I drove on, considerably more cautiously than before, until I came to the main gate of Balmoral. The gatekeeper came out of his funny little octagonal lodge, then recognized me and saluted as he opened the gate. I nodded graciously as I passed. The driveway took me through lush woodland, so much in contrast to the starkness of the bleak moorland around Castle Rannoch. Then the road emerged again and there was Balmoral Castle across its broad expanse of lawn. It looks like any other old and distinguished Scottish castle, with its dramatic towers and ivy covering, but of course, it’s a complete fake, having been built in the 1850s for Queen Victoria. If I’d built something, I would have gone more for comfort and elegance and less for authentic castle feeling.

I drove around to the back of the castle and under the arch that led to the stables and various outbuildings. I parked in-conspicuously and went to look for one of their gillies. Of course, I realized instantly that all the available men would be out acting as beaters for the shoot, so I took the opportunity to do some snooping around. I discovered various tack rooms and saw other ropes hanging in neat coils. From the ease with which I had gained entry, it became clear that almost anyone could have wandered in without being seen—if they had gained admittance to the estate, of course. But then if someone had come on foot over the hills, as opposed to the road, he could probably have found a way onto the estate, again without being spotted.

I checked some of the other ropes and they all seemed to be in perfect condition, and I remembered that Siegfried had said that he and Prince George had also laid out the rope to see how long it was, and hadn’t seen any defects. Wouldn’t they have noticed if someone had almost cut it through at one point? Did this then indicate that the damage had been done after the rope reached Castle Rannoch, the night before the climb, in fact?

I had no way of finding out. I gave up and went to pay my respects to Their Majesties, King George and Queen Mary. As I came out into the stable yard I heard the sound of children’s voices, and there were the two little princesses, holding hands with a woman I supposed to be their governess. They looked up in surprise and then the older princess’s face broke into an enchanting smile. “I remember you,” she said. “You’re our cousin Georgiana, aren’t you?”

“I am. And you are Lilibet and this is Margaret.” I smiled back at them.

“You have to say Princess Margaret,” the three-year-old said, wrinkling her little nose, “because I’m a princess.”

“In which case you have to call me Lady Georgiana,” I replied, trying not to smile.