Marion could picture the heartbreaking scene, and swallowed the lump in her throat. ‘I think you can pour the tea now, Bobo.’

Sandringham, 22^nd January 1936

The day had been long and heavy with grief. Tommy was grateful that he had not had to deal with the undertakers who prepared the King’s body for the first stage of his return to London. Instead, he had the job of relaying messages across the Commonwealth.

No matter how much preparation was put into a state funeral, the rehearsals for the procession of horses, carriages and servicemen, there were always crowned heads and presidents, admirals and generals who needed to have the schedule in order to organize their own. There were telephone calls between number ten, the palace and Sandringham that needed to be joined and minuted.

And here was the emotional wreck that was the new King, Edward VIII. He drank and smoked and cried and the Queen comforted him as best she could, but her own heart was broken.

More than once the King had begged Tommy to arrange for Mrs Simpson to join him, so much so that he passed the receiver over to Tommy while Mrs Simpson was on the line.

‘Please let her come. I need her,’ wept the King.

Tommy took the receiver calmly. ‘Mrs Simpson? Tommy Lascelles here.’

‘Tommy,’ she said, using her saddest American drawl, ‘I am really worried about David. He is so upset and wants me by his side, but I just can’t come. It would be too difficult for the Queen and everyone. Can you please help him to understand? I am waiting in London and will be here when he returns.’

Tommy controlled his relief at this turn of events. ‘Of course, Mrs Simpson. I understand, and so will the King.’

The King was not pleased and drank steadily until his father’s body was taken to the small church where the family worshipped.

Then at last, and totally drained, Tommy wrote to Joan.

Joan my darling,

It is very late, but I will not be able to sleep without getting the events of the day down on paper. Forgive me for unburdening myself to you.

Tonight the King lies peacefully in the little church, St Mary Magdalene, at the edge of the garden. We left the house, with the Queen and the family, no more than a dozen of us, following the small, wheeled bier which was flanked by a few towering Grenadiers and led by the King’s piper playing a lament. It was dark and rainy with gusts of icy wind tearing through us. Turning a corner, we saw the lychgate of the church, lit brilliantly, with the rector, Fuller, waiting for us.

The guardsmen carried the coffin from the bier and let it rest in front of the altar for a brief but desperately moving service. The Queen said nothing, but what must have been going through her mind? I only hope she will remember this dignified, private moment, when the clamour of the state funeral dins her ears.