Voices in a Haunted Room

The following day David said: “There will be little business done today. There will be the crowds in the streets for the opening of Parliament. It might be fun to go out and mingle.”

“I hope we shall see the King,” I said. “I wonder what he looks like now.”

David shook his head rather sadly: “Very different from that bright and earnest young man who came to the throne thirty-five years ago.”

“Well, people must change in thirty-five years-even kings.”

”He has had his trials. His family, for one thing. The Prince of Wales has caused him great anxiety.”

“Yes, of course. The morganatic marriage with Mrs. Fitzherbert, and now his strained relations with Princess Caroline.”

“And not only that. He has never got over the loss of the American Colonies, for which he blames himself.”

“And rightly so.”

“Well, that makes it all the more a burden on his mind.”

Indeed it did, I thought, and wondered why I turned everything back to my own case.

“He says over and over again, ‘I shall never lay on my last pillow in quiet as long as I remember my American Colonies.’ He does repeat himself. It’s a feature of that mental illness he had about seven years ago. I am sorry for him. He tried so hard to be a good king.”

“He’s recovered now though.”

“They say so, but I think he is a little strange at times.”

“Poor King. It is all very sad.”

“And more so because he is a good man ... a family man ... a man who has tried to do his duty.”

“Well, I shall look forward to seeing him. What do you propose we do?”

“Go out. Take little money, wear no jewellery of value and join the sightseers.”

“It sounds interesting.”

“We’ll get out early then.”

When we did go out the people were already lining the streets, but there was something about certain elements in the crowd which was rather disturbing.

One or two seemed to be talking in raised voices. I caught their words as we passed along. High taxes ... low wages ... unemployment ... the price of bread.

I called David’s attention to this and he said: “There are always people like that in the crowds. They find it a little dull and are trying to bring about what they think of as excitement.”

We went into a coffee house and drank hot chocolate while we listened to the talk.

It was mainly about the relationship of the Prince of Wales and his wife. He was reputed to have said: “Praise be to Heaven, I do not have to sleep with that disgusting woman any more.”

They were all laughing and speculating as to the sex of the child and whether it would resemble its father or mother. The Prince of Wales was not exactly popular but there was no doubt that the people were deeply interested in his affairs.

When the King’s carriage was due to arrive we were out in the streets. The crowd along the roadside was deep and David drew me a little apart from it. We were standing there when the King rode by, too far to see him clearly, and as I was straining to get a glimpse of him in his splendid robes, suddenly a shot rang out. There was half a second of deep silence. The bullet had struck the window of the King’s carriage.

Pandemonium broke out then. People were shouting. They were pointing at the window of an empty house. We were all gazing at a window from which the shot must have been fired.

The King’s coachmen whipped up the horses and the carriage trundled on. Some men were running into the empty house. David put an arm round me. Neither of us spoke.

There was noise everywhere. People seemed to be shouting at each other.

“The King ... do you think they shot him?” I stammered.

“I don’t know. Come on. Let’s go in here.”

It was the coffee house which we had previously visited. People were crowding in, talking all the tune.

“Did you see? Is this the end of George? Is the Prince now the King?”

“What happened? What happened?”

The trouble was that nobody was sure, and being unsure, they provided their own stories.

Rumour was wild. We were in revolt. It was Paris ah* over again. The revolution had started.

“Not here,” said someone. “Not here. We’ve seen enough of revolution from the other side of the water.”

“He’s not dead. He went straight on to Parliament.”

“He’s got courage, I will say that for him. He may be bumbling old Farmer George, but he’s got courage.”

“Who was it?”

“One of those anarchists, they say. They didn’t get him. He fired from an empty house and got away.”

“We shall hear the truth in due course,” said David.

When we left the coffee house the King was returning from opening Parliament. I saw him in his carriage and felt a great relief that he was unharmed. The mob seemed a little downcast-disappointed perhaps that he had survived. Why do people always relish disaster? I wondered.

He sat there, old and resolute. I felt sorry for him, for I knew it was true that he had tried hard to do his duty. It was not his fault that he had been thrust into a position for which his mental capabilities and his state of mind made him unfit.