It had seemed that the King was dying. The operation had gone successfully. The offending pouch was out, and had not burst in the process, though when the forceps laid it on the receiving tray, it had exploded with an alarming energy, producing an intolerable stench. Many had all but run for the doors. But the King himself seemed to be drifting away. Those who were accustomed to death-beds knew the signs: the pallor, the sense of fading away, the arrested breathing. No breath at all, seemingly, for an unconscionable time and then a deep, slow, sad breath, more like a sigh. People had seen it too many times not to recognize it. Dr Barlow slipped from the room and used the telephone. If they had lost the King they should at least make the most of the death-bed scene. It was advantageous to have heads of state present when a monarch died. Disraeli had been present when Prince Albert passed on. Barlow tried Lord Salisbury, who was too indisposed to come to the telephone but sent a message saying he should be in touch with Balfour at Carlton Gardens. Dr Barlow did so. Balfour walked down the Prince of York Steps into the Mall and was inside Buck House within fifteen minutes. Barlow waited for him.
When Arthur Balfour arrived he came in the company of a young woman he introduced as Princess Ida, currently involved in experiments for the S.P.R. – the Society for Psychical Research. She had, he claimed, powers as a healer. She should be allowed into the King’s room.
‘It can do no harm, man, it might do some good.’
Barlow hesitated. He feared coming up against Treves’s aggressive scepticism, or Laking’s supercilious raising of eyebrows, but he was an older man than either of them, nearing seventy, and had known many strange things happen. He would like to end up a baronet. The Queen’s Indian waiter had assured him such was his ‘karma’, but the Queen was dead, and the Indian servant was dead, and the promise had not yet come true. Besides, it was hardly prudent to quarrel with Prime Ministers, though this one was not like any other he had known. And Princess Ida was a sweet, gentle girl, and titled. He let her into the death scene. No one noticed. The laboured breathing had almost stopped. The family wept. Barlow had been with the family long enough to read what was going on. The Prince of Wales, waiting for the mantle of power to descend, looked frightened. His wife May was weeping, yet conscious of relief to come: now at last her children would be out of Alexandra’s clutches; she could give them the proper disciplined upbringing they needed.
The King breathed his last, or seemed to. The Dowager Queen stood, raised her arms to heaven, and wailed. Princess Ida slipped into her empty chair, and watched the still, calm face for a moment. All passion spent.
‘You poor man,’ she said, and stroked his cheek with her long pale finger, weeping a little. She was thinking of her father.
‘What the devil—’ said Treves—
‘This is too bad!’ said Laking—
Alexandra moved to slap the girl’s hand away—
Princess Ida looked surprised, a little aggrieved and entirely innocent, and drew back her hand, reproachfully.
The King’s eyes shot open. He stared into space for a second and then sat bolt upright. He winced, as the stitches in his belly stretched. He looked round the room.
‘George,’ enquired the King, and then thundered, ‘George!’
George stepped forward. The lamentation in the room took its time to subside. It was hard to make sense of what had happened. The doctors blinked. But Alexandra now stroked the King’s living cheek and her tears were of simple joy. She did not care what had happened, Isobel knew. Alexandra loved the King. It was enough that the King lived.
‘George,’ said the King, loud and clear, ‘your time has not yet come. I have work to do.’
He closed his eyes and fell asleep, a deep, healthy, pink-cheeked slumber.
‘A miracle!’ cried Barlow.
‘A successful operation,’ said Treves.
‘The King has survived,’ said Sir Francis. ‘It is for you to inform the nation, Mr Balfour.’