David protested until he was practically blue in the face, proclaiming, ‘You cannot treat my brother like a stuffed turkey, butler. He is a Windsor – the King!’ Jon was acutely aware of this, had been for thirty-three years and had never forgotten it, but he didn’t see another way forward.
The food trolley was, as previously illustrated, not what one might think it to be – no doubt David was conjuring to mind a rickety tea trolley, pushed by an elderly woman around a bingo game. No, the trolley was professional – made to transport large quantities of food as it had this afternoon. It closer resembled a gurney, and the irony of that was now plain to see.
Jon felt some misgivings about going to get the trolley himself. He would have to leave the Royal Family alone. The alternative, however, was far worse – sending one of them to get it. For starters, it sounded absurd to him that he would boss them around, although he was sure Matthew would have done the deed with no fuss. Secondly, and more importantly, it would be isolating a member of the Royal Family and leaving them vulnerable. No, it had to be Jon, so he went.
As Jon retrieved it from the upper kitchen, he was wishing, with all his heart, that he would happen upon Tony Speck. It was untrue that the nightmare would be over – it would still be very much in motion – but Jon himself would be able to step back into a role more natural to him. He had had to learn to be the leader in the kitchen – it had taken years. He could not be the leader everywhere else. But Tony Speck was not there. The halls of Balmoral were silent, eerie, and oppressive – business as usual. Tony Speck had to be outside in the cold to miss Jon’s call. He hoped the blizzard hadn’t claimed him.
The kitchen, unlike Speck, was still there, just as he had left it. The steam tables were still humming with life, still in their cooling cycle even though they had been turned off with dessert. The place needed cleaning – a once-over with a cloth and the antibacterial scrub. The washing up was sitting on the counter, waiting to be loaded into the dishwasher. It begged to be done – washing up had never looking so inviting. If he finished this load, there was more to be done in the kitchen downstairs – he could make a day of it. He could pretend that the tragedy of the drawing room had never occurred – such was the promise of those dirty plates.
But no – there was no running away from this. He clutched the trolley and started rolling it back to disaster. Before he left the kitchen, he tried to use the walkie-talkie again, to make sure it was not his location that had been the issue. It was not – still no answer from their protector.
Back in the drawing room the Royals watched Jon as he parked his steel hearse. Matthew and Crockley, still hesitant and coughing, were trying to explain to the women what was discussed earlier. It seemed like they had come to some sort of understanding, and Matthew and Crockley started moving to the King.
Jon followed, trying to ignore the stares of David and Marjorie. The duo had reunited and were watching proceedings with glassy eyes – David with a comforting arm around his sister-in-law. Jon checked where the last inhabitants of the room were, tired of wilting under the eldest Royals’ gazes, and found them in the far corner. Prince Martin was sitting, constantly tugging on his tie, finally resolving to take it off entirely. The twin Princesses were hovering, trying not to cry.
As Jon came to the King’s side, and the three men started to plan how they were to transport his body to the trolley, a fresh shriek came from beyond them. Emeline was protesting again.
‘It’s better this way, Aunt,’ Matthew said, as they assessed the King. ‘We will put him to bed and it will be as if he is asleep – and the rest of us can see what to do to get us out of this predicament.’
This seemed to be enough (although – how could it ever be enough?) and Emeline grew silent.
Jon, Matthew, and Crockley talked through the approach, until there was nothing left but to carry it out. They bent to the King – Jon taking his shoulders, Matthew his legs, and Crockley tentatively hovering over events in case of emergency. The man had started to lose colour in his face and seemed like he might faint. Jon hoped an emergency would not happen, as he wasn’t sure how much help Crockley could be in his current state.
Jon counted to three and they hoisted the King upwards, carrying him as quickly as possible to the trolley. One of the King’s arms, which had been placed across his chest, became loose in the movement and fell, hanging in midair. Crockley tried to right it, but there was really nothing to be done.
As they got to the trolley, Jon saw that one of the others had placed a cushion at the head of the trolley for the King to rest his head on. Martin was now standing at the trolley, holding a blanket ready to drape over the King. Martin nodded to Jon. Jon felt a surge of emotion for the youngest Royal, who seemed to be both coping incredibly well with his grief and acting the most pragmatically of the remaining Royals.
They set the King down as softly as possible, the cushion doing well to support his head. The King’s face was a horrific sight – the face of a tremendous battle ending in defeat. Jon was almost thankful when Martin stepped up to give him the blanket. Matthew took it instead and, with a sense of duty, covered his grandfather.
Prince Matthew turned to his family. ‘We will take him to his bed, and final words can be said later.’
There was a murmur of discomfort somewhere in the room, although Jon could not tell from where. If he were looking, he might have known, but his eyes were frozen on the King’s face. Although the King was now covered by the blanket, Jon knew that, underneath, the sight was still there. King Eric had died in confusion and pain – possibly at the hands of someone in this room. Anger and sorrow swirled in Jon’s heart, combining and coalescing into a need to find who had done this and bring them to justice. As he glanced up, with a new sense of purpose, Crockley turned back to them.
‘Look, if it’s all the same to everyone,’ Thomas Crockley mumbled, ‘I rather need a sit-down.’ Jon looked at him – really looked at him – for the first time in quite a while. The man was incredibly green around the gills, and was slick with an almost slimy sweat. There was something happening with Crockley, and it was unfortunate that it was merely a footnote at this time.
‘Then I am coming too.’ Princess Emeline had stepped to their side.
Maud, from behind them, began, ‘Emeline, I don’t think – ’ Her arms were out to Emeline – her life preserver was leaving her. Without it, she might drown. She needed something, some kind of direction.
Jon suddenly had an idea. He pulled his notepad and a pen from his pocket and went to Maud. ‘Princess Maud, may I ask something of you?’
The Princess faltered. ‘Well . . . yes . . . I suppose you may.’
Jon tried to smile. It didn’t work. The events of the day hooked onto the edges of his mouth and forced them downwards. ‘If you could, could you note down the movements of this room this morning? I want to know when everyone entered or exited and specifically if anyone was alone.’
Maud dabbed under her eyes with a handkerchief before taking the notepad. ‘Of course, Jon.’ She simply seemed happy to have a task to undertake; she didn’t think why she was doing it. Jon was hoping that she wouldn’t, and he was happy to give her something to occupy her.
Maud turned away with her new task.
‘I’ll stay here then. I will try to keep morale up here,’ Crockley said, having sunk into a chaise longue.
Emeline, however, was not as sympathetic. ‘I honestly could not care less what you do, Thomas.’
Rather than be offended, Crockley appeared relieved.
Emeline exchanged glances with Jon and Matthew, before her gaze drifted downwards to the mass of her father beneath the blanket upon the trolley. ‘Let us get this done,’ she said.
With a nod between the three of them, Eric Windsor’s final journey began.