‘I see it all too clearly.’ Pulling out every fibre of the courtier within, Tommy concluded the meeting. ‘Mr and Mrs Gould’s motive is to feed our royal family to the masses, like an advertisement for a soap powder. And their only desire is to line their fat pockets. Good day, gentlemen. Do send my regards to the foreign secretary.’

Nottingham Cottage, May 1948

‘Post for you!’ George shouted up the stairs.

‘I’ll be down in a moment!’

Marion was getting ready to go to work. She fastened her string of pearls and looked at her reflection in the long mirror. Her tweed skirt was fitted nicely around her hips and her powder-blue twinset was neat and sensible. The pearls gave the whole outfit a feel of the regal. How she had changed since 1932, when her mother had sent her off with a case full of homemade clothes. Now she looked every inch the smart wife and royal servant.

George shouted again. ‘Your porridge is getting cold.’

She checked her makeup, picked up her bag and jacket and went down.

‘Very nice,’ George said appreciatively. ‘Your letter is by your porridge. Sit down and eat up.’

‘Thank you, dear.’ She noticed the empty whisky bottle by the sink but said nothing as she opened her letter. She had grown used to saying nothing about George’s increasingly regular nights of drink. ‘It’s from Lilibet.’ She turned the envelope to George, ‘A Maltese stamp.’

‘Oh quick, let me get my stamp album.’ He sat down opposite her. He was looking dreadful.

‘Are you feeling any better today, dear?’ she asked. ‘Any more pain? Only the doctor did say …’

‘That I shouldn’t have too much sugar. I know. And I don’t.’

She blinked nervously, a small habit she’d recently caught herself doing more and more. ‘You were late to bed last night.’

‘Well done, Holmes.’ He caught her steal a glance towards the empty bottle. ‘And yes, as a matter of fact, I did finish the bottle. There was only a drop left. So don’t worry. Read your letter.’

She started to read.

‘Out loud!’ he told her. ‘I want to hear what the lovely Lilibet has to say about married life.’

‘Yes, of course.’ She cleared her throat and began.

Dear Crawfie,

Malta is wonderful. A home from home. I can go out and about as I like and no one bothers me. The other naval wives have been very sweet and helpful. I know the best places for fish, vegetables and fresh bread. Twice a week I go to the market where I can get huge bunches of fresh flowers for next to nothing. They brighten the house.

My driver is a sweet woman, Petty Officer Blake WRNS. She’s very smart. I remember you wanting to wear the Women’s Royal Naval uniform and you were right – it is far nicer than the ATS one that I had.

I have a cook and a housekeeper, and two policemen of course, but I am learning how to iron Philip’s shirts almost as well as Bobo.