They had seen nothing and found no one by the time the great gates swung open, and a murmur of expectation swept through the crowd. In the distance a line of three black automobiles, Rolls-Royces, came slowly down the driveway; the canvas tops were open, so they wouldn't obscure the view. As they turned the bend, I could see that the leading car had two men in the back, resplendent in uniform; the second had two women. They were wearing hats, tied over their heads with scarves.

'Constable, stop the cars, for God's sake!' I said as I ran up to him. 'Close the gate!'

Armstrong panicked. He could control the crowds as long as all was well, but wasn't capable of doing anything other than watch people, and tell himself that everything was fine. 'Don't worry,' he said. 'Don't worry, don't worry . . .' and his lips kept moving even when he stopped speaking, as though he was reciting a prayer.

And it was too late, anyway. The big black machine was coming through the gate, slowing down so that the crowds could applaud, and see. And to allow the cars behind to catch up and make a proper procession of it. I was looking up and down the line of faces, desperate to see Elizabeth, convinced that something dreadful was about to happen. It was the way she was clutching her handbag which worried me most; all I could see in my mind was her hands, the knuckles white, as she held tightly onto that cheap canvas bag, held it up over her stomach, so she could put her hand into it . . .

The cars were now going at no more than two miles an hour, the flags were waving, the people were cheering. The King-Emperor of Great Britain and the Indias sat on the right, looking bored. The Tsar of all the Russias was by his side, gazing at the crowd with the air of someone who found all this populace slightly distasteful, and then I realised my mistake. I saw a man, a big burly man, wearing a suit like a bank clerk, step forward some ten yards away from me, his hand underneath his jacket. I shouted, and he turned to look at me, then dismissed me from his thoughts. I was ten yards from him, he was only ten yards from the car, but it was getting closer all the time, and I was just standing there, speechless and immobile.

But a man can run faster than a slow-moving car. Much faster, when he is terrified. I began to run, and the closer I got, the better I could see. I could see his hand pulling out from under his jacket, saw the black thing in it, got closer still and saw the barrel. And I saw it being lifted, and pointing just as I got close enough to leap, heard the explosion as I fell, then another one as I collapsed on the ground. And I felt the most incredible, unbelievable pain, which blotted out almost everything else, except for the one last image as I looked up from the dust and gravel, and saw Elizabeth standing over me, gun in her hand, a look of wildness in her eyes.

CHAPTER 29

I have read much nonsense over the years about being shot; the main things being firstly that it doesn't hurt, and secondly that the noise sounds more like a faint popping, rather than a loud bang. Rubbish. Firstly, the noise of the gun going off sounded like the crack of doom; I was sure my eardrums had burst. Secondly it hurt like the very devil, and from the very moment that the bullet entered my shoulder. And then it hurt more, until I lost consciousness, and hurt still more when I woke up again in hospital. In my case, at least, it was also untrue that I could remember nothing, wondered where I was and what had happened. I remembered perfectly well, thank you very much. Then I went back to sleep.

It was morning, I guessed, when I woke up again, and I stared at the ceiling, gathering my thoughts, before showing any sign that I was conscious. But I got an unpleasant surprise when I turned my head to look around. Sitting beside me, reading a newspaper was the small, almost dainty, figure of the man I knew to be Henry Cort, a cup of tea on a small table by his side.

'Mr Braddock,' he said with the faintest of smiles. 'And how are you?'

'I don't know,' I said.

'Ah. Then let me tell you. You have been shot.'

'I know that.'

'I suppose you do. Not too seriously, I'm glad to say, although it made a nasty wound and you have lost a lot of blood. If it hadn't been for your friend Mr Gumble, who knows something about bullet wounds from his time in Afghanistan, you would have bled to death, probably. However, the doctors tell me you will recover perfectly well, in time.'

'She shot me.'

'Yes. Yes, so it seems.'

'What happened?'

'Why don't you read this? It's the dispatch penned by Mr Gumble for The Times, and so we know it must be of the highest accuracy.'