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“How did you get it?”
“An old man gave it to me. He must have decided I ought to have it, even though he told the court it had been destroyed.”
EPILOGUE
1978
“IT IS SATURDAY, isn’t it?” said Emma.
“Yes. Why do you ask?” said Harry, not looking up from his morning paper.
“A post office van’s just driven through the gates. But Jimmy doesn’t usually deliver on a Saturday morning.”
“Unless it’s a telegram?”
“I hate telegrams. I always assume the worst,” said Emma, as she jumped up from the table and hurried out of the room. She had opened the front door before Jimmy could ring the bell.
“Mornin’, Mrs. Clifton,” he said, touching his cap. “I’ve been instructed by head office to deliver this letter.”
He handed over a long thin cream envelope addressed to Harry Clifton Esq. The first thing Emma noticed was that it didn’t have a stamp, just a royal crest embossed in red above the words BUCKINGHAM PALACE.
“It must be an invitation to the Queen’s garden party.”
“December seems a strange time to be inviting someone to a garden party,” said Jimmy, who touched his cap again, returned to his van and drove off.
Emma closed the front door and quickly returned to the breakfast room. “It’s for you, darling,” she said, handing the envelope to Harry. “From Buck House,” she added nonchalantly, as she hovered behind him.
Harry put down his paper and studied the envelope, before picking up a knife and slowly slitting it open. He pulled out a letter and unfolded it. He read the contents slowly, then looked up.
“Well?”
He handed the letter to Emma, who had read no further than the opening words, I am commanded by Her Majesty, before she said, “Congratulations, my darling. I only wish your mother was still alive. She would have enjoyed accompanying you to the Palace.” Harry didn’t respond. “Well, say something.”
“This letter should have been addressed to you. You deserve the honor so much more than I do.”
* * *
“Great photograph of Harry on the front page of the Times, holding up a pen,” said Giles.
“Yes, and have you read the speech he gave at the Nobel Prize ceremony?” said Karin. “Hard to believe he wrote it in twenty-four hours.”
“Some of the most memorable speeches ever written were composed at a time of crisis. Churchill’s ‘blood, toil, tears and sweat.’ for example, and Roosevelt’s ‘day of infamy’ address to Congress the day after Pearl Harbor, were both delivered at a moment’s notice,” said Giles, as he poured himself another cup of coffee.
“Praise indeed,” said Karin. “You should phone Harry and congratulate him. He’d be particularly pleased to hear it coming from you.”
“You’re right. I’ll call him after breakfast,” said Giles, turning the page of his paper. “Oh, how sad,” he said, his voice suddenly changing when he saw her photograph on the obituaries page.
“Sad?” repeated Karin, putting down her coffee.
“Your friend Cynthia Forbes-Watson has died. I had no idea she used to be the deputy director of MI6. Did she ever mention it to you?”
Karin froze. “No, no never.”
“I always knew she’d been something in the Foreign Office, and now I know what that something was. Still, eighty-five, not a bad innings. Are you all right, darling?” Giles said, looking up. “You’re as white as a sheet.”
“I’ll miss her,” said Karin. “She was very kind to me. I’d like to attend her funeral.”
“We should both go. I’ll find out the details when I’m in the Lords.”
