Chapter 2: Tuesday 9 May 2023 – Friday 12 May 2023

"So, what's in it?" asked the Chief of Security, Clarence House.

"Chocolates are in it," replied the Deputy Assistant Master of the Household (Food), "the small Coronation buttery assortment from F&M."

They stood in the Deputy Assistant Master's office in Clarence House, the current residence of His Majesty Charles III and his wife Queen Camilla, looking at a small turquoise box of nine little chocolate crowns sitting bashfully on the desk blotter. The wrapping that had protected it on its journey from Piccadilly had been removed, but was preserved in its entirety. The box itself was unopened.

"And you know that, how?" asked the Chief of Security.

"Well, I didn't sneak a taste if that's what you're asking," the Deputy Assistant replied, a bit nettled. It had been a long and exhausting month. "If you hadn't noticed, F&M commemoratives have been all over the internet for weeks now. These," and he jabbed a letter-opener at the box, "were delivered along with the regular order, but tagged especially for Her Majesty. They're on the shipping manifest."

"Then what, exactly, is the problem?"

"They are not on the invoice. No one ordered them. Or no one will admit to ordering them, rather. The Storeman checked the entire order twice. Then he took it to the Catering Clerk who brought it to Catering Admin who brought it to me."

Clarence House was inundated: with letters, cards, a variety of other messages, including children's drawings, and parcels, each of which had to be opened, considered and replied to or acknowledged in some way. At normal times the small staff of secretaries struggled to keep up, but the state occasion had produced a mountain of mail, every item of which had to be inspected for reasons of security.

The coronation had gone off without a hitch, ostensibly. What the public had not seen, and what the Chief and the Deputy Assistant Master both knew, was what was gradually beginning to leak out into the open; the number of attempts to disrupt the event. There had of course been the Trafalgar Square arrests but there were others, in ones, twos and sixes all over Westminster, ever since the nutter with the shotgun cartridges at Buck House. Was this another attempted assault?

Personally, the Chief thought that, if it was, it was a fair coward who'd be aiming at a harmless woman, whatever her title. "I don't like that," he said.

"Nor do I, actually," the Deputy Assistant told him, tartly. "Why d'you think I called you?"

The Chief might have spoken in haste then, because the month hadn't been kind to him either, but for the sudden ringing of the Deputy's mobile phone. The resulting conversation was short, and seemingly not that pleasant.

"That was the Master of the Household," the Deputy announced flatly. "He's been talking to the Master over at Kensington. They just took delivery of a box from F&M they can't account for. Buttery chocolate crowns, tagged for the Princess of Wales."

No, the Chief of Security for Clarence House thought grimly, he didn't like this at all.

...

So, as soon as he could manage it, the Chief at Clarence pried one of his handful of understaff away from their regular duties and sent her off to Piccadilly, on the pretext of needing a name to whom the hard-working secretaries could send off a thank you note. The understaffer fancied herself a detective and took her duties seriously enough to go straight past customer relations to the floor manager, who listened to the story of the boxes before summoning the shipping clerk, a cool, efficient women's college business type who had been fulfilling sales orders from the Royal Family for years.

"Two boxes of the small organic buttery assortment," she recalled, "simply sitting there with the regular orders from Clarence and Kensington. No sales slips, just the notes with personal names. Disrespectful, in my opinion. Is there a problem, sir? . . . No, of course I didn't open the boxes to make sure they were only chocolates. I wouldn't presume!"

The front end manager was more helpful, guessing at the date of sale and then delving through the digital files before discovering the receipt. He referred them to the sales clerk who had done the actual ringing up of the suspect boxes, a nervous young girl anxious to make good with the impressive floor manager, who was even now trying to smooth over the problem as best he could with Fortnum & Mason's general managers by means of his mobile phone.

"Oh, him?" the sales clerk asked the Clarence House understaffer, once she understood the problem. "Yes, I-I remember. An ordinary customer, wasn't he, bothered and rushed-like. Upset, he was – I mean he seemed to be – as he was hoping to buy a tin, 'something that would last', he said. . . . 'ere now, what do you mean did I look in the boxes?" relaxing her careful pronunciation as it became clear it was nothing she had done wrong. "'e picked 'em right out of the display, didn't 'e? Besides, 'e weren't a terrorist. 'e had nice eyes!"

The general managers of F&M having contacted the households of Kensington Palace and Clarence House with profound apologies, they then presented the joint Chiefs of Security, Clarence and Kensington both, with their full cooperation in summoning the credit history records of this particular card holder. With that information obtained, the case was passed to New Scotland Yard and landed on the desktop of one DCI Simon Mistry, a genial bear of a man who opened the e-file, looked at the picture of the alleged perpetrator and said "Him?"

"Sir?" asked his DS, Agatha "Haggy" Haggarty.

"Detective Inspector Richard Poole," Mistry read off. "Joined up fresh out of Cambridge, thirty-seven years on the Job, spotless record. Seconded to the Caribbean twelve years ago, some British Overseas Territory called Saint-Marie. What was he doing in London?"

"For the coronation?" Aggie suggested. She wasn't much in looks but she had brains, and she sharpened them regularly. "We did have officers coming in from all over the Commonwealth, sir."

Mistry nodded doubtfully, looking at the photo. He prided himself on being able to read character from faces, and this one was no terrorist, he was sure. "Get in touch with the Deputy Commissioner's office. See if they remember him."

The Deputy Assistant Commissioner's aide, when Aggie showed her the file, asked "Him? Oh, yes, came all the way from the West Indies, apparently, tremendously keen. We were trolling the section house registers, making sure we hadn't overlooked anyone, and there he was, out on duty already. Sent him over to Uniform right away. Too many plainclothes in the crowd and not enough uniforms on the line."

The clerk at Uniform Supply looked at the ID and said "Him? Arr, yuss, him. Had a time fittin' 'im an' all. Particular trouble with trousers. Couldn't find proper collar numbers, either. Didn't leave 'ere until oh, 0200, maybe? What d'you want 'im for?"

The super who had been assigned to the Whitehall/Trafalgar Square line said "Him? Inspector, is he? Well, he'd have been put up near Trafalgar then, with his own rank, then he'd be patrolling barriers behind the men – and ladies, whatever. Any more questions, you'll have to go to the Commander. I'm not paid enough to . . ."

DCI Mistry himself contacted the Commander on duty for that section of the line. She didn't want to talk about it. Or she couldn't, more accurately, which annoyed her no end. It was one of those things the public hadn't seen/was never supposed to know about and was certainly not to be broadcast. "Oh. Him. It's about that uniform, isn't it? Or that protestor thing? He was in on it, wasn't he? I thought so. You can't come up with answers that quickly unless you're in on it. Well, for me, I hope he roasts."

In the end, the Commissioner of the Met himself had Mistry in to his office, offered him tea and told him there would be no more information forthcoming. What, him? DI Poole, a terrorist? Not bloody likely, considering. As for the boxes – the buttery assortment, was it? – that was probably nothing. Perhaps just a mild fetish . . .

...

Which is why, on the Friday morning, bright and early, Commissioner Selwyn Patterson took a call from Professional Standards in London, notifying him that one of his officers had acted inappropriately, and an investigation was pending. Which officer? One Detective Inspector Richard Pole, was it . . . no, Poole.

Patterson hung up the phone, aghast. Inappropriate conduct? Him?

...

Note:

Professional Standards in the UK are the equivalent of Internal Affairs for police in the US. They investigate charges of misconduct or malfeasance brought against the Met Police Service and its affiliates. In other words, good news for the public, but bad news for the regular cop who comes under their scrutiny.