Stone's Fall

Nor was it worth it; Gumble was quite correct in thinking that the Imperial family would make themselves scarce; not even an imperial nanny remained on board. All we had was a bunch of Russian sailors, whose outright hostility to His Majesty's loyal press was palpable. We were escorted round the apartments at military speed; nothing was pointed out or explained, no questions were taken, no photographs allowed. All I got from the experience was a sense of wonder at how unnautical it all was – the state apartments were decorated like any house you might have found in Mayfair thirty years ago, with padded chairs, chandeliers and even a fireplace in the corner. Only the disconcerting rocking motion reminded you that you were on a boat – sorry, a yacht – at all.

And then we were put back into the cutter and rowed back to the shore. Not even a glass of vodka, but Jeremiah Hopkins did at least take his revenge by vomiting in the bottom of the boat just before we arrived back on land. 'Compliments of the Daily Mail,' he muttered as he stepped over his donation to get off. 'A messy business, the freedom of the press,' he added as he straightened up and walked unsteadily towards the nearest pub.

For my part, I didn't think that was the best solution to the problem of my stomach; steady land and fresh air seemed a better idea, so I decided to walk to Osborne to find Gumble; he had been correct in his judgements so far; he might be right now. I walked to the ferry, crossed over and strolled up York Avenue to the main gate. I was not alone; clearly news of some event had got around.

'The royal family and the imperial family,' said one woman in tones of hushed awe when I found myself walking beside her. 'They'll be coming out when they've finished their visit. They'll drive down to the Esplanade before going back on board their yachts. Isn't that wonderful and thoughtful of them?'

We walked in step, this reverential matriarch and I, strolling together like two old friends in the warm sunshine of the early afternoon. She told me – how she had found out so much information from her kitchen I do not know, she should have been a reporter – that the two royal families had crossed to Osborne's private landing stage by boat, but intended to show themselves to the town before returning. Two monarchs, two consorts and a bag of children would be on display; I could not really see the attraction of just watching people drive by, but I was clearly in a minority on that one; when we arrived there was already a crowd of a few hundred, mainly townspeople by the look of them, lining the wooded path which ran from the road to the grand entrance gate.

Gumble was there also, looking extremely displeased with the situation. His request to go inside had been flatly turned down, there would be no interview and he had to stand there like some common shop assistant, with not the slightest chance of coming up with anything worth writing about at all.

I commiserated. 'But there wasn't much chance he would have said anything interesting anyway,' I concluded.

'Not the point. I wanted an interview. What he said was irrelevant,' he replied.

'You could always make it up,' I suggested.

'Well, in fact, that's what got me in trouble in the first place,' he said reluctantly. 'I quoted Habibullah Khan on the reforms he was introducing in Afghanistan. Unfortunately, he was out of the country at the time and had just reversed them all, so he complained . . .'

'Bad luck,' I said.

'Yes. So no making things up for a while. I do wish they'd get a move on. I want my lunch . . .'

I had stopped listening. I was staring over at the other line of spectators, a blur of expectant faces, all patiently waiting. Except for one, who came into sharp focus as I looked, then looked again. A poorly dressed woman, with a cheap hat pulled down over her face, clutching a handbag. I knew she had seen me. I could see that my face had registered, that she was hoping I had not seen her; she took a step back, and disappeared behind a burly man and a couple of squawking children who were waving little flags on sticks.

'Oh, my goodness,' I said, and looked up and down the row of people, to see if I could catch sight of her again. Nothing. But I did see PC Armstrong, my sceptical constable of the day before.

'Still hunting anarchists, are we sir?' he said cheerfully when I walked up to him – this was a long time ago; there were no barriers or controls on people then.

'Constable . . .'

'Is he here, then?'

'Not that I've seen, but . . .'

'Well, let me know and we'll deal with him,' he said complacently.

'I'm certain he is, though.'

Armstrong looked sceptical but ever so slightly worried. 'Why?'

'I've seen someone he knows.' I pointed, and he called over other policeman on duty. Both then strolled over and began walking up and down, looking out for anyone they considered suspicious.