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be aware of how much his morning ritual mattered to him. That meant that either the joker had been dead lucky in his choice of target, or he was one of those who knew—somebody “among ourselves”.

Chapter 3
    â€œH ow old? Don’t tell me. As old as your tongue and a little older than your teeth. Right?”
    Miss Durdon felt her face smile, felt the brush of lips on her forehead, listened to the loved footsteps tiptoeing away, heard Kinunu’s giggle and shut it out of her mind. My last baby, she thought. My very last. The thought drifted her away, back and back.
    A sunlit terrace. Great lumpish hills, brown and mauve with heather. A dark pine plantation. Heavy grey stone walls below fanciful turrets. Over all this the sunlight, northern and pale. On the lawn between the castle and the pines at least twenty lolling dogs, and on the terrace a tea-time ritual, with wicker chairs, cake-stands, four tall ladies all in black, two kilted servants holding silver trays, a funny little Indian in a turban pouring out tea. The ritual centres on a stout little grey-faced lady whose solid outline is made vague by billows of black lace. She has an Aberdeen terrier on her lap. Her face, sulky in repose, smiles with sudden eager sweetness as into the picture walk three small girls in white, wearing wide white hats. Durdon sees them from behind. The smallest girl, Princess Rosie, gives a couple of skips of happiness but Princess Louise hisses her back to propriety. They curtsey to the old lady whose pudgy little hands make a patting motion against her legs, causing the girls to settle like white doves around her knees. The Indian gentleman hands her a plate and the old lady takes a knife and cuts a rock bun into equal sections which she gives to the girls as though she were feeding three of her dogs. Durdon watches all this with anxiety—that Munshi, she thinks, how can you tell if his hands are clean? The old lady smiles along the terrace and speaks to one of the other ladies, who beckons. Durdon checks that the baby in her arms has not started an unprincely dribble and walks forward, less nervous than she’d expected. The old lady scuffs the terrier off her lap and holds out her arms for the baby. As Durdon rises from her curtsey and passes the royal bundle across their hands touch. The Queen looks straight into her eyes.
    â€œI have not seen you before, have I? What is your name?”
    â€œDurdon, Ma’am. Nurse Bignall has the influenza, Ma’am.”
    â€œYou are not very large, are you?”
    â€œNo, Ma’am.”
    â€œNever mind. I believe children like small people, and you certainly look healthy. Where were you born?”
    â€œThaxted in Essex, Ma’am.”
    â€œI know the place. Excellent people. Wait. I think I shall hand you back the Prince directly. They are not so amusing until they can talk, are they?”
    â€œI love them when they’re tiny, Ma’am.”
    â€œBut you love us too, Durdy?”
    (Princess Rosie, three and a half; wide-eyed with sudden alarm under the starched hat-brim.)
    Durdon smiles quickly down at her, anxious to take the baby back and not be thought pert or intrusive.
    â€œTell the child outright, Durdon. It is wrong to let them fret.”
    â€œYes, Your Highness, of course I love you too.”
    â€œAnd my highness loves you.”
    The Queen, whose speaking voice is rather light and high-pitched, gives an extraordinary deep-throated chuckle. Princess Vicky, aged six, loses her frown of fright at Rosie speaking out of turn before Great-grandmama. The Queen seems not to have looked away from Durdon’s face during all this time but she has somehow noticed Vicky’s anxiety.
    â€œNo,” she says. “Princess Victoria shall hold the Prince for me. You may retire, Durdon. I see that you will be with us for a long time, and will have other opportunities for nursing the little ones.”
    She nods decisively, as