Positioned east — west, Buckingham Palace has 775 rooms. The east facade with its sternly imposing grey Portland stone, gilded railings, statuesque guards, vast forecourt and solitary flagpole has been, for close to two centuries, the dominant and majestic global icon of Royalty.
The back of the West Wing, out of sight to all but a privileged selection of the public invited to royal garden parties and those visiting on summer-opening tours, is equally imposing but warmer and more welcoming. Constructed from honey-coloured Bath stone, and designed in a neoclassical style with Corinthian columns and pediments and perfectly proportioned windows and doors, it overlooks, at forty acres, the largest private garden in London.
The centrepiece of the west facade, and protruding handsomely from it, is a bow-fronted section. Copper-domed, columned and exquisitely ballustraded, it houses The King’s sitting room and private office on the first floor, with a fine view of two trees, and across the gardens to the lake. Directly below is the formal Garden Entrance, with a glass awning covering the four steps up to the doorway, beyond which there is both a staircase and a lift.
In a break with royal tradition, Charles and Camilla currently resided at Clarence House, just a few minutes away. It had been King Charles’s London residence since 2003. Before then it was the home of the late Queen Mother. Because of ongoing renovations at Buckingham Palace for the past seven years — which were due to continue for at least another three — they were remaining at Clarence House for the time being.
At 11 a.m. most weekday mornings since acceding to the throne, The King travelled in the State Bentley, driven by the Head Chauffeur, a former Royal Protection Officer, the Royal Standard fluttering from the roof. It was a short journey from Clarence House to Buckingham Palace, where the car pulled up outside the Garden Entrance in the West Wing, at the rear of the Palace.
Normally, the Private Secretary, Sir Peregrine Greaves, would have travelled this short distance in the car with him, and another Royal Protection Officer, using the five-minute journey to discuss the key business of the day. And normally, The King would emerge from the rear left door to be greeted by the charming and ever-ebullient Master of the Royal Household, Major General Sir Thomas Magellan-Lacey, while the Private Secretary would leave by the right-hand door and head into the building.
But today, in the emergency rescheduling that was to affect everything in the coming days, The King arrived at 9 a.m.
Behind Sir Tommy, as normal, stood three liveried footmen, each holding a locked, ancient and very battered leather-bound box. These rectangular boxes were four inches deep, and the dimensions of a small briefcase. Only two people in the world had a key to the Master’s boxes — The King and the Master of the Royal Household, and their exchange was a daily routine. Each head of department had a personal box for their correspondence with His Majesty The King. They contained memos and actions required by King Charles, the urgent ones always handwritten in red ink, which Tommy affectionately called his Red Bombers, and the responses and follow-ups from the respective head of department.
The fact that the footmen stood as usual, holding the boxes, was the only normal thing about today, Tommy thought.
The chauffeur opened the rear door and The King, wearing a black tie with his dark grey suit, stepped out. Tommy was grateful to his wife, Fiona, for reminding him to put on a black tie, too. The former general had an unerring eye for detail, which had served him well during his past ten years in this post under the late Queen Elizabeth before the new King. Tired this morning after only a couple of hours’ sleep, and running on adrenaline and coffee, he’d nearly forgotten about the respectful tie because he’d had so much on his mind in the past twenty-four hours, and so many actions to deal with, which had kept him busy well into the small hours. And from the look on The King’s face, he was going to have even more today.
Greeting his boss with his customary single deferential head-bow, he said, ‘Good morning, Your Majesty.’
‘What the hell’s good about it, Tommy?’ The King retorted.
23
Tuesday 21 November 2023
Hollywood’s legendarily grumpy star W. C. Fields famously said, Start every day off with a smile and get it over with. There were occasional days when Tommy Magellan-Lacey felt that his boss, whom he admired and deeply respected, had taken a leaf out of the actor’s book. This was going to be one.
The King was immensely hard-working but charming, caring and good fun with it. Normally. The flashes of temper that the press loved to pick up on, such as when a pen he was using didn’t work, were in reality few and far between. But when The King did have a mood on him, it always took every ounce of the Master’s tact and diplomacy to contain it. Tommy fully understood how it had been possible, in times long past, for a British monarch in a fit of pique to have a loyal subject’s head lopped off, on a whim. This was a day for walking on eggshells when around The King, he knew. But at least he had prepared as best he could.
As the chauffeur took the boxes from the footmen and handed them the ones from inside the car, King Charles shook his head at the Master. ‘This is unbelievable, Tommy. I mean, poor Peregrine. Terrible, just terrible.’
‘It is, Sir. How is Her Majesty?’
Indicating the Master to follow him, The King walked briskly up the steps of the Garden Entrance and, ignoring the lift — he never took one unless he absolutely had to, always preferring the exercise of walking — he strode up the staircase and entered the magnificently ornate bow-fronted room. The room, hung with spectacular paintings and a treasure trove of objets d’art, had doubled as his late mother’s sitting room and office and was, as the Master recalled, almost exactly as she had left it. Perhaps in time The King would put his own imprint on it, but it was only a year since Queen Elizabeth had died. Too soon.
Following him in, Tommy waited for the footmen to put the two boxes on a table and retire, then closed the panelled door behind him. The King crossed to his desk, which was still covered in tiny items of silverware and priceless ornaments, and again shook his head. Then, venting anger, he said, ‘She’s like that bloody James Bond — shaken — very shaken — but not stirred.’ He gave him a strange look, half smiling, half angered.
‘She’s a strong woman, Sir,’ the Master replied.
‘Too damned strong for her own good. Someone tried to assassinate her, for God’s sake! And she’s just carried on like nothing happened. This is terrible — Peregrine shot dead.’ He shook his head, looking momentarily — and uncharacteristically — bewildered. He sat down at the desk, as if the weight of responsibility was pressing too heavily on his shoulders, then looked up. Softening his tone, he asked, ‘What are we doing to support dear Margot and all the staff, Tommy?’
‘I have this in hand, Sir, rest assured. I’ve spoken to the Apothecary, and he’s ready to see anyone who’s feeling in need of emotional support.’
The Apothecary was the traditional name for the Palace doctor, who held a well-staffed medical centre in the Royal Mews.