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thing would put them off.” She nodded to a pile of manure from the stables. “Aggravates my chest, I tell you. The residents don’t stop complaining about it. Don’t blame them, neither, it being a royal palace and all. What we need is the Queen to pay a visit. Then they’d soon clear it.”
    As they continued up the drive, Mink peered at the Tudor Great Gatehouse ahead of them, but there was no trace of the charm she had seen in countless pictures. The creeping darkness had snuffed out the dusky salmon hue of the bricks, and the crenulations stood brutally against the sky streaked with night. Wondering how it would ever feel like home, she glanced to her left and saw a long, low line of barracks, where several soldiers stood watching her from the doorways, the smoke of their cigarettes twisting up into the damp air. She looked to her right and spotted beyond the railings the silent Thames, its banks now empty of postcard hawkers, umbrella merchants, and peddlers of spurious guides who lay in wait for the excursionists arriving by river.
    The palace had been attracting tourists since the reign of Queen Elizabeth, a tip to the Palace Keeper almost always ensuring a guided tour as long as the court was not present or about to arrive. Order was imposed in the eighteenth century with the standard charge of a shilling, and the housekeeper herded visitors around armed with a long stick to point to the paintings and tapestries. But the numbers were nothing compared to the assault on the monument after Queen Victoria announced in 1838 her decision to open the State Apartments and gardens free to visitors. Hordes converged with unfettered glee on the landmark, with its collection of paintings and sumptuous gardens. And still the masses charged, more than two hundred thousand a year, stuffed into railway carriages, omnibuses, char-à-bancs, carriages, dog carts, brakes, vans, costermongers’ barrows, steamers, electric launches, sailing boats, and canoes.
    As they approached the gatehouse, the housekeeper pointed out the recently restored mullioned windows, which had replaced the sashes installed by the Georgians. “They never did have any taste,” she muttered, wrinkling up her nose. Passing through, they came out onto Base Court, a vast empty square overlooked by countless windows where members and guests of the court were once lodged in luxury, their numerous fireplaces the reason for the palace’s plethora of chimneys. Shafts of light suddenly appeared as its current residents parted their curtains an inch, drawn by the sound of the women’s feet.
    Suddenly Mrs. Boots came to a halt and turned sharply to the Princess. “You haven’t got any pets, have you?” she asked.
    Mink detected a faint odour of smoked eel. “You were very explicit on that point, Mrs. Boots,” she said.
    “It pleases me very much to hear that, let me tell you,” she replied, continuing her moorland scuttle. “There are some residents who completely ignore what I tell them and think they’re too grand to follow rules. After years of protests and a petition from the residents the Lord Chamberlain finally agreed to allowlap dogs. You’d be surprised how many of those ladies pretend a Labrador can sit on their arthritic knees. Lady Montfort Bebb took it upon herself to buy a red setter. There were six months of arguments, and the Lord Chamberlain gave in and said she could keep it until it died, after which she would have to get something smaller. She’s already replaced it once, and claims that dog is the original. Thinks I was born yesterday. Then there’s Lady Beatrice and her wretched doves. Filthy creatures. How they came to be symbols of peace I’ll never know. They make General Bagshot positively murderous. Says his windows are all covered in muck. Can’t bear her as a result. Nor she him. Not that I’m one for gossip. Four of her birds are missing, presumed dead, so that’s a start. Hopefully the cats, which shouldn’t be here