A Question of Guilt

1

The meal had the ill-subdued restlessness of a headquarters' mess on the eve of battle. Men came and went with terse apologies. Silences scudded across the room like the shadows of clouds flying in the moonlight over the snow-dusted Norfolk countryside. The voracious fireplace roared with plenteous logs from the estate. The long shiny tablecloth was brightened by mauve and yellow fresias, between two silver stands piled with grapes, peaches and tangerines. The Royal Household was at dinner.

That evening had assembled only a handful of the 322 persons under the Lord Chamberlain's command. These included lords in waiting and gentlemen ushers. Comptrollers, almoners and clerks of the closet. Ladies-and women-of the bedchamber. Gold Stick and Black Rod. The mistress of the robes, the master of the horse. The poet laureate, the bargemaster and the keeper of the swans. Nineteen doctors, and in case of their failure, a royal coroner.

Upstairs, the King lay dying.

Eliot entered at half-past eight. It was Monday, January 20, 1936. His eye caught a typed place card-