HIGHGROVE HOUSE, THE HOME PRINCE CHARLES acquired in 1980, had been purchased for him by the Duchy of Cornwall. This sudden real estate acquisition only added fuel to the nation's feverish speculation that the Prince of Wales was seriously considering marriage to the lovely swan Diana Spencer. The handsome prince and his blushing bride dominated the media in a riot of anticipation. It all seemed predestined, and yet…
Perhaps this truly was a union made in heaven, as an enthralled nation had already decided. And, besides. The eyes of the world were on Britain once again, which was only as it should be. Hearts swelled with pride and spirits were lifted as never before, or, at least since Elizabeth II's Coronation in 1953. For England, it was a godsend.
It was a fairy tale.
Highgrove Estate is today a working farm. It consists of rolling parkland fringed by thick forest. A number of farm buildings occupy around nine hundred acres of arable land. The beef herd at Highgrove consists of pedigree Aberdeen-Angus who share the permanent pasture with a flock of Masham and Mule sheep. The gardens, which Chief Inspector Congreve was so especially keen about, consisted of a wild garden, a formal garden, and a walled kitchen garden, all designed by the Prince of Wales.
His goal, Charles had said of the house, was this: 'To feed the soil, warm the heart, delight the eye.' He'd certainly achieved this and much more, Ambrose thought, eyes everywhere and filled with keen anticipation.
The house, built in 1798, was a classic three-story Regency manor house. Not spectacular by any stretch of the imagination. The rather plain exterior was enhanced by Charles, who had embellished it with a new balustrade, a new pediment, and classical pilasters designed by the Prince himself.
Alex Hawke rolled the Bentley under the porte cochere at the front entrance and got out to survey the damage to his beloved car. Extensive was an understatement. He ran his hand over the still-warm bonnet as if consoling a wounded comrade on the field of battle.
A Special Branch detective, a member of SO14, the Royalty Protection Squad at Scotland Yard, took one look at the severely damaged automobile and approached Hawke on the run.
'Sir! I heard about the attack on the road. Are you and the chief inspector all right?'
'Yes, quite. She's heavily armored, the old girl, thank God. Has MI5 been notified?'
'As it happens, sir, MI5's director of domestic intelligence was five miles behind you on the same road, en route to Highgrove. Sahira Karim. She's at the crime scene now with half the police in Gloucestershire en route as well. Apparently one unidentified man was found dead, the other five have escaped in one automobile, one other automobile burned at the scene. We've used your descriptions and the police are looking for them.'
'You're on high alert here, Officer? I doubt there are more of these fellows in the area, but I would not discount it entirely.'
'Of course, sir, we went to full alert as soon as we got the chief inspector's call from your car. Any idea at all who attacked you?'
'Yes. Someone who did not want Chief Inspector Congreve and me to arrive here at Highgrove alive.'
Hawke turned away and went to help Congreve, who was having trouble opening his door. Hawke tugged at the mangled handle, kicked the door a couple of times, and managed to get it open.
Ambrose Congreve, understandably a bit shaky, climbed out of the battered but unbowed Locomotive in the shade of the porte cochere and gathered his wits about him. He was still alive, after all, and he'd been invited to spend the weekend with the Prince of Wales. He took a deep breath and looked around at the magnificent gardens.
Despite his brush with death and his recently rattled nerves, he still found this entire adventure too marvelous for words.
'Are you quite all right?' Hawke asked, a worried look on his face.
'Yes. But that was very unpleasant.'
'More than unpleasant. Disturbing.'
'What do you mean, Alex?'
'Whoever planned that attack knew we were meeting in secret at Highgrove today. A private affair with the Prince of Wales. There are two routes in and two roads out. The assassins clearly had advance knowledge of our route.'
Congreve nodded his head in agreement. 'Indicating they have contacts and allies inside our security forces. A leak. At the top, or somewhere very close to it.'
'Not necessarily. Could have been a gardener or a horse groom on someone's payroll. It's happened before.'
'True.'
'And they didn't want us to attend this meeting. Isn't that interesting?'
'Very,' Congreve said.
'Well, we're safely here, so let's just relax and enjoy a weekend in the country, shall we?'
'Couldn't agree more.'
Ambrose had never considered himself as one so gauche as to be starstruck by the Royals, but he couldn't control the fluttering of his heart as a liveried servant took his bag and said, 'This way, sir, His Royal Highness is expecting you in the Library. You'll find your belongings unpacked in your quarters on the third floor. A footman will show you the way.'
Ambrose looked briefly at Hawke and said, under his breath, 'HRH is expecting me. Did you hear him say that?'
'Of course he's expecting you, Constable. He invited us, remember? Do refrain from prostrating yourself at his feet, will you? He's a lovely chap, very bright and very down to earth, and, besides, fawning doesn't suit you at all.'
'You can't deny it's still a bit thrilling.'
'Oh, please, toddle on. Security will have alerted him to the attack en route. I'm sure he's worried about us. I suggest we not keep him waiting.'
They were shown into the Library. The Prince of Wales was seated at his desk, a shock of white tulips in a sparkling vase of cut crystal at his elbow. With his head bowed over a ledger, an ink pen poised in his hand, he was obviously attending to estate business. When he looked up and saw Alex Hawke in the doorway, clearly unharmed, a grin lit up his face, cordially taking in Congreve as well.
'Your Royal Highness,' Hawke said with a wide smile, 'it was so good of you to invite us to Highgrove. A rare privilege. Exciting journey, as well.'
'So I've been told.'
Prince Charles put his pen down, pushed his chair back, and stood. Congreve had long known the two men were friendly, but the look on both their faces belied a much deeper, older relationship.
'Alex, this attack is shocking, to say the very least. I hardly know what to say.'
'There really isn't too much one can say at this point, sir. Until we find out who was responsible. But let me assure you this is not the first time someone's pointed a loaded gun in my direction. As dear old Winston said, 'There is nothing quite so exhilarating as to be shot at without effect.''
'Alex, your sangfroid is admirable, but you must understand that one frowns upon the attempted murder of invited houseguests.'
Hawke smiled and said, 'You're looking well, sir. Happy. Healthy. It's wonderful to see you again.'
Charles, looking his old friend up and down, replied, 'Well, rumors coming out of Bermuda to the contrary, I must say you, too, look the very picture of health.'
'The miracle of St. Sunshine,' Hawke said with a smile. 'A good tan obscures many sins. Plus a diet so rigid I can't even lick a postage stamp.'
The Prince smiled and turned his focus to Congreve.
'And you must be the legendary former Chief Inspector Ambrose Congreve of Scotland Yard? England's own modern-day Sherlock Holmes, according to your friend Hawke. I'm delighted to have you here at Highgrove, alive and well.'
'Your Highness,' Congreve intoned, visibly stunned by the compliment, 'I was deeply honored to be included.'
'Well. We'll be getting a report on the incident from MI5 soon. It turns out one of the other invitees is the
