“It’s so much more fun with an audience!” Margaret exclaimed as they came offstage for her curtain call. “I wish I could really be an actress someday!”
“You all did a wonderful job, children,” Lilibet said to the assembled cast, still using the low tones of the prince. “Thank—”
There was a sudden bang.
Then a very loud pop.
Then a moment or two of horrific silence.
Backstage, everyone froze, listening. Then, from out front, the screaming began. Then the sound of people running, men shouting, “The King! The King!”
Maggie turned to Crawfie and Alah. “Watch the children!” She peeked around the flat of scenery. There were people milling about, shouting. The King was doubled over in pain, clutching at his shoulder. He and the Queen and Mr. Churchill were surrounded by Coldstream Guards, who began hustling them out. More Coldstream Guards were running through the ballroom, guns in hand.
“Who did it?” Maggie asked one of the guests, the woman she’d seen at the hunting breakfast.
“One of the footmen,” she answered breathlessly. “I didn’t see him shoot, but there was that horrible sound, and then the King bent over. Then we all saw him run.…”
Maggie realized the shooter was still at large in the huge castle. The Princesses. Maggie whirled and ran backstage.
“We have to get the children to the nursery!” she said to Crawfie and Alah. “Hurry!” Without another word, they surrounded all their charges and made their way out, back to the Lancaster Tower.
The King was taken to his study, where the royal physician was summoned to look after his wounds. “Put the castle into lockdown,” the King said, blue eyes blazing. “Find Lord Clive—he knows the protocol. No one goes in or out until we catch whoever did this.” Shock and anger seemed to have overpowered his stutter.
The Queen looked to the doctor. “He’s going to be fine, Your Majesty,” he assured her. “I know there’s a lot of blood, but the bullet just nicked the shoulder. He’s going to be fine.”
“Oh, thank goodness,” she said. Then she put a hand to her heart. “The girls!” she said, running to the door.
“Stop!” ordered the King. Then, in a softer tone, he said, “They’re fine, dear. Alah and Crawfie will take care of them.”
“I must go to them!” his wife wailed.
“No,” the King said. “There’s a shooter at large. We can’t risk it.”
The Queen went to the King’s desk and picked up the telephone. “The nursery,” she said into the receiver. “Hurry.” There was a long pause. Then, “Alah? The girls?” The Queen’s face lost some of its tension. “Oh, thank goodness. And the other children?” Another pause. “And you and Crawfie?” She nodded to the King. “And Miss Hope?” After reassuring Alah that the King would be fine, the Queen spoke to both her daughters and told them that she loved them. Then she hung up the receiver.
“They’re all right,” the King said in soothing tones as the Queen began to cry. “You’ll see—everything is going to be all right.”
David had skipped the performance and was working in the Equerry’s office when Gregory arrived, out of breath. “Someone shot the King!” he cried, eyes wild.
“Merciful Zeus!” The blood drained from David’s face. “When? Where?”
“Just now in the Waterloo Chamber. The castle’s on lockdown. Nobody in or out.” Gregory’s eyes darted back and forth, as if following invisible ghosts.
“The P.M.—he’s …?”
“Fine,” Gregory answered, still out of breath. “The shooter hit the King, not sure how serious it is.” He pushed through the blackout curtains and let himself out through French doors, to a flagstone-paved terrace.
“Gregory?” David called. He put the contents of what he was working on in the briefcase and handcuffed it to his left wrist, then followed him, briefcase in hand. It was freezing outside. As his eyes adjusted to the darkness, David shivered in his dinner jacket and thin-soled opera pumps. It seemed he was alone. The only sound was the creak of the bare tree branches blown by the wind.
“Gregory!” David called.
He heard a low moan and followed the sound to a stone staircase that led to a garden. Gregory was sitting on the top step, head in hands. “She’s here,” he whispered.
“Who?” David said, glancing around before sitting down next to him on the cold stone step, setting the briefcase down beside him. “Who’s here?”