The Corpse of St James's Read Free

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.’
    â€˜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.
    â€˜Where’s Jonathan?’ I whispered, craning my neck.
    â€˜Those receiving honours go to a briefing room where they’re told what’s going to happen.’
    â€˜Oh.’ After a pause, ‘I think I’m going to cry,’ I whispered.
    â€˜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.
    â€˜Beefeaters?’ I said to Alan, surprised. ‘What do they have to do with it?’
    â€˜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