The Corpse of St James's

by Jeanne M. Dams

  ‘At least he’s alive, which was pretty iffy there for a while.’ I looked again at the rather daunting invitation. ‘I don’t suppose there’s any money connected with this “whacking great honour”.’

  Alan looked slightly shocked. ‘My dear woman, the George Cross is beyond price! It’s the highest civilian honour awarded in this country, and jolly few of them have ever been given.’

  I made suitably awed noises, still wondering how the poor man was going to buy his tea and biscuits. ‘Why has he invited us to the ceremony?’

  ‘He has no family, I believe,’ Alan said thoughtfully. ‘No brothers or sisters, as I recall, and he never married. Too wrapped up in his job. Really, Scotland Yard was his life. He’s always given me far too much credit for his rapid rise, and I’ve suspected he views me as a sort of father figure. Actually, I’m a bit touched.’

  Alan looked away, and I smiled to myself. An Englishman is even more reluctant to display emotion than his American counterpart.

  We lost no time in replying, including an invitation for Jonathan to join us afterwards for the best luncheon London could provide. ‘Although he may not eat a lot,’ Alan told me. ‘The last I heard, his tum still wasn’t quite in full working order.’

  I started planning what on earth to wear to the palace, and the Ivy afterwards. At least I didn’t have to worry about a hat. The problem was finding an outfit that worked with one of my many hats and didn’t make me look as if I were going to Royal Ascot.

  The great day dawned inauspiciously as to weather. Chilly and wet, with an angry sky promising more rain and probably thunder, it nevertheless failed to dampen my spirits. Alan and I had taken the train into London the night before, since driving in London is not only a penance, but also very expensive, what with parking and the congestion charge. We would have had to take a cab to the palace anyway. And besides, I wanted to be fresh and look my best for the occasion. ‘I know it’s not about me,’ I told Alan. ‘But it’s the one time in my life that I’ll get to see the Queen, up close and personal, and I intend to milk it for all it’s worth.’

  We had opted to spend two nights at the Goring. That venerable hostelry is way out of our class, but besides its convenient location just around the corner from the palace, it has beautiful, comfortable rooms and an attentive staff, and if that weren’t enough, it was the hotel where the Middletons stayed just before Kate and William’s wedding. This occasion wasn’t quite that posh, but we felt it rated high enough on our life list to justify the expense.

  Alan was inclined to be a bit cross as we were dressing in our lovely room. That meant he was nervous, but being English and male, he wasn’t about to say so. I didn’t mind showing my own nerves. I dropped my earrings twice, once perilously close to the drain in the bathroom sink. I dithered over whether my dress was appropriate, though fortunately, having brought only the one upscale outfit, I couldn’t change my mind.

  Neither of us was in any state to want breakfast, nor did we drink as much coffee as usual. ‘Because,’ I said to Alan, ‘it would be perfectly awful to need the loo right in the middle of the ceremony.’

  ‘Don’t even think about it,’ he said. His tone wasn’t exactly a growl, but it was about as close as Alan ever comes.

  We were much too early at the palace. The doorman at the Goring was very efficient at whistling up a taxi, and in fact, had it not been for the rain, we could easily have walked the short distance and still arrived early. However, the palace staff were no doubt accustomed to the nerves of guests, and showed us to the Ballroom with courteous aplomb.

  We’d been in it before, accompanying our friends on tours of the State Rooms. But arriving as an invited guest felt completely different. Chairs were set in neat rows, leaving a broad aisle up the middle towards the dais at the end. An orchestra in the gallery at the back of the room played softly as the guests came in, everyone as subdued as if we were in church.

  ‘Where’s Jonathan?’ I whispered, craning my neck.

  ‘Those receiving honours go to a briefing room where they’re told what’s going to happen.’

  ‘Oh.’ After a pause, ‘I think I’m going to cry,’ I whispered.

  ‘Stiff upper lip, old girl,’ he murmured, and patted my hand.

  It seemed a long time, but eventually everyone was seated and the music changed. Five men in elaborate uniforms marched in and took their places on the dais.

  ‘Beefeaters?’ I said to Alan, surprised. ‘What do they have to do with it?’

  ‘Shh! Not Beefeaters. I’ll tell you later.’

  We stood, and the Queen entered, and they played ‘God Save the Queen’, and my eyes were swimming. I fumbled in my pocket, discovered I’d forgotten a tissue, and nudged Alan, who handed me his handkerchief with a tolerant smile.

  And then the herald, or page, or whatever they call him, spoke the name ‘Jonathan Quinn,’ and Jonathan entered, walking stiffly and carrying a cane, but erect and unassisted. He bowed and the Queen came forward to him, smiling, and fixed his medal to his chest. They spoke for a moment, then a handshake, a bow, and Jonathan went off somewhere.

  I’m afraid I don’t remember much of the rest. There were many more honorees, though none as exalted as Jonathan, and they tended to blend together. I believe that the Queen had a little conversation with each of them before shaking hands. I remember the handshakes, because they surprised me; I’d had some notion that one never shook hands with the Queen.

  It was all over in about an hour, and we were directed to a room where we could meet Jonathan and take him off to lunch.

  Our friend was looking a bit pale, and I thought he was probably in pain, but he denied it. ‘No, no! Never better! It isn’t every day one shakes Her Majesty’s hand, is it?’

  ‘It certainly isn’t every day that someone is awarded the George Cross, old man,’ said Alan. ‘Or did they decide to take it away? I don’t see it.’

  Jonathan held out a leather box, and opened it for our inspection. ‘They took it off and put it in here for safe keeping. I gather one doesn’t simply flash it about on the street.’

  I was secretly rather disappointed. I expected the ‘highest civilian honour’ to be something elaborate, perhaps even jewelled. This was a small, rather plain silver cross with some sort of medallion at the centre, hanging from a blue ribbon. Not, I thought, very impressive at all. I made politely admiring noises.

  I’ve been told I’d never make a poker player. Jonathan gave me a twisted smile. ‘Not much, is it? To look at, I mean. But then, I don’t quite see why they gave it to me at all. I was only doing my duty.’

  I looked at the lines of pain on his face, his shaking hand, his pallor, and my throat closed up again. Even Alan had to clear his throat before he could speak.

  ‘Your duty, Jonathan, was to try to contain an explosive situation, to keep injuries to a minimum, and if possible to aid the military chaps to apprehend the terrorists. Saving that child was a pure act of gallantry, and I’ll hear no more nonsense about not deserving this award.’

  ‘You said they weren’t Beefeaters, Alan,’ I said, to change the subject. ‘They certainly have the exact same uniform. Explain.’

  ‘I’m afraid the explanation may leave you as confused as ever. They’re called – the ones we saw today – the Yeomen of the Guard. And yes, their uniform is almost exactly like that of the Yeomen Warders, the ones at the Tower. The palace ones wear a sash draped from one shoulder, the only difference I’ve ever noted.’

  ‘And Gilbert and Sullivan . . . well, mostly Gilbert, I suppose . . . compounded the problem when he called the Tower ones by the wrong name. You’re right. I didn’t need to know.’

  ‘But now you do. And I suggest, Jonathan, that we make our way out and head for the Ivy before Dorothy and I both perish of starvation. We were too agitated to eat our breakfasts, young man, and all on your account.’

  We descended the grand staircase, very slowly because of Jonathan’s bad legs, and paused at the bottom to ca
tch our breath, or at least for Jonathan to catch his.

  The foyer was milling with honorees, guests and staff. After Jonathan had recovered, we picked our way through with care, lest Jonathan be accidentally buffeted and lose his precarious balance. One of the staff members materialized by his side, and said, ‘Let me help you, or you’ll never get through that lot, Cousin Jonathan.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Jonathan, his voice rather flat. ‘Jemima.’

  ‘You’d forgotten I work here, hadn’t you?’ The young woman laced her arm through his and propelled him through the crowd, smilingly but firmly making way. Alan and I trailed in their wake until we finally reached the quieter haven of the Quadrangle.

  ‘All right, then? Good!’ The young woman hesitated a moment. ‘Jonathan, come and see me one of these days. We haven’t talked in a long time.’ Someone frowned at her. Her boss, possibly? She sketched a wave and vanished, leaving Jonathan to the mercy of the media, who requested an interview.

  Jonathan complied, reluctantly, and escaped the moment he could. He was plainly uncomfortable in the role of hero.

  ‘I didn’t know you had a cousin, Jonathan,’ said Alan as we crunched across the immaculate gravel.

  He scowled. ‘Honorary,’ he said briefly. ‘Her mother was a good friend of my mother’s, and we called her Aunt Letty. By extension, therefore . . .’

  ‘Ah. I see. Pleasant young woman.’

  Jonathan scowled again. ‘Bit of a pill, if you want the truth. In and out of trouble when she was a girl. I rather lost touch with her when my parents died, but I know her mother was greatly relieved when she snagged the job at the palace. I don’t believe they pay terribly well, but she does live in, so she’s under a certain amount of supervision.’

  ‘I’d think it’d take a brave girl to misbehave under the Queen’s eye,’ I commented. ‘I have the distinct impression Her Majesty doesn’t miss much. Look, we’d better find a taxi. You look like you’ve been on your feet long enough for one day.’

  ‘Actually, I left a wheelchair somewhere. The quacks want me to use it still, but I don’t, at least not unless I really have to. And I’d be damned if I’d sit to receive an honour from the Queen, so I told someone to keep it for me.’ He looked around vaguely, as if expecting to see his chair behind a bush, and lo!, the someone appeared, wheeling it – with some difficulty – across the gravel.

  ‘We waited for you at the lift, sir,’ said the man, somewhat reproachfully.

  ‘Yes, well, I managed. As you see.’

  Jonathan refused to sit in it until we had left the gravel, but his face when he finally sat down told me how much that stubbornness had cost him.

  I thought I could see how he had summoned up the courage to save that child.

  ‘Right,’ said Alan. ‘Now to find a taxi.’

  ‘I wonder,’ said Jonathan tentatively, ‘if you’d mind terribly if we walked for a bit. In a manner of speaking, that is,’ he added, looking down at his chair. ‘I . . . the palace is a bit . . . the rain has stopped, and I’d like some fresh air, if it’s not a dreadful bother.’

  ‘I feel exactly the same way,’ I said with a sigh of relief. ‘Claustrophobic. It’s a perfectly lovely, spacious cave, but a cave, nonetheless. Let’s walk through St James’s Park, Alan. Squirrels and ducks and pelicans are exactly what I need just now.’

  The traffic around the palace is always incredible. Taxis and other vehicles whizz around the Queen Victoria Memorial in an unending stream. There are pedestrian traffic lights, controlled by push buttons, but they emit a rapid, threatening beep-beep-beep that seems to shout ‘Hurry! Hurry!’ My heart was in my mouth, with all those impatient engines ready to move the moment they were given the green light, but we managed to cross two streets safely and then, in seconds, were in the shelter of what is, for me, the loveliest park in London.

  It was high noon, and the park should have been crowded with people: children begging their parents for ice cream and throwing crumbs to the greedy ducks, lovers strolling arm in arm, the elderly sitting on benches attracting crowds of hopeful pigeons and the odd squirrel looking for a handout. St James’s is one of the royal parks, which simply means they’re owned by the Crown. Anyone can enjoy them, and thousands of people do, every day. Not today, though, what with the rain. Soon, if the sun came out, the throngs would descend, but now we had the place nearly to ourselves. We wandered happily, looking at the soggy flowerbeds and smelling that spring smell of damp earth and new growth, unmatched at any other time of the year. Finding a path leading into a more densely planted area, we passed through the unlatched gate and found ourselves so shut off from the sounds of London that we might have been in the country.

  Just beyond some bushes that weren’t yet fully leafed out lay the lake. The waterfowl were happily going about their business. As a gorgeous swan flew in for a landing on the lake, its great wing-beats thudding like horses’ hooves, I watched, enchanted, leaning on a bench.

  ‘Tired, love?’ asked Alan.

  ‘Tired of walking. These are not exactly walking shoes. Yes, I know I thought this was a wonderful idea, but now I need to sit and rest for a bit. I’m thirsty, too. Alan, you could get me something cold to drink if the refreshment stands are open. Jonathan, you stay here and keep me company. I want to hear about how your recovery is coming.’

  ‘Oh, I’m doing well,’ he said briskly. But as Alan walked out of earshot, he sighed. ‘Who am I trying to fool? It’s been hell, Dorothy.’

  ‘I thought so,’ I said quietly. I tried to keep my voice neutral. Too much sympathy, and either Jonathan would start to cry, or his defences would kick in and he’d try to laugh it off.

  ‘Not so much the pain. Oh, it’s bad, but I can live with it.’

  ‘I never knew exactly what your injuries were.’

  He laughed, a sound conveying no amusement. ‘Do you want the complete catalogue? It ranged from gunshot wounds to internal injuries to smoke inhalation to concussion to various broken limbs, but it’s worked out at two game legs and touchy plumbing and a wonky brain. I black out from time to time.’

  I swallowed hard. ‘What are your doctors telling you about the prognosis?’

  ‘They’ve done all they can. Now it’s therapy and exercise and all that. They tell me it’s all on my plate now. And to tell you the truth, I don’t care.’

  ‘No?’ The neutral tone was getting harder.

  ‘Why should I work and sweat, trying to make my legs do impossible things? Why should I eat what they tell me, hoping my insides will eventually be normal, and try to avoid stress that plays the devil with my mind? Why should I care? I’ll never be able to work again, anyway. I’ll never be fit for police work.’

  ‘And so?’

  He had been staring at the ground. Now he looked up at me, his face full of anger. ‘And so there’s no reason for me to keep on living, is there?’

  ‘No? I’d have thought a man who’d won the George Cross would have more courage than that.’

  He winced as if I’d slapped him. As, in effect, I had. I hated doing this, but I went on. ‘You weren’t afraid to risk dying, back when the little girl needed you. You dove right in and did what had to be done. So why are you so afraid to risk living?’

  ‘Are you suggesting there’s something to live for?’ His voice was savage.

  ‘Oh, don’t be tiresome, Jonathan. Of course there’s something to live for!’ I gestured in a wide sweep. ‘The lake, flowers, trees. Pelicans, for heaven’s sake! Don’t tell me you’d throw away your chances of ever seeing a pelican again. Just look at them, with those ridiculous short legs and that huge beak! They’re one of God’s great jokes, like ostriches and camels. And people.’

  ‘You want me to strain every muscle I have left, in torture, for the sake of pelicans.’

  At least he didn’t sound self-pitying any more.

  ‘Exactly. Pelicans, and wood ducks, and cats and lilacs and a cuppa and a lovely pint. Life, Jonathan, in all its infinite variety. I kno
w you’ve been through more agony than anyone should ever have to endure. I know you’re depressed about losing your job – and, incidentally, I certainly hope you’re getting some treatment for the depression. But the point is that the Metropolitan Police isn’t the only possible job in the world for a young, intelligent man, especially one who’s just been awarded the highest honour his country has to offer. You can find another job, if you do work and sweat and swear and ache and do whatever you must to regain your strength and mobility. And then you can see the world again, instead of just your own misery.’

  ‘And pelicans.’

  ‘Definitely pelicans.’

  ‘Pelicans?’ said Alan quizzically, returning with orange drinks for all of us.

  ‘Dorothy seems to think they’re one of the most important life forms,’ said Jonathan.

  ‘Dorothy also thinks she’s going to perish of starvation if someone doesn’t feed her soon,’ I moaned melodramatically. ‘A taxi, a taxi, my kingdom for a taxi!’

  ‘You don’t have a kingdom,’ observed Alan, holding out his hand to help me up.

  ‘Neither did Richard, shortly after those immortal words. Onward, troops.’

  I got stiffly to my feet, dropping my paper cup as I did so. Orange drink splashed over my feet and on to the hem of my wildly expensive, pale blue dress.

  ‘Damn!’ I said emphatically. ‘This stuff never comes out! And how can I show up at the Ivy with an orange hem? Alan, it’s rolled under that bush. Get it for me, will you? I don’t need to litter, on top of everything else.’

  He reached under the bush, fumbled about and stopped. His face, as he stood up, wore a most peculiar expression.

  ‘Dorothy, do you have your mobile?’

  ‘Yes, in my purse. Why?’

  ‘Ring for a policeman, then, please.’

  ‘We have two of them right here, Alan. You and Jonathan.’

  ‘We need one in active service. Unless I’m hallucinating, someone is under that bush, and I don’t think she’s alive.’