‘I see,’ Tommy said again. ‘But I suggest that—’

The Prince’s temper flared. ‘I need her by my side.’

Tommy tried again. ‘But the Queen—’

‘Won’t know.’

Tommy’s smile was perplexed. ‘So, we are to smuggle Mrs Simpson into the house and not tell the Queen?’

‘Yes.’

‘Ah.’ Tommy hid his anger. And said with reason, ‘That would put us all in a most awkward position at this delicate time.’

The Prince threw his cigarette into the fire and put his head in his hands. ‘In a few hours I shall be King. You have to do as I say.’

Tommy wanted to say a lot of things – most of which was to tell the man in front of him to pull himself together. But he decided to keep his own counsel. ‘The King is dying and that must be the focus of my work.’ He stood up. ‘I shall take my leave of you, sir.’

The Duke of York moved from the window to Tommy. ‘My brother is grieving for the King. He is not in his right mind.’

‘Understood, sir. I believe none of us are.’

As Tommy left for his office at the back of the house, he bumped into a footman. He was carrying a tray with a whisky decanter, a bowl of ice, two glasses and a soda syphon.

‘Don’t let them have too much,’ Tommy said as he walked past.

His mind was in a fury at the selfishness of the Prince of Wales. How dared he ask for Mrs Simpson? The Queen would never accept her here and Tommy would never smuggle the woman in under the Queen’s nose. ‘God save us from the man.’

When he reached his temporary office, P-T was waiting for him. ‘Sir, the latest update.’ She passed him a folded note.

‘From the King’s physician?’

‘Yes, sir.’

A wave of exhaustion suddenly swamped him. ‘Would there be any tea on the go, P-T?’

‘Of course. I will bring it in to you.’

‘Thank you.’

He sat down at his desk and took a deep breath before unfolding the missive.

Midday bulletin

Dear Lascelles,

The King’s condition is weakening. The pulse is slowing and his breathing more shallow. There is nothing to be done other than to wait.

The Queen is with him, as is the Princess Royal.

Lord Dawson

Tommy felt a rare constriction of his throat. He had not cried for longer than he could remember, but now he let his tears free.

The afternoon wore into night, the house grew more silent and the ticking of the many clocks seemed to Tommy to be growing louder by the hour. It all set the scene for the death of a king.

At nine thirty that evening, Lord Dawson sent another note.

Dear Lascelles,

I suggest now is the time to release the bulletin we agreed on.

Dawson

Tommy opened his desk drawer and removed a single sheet of paper on which the words: The King’s Life is moving peacefully to its close were typed. He called for P-T, whose temporary desk was just outside in the corridor.