Chapter Twelve

For most of his long life Sir Gregory Collimore had been in the service of the Royal Family, and for many years now he had been Comptroller of the Queen’s Household at Windsor Castle. But for most of his long life, Sir Gregory had had a very bad habit. He smoked cigarettes, lots of them, every day. And one day, before Titus was so very much older, Sir Gregory’s bad habit almost caused a disaster.

It happened like this.

The Comptroller came out of his office, closing the door behind him, and made his rather slow way along the corridors towards his private quarters. In an ashtray on his office desk lay the end of his latest cigarette. Maybe he had forgotten to stub it out, maybe he hadn’t stubbed it out properly, but it was still alight.

Then a little puff of wind came in through the open window, and the cigarette end rolled off the ashtray and on to some papers that lay on the desk. By a lucky chance Titus was on his way from the Queen’s sitting room to the great drawing room, to pay a visit to his mother and all the other corgis, when he smelled smoke. A dog’s sense of smell is many, many times sharper than a human’s, and it was immediately plain to Titus that something was burning.

That was nothing unusual, for there were dozens of fires of coal or logs all over Windsor Castle. But this smell, Titus’s nose told him, was not of coal or logs. It was of burning paper. Just as he had been in the matter of the burgling footman and the overflowing bath, Titus was immediately on the alert. Something, he knew, was wrong. Someone must be told about it.

At that precise moment Prince Philip came in sight, marching along the corridor, and Titus turned and ran towards him. Now, though he cordially disliked almost all his wife’s dogs, there was something about this particular one that had rather taken the Duke’s fancy, and he said (in quite a pleasant voice), ‘Hullo there, Titus. What’s the hurry?’

By now the smell of burning paper was very strong in the dog’s little nose, though it had not yet reached the man’s much bigger one, and in his anxiety Titus began to tug at the Royal trouser turn-ups.

‘Belay that!’ growled the Duke of Edinburgh. ‘What the devil d’you think you’re playing at?’ But Titus continued to tug and to whine and then to run a little way towards the burning smell and then back, again and again, till at last the Duke got the message and followed. Now he too smelled the smoke and broke into a run. Titus ran directly to the door of Sir Gregory Collimore’s office and scratched at it, and the Duke flung it open, to see a great many papers burning merrily away on the Comptroller’s desk, itself now alight. Now was the moment when Prince Philip’s naval training came into play.

‘England expects every man will do his duty!’ he shouted, and his duty indeed he did, regardless of his own safety. There was no fire party to be summoned nor fire hoses to be brought to bear, as there would have been on board ship. But the Duke saw immediately that, in the absence of water, the growing fire must quickly be smothered. But with what? There was no handy rug – the floor of the Comptroller’s office was close-carpeted – but on the wall behind there hung above the burning desk a large picture, a portrait of Sir Gregory Collimore in full ceremonial dress.

Quickly the Duke of Edinburgh yanked the portrait from its hangings and somehow found the strength (for it was very heavy) to slam the painted Sir Gregory down upon the fire, face first, and thus to extinguish the flames.

‘Phew!’ he said, mopping his Royal brow. ‘That could have been very nasty, Titus. In fact, if it hadn’t been for you, it would have been very nasty. Come on, old chap, we’ll go and tell Madge. This will be worth a good few custard creams to you. Might even get one myself if I’m lucky.’

When the Queen was told, her first thought was for her favourite. ‘You’re not hurt, Titus, are you?’ she said. ‘You haven’t burned your paws?’

‘I put the fire out, you know, Madge,’ said the Duke in a rather hurt voice. He held out his hands, black from his firefighting efforts. ‘And my paws are dirty.’

‘Yes, yes, Philip, so you said. But it was my clever little Titus that gave the alarm again.’ She rang for a footman. When the custard creams came, she began to feed them to Titus, disregarding the ten pairs of eyes (nine corgis and a Duke) that were watching hungrily.

‘He’s a king among dogs, don’t you think, Philip?’ she said.

‘Well, I’m a prince among men.’

‘Oh, all right,’ said the Queen. ‘You can have one if you like.’