‘Thank you for allowing me to unburden myself for a moment. I shouldn’t have.’

‘That’s what friends are for.’ Marion walked to the door where she turned to look at him. His face gaunt and grey. ‘Where would we be without men like you? Goodnight.’

Chapter Forty-Four

Windsor Castle, 1^st May 1945

Crawfie watched as the two horses were led out of their stables, their hooves crunching on the frozen gravel, their foggy breath streaming from their nostrils. It was a cold start to the month. Today was Lilibet’s day off from her ATS training, so she and Margaret were going riding in the park.

Both horses came to Crawfie and nuzzled her pockets. She always had something for them – this morning it was a carrot each.

The Princesses mounted gracefully. They were beautiful young women now. Lilibet just nineteen. Margaret almost fifteen.

‘See you later, Crawfie,’ they said and trotted off towards the park, followed by their detectives, also on horseback.

‘Goodbye.’ Crawfie waved. The days of the schoolroom were more or less done now; Margaret was quick and clever but easily bored, and wanted nothing more than to telephone her friends and organize small parties.

‘I like her to enjoy herself,’ the Queen had told Crawfie only recently. ‘We don’t need to bother with too much schoolroom now, surely?’

‘As you wish, ma’am. The days are coming when you will need me no longer.’

‘Goodness, no. Dear Crawfie, the girls need you more than ever but in different ways. A companion. A friend.’

Crawfie knew she should have asked then: when could she be spared to marry George? But the moment slipped through her fingers.

She was thirty-six. She would marry George as soon as the war was over. She had promised him that.

She tied her scarf a little tighter under her chin, in the same style as the Queen wore it, and, pulling on her gloves, she set off for a walk. The sun was throwing warmth onto the Long Walk, making the frost twinkle brightly. She shielded her eyes in time to watch the Princesses canter up to the Copper Horse, black silhouettes against the pale sky.

‘Crawfie.’

She heard her name and turned. It was Tommy.

‘Good morning.’ She smiled. ‘You’ve come for a spot of fresh air too?’

‘Do you mind if I join you?’

‘Not at all.’

Since Tommy had told Crawfie about the concentration camps – and she, good to her word, had not told a soul – she had become his trusted reticule of difficult secrets.

He looked around them now as they walked, trying to work out if any of the people around them were spies. The mother with the little boy chasing a puppy? The man on the bench with a newspaper? The old woman plying her basket of lucky heather? He waited until he and Crawfie were both well clear of anyone else, then said, ‘I believe the war is coming to an end.’

Crawfie stopped dead and swivelled her face to him. ‘What?’ she exclaimed in delight, grinning.