The Corpse of St James's (2 page)

Our guide heard, and was amused. ‘Actually, madam, these are our everyday uniforms, known as “undress”. The dress uniform, the one you've seen on the gin bottle, with the gold bands and ruff and rosettes and all, is worn for those special occasions you mention, and is, incidentally, extremely uncomfortable.'

The weather had done its work, and visitors to the Tower were few enough that our small party had a Beefeater all to ourselves. He explained that they are properly called Yeomen Warders – not to be confused with the Yeomen of the Guard, Gilbert and Sullivan to the contrary notwithstanding. ‘But everyone calls us Beefeaters; not to worry, madam.'

We saw it all. The famed wing-clipped ravens, whose departure from the Tower would, according to legend, bring about the fall of the kingdom, were their usual raucous selves. Our guide wasn't the Raven Master, but he had quite a stock of stories about the birds. ‘They have to be sacked sometimes, you know, if they get to be too rowdy. One liked to eat the television aerials, so he was booted out. And one developed a taste for beer and managed somehow to get out and take up residence at a neighbouring pub!'

We all laughed at that, but when the guide began to get into the history of the Tower, we were quickly sobered. The Traitor's Gate, through which several notable prisoners were brought to be tried and executed, looked suitably ominous on that grey day, and we were silent for a moment after the pitiful story of Anne Boleyn.

‘I've heard she was very beautiful,' said Joe after the pause. ‘How old was she?'

‘No one knows for certain when she was born,' said the Beefeater, ‘but she may have been as young as twenty-nine.'

‘And never knew her daughter would become the most powerful monarch England would ever have,' said Alice sadly.

‘Don't you suppose she knows now?' I asked softly, and our guide smiled at me.

My guests were suitably awed by the Crown Jewels, although I must admit I found the old display (which you can glimpse in the movie
Gaslight
), more imposing than the present one. I suppose the new one is more secure, and sadly, security must be a primary concern these days.

We were all tired and footsore by the time we finished the tour. Fortunately I know a very pleasant pub nearby, and when we were seated over our pints and sandwiches in the Minories, Alice brought up the brief exchange about the Princes in the Tower.

‘Oh, dear, it's one of my hobby horses, I'm afraid. For years history books said that Richard the Third killed his two little nephews, but some historians took a different view. Then an author named Josephine Tey wrote a book called
The Daughter of Time
, which set out, in a fictional framework, the alternative explanation that Henry the Seventh was responsible for the boys' death.'

I went into a little of the history, but I was losing my audience. ‘Right, then,' I said, setting down my empty glass. ‘Let's get you two tired people home. There's no end to the history one can unearth in London, but now isn't the time to do it.'

‘Well,' said Alice apologetically, ‘maybe we have had enough bloodshed for one day. History does seem to be just one long succession of murders, doesn't it?'

I laughed at that. ‘I suppose the long years and decades when all was going well and nothing much happened don't get recorded by the historians. Not interesting enough!'

I was to remember that remark, and ponder about that word
interesting
. In the sense of the old Chinese curse, perhaps?

T
hat rainy September day presaged a wet autumn and a dreary winter with little snow, but a great deal of rain and sleet and mist and general unpleasantness. Spring was just beginning to make some welcome overtures in late February, when the letter arrived.

The outer envelope enclosed another, a large one in cream-coloured stock so thick it was nearly card stock, with, on the back flap, the letters ER embossed in gold.

‘What on earth . . .?' I held it out for Alan's inspection.

‘Well, my dear, there's one way to find out, isn't there?' He pulled out a folded note and then the contents of the imposing envelope, and then, eyebrows raised, handed it all to me.

‘. . . invite you to attend . . . George Cross . . . twenty-third of May . . .' I read it once, and then again, and then glanced at the handwritten note on the bottom. I frowned in puzzlement. ‘Alan, what
is
this all about?'

‘It's about an honour, Dorothy. A whacking great honour. You remember last summer, when Jonathan jolly nearly bought it, rescuing that little girl?'

‘Of course I remember!' I shuddered. Jonathan Quinn, a Scotland Yard inspector and a good friend of Alan's, had been investigating a house suspected of harbouring terrorists, when shooting and a fire had broken out. In the middle of the worst of it, Jonathan had seen a small face at an upstairs window. At great risk to his own life, he had broken into the house and rescued the child, who was in the end unhurt, at least physically. Jonathan had been shot at and badly wounded, so badly that there was grave question about his survival.

The story had touched the hearts of millions, not only in the UK but all over the world, and when it became apparent that Jonathan was permanently unfit for further duty as a policeman, gifts and offers of employment had poured in. Jonathan had refused the gifts, with a good deal of embarrassment, or so I understood from what Alan told me. He was still trying to decide about employment, his pension from a grateful nation being quite insufficient to support himself.

‘You met Jonathan when you were doing that stint at Bramshill, didn't you?' Very early in our marriage, Alan had served as temporary commandant at what was then called the Police Staff College at Bramshill, a very lovely Jacobean manor house in Hampshire.

‘Yes, and you first met him there, too. He was very keen on his job, and already making a name for himself with the Met. It's a great pity.'

‘At least he's alive, which was pretty iffy there for a while.' I looked again at the rather daunting invitation. ‘I don't suppose there's any money connected with this “whacking great honour”.'

Alan looked slightly shocked. ‘My dear woman, the George Cross is beyond price! It's the highest civilian honour awarded in this country, and jolly few of them have ever been given.'

I made suitably awed noises, still wondering how the poor man was going to buy his tea and biscuits. ‘Why has he invited us to the ceremony?'

‘He has no family, I believe,' Alan said thoughtfully. ‘No brothers or sisters, as I recall, and he never married. Too wrapped up in his job. Really, Scotland Yard was his life. He's always given me far too much credit for his rapid rise, and I've suspected he views me as a sort of father figure. Actually, I'm a bit touched.'

Alan looked away, and I smiled to myself. An Englishman is even more reluctant to display emotion than his American counterpart.

We lost no time in replying, including an invitation for Jonathan to join us afterwards for the best luncheon London could provide. ‘Although he may not eat a lot,' Alan told me. ‘The last I heard, his tum still wasn't quite in full working order.'

I started planning what on earth to wear to the palace, and the Ivy afterwards. At least I didn't have to worry about a hat. The problem was finding an outfit that worked with one of my many hats and didn't make me look as if I were going to Royal Ascot.

The great day dawned inauspiciously as to weather. Chilly and wet, with an angry sky promising more rain and probably thunder, it nevertheless failed to dampen my spirits. Alan and I had taken the train into London the night before, since driving in London is not only a penance, but also very expensive, what with parking and the congestion charge. We would have had to take a cab to the palace anyway. And besides, I wanted to be fresh and look my best for the occasion. ‘I know it's not about me,' I told Alan. ‘But it's the one time in my life that I'll get to see the Queen, up close and personal, and I intend to milk it for all it's worth.'

We had opted to spend two nights at the Goring. That venerable hostelry is way out of our class, but besides its convenient location just around the corner from the palace, it has beautiful, comfortable rooms and an attentive staff, and if that weren't enough, it was the hotel where the Middletons stayed just before Kate and William's wedding. This occasion wasn't quite that posh, but we felt it rated high enough on our life list to justify the expense.

Alan was inclined to be a bit cross as we were dressing in our lovely room. That meant he was nervous, but being English and male, he wasn't about to say so. I didn't mind showing my own nerves. I dropped my earrings twice, once perilously close to the drain in the bathroom sink. I dithered over whether my dress was appropriate, though fortunately, having brought only the one upscale outfit, I couldn't change my mind.

Neither of us was in any state to want breakfast, nor did we drink as much coffee as usual. ‘Because,' I said to Alan, ‘it would be perfectly awful to need the loo right in the middle of the ceremony.'

‘Don't even think about it,' he said. His tone wasn't exactly a growl, but it was about as close as Alan ever comes.

We were much too early at the palace. The doorman at the Goring was very efficient at whistling up a taxi, and in fact, had it not been for the rain, we could easily have walked the short distance and still arrived early. However, the palace staff were no doubt accustomed to the nerves of guests, and showed us to the Ballroom with courteous aplomb.

We'd been in it before, accompanying our friends on tours of the State Rooms. But arriving as an invited guest felt completely different. Chairs were set in neat rows, leaving a broad aisle up the middle towards the dais at the end. An orchestra in the gallery at the back of the room played softly as the guests came in, everyone as subdued as if we were in church.

‘Where's Jonathan?' I whispered, craning my neck.

‘Those receiving honours go to a briefing room where they're told what's going to happen.'

‘Oh.' After a pause, ‘I think I'm going to cry,' I whispered.

‘Stiff upper lip, old girl,' he murmured, and patted my hand.

It seemed a long time, but eventually everyone was seated and the music changed. Five men in elaborate uniforms marched in and took their places on the dais.

‘Beefeaters?' I said to Alan, surprised. ‘What do they have to do with it?'

‘Shh! Not Beefeaters. I'll tell you later.'

We stood, and the Queen entered, and they played ‘God Save the Queen', and my eyes were swimming. I fumbled in my pocket, discovered I'd forgotten a tissue, and nudged Alan, who handed me his handkerchief with a tolerant smile.

And then the herald, or page, or whatever they call him, spoke the name ‘Jonathan Quinn,' and Jonathan entered, walking stiffly and carrying a cane, but erect and unassisted. He bowed and the Queen came forward to him, smiling, and fixed his medal to his chest. They spoke for a moment, then a handshake, a bow, and Jonathan went off somewhere.

I'm afraid I don't remember much of the rest. There were many more honorees, though none as exalted as Jonathan, and they tended to blend together. I believe that the Queen had a little conversation with each of them before shaking hands. I remember the handshakes, because they surprised me; I'd had some notion that one never shook hands with the Queen.

It was all over in about an hour, and we were directed to a room where we could meet Jonathan and take him off to lunch.

Our friend was looking a bit pale, and I thought he was probably in pain, but he denied it. ‘No, no! Never better! It isn't every day one shakes Her Majesty's hand, is it?'

‘It certainly isn't every day that someone is awarded the George Cross, old man,' said Alan. ‘Or did they decide to take it away? I don't see it.'

Jonathan held out a leather box, and opened it for our inspection. ‘They took it off and put it in here for safe keeping. I gather one doesn't simply flash it about on the street.'

I was secretly rather disappointed. I expected the ‘highest civilian honour' to be something elaborate, perhaps even jewelled. This was a small, rather plain silver cross with some sort of medallion at the centre, hanging from a blue ribbon. Not, I thought, very impressive at all. I made politely admiring noises.

I've been told I'd never make a poker player. Jonathan gave me a twisted smile. ‘Not much, is it? To look at, I mean. But then, I don't quite see why they gave it to me at all. I was only doing my duty.'

I looked at the lines of pain on his face, his shaking hand, his pallor, and my throat closed up again. Even Alan had to clear his throat before he could speak.

‘Your duty, Jonathan, was to try to contain an explosive situation, to keep injuries to a minimum, and if possible to aid the military chaps to apprehend the terrorists. Saving that child was a pure act of gallantry, and I'll hear no more nonsense about not deserving this award.'

‘You said they weren't Beefeaters, Alan,' I said, to change the subject. ‘They certainly have the exact same uniform. Explain.'

‘I'm afraid the explanation may leave you as confused as ever. They're called – the ones we saw today – the Yeomen of the Guard. And yes, their uniform is almost exactly like that of the Yeomen Warders, the ones at the Tower. The palace ones wear a sash draped from one shoulder, the only difference I've ever noted.'

‘And Gilbert and Sullivan . . . well, mostly Gilbert, I suppose . . . compounded the problem when he called the Tower ones by the wrong name. You're right. I didn't need to know.'

‘But now you do. And I suggest, Jonathan, that we make our way out and head for the Ivy before Dorothy and I both perish of starvation. We were too agitated to eat our breakfasts, young man, and all on your account.'