The Hawk Is Dead

6

Monday 20 November 2023

Queen Camilla had spent much of her childhood in Sussex, at her family’s country home in the village of Plumpton, just 12 miles east of Brighton, so it was always a joy for her to return to the county where she had so many happy memories.

As she boarded the train on this glorious November morning she had a spring in her step, although she knew that she faced an emotional couple of days talking to terminally ill people in a series of hospices. But she was buoyed as always by the inner strength she’d inherited from both her parents. Her father, a soldier in the Second World War, was twice decorated for gallantry, and her mother, despite a privileged life, had worked tirelessly for many years for a charity helping children with disabilities.

Breaking with tradition, as part of the modernization of the monarchy, instead of Ladies-in-Waiting, Queen Camilla chose to use the term of Queen’s Companions. Their role was similar to that of Ladies-in-Waiting but less formal and more relaxed.

The two Queen’s Companions accompanying her on this trip were tall, elegant Baroness Westwood, ‘Tiny’ to her friends, who was married to one of The King’s best friends and who carried The Queen’s lunch — comprising a banana and thermos of tomato soup — in her Louis Vuitton holdall, and Lady Elena Trevelyan, a jovial, bespectacled mutual chum of both The King and The Queen. Joining them in the sitting-room carriage of the train, seated closely to The Queen, was the reassuring, smartly dressed figure of Jayne Bennett, her own Private Secretary and trusted source for advice and guidance. Sir Peregrine Greaves and one of the ever-present RaSPs, the tall, burly, quietly unobtrusive, suited and booted Jon Gilhall completed the ensemble. Additional RaSP officers were stationed further down the train.

Camilla, dressed in blue, sat at the Formica-topped desk that had been installed at the request of the late Queen Elizabeth, making some last-minute changes on a speech she was due to deliver tomorrow night in Bristol for her domestic abuse charity, SafeLives.

She and her husband were self-confessed workaholics, even though many of the public wouldn’t view them as such. At their time of life, when most people would have been retired for a decade, they both remained utterly motivated, as if aware of the limited time they had to achieve so much.

Out of the corner of her eye she saw the tall, silver-haired figure of Sir Peregrine Greaves approaching, immaculately suited and deferential, as always, but assertive with it. He had a way of walking that made him look as though he was gliding on wheels. She always felt that in part he was like a wise old friend who had her and The King’s back, but also in part that he knew more than both of them did. Secrets that he didn’t share.

‘Your Majesty,’ he said, ‘I thought before we are rolling that we might have a quick look through today’s schedule?’

‘Of course, Peregrine,’ she said and looked at the sheaf of papers he placed in front of her, skimming down to the first appointment.

The schedule at Chestnut Tree House was pretty much identical to Martlets. Then after that she had a relaxing evening to look forward to, watching a play at Chichester Theatre, and drinks with Hugh Bonneville during the intermission. From there, she would travel by road to the train, which would be in a railway siding just outside the city and would remain there for the night. A light supper and then bed.

She glanced at her watch. They would be off very shortly. ‘Not too bad a schedule is it, Ma’am?’ the Private Secretary asked in a manner that made it both a question and an answer.

During the past twelve months she had attended 233 engagements, and there were times when it felt that half of them were all on the same day. She smiled. ‘I think it’s very well balanced, both today and tomorrow,’ she said, then gave a friendly grimace. ‘Well, apart from the helicopter tomorrow afternoon, from Bournemouth to Bristol.’

Greaves was well aware of her dislike of the helicopter, but also that she did accept that often it was the only practical option for most of her tight schedules. ‘Ma’am, if I may say, if it is of any comfort, that the safety record of the Royal Helicopter is somewhat better than the safety record of trains — on this particular line at any rate.’

‘Really, Peregrine?’

The Private Secretary checked his wristwatch, then nodded. ‘I’m absolutely serious, Ma’am. In approximately one hour we will be travelling through Clayton Tunnel, just north of Brighton, where the worst railway crash in British history, at the time, happened.’ He gave one of those knowing smiles that always infuriated her.

‘What happened?’

‘Not wishing to frighten you — apparently, due to a signalling error, a southbound train was halted in the middle of the tunnel. The steam locomotive of the following train smashed into the rear of it. Twenty-three people were scalded to death and a further one hundred and seventy-six were severely injured.’

The Queen shuddered. ‘How dreadful. What a horrendous thing to happen. That must be one of everybody’s worst nightmares.’

He nodded. ‘Indeed. The tunnel is haunted, apparently. Locals say on stormy nights you can sometimes hear the cries of the victims.’

The Queen shuddered again and gave him a quizzical look as if uncertain whether he was teasing.

‘One of your predecessors, Ma’am, Queen Victoria, was so disturbed by the disaster that she refused from then on to travel through that tunnel on her regular visits to Brighton. She would alight at Hassocks Station — which was extended to accommodate the then extremely long Royal Train — and travel by coach and horses across the Downs to Brighton.’

‘And that’s what we’ll be doing today, is it, Peregrine?’ she teased.

He smiled. ‘Well, Ma’am, I think we’ll be all right today.’

‘Let’s hope so!’

Gliding a little closer to The Queen and shooting a wary glance in the direction of her two Queen’s Companions, he lowered his voice and looked a little uncomfortable. ‘There is an issue I would like to raise with Your Majesty — nothing to do with transport. Perhaps later today we could have a few private minutes?’

She frowned. ‘Of course, Peregrine.’

He looked at his watch again, ever the stickler for time. ‘Thank you, Ma’am. We should be off any moment now.’

‘Towards the cries of the victims?’

He gave her an uneasy look as if uncertain for a moment whether to smile. When he finally did, it was a smile that did not sit well on the stiff, aristocratic features of his face.