Solved Murders - True Crime Stories - The Queen Was Poisoned Murder, Betrayal, and the Shocking Mystery Inside Buckingham Palace #39

Episode Date: August 13, 2025

#horrorstories #reddithorrorstories #ScaryStories #creepypasta #horrortales #royalscandal #murdermystery #betrayal #palaceintrigue #truecrime  When the Queen is mysteriously poisoned, suspicion and fear ripple through the palace halls. Amidst a web of lies and betrayal, an investigation unfolds that exposes dark motives, deadly rivalries, and a shocking truth threatening the very heart of the kingdom.  #horrorstories #reddithorrorstories #scarystories #horrorstory #creepypasta #horrortales #royalfamily #palacemystery #assassination #courtconspiracy #thriller #truecrime #intrigue #murderinvestigation #darkhistory #secrets #suspense #historicalcrime #whodunit #scandal

You know, there are some moments in history that don't just hit the headlines, they punch you right in the gut, leaving you breathless, confused, and unable to fully comprehend the weight of what's happened. March 20, 2007, was one of those moments for me, for millions of people across Britain, and honestly, for the whole world. It felt surreal. The kind of thing that would normally be reserved for a gripping thriller novel or the climax of a blockbuster political drama. But this wasn't fiction. This was reality. It started with a breaking news alert flashing across every television screen, every phone, and every radio station. The Queen. Gone.

At first, no one really knew how to process it. Queen Elizabeth II, our Queen, the woman who had sat on the throne for over half a century, who had become a constant in a world that felt increasingly chaotic, was dead. and not from old age, not from some long-expected illness. No, this was something far more sinister. They said she had complained of some mild breathing issues after dinner, nothing too dramatic, nothing that would make you think the worst was on its way. She retreated to her private apartment in the east wing of Buckingham Palace,

probably expecting to rest and feel better by morning. But morning never came for her. By the next day, she was gone. At first, the royal family's official statement was vague. The Queen has passed peacefully. Peacefully. That word felt like a lie once the shocking truth started to unravel. Three days later, we learned the real cause of death, cyanide poisoning.

Not an accident, not some freak exposure to a natural toxin. It was murder. Cold, calculated murder. And suddenly the quiet grief that had bled. the country erupted into outrage, suspicion, and a deep, burning curiosity. Who would dare kill the Queen? That was the question on every single person's mind. Theory started swirling immediately.

Was it some political extremist group? A foreign government? Or maybe, as some darker corners of the Internet suggested, an inside job. Then came the next get punch. Two arrests. Not just anybody either, two men who worked in Buckingham Palace. Not soldiers or guards or even advisors. No, these two were cooks.

People who had been tasked with preparing her majesty's meals, feeding her day in and day out, caring for her in one of the most intimate and trusted ways possible. Detective Bill Markham from the Metropolitan Police's Criminal Investigation Department, CID, was the one to break the news. In a statement to the BBC, he said, two men have been arrested on suspicion of murder. At this time, their identities are not being released, but this is a fast-moving and complex investigation, and the British public can rest assured that we are doing everything to bring the Queen's killers to justice. It felt like a punch in the chest.

The Queen's Killers Plural Chief Constable Ryan Loughlin confirmed that both men were being questioned. One of them, apparently, had tried to flee the country. He briefly went missing after news of the Queen's death broke, but the police caught up to him at Stansted Airport before he could vanish completely. That detail alone set the nation's imagination on fire. Why would an innocent man try to disappear?

As for the Queen's actual death, the details were grim. The autopsy revealed high and extremely toxic levels of cyanide in her blood. That one sentence sent shivers down my spine when I first heard it. Cyanide isn't something you just happen to consume by accident. This wasn't food poisoning or a tragic kitchen mistake. This was deliberate. Someone had set out to end her life. For as long as I can remember, Queen Elizabeth had been like Britain's grandmother.

She'd seen us through wars, scandals, economic crises, and even technological revolutions. She'd shaken hands with presidents, astronauts, rock stars, and schoolchildren. Now, she was gone because someone had poisoned her dinner. I kept thinking about the moment it happened. Was it a quiet night? Did she feel it immediately? Did she know what was happening? Did she suspect betrayal as she struggled for breath?

The country plunged into mourning. Flags were lowered. Black ribbons appeared on television. television presenters. People lined up outside Buckingham Palace to lay down flowers, candles, and handwritten notes. I saw old men crying on street corners. I saw teenagers who'd never even met her holding hands and praying. The collective grief was palpable, almost heavy in the air, like a fog that wouldn't lift. And yet, underneath all that grief was a simmering anger. If two cooks were responsible, how did they pull it off?

Had they been plotting this for months, years even? Were they part of something bigger? The police were tight-lipped. They refused to release the men's names, which only fueled conspiracy theories. Some said the cooks were secret operatives working for a hostile nation. Others claimed they were radicalized extremists, hell-bent on destabilizing the monarchy. A few even suggested the royal family themselves had orchestrated it, because, as the whispers went, there's no such thing as a clean, royal death.

But honestly, the more I thought about it, the scarier it became. Because these weren't assassins breaking into a heavily guarded palace in the dead of night. These were two regular guys in aprons. Men who probably spent their days chopping vegetables and baking bread. Men who might have smiled politely as they set down plates in front of her. They had access. And access is everything. I imagine the moment it happened.

One of them slips a tiny vial of cyanide into her food, maybe a soup, maybe her tea. Just a few drops. Enough to kill. Then he wipes his hands, washes the spoon, and goes about his shift like nothing happened. That idea chilled me to the bone. Meanwhile, preparations for the queen's funeral were underway. It was expected to take place in April, but no official day. had been set. Still, the palace staff were already planning for hundreds of world leaders, dignitaries,

and celebrities to descend on London for the event. It was shaping up to be the biggest state funeral Britain had seen in decades. But behind the pomp and ceremony, the investigation raged on. I kept picturing the scene inside Buckingham Palace after they found her body. The chaos. The shock. The realization that the unthinkable had. happened? Who discovered her? Was it one of her personal attendants? Or perhaps a guard, coming to check on her? Did they call for help immediately? Or was there a moment of stunned silence, an inability to process what they were seeing? And what about the cooks? Were they calm when the news broke? Or did their masks slip? Did one of them betray the other? The fact that one of them

had bolted for the airport spoke volumes. It suggested guilt. Panic. Maybe even fear of a larger conspiracy that could come for him next. As the week dragged on, the media went into overdrive. Tabloid headlines screamed, Queen's killers caught, and, murder in the palace. Photographers camped outside Buckingham Palace and stanced at airport, hoping to catch a glimpse of the suspects. But still, no names. No mugshots. Nothing concrete. That silence made it worse somehow.

It left room for speculation, for our imaginations to run wild. Were these men long-term staff members, trusted by the Queen for years? Or were they new hires, brought in only recently? Did they act alone, or were they just pawns in a bigger, more terrifying game? And if they were pawns, then who was pulling the strings? As the country mourned, I couldn't shake the image of the Queen, sitting in her private apartment that night, unaware of the betrayal simmering in her kitchen. A betrayal so intimate, so close to home, it felt almost Shakespearean.

Her death marked the end of an era. But it also left us with a haunting question, if even the Queen wasn't safe in her own palace, who among us truly is. And that's where we were on March 20, 2007. grieving, angry, confused. The investigation continued. Answers would eventually come, but for now, all we could do was wait and wonder. The end.