If he never went there, a lot of questions answered themselves. And it made more sense of the location of the hand. She put her notebook down.

‘There’s two things I don’t get.’

‘If it wasn’t Ned, why haven’t the police worked this out? Wouldn’t DNA and fingerprints prove what really happened?’

‘You would have thought so,’ the Queen said with a brief sigh. ‘It’s why I’ve spent so long wondering if I might be wrong. If I’m right, whoever did this was very careful and very clever. I imagine they watched a lot of crime scene programmes. They’re fascinating. And the police didn’t think about the dogs. What was your other question?’

‘In the most old-fashioned way possible. He was poisoned, I imagine.’

Rozie nodded. Of course. In the true St Cyr tradition.

‘The thing about poison is it’s difficult to use if you want it to be untraceable,’ the Queen said. ‘I’ve read enough detective novels to know that much. If you don’t intend the body ever to be found intact, it’s much easier. Then he was hidden away, stripped of his distinctive clothes, his phone, his keys. The killer could return later, to dispose of the body at their leisure. The important thing was to create a distraction for the next few hours.’

‘So when Flora said she saw Ned drive her father away from Ladybridge . . .’

‘She saw someone in Ned’s car, in his distinctive coat and hat. Or else she was lying.’

Rozie tried to imagine the sheer audaciousness of it. She hadn’t associated the St Cyr family with bravura. Eccentricity yes, but . . . On the other hand, was there anything you could put past the aristocracy? Even so . . .

‘If you’re right, ma’am, and the killer took on Mr St Cyr’s identity, they could have been caught out in his Land Rover, his car, his house, his flat. The risk . . . So many things could have gone wrong.’

‘Do you know where it is, ma’am?’

‘I think so. There’s only one logical place it can be.’

‘I . . . I still can’t really believe it. It’s hard to imagine . . .’

‘That was the idea.’

‘But yes, I see what you mean,’ Rozie said. ‘If you’re right, I’d know where I’d look.’

‘Good. Now I just have to persuade the chief constable to look there, too.’

‘Oh, for Christ’s sake. They’re saying we’re a hotbed of drugs now.’

‘May I see?’ she asked.

He handed her the paper with a flick of the wrist. ‘Bastards. Every one of ’em. The drivel they’re paid to write.’

The Queen studied the article in question.

QUEEN CONCERNED ABOUT DRUG GANGS ON DOORSTEP

The piece was surprisingly accurate. It described the money-laundering scheme, pointed out that the clubs in question tended to be in the west of the country, and suggested that she had expressed concern about her own doorstep, in the east. It then went on to describe the royal loft and its management in glowing terms.

Only three people that she could think of knew, or might guess, that she was personally concerned. She hadn’t mentioned the issue to anyone else. Those three were Mr Day, her loft manager, his wife, and Roland Peng, who had told her about it in the first place.

Fortunately, the article didn’t mention why she was interested. Her thinking had moved on now, anyway. But it did potentially solve a little problem.

Rozie was up to her neck in ice-cold water. The breath had been squeezed out of her body and everything tingled and hurt. And yet, it was life-affirming. How had she lived this long and not known how essential and fabulous wild swimming was? She was building up to a minute in the water. Around her, an assortment of swimming hats bobbed confidently in the sea.

Katie watched from the safety of the beach. She had resisted saying ‘I told you so’ when Rozie came back from her first wild swim, brimming with enthusiasm. Instead, she had introduced her to her own wild swimming group, based up the coast. She could see this was the start of a beautiful relationship: Captain Oshodi and cold water. On their way back, they spotted the Queen driving out to Wolferton.

‘D’you know where she’s going?’ Katie asked.

‘Wood Farm, probably,’ Rozie suggested. ‘She usually is.’

The Queen had a very pleasant tour of the pigeon loft from Mr Day. Afterwards, he and his wife entertained her to coffee and home-made chocolate cake. They gave her some gin to take home and try after they had all regretfully concluded that it was a bit early to crack it open now, at 10 a.m. And the Queen was driving, after all.

‘Isn’t it good news about Lord Mundy’s son?’ Mrs Day said. ‘We were talking about it this morning. You must be pleased, personally, ma’am. You know him, don’t you?’

‘Yes, I do.’ The Queen was relieved. They had indulged in several topics of conversation leading up to this one, but at last they were here.