‘Telegraph this, please.’

He heard the catch in her breath as she recognized the note and saw a gleam of tears in her eyes. But her voice did not betray her. ‘Yes, sir.’

‘And we had better have ready the final bulletin.’ He pulled another sheet of paper from his desk. It read: Death came peacefully to the King at (insert time) (insert date)

It was the sound of running footsteps coming down the corridor that signalled to Tommy the King’s passing.

A tearful footmen handed over a note. ‘From Lord Dawson, sir.’

Tommy ran his eyes over it and called in P-T. The final message, gaps filled, was released to Fleet Street.

Just after midnight, Lord Dawson came to Tommy’s office, and said simply, ‘It is over.’

Tommy stood up. ‘My dear fellow. You must need a drink.’

‘I think so. Yes, please.’

‘Sit down. P-T,’ he called, ‘whisky please.’

She came in moments. She kept a bottle under her desk with glasses and soda, just in case. ‘Here we are, sir.’

Lord Dawson took the glass with a shaky hand. ‘Thank you.’

Tommy looked at his loyal secretary. ‘P-T, would you care to join us?’

‘Thank you, sir.’ She looked anxiously at both men. ‘How is the Queen?’

‘Steadfast. Sitting with him,’ Lord Dawson answered. ‘With all her children around her.’

‘Oh golly.’ P-T paled and sat down on a wooden upright chair. ‘Oh dear.’

‘Indeed.’ Tommy raised his glass. ‘The King is dead. Long live the King.’

P-T gulped her whisky.

‘Come along, P-T,’ said Tommy when she had finished, ‘you need to sleep. We shall be busy tomorrow.’

‘Yes, sir,’ she replied. ‘I am so sorry. For all of us.’

When she had left, Tommy poured himself and Lord Dawson another glass.

‘He did not suffer?’

‘No,’ said Dawson. ‘At least I could help him with that.’

‘Thank God.’

‘Indeed, but’ – Dawson faltered – ‘I have done something, and I hope God may forgive me.’

Tommy looked at the man. He seemed to be suffering some inner turmoil. ‘What have you done?’

‘If I tell you, would you promise to keep it within these four walls? Please?’

Tommy sat forward. ‘If this is a confession, I am no priest.’

‘I need to tell someone I trust and that is you.’

‘All right.’

‘Earlier this evening, I injected 750mg of morphine and a gram of cocaine, into the King’s veins. I hastened his death.’

Tommy’s tired brain was in overdrive. ‘What? Why?’

‘I thought it suitable that his death should be announced before the presses of The Times newspaper rolled at midnight. This way the country will wake to the news at breakfast. If he had passed away any later, the solemnity of his death would be reported by the lesser evening papers.’

Tommy was stunned. ‘Good God!’

‘The Queen and the family can sleep tonight and be stronger tomorrow as they face the agony of grief and burial and succession.’

Tommy twisted the glass in his hand taking all this in, then he said, ‘You will not speak of this again. As for me, I shall wipe this conversation from my mind. You did what you felt was right. Let us leave it at that.’