Chapter Seven

‘GERRIMOFF! GERRIMOFF!!’

It was a passing maid who first heard the frantic yells coming from the Queen’s bedroom, and she ran to tell other members of staff, and they alerted the officer commanding the Castle guard, and he telephoned the Comptroller of Her Majesty’s Household. Sir Gregory arrived at the doorway of the Royal bedroom to see before him an extraordinary sight.

Inside there stood an officer of the Grenadier Guards and half a dozen guardsmen, weapons at the ready. Scattered all over the carpet, Sir Gregory could see, were rings and brooches and earrings and necklaces and a silver jewel case, open and empty. Among all these valuables Sidney the footman hopped and howled, one of his ankles held, in a bulldog grip, by a furiously growling corgi.

‘Gerrimoff!’ he still cried feebly, and at a signal from the officer, one of the guardsmen laid down his rifle and knelt and managed to prise open the dog’s jaws and thus release the prisoner. And a prisoner of course Sidney was destined to be, for his guilt was plain to the onlookers (and indeed his pockets were full of rings) and, in due course, to the judge.

The footman had been caught in the act of stealing the Queen’s jewels, and caught, what’s more, by the cunning and courage of one of Her Majesty’s corgis.

After the soldiers had taken the man away to be placed in police custody, Sir Gregory Collimore went to his office to report the matter by telephone to the Queen at Buckingham Palace.

‘Nabbed him, did he, Sir Gregory?’ she said. ‘Got him by the ankle, eh?’

‘Yes, ma’am. The man’s leg was quite severely lacerated, I understand.’

‘Serves him right,’ said the Queen. ‘Which of my corgis did the deed?’

‘I am told it was the one to whom Your Majesty formally introduced me, some months ago. His name, as I recall, ma’am, is Titus.’

‘My Titus!’ cried the Queen. ‘I’ll come straight back! I must reward him!’

Reward him? Sir Gregory thought to himself as he put down the phone.

What’s she going to do – give him a medal? It’ll have to be the DCM. (Distinguished Corgi Medal), and he left his office, smiling at his own joke.

In the Palace, the Queen put down her receiver and turned to the Duke of Edinburgh. ‘Did you hear that, Philip?’ she said.

‘How could I hear it, Madge?’ Prince Philip replied. ‘You answered the phone, not me. But I gathered that one of your wretched corgis had bitten someone.’

‘It was Titus. He nabbed one of the footmen. Bit him.’

‘In the foot?’

‘No, in the ankle. In my bedroom.’

‘Why? Hadn’t the man given him enough custard creams?’

‘Don’t be silly, Philip. He was robbing my jewel case.’

‘Who, the corgi?’

‘No, the footman, of course.’

‘Which one?’

‘Sidney.’

‘Is that the fair-haired one, Madge?’

‘Yes.’

‘Never liked the cut of his jib,’ said Prince Philip. ‘Eyes too close together. And his ears – too small. Never trust a chap with small ears. Always knew he was a phoney.’

‘Anyway,’ said the Queen, ‘we are going straight back to Windsor.’

‘We?’

‘I am going straight back.’

‘Oh I see. It was the Royal “we”.’

‘Philip,’ said the Queen coldly. ‘We are not amused.’

As soon as she arrived back at Windsor Castle, the Queen went into the great drawing room, where all her corgis were, as usual, gathered. All, as usual, got off armchairs and sofas and assembled around the Royal ankles, ears flattened, bottoms waggling, but on this day the Queen had eyes for one only.

‘Titus!’ she said. ‘You are a hero!’ And she tugged at a long bell pull that hung beside the fireplace.

The black-moustached footman knocked and entered.

‘Custard creams, please, John,’ said the Queen. ‘Nine of them. Plus three chocolate digestives. And a pot of tea for me.’