Gumble was there also, looking extremely displeased with the situation. His request to go inside had been flatly turned down, there would be no interview and he had to stand there like some common shop assistant, with not the slightest chance of coming up with anything worth writing about at all.

I commiserated. 'But there wasn't much chance he would have said anything interesting anyway,' I concluded.

'Not the point. I wanted an interview. What he said was irrelevant,' he replied.

'You could always make it up,' I suggested.

'Well, in fact, that's what got me in trouble in the first place,' he said reluctantly. 'I quoted Habibullah Khan on the reforms he was introducing in Afghanistan. Unfortunately, he was out of the country at the time and had just reversed them all, so he complained . . .'

'Bad luck,' I said.

'Yes. So no making things up for a while. I do wish they'd get a move on. I want my lunch . . .'

I had stopped listening. I was staring over at the other line of spectators, a blur of expectant faces, all patiently waiting. Except for one, who came into sharp focus as I looked, then looked again. A poorly dressed woman, with a cheap hat pulled down over her face, clutching a handbag. I knew she had seen me. I could see that my face had registered, that she was hoping I had not seen her; she took a step back, and disappeared behind a burly man and a couple of squawking children who were waving little flags on sticks.

'Oh, my goodness,' I said, and looked up and down the row of people, to see if I could catch sight of her again. Nothing. But I did see PC Armstrong, my sceptical constable of the day before.

'Still hunting anarchists, are we sir?' he said cheerfully when I walked up to him – this was a long time ago; there were no barriers or controls on people then.

'Constable . . .'

'Is he here, then?'

'Not that I've seen, but . . .'

'Well, let me know and we'll deal with him,' he said complacently.

'I'm certain he is, though.'

Armstrong looked sceptical but ever so slightly worried. 'Why?'

'I've seen someone he knows.' I pointed, and he called over other policeman on duty. Both then strolled over and began walking up and down, looking out for anyone they considered suspicious.

They had seen nothing and found no one by the time the great gates swung open, and a murmur of expectation swept through the crowd. In the distance a line of three black automobiles, Rolls-Royces, came slowly down the driveway; the canvas tops were open, so they wouldn't obscure the view. As they turned the bend, I could see that the leading car had two men in the back, resplendent in uniform; the second had two women. They were wearing hats, tied over their heads with scarves.

'Constable, stop the cars, for God's sake!' I said as I ran up to him. 'Close the gate!'

Armstrong panicked. He could control the crowds as long as all was well, but wasn't capable of doing anything other than watch people, and tell himself that everything was fine. 'Don't worry,' he said. 'Don't worry, don't worry . . .' and his lips kept moving even when he stopped speaking, as though he was reciting a prayer.

And it was too late, anyway. The big black machine was coming through the gate, slowing down so that the crowds could applaud, and see. And to allow the cars behind to catch up and make a proper procession of it. I was looking up and down the line of faces, desperate to see Elizabeth, convinced that something dreadful was about to happen. It was the way she was clutching her handbag which worried me most; all I could see in my mind was her hands, the knuckles white, as she held tightly onto that cheap canvas bag, held it up over her stomach, so she could put her hand into it . . .

The cars were now going at no more than two miles an hour, the flags were waving, the people were cheering. The King-Emperor of Great Britain and the Indias sat on the right, looking bored. The Tsar of all the Russias was by his side, gazing at the crowd with the air of someone who found all this populace slightly distasteful, and then I realised my mistake. I saw a man, a big burly man, wearing a suit like a bank clerk, step forward some ten yards away from me, his hand underneath his jacket. I shouted, and he turned to look at me, then dismissed me from his thoughts. I was ten yards from him, he was only ten yards from the car, but it was getting closer all the time, and I was just standing there, speechless and immobile.

But a man can run faster than a slow-moving car. Much faster, when he is terrified. I began to run, and the closer I got, the better I could see. I could see his hand pulling out from under his jacket, saw the black thing in it, got closer still and saw the barrel. And I saw it being lifted, and pointing just as I got close enough to leap, heard the explosion as I fell, then another one as I collapsed on the ground. And I felt the most incredible, unbelievable pain, which blotted out almost everything else, except for the one last image as I looked up from the dust and gravel, and saw Elizabeth standing over me, gun in her hand, a look of wildness in her eyes.

CHAPTER 29

I have read much nonsense over the years about being shot; the main things being firstly that it doesn't hurt, and secondly that the noise sounds more like a faint popping, rather than a loud bang. Rubbish. Firstly, the noise of the gun going off sounded like the crack of doom; I was sure my eardrums had burst. Secondly it hurt like the very devil, and from the very moment that the bullet entered my shoulder. And then it hurt more, until I lost consciousness, and hurt still more when I woke up again in hospital. In my case, at least, it was also untrue that I could remember nothing, wondered where I was and what had happened. I remembered perfectly well, thank you very much. Then I went back to sleep.

It was morning, I guessed, when I woke up again, and I stared at the ceiling, gathering my thoughts, before showing any sign that I was conscious. But I got an unpleasant surprise when I turned my head to look around. Sitting beside me, reading a newspaper was the small, almost dainty, figure of the man I knew to be Henry Cort, a cup of tea on a small table by his side.

'Mr Braddock,' he said with the faintest of smiles. 'And how are you?'

'I don't know,' I said.

'Ah. Then let me tell you. You have been shot.'

'I know that.'

'I suppose you do. Not too seriously, I'm glad to say, although it made a nasty wound and you have lost a lot of blood. If it hadn't been for your friend Mr Gumble, who knows something about bullet wounds from his time in Afghanistan, you would have bled to death, probably. However, the doctors tell me you will recover perfectly well, in time.'

'She shot me.'

'Yes. Yes, so it seems.'

'What happened?'

'Why don't you read this? It's the dispatch penned by Mr Gumble for The Times, and so we know it must be of the highest accuracy.'

He gave me the morning paper, then summoned a nurse to help me sit up enough to be able to read it. This took a very long time, but at least it gave me an opportunity to get back to my senses. The pain helped as well – it wasn't that bad, but it reminded me I was still alive. I was given some water, and tucked into bed properly and fussed over quite charmingly. All of that took about half an hour, during which time Cort sat quite impassively, doing nothing and managing not to look bored. Then, when I was feeling tolerably human again, he once more handed me the newspaper.

'Feminist outrage at Cowes,' I read. I looked at him.

'Terrible, these women, eh?' he said.

I frowned, and read some more.

Cowes – An outrage was offered to our Royal Visitors today by a suffragist in what is regarded here as a childish and unseemly exhibition. An attempt to embarrass the people of this country by the parading of supposed grievances in front of visitors is considered another blow which women suffragists have dealt to their own cause. Miss Muriel Williamson let off firecrackers close to the Royal Party as they were leaving Osborne House, having paid their respects in the death Chamber of our late Queen, in a manner deliberately designed to alarm. The fact that it could well have been a much more serious matter gives considerable cause for concern. Miss Williamson, who we understand has only lately been released from an asylum . . .