“Of course,” I said. “Don’t worry. I’ll do anything I can to help you.”

Sir Jeremy smiled. “We’re most grateful, Lady Georgiana. I told them we could count on you.”

“How do I contact you?” I asked. “Or will you contact me when you need to?”

I realized that he worked in one of those nebulous departments that the Home Office would probably deny even existed.

“I’ve no doubt you can contact Sir Jeremy through me,” the major said.

Sir Jeremy reached into his breast pocket and produced a card. “This is my private telephone number,” he said. “It doesn’t go via the usual sort of exchange.”

I took it from him.

“Actually I will be officially handling the investigation.” DCI Pelham cleared his throat.

“Quite.” Sir Jeremy gave the major the briefest of glances that said clearly the policeman was not of our class, not one of us, but had to be tolerated at this stage.

“We’ll be in touch, then,” Sir Jeremy said. “As soon as we know the autopsy results.”

I was shown out of the room and crossed the courtyard in a bit of a daze.

Chapter 12

STILL NOVEMBER 5

KENSINGTON PALACE

It wasn’t until I was back in my own bedroom, sipping tea as I watched the maid lighting the fire, that the full implication of what I had agreed to do hit me. They had not ruled out the royal family and they wanted me to question them. If it was murder, clearly the whole family had a motive. An unstable girl, addicted to cocaine, who had once been Prince George’s mistress, could do incredible damage if she decided to sell her story to the newspapers. She would have to be silenced at all costs. But then I realized that the royal family would not do their own killing and anyone they detailed to do the dirty deed would have made sure that the body was found far, far away, if it was found at all. Preferably it would have been taken out to sea, or buried conveniently in a royal wood. Leaving it for all to see at Kensington Palace would be an act of profound stupidity.

So it was therefore more likely that someone else had a reason to want Bobo Carrington dead and wanted to pin the murder on the royals. Like the three men in that room, I just hoped it would turn out to be suicide.

I got up, ran myself a long bath in a tub big enough to float the royal yacht in and was already out and dressed by the time Queenie appeared, bleary-eyed and still trying to button her dress.

“Blimey, you’re up early,” she said. “What’s happening today, then? You didn’t tell me you wanted me earlier than normal this morning.”