace. ‘And what the hell business of yours is it, no disrespect, where that money came from?’

  ‘It’s very much my business,’ Grace replied, still calm. ‘I’m conducting a murder enquiry into the death of Sir Peregrine Greaves, and I’m looking at everyone with whom he had connections.’

  ‘And just what does my paying money to a care home have to do with Sir Peregrine’s very tragic death?’

  ‘I would be grateful if you would answer my question, Rose,’ he said, with a sharper edge to his voice now. ‘I asked you where did the money come from?’

  ‘From my savings,’ she answered with an insolent expression. ‘Is it illegal to have savings?’

  Again her eyes roamed the room and that expression returned; suddenly Grace realized what it reminded him of. It was a trapped animal. A desperate, trapped animal.

  99

  Thursday 30 November 2023

  There was a long silence. Grace, increasingly wary, watched Rose Cadoret’s eyes moving from him to Branson and back to him.

  ‘Actually,’ she said, ‘no, I don’t want to tell you where the money came from.’

  ‘In which case, Rosemary Catherine Cadoret, I’m arresting you on suspicion of theft and on suspicion of conspiracy to murder.’ As he spoke, he dug his hand into his right pocket to pull out his handcuffs. ‘You do not have to say—’

  She was faster than he imagined she could possibly be, especially with the pain she seemed to be suffering, and caught him totally by surprise. Within what felt like a nanosecond she was on her feet, holding in her right hand the unsheathed and clacking Ibrahim dagger, and in her left the long, curved sword. And lunging at Grace.

  He stepped back.

  ‘Stay away from me!’ she shrieked. She lunged again and he stepped back again. Then out of the corner of his eye he saw Branson moving towards her. But as he did so, she suddenly spun on her own axis, launching a spinning back kick to the DI’s stomach, sending him tumbling backwards with a grunt of pain as the wind was taken out of him.

  Then she was gone through the door.

  100

  Thursday 30 November 2023

  Grace glanced at Branson, who was trying to get to his feet, all the while struggling to get his wind back. ‘You OK?’

  ‘Get her!’ Branson gasped, hauling himself up. ‘I’m right behind you.’

  Grace sprinted to the door, looked left then right and saw her, some distance away, sprinting along an eau-de-nil-coloured corridor lined with marble busts and huge vases, the walls hung with paintings.

  As he raced after her, a footman emerged from a door at the far end of the corridor and she ran in through it. Grace followed her in half a minute later. And found himself in a large and very grand, formal drawing room. There was a Persian carpet covering most of the floor, a wide oil painting of the Colosseum, flanked on each side by portraits of two rather self-important-looking men in frock coats and grey wigs. Elegant chairs and sofas were arranged around a fine white marble fireplace. One entire wall was floor-to-ceiling bookcases lined with red and green leather volumes.

  No Rose Cadoret.

  She had vanished into thin air.

  The tall windows with swagged curtains were all shut. Where the hell was she?

  Branson came limping into the room and looked briefly around, frowning.

  ‘She came in here, I saw her,’ Grace said.

  ‘Didn’t Sir Tommy say something about a room – was it the White Drawing Room? A sitting room where there was a secret corridor that let the monarch move from the state apartments to the more public reception rooms without being seen?’

  Grace nodded. It was ringing a bell. He looked at the floor-to-ceiling library shelves at one end of the room. One did not look properly aligned. He hurried across, grabbed it and, wary she might be standing behind it, pulled it open and stood well back. He considered raising the alarm, but was worried about who could be trusted. The secret door revealed a dark space beyond. He switched on his phone’s torch. A long dark corridor swallowed most of the dim light. He sprinted down it. At the far end, he came out through an open door into a small, elegant sitting room. Another open door on the far side led him into a musty-smelling bedroom, with a two-poster bed that was sealed in polythene, as were all the rest of the soft furnishings. It felt like a mausoleum. A door was ajar on the far side.

  Rushing through it, still holding his phone, he caught sight of Rose almost at the end of another corridor. He ran flat out after her, wishing he was wearing a stab vest. Light from a chandelier glinted off the blades of her knives as she disappeared around a corner, past a photocopier and a long-case clock. As he rounded, he almost barrelled straight into two very smartly dressed women who emerged from a side door.

  Blurting an apology he ran on, into a magnificent gallery, the walls lined with white pilasters. On either side of the red carpet were huge marble statues on columns and plinths, interspersed with equally enormous, finely decorated vases and urns. At the far end was a sofa beneath a tapestry that almost filled the wall. Rose dashed to the left and went out of sight. He heard a door bang shut. And as he rounded the same corner, and saw her ahead, he heard footsteps behind him. He turned and saw it was Branson, limping. ‘Careful,’ Grace cautioned.

  ‘We’re going to get her, boss,’ he gasped.

  ‘Stay behind me,’ Grace said firmly as he ran on, as fast as he could, as she threw a backwards glance then disappeared around another corner.

  Moments later he found himself in a long, narrow corridor with double doors at the far end. Rose Cadoret hurtled through them but as Grace reached them, several seconds later, they opened towards him and he barged headlong into a liveried footman, sending him flying into a wall and his loaded tray of coffee, cups, milk and biscuits crashing to the floor. And Grace very nearly with them.

  Gasping an apology he ran on, gulping down air, wondering who he could call for backup, and suddenly realized he no longer had his phone in his hand. Must have dropped it just now, he realized, but there was no way he was going to stop the chase to go back for it.

  He caught another glimpse of her, then another, as he ran, increasingly breathless, along corridor after corridor, lined with paintings, fine furniture, display cases filled with jewellery, ornaments, chinaware. Then he passed an ancient-looking brass and steel lift cage, with rickety wooden doors, the whole thing looking like it belonged in a hotel from another era.

  She turned into a corridor with bare walls and large rectangular shadows on them where paintings had been hung. It was lined with statues and chairs all trussed-up with white dust sheets. They looked eerie, like ghosts, he thought as he sprinted past them. Ahead, she darted through a door with a warning sign, and he followed her, onto bare floorboards, with internal scaffolding above him. There was a strong chemical stench and a loud mechanical whine. He fleetingly glanced up and saw two masked men in hard hats with spray paint guns.

  For a moment he thought he was gaining on the woman. Then she ducked through a side door and when he reached it and went through he found himself on a spiral staircase, with temporary wiring in bright red insulating tape snaking up it. There was a deafeningly loud sound of drilling. For an instant he wasn’t sure whether she’d gone up or down. A small framed sign in blue on the wall read, SILVER PANTRY – BASEMENT – BLUE ROUTE.

  He looked behind him, hoping to see Glenn so they could cover both directions, but there was no sign of him. The drilling suddenly stopped and he heard what sounded like a door slam below him, and decided to chance it. He ran down, pushed through the door at the bottom and found himself in a vast basement. The bare floor was outlined with red and white hazard markings around the edges, temporary-looking plywood partitions, more overhead scaffolding and warning notices everywhere. It felt more like he was in the bowels of a hospital than a palace.

  There was no sign of her. He looked frantically around, breathing heavily, his chest aching. There was a door marked SWIMMING POOL. He tried the handle but it was locked. Where? Where the hell was she?

  There was a grinding din from a drilling machine – a worker in a hard hat and ear defenders was cutting into an exposed wall. He saw a large yellow sharps bin, a moveable red barrier with a sign, STAIRWELL CLOSED. Then what looked like the boardedup entrance to a lift shaft with the sign in large red and white letters: WARNING – DEEP EXCAVATION BEHIND DOOR. STRICTLY NO ADMITTANCE.

  There were huge wooden boxes and plastic containers everywhere. The faint smell of hot electrics and freshly sawn wood. He saw a trip hazard notice. Then a map, highlighted with an arrow. BASEMENT FLOOR – RED ROUTE. You are here.

  Then, at the far end, a good hundred yards or so away, he spotted her. She ran out from behind a partition, blades glinting, and then shot off to the right. As he reached the far end he saw her, at the end of a wide corridor, where four workmen in hard hats were preoccupied trying to lift a huge insulation panel into place with the aid of a mechanical hoist. She was pulling the handle of a tall, very old-looking door. Pulling desperately. Still with both weapons in her hands.

  A sign above the door read, TUNNEL ENTRANCE. HARD HATS MUST BE WORN.

  He raced towards her, his hopes up. If he could get to her before she heard him—

  She spun, brandishing the sword and the dagger, with a clack-clacking sound from the dagger. That feral look he’d seen on her face in the Indian Room had returned, with real ferocity. ‘Get back,’ she yelled. ‘Fucking get back!’ She lunged at him and he stepped back, smartly. She lunged again, then again. Clack-clack . . . clack-clack . . . clack-clack . . . She looked crazy enough to kill him. Then she seemed to leap up in the air, throwing out a foot, and an instant later it felt like he had been hit in the stomach by a sledgehammer as he was propelled, winded, onto his back.

  101

  Thursday 30 November 2023

  Roy Grace got back onto his feet, panting heavily, his stomach hurting badly, but he didn’t care. He looked around, everywhere. Where was she? She hadn’t run past him and she hadn’t gone into the tunnel. Then he noticed a narrow doorway with a small sign, white on black, with an arrow pointing upwards, saying FOOTMEN’S FLOOR.

  Taking several deep breaths he hurried towards it, running on adrenaline now, then began climbing the steep, narrow, wooden staircase. As he reached the first floor, where there was a door out into the corridor, he stopped and listened. And heard the sound of footsteps on the treads, faintly, above him.

  He began sprinting up the stairs, taking them two at a time, stopping again at the next door briefly to listen. Again he heard footsteps above him. As he reached the third floor, he saw the stairs from this point had been sealed off with red and yellow tape, and there was a sign reading: EXTREME DANGER – KEEP OUT!

  The tapes were torn. He ran through them and on up, past what looked like the entrance to an elevator, covered in polythene sheeting, securely taped and with another sign warning, DANGER – DEEP SHAFT. Then he felt a cold blast of air on his face and looked directly up, to see daylight through an open hatch. Blue sky. The steps up from here were extremely narrow, gridded metal, like a fire escape.

  He climbed rapidly, then stopped a few feet below the hatch, wishing he had something to defend himself with against the blades of the sword and dagger. Was she waiting to jump him when he went up through the hatch, or had she an escape plan up here?

  Taking a deep breath, he raced up the last few steps as fast as he could and peered at a view of the rooftops of the Palace, and part of the skyline of London beyond. A stiff breeze was blowing as he clambered out onto lead roofing, and stood upright, looking around in all directions. He could see the gardens a long way below, the acres of lawn, the lake, the skeletal framework of a marquee that was being dismantled, a gardener on a ride-on mower, too far away to hear more than a faint sound.

  The rooftop was on several levels, all covered in ribbed strips of lead and with metal-grille walkways and stone balustrading around the edges. CCTV cameras were dotted along, pointing downwards, covering the grounds. There was a fine copper dome, turned green, with a curved balustrade in front of it, almost directly beneath him. Where the hell was she?

  Though never good with heights, today Grace didn’t care; he was going to get her, whatever it took. She had to be up here somewhere.

  There were gridded metal steps ascending steeply to another roof level across the far side. Had she gone up there? Gripping the rails with both hands he hauled himself up and onto a narrow viewing platform. The wind was even stronger here. But he could see no sign of her as he looked around and then down. Just acres of lead, skylights, chimneys, scaffolding and plastic sheeting in some parts.

  Was she hiding behind the sheeting? There was one area that resembled the edge of a tent and could easily conceal someone.

  He clambered down, hurried across the roof, careful not to trip on the lead ribs, and reached the stone balustrading. Keeping one steadying hand on the flat stone rail atop the balustrading, to his right. He tried to avoid looking down at the sheer drop of one hundred feet or more on the far side of it, down onto lawn or gravel – he couldn’t see which. He reached the sheeting, but it was sealed tight. He was about to turn round when he heard a sound behind him.

  Clack . . . clack.

  102

  Thursday 30 November 2023

  An icy gust swirled deep inside him. His brain swirled with it. He silently cursed his stupidity. Jesus. How—

  ‘Raise your hands in the air. If you do not, or if you try anything silly, I will kill you, unpleasantly and with very great pleasure.’

  He raised his hands slowly, thinking hard. And wary he was precariously close to the balustrading.

  ‘Turn around, do it very slowly.’

  He began turning; she yelled out, ‘Stop there!’

  He stopped. And realized he was now backed up against the hard stone of the balustrade.

  She brandished the dagger and the sword, feinting stabs at him with each in turn. Each time the dagger repeating the clack-clack . . . clack-clack sound.