And there were also a determined few who hung around the basement door of the house, offering money to household staff for a story.

Ainslie had called a below-stairs meeting.

‘If I catch anyone,’ he had told his assembled team, ‘speaking to a reporter, passing a note to a reporter, or receiving money from these grubby Fleet Street vermin, I shall see to it that they are sacked immediately without reference. Everything you hear or see that is said or done in this house is top secret. Do you understand me?’

There was a shuffling of feet and a murmured, ‘Yes, Mr Ainslie.’

‘The King and Queen must trust us. That is our duty. This is their home, their sanctuary, away from public interest.’ Ainslie had swept his eyes around the room, searching for any guilty faces. ‘If you have even the slightest suspicion that someone in this household is passing information to reporters, I am asking you to come to my room, at once, and give me that person’s name.’

‘You’re asking us to snake on our friends?’ exclaimed the under-cook.

Ainslie straightened his ramrod back further. ‘I think you will find that anyone prepared to betray Their Majesties are not your friends, or mine. Anyone with information will remain anonymous and the accused will be given a fair examination. But if the evidence is too strong to be refuted’ – he gave them another sweep of his steely eyes – ‘may God have mercy on their souls.’ He paused, then added, ‘God save the King!’

Closing her eyes, Marion gave herself up to the lumpy springs of the scratchy woollen seat. She wanted to make clear to her travelling companions that she didn’t wish to be spoken to.

Now the train had left the station and was in steady moment, the older woman opposite her pulled some knitting from her bag and turned to the young couple. ‘Off home for Christmas?’

‘Yes,’ said the young man.

‘Work in London, do you?’

‘Yes. We both do.’ He turned to the young woman next to him and squeezed her hand. ‘My fiancée and I.’

‘Fiancée!’ The woman sounded thrilled. ‘When is the happy day?’

‘Well, Florrie and I have to tell our parents first.’

‘It’s sort of their Christmas present.’ Marion did not open her eyes, but assumed this information came from Florrie.

‘How exciting.’ The woman had a pitch to her voice that was extraordinarily irritating. Marion thought she could sense one of her headaches coming on. ‘You are not going to elope then?’

‘My mam and dad would kill me.’ Florrie again.

‘But so romantic.’ The woman’s knitting needles were clacking at an irritating pace. ‘I reckon Mrs Simpson and …’ She stopped knitting for a moment. ‘What’s the King’s new name?’

‘Duke of Windsor,’ her husband said.

‘That’s it. I reckon she and the Duke of Windsor ought to have eloped. They could have come back to Buckingham Palace and told everyone, too late to abdicate then. That’s what I said, didn’t I, Ronald?’