Avalon Read Free

shouted someone from the back.
    “Shut up, and you’ll hear it!”
    “Listen!” hissed the crowd.
    “The King is dead,” intoned Jonathan Trent. “I repeat: Edward the Ninth, King of England, is dead. Turning to our correspondent, Kevin Clark, on the Portuguese island of Madeira, we bring you this report.”
    The announcement sent a rumble through the room. “Well, I’ll be… Did you hear that?” asked Calum.
    “I can’t hear a thing,” James complained.
    Instantly, the scene changed to a fresh-faced Kevin Clark, holding a microphone and pressing his left palm against his ear. He was standing in front of a large, modern-looking building in the dark, and he was saying, “I am here outside the Hospital Assunção, the medical facility where the body of the King was taken earlier this evening — about eight o’clock unofficially — by ambulance from his villa in Funchal. Initial reports, yet to be confirmed, indicate that the King suffered gunshot wounds and was pronounced dead on arrival in the trauma room.”
    “I’ll be…“ whispered Douglas. “The old bastard really is dead.”
    “It is not known at this hour,” continued the foreign correspondent, “the circumstances surrounding the incident. I am told the Portuguese authorities have mounted a preliminary investigation, and we expect to be issued a report within the hour.”
    The scene switched back to Jonathan Trent in the London studio. “Thank you, Kevin. Can you tell us the reaction of the British Consul in Madeira?”
    “I can indeed, Jonathan,” replied Kevin with suitable gravity. “The consulate staff is, of course, well aware of the implications of this tragic event, and are extending their full cooperation to the authorities to aid in the investigation. I have been told that the Consul has been in contact with Number Ten, and that a statement will be issued by the Prime Minister. We have not been privy to the —”
    “I’ll have to stop you there, Kevin,” said Jonathan Trent, breaking in, “but it looks like that statement is about to be made. We go now to Ronald Metcalf at Number Ten Downing Street.”
    The screen changed to a man in a trench coat with his collar up, standing hunch-shouldered outside a rain-streaked Georgian town house. Television lights lit up the night, glaring off the familiar black-enameled door. Policemen formed a cordon behind the press and television reporters, all of whom were jostling for better position.
    “We have just received word that the Prime Minister is about to make a statement,” Ronald Metcalf informed the viewers.
    “Tell us something we don’t bloody know already!” shouted someone from the back of the pub — who was in turn shouted down by those around him.
    James found himself leaning forward to hear what was being said.
    “It could be any moment…. We are waiting for… there — it looks as if the Prime Minister is coming out now.”
    The picture shifted to the front entrance as the shiny black door opened and Prime Minister Thomas Waring emerged, looking distinctly grave and concerned, his compact, athletic form severe in a close-tailored black suit and deep blue tie. Accompanied by a swarm of aides, one of whom held an umbrella over his boss’s head, the Prime Minister paused to allow the pressmen a photo opportunity. Then, disdaining the offered umbrella, he braved the drizzle and walked quickly towards the bank of microphones to the staccato click of camera shutters and the strobelike bursts of their flashes.
    Stepping before the massed mikes, he looked at the paper in his hand, waiting for the buzz to quiet down. When he sensed the moment was right, he raised his head and, in solemn, subdued tones, said, “I have prepared a brief announcement.”
    He paused, swallowed, and began reading. “A little over an hour ago, the Home Office confirmed the report that the King of England was found grievously wounded at his villa in Madeira and rushed to hospital where he was