'Sweet bugger all. Since Mycroft publicly deflowered himself they're in something of a mess.'
'First Mycroft, now this…' The editor shook his head, conscious that he would be hounded off the society dinner circuit if these went out under his name. He found another burst of resistance. 'Look, this isn't the bloody French Revolution. I will not be the one to drag the Royal Family to the guillotine.'
'There's a real public issue here,' the news editor interjected, somewhat more quietly than the deputy. 'The King involves himself in all sorts of matters, stirring up political controversy, while quite clearly he is ignoring what's going on under his own palace roof. He's supposed to be the personal embodiment of the nation's morality, not running a knocking shop. He's turned out to have more blind eyes than Nelson.'
The editor lowered his head. Sterling had already dipped nearly two cents on the rumours; it was inflicting real harm.
'No one's asking you to lead a revolution, just keep step with the others.' The deputy took up the cudgels once more. 'These piccies are all over town. By morning we might be the only paper not carrying them.'
'I disagree. I don't give a damn about the foreign rags. This is a British affair. Every editor in this town knows the consequences of using these photos. No one's going to rush, not in British newspapers. No.' He braced his shoulders with patriotic pride and shook his head in determined fashion. 'We are not going to use them unless we know for certain that someone else has. It may be throwing away a scoop, but it's the kind of scoop I don't want etched on my gravestone.'
The deputy was about to make some comment that the accountants were already chiselling the circulation figures on his gravestone when the door burst open and the gossip columnist rushed in. He was too excited and breathless to make any sense, his words wrapping themselves in impenetrable knots, until in exasperation he threw his hands in the air and made a dive for the TV remote control on the editor's desk. He punched the button to call up one of the satellite news channels. It was German-owned, run out of Luxembourg and had a footprint that covered half of Europe, including most of Southern England. As the screen came to life they were greeted with the images of an ecstatic Princess Charlotte, nipples and all. Without a further word the deputy grabbed the pictures and rushed off to save the front page.
'Oh, I like this, Elizabeth. I like this a lot.'
It was after one in the morning, the early editions had arrived, and Elizabeth with them. He seemed not to mind, chuckling as he glanced through the reports.
"This morning the King stands accused of dereliction of duty",' Urquhart read out from the pages of The Times. ' "In pursuit of personal popularity and his own political scruples he has laid open not only himself but the institution of the Monarchy to frontal attack. The politicians and press lords who have jumped on his bandwagon in the last few weeks have revealed themselves as opportunistic and unprincipled. It has taken courage to stand firm for constitutional principle, to remind the nation that the Monarch should be neither showbiz nor social conscience, but an impartial and politically uninvolved head of state. Francis Urquhart has shown that courage; he is to be applauded".' Urquhart chuckled again. 'Yes, I do like that. But then I should, my dear. I wrote most of it myself.'
'I prefer Today,' Elizabeth responded.' "An end to Royal tittle and tattle. It's time for them all to belt up and button up!"'
'"Crackpot King",' Urquhart announced, reading from another. '"HRH should have an urgent word in the Princess's ear, even if he has to jump to the front of the queue to do so…"'
Elizabeth was in fits of laughter. She had just picked up the Sun with its blaring headline: 'King of Cock-Up'. 'Oh, my dear,' she struggled to respond through convulsions of mirth, 'you really have won this battle.'
He grew suddenly serious, as though someone had thrown a switch. 'Elizabeth, I've scarcely even started to fight.' He picked up the phone, an operator answered. 'See if the Chancellor of the Exchequer is still in the land of the living,' he instructed, replacing the phone very carefully. It rang less than half a minute later.
'How are you, Francis?' a weary and just-woken voice enquired down the line. 'Well, and about to get considerably better. Listen carefully. We have a particularly difficult crisis on our hands which has already set the doves fluttering in the dovecote. We need to take action before they all fly away for good. I believe sterling is about to take yet another precipitous fall. In the circumstances it would be uncivil and unworthy if we were to ask our friends in Brunei to hold on any longer. It would place an important international alliance at risk. You are to call the Sultan's officials and suggest they sell their three billion pound tranche immediately.'
'Christ Almighty, Francis, that will do for the currency completely.' There was not a trace of tiredness now.
'The markets must have their way. It is a matter of great misfortune that the consequences will strike terror into the hearts of ordinary voters as they see the pound plummet and their mortgage rates about to soar. It will be an even greater misfortune that the whole debacle will be blamed on the King's conscience and those who support him.' There was silence on the end of the phone. 'I make myself clear?' 'Absolutely,' came the quiet answer.
Urquhart looked attentively at the receiver before softly replacing it. Elizabeth was looking at him with unconcealed admiration.
'We must all make sacrifices in battle, Elizabeth.' He placed the tips of his fingers to the point of his nose. Unconsciously he was beginning to mimic the King in some of his mannerisms, Elizabeth thought. 'I'm not quite sure how to put this delicately,' he continued, 'so perhaps I shall have to crave your understanding and be blunt. It does not pay to fight a battle from within glass houses. It would be helpful if you would stop taking such an ardent interest in Italian arias. Your new-found operatic interests could be so easily… misconstrued. It might confuse the troops.'
Elizabeth, who had been sipping a glass of wine, replaced the glass gently on the table.
'Government drivers are such a gossipy bunch,' he added, as if by way of explanation and excuse. 'I see.' 'No hard feelings?' 'After all these years?' She inclined her head. 'Of course not.' 'You are very understanding, my dear.'
'I have to be.' She reached for her purse and extracted an earring. It was bold, fashionable, enamelled, costume jewellery from Butler amp; Wilson in the Fulham Road. One of Sally's. 'The cleaner gave me this the other day. Found it jammed down the side of the Chesterfield. Thought it was one of mine. I'm not sure how to put this delicately, Francis…' He flushed, lowered his eyes, said nothing. 'Sauce for the goose? Even a Canadian goose?' 'She's… American,' he responded haltingly. 'Nevertheless.'
'Elizabeth, she is important to me; she has more vital work to do.' 'But not on her back, Francis. Not in a glass house.'
He looked directly at his wife. It had been a long time since anyone had put him in such a corner. He wasn't used to it. He sighed, he had no choice.
'All you have to do, Elizabeth, is to say please. You remember how to say please, don't you?'
'It's getting very messy.' 'It'll get worse.' 'You sure?' 'Never been more certain.' 'How so?'
'Because he can't yet be certain about winning an election; there's more to be done. He needs a few more points on the polls. He can't stop now. Risk a Royal comeback. And…' She hesitated. 'And because he's an axeman. His target isn't the Princess, it's the King himself. I'm not sure if he knows any longer when to stop hacking.'