The Corpse of St James's Read Free Page A

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?’
    â€˜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.
    â€˜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.’
    â€˜You said they weren’t Beefeaters, Alan,’ I said, to change the subject. ‘They certainly have the exact same uniform. Explain.’
    â€˜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.’
    â€˜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.’
    â€˜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.’
    We descended the grand staircase, very slowly because of Jonathan’s bad legs, and paused at the bottom to catch our breath, or at least for Jonathan to catch his.
    The foyer was milling with honorees, guests and staff. After Jonathan had recovered, we picked our way through with care, lest Jonathan be accidentally buffeted and lose his precarious balance. One of the staff members materialized by his side, and said, ‘Let me help you, or you’ll never get through that lot, Cousin Jonathan.’
    â€˜Oh,’ said Jonathan, his voice rather flat. ‘Jemima.’
    â€˜You’d forgotten I work here, hadn’t you?’ The young woman laced her arm through his and propelled him through the crowd, smilingly but firmly making way. Alan and I trailed in their wake until we finally reached the quieter haven of the Quadrangle.
    â€˜All right, then? Good!’