door for his passengers.
“St. James’s Palace,” came the reply. Rhys closed the door, and took his place at the wheel. “Would you mind fastening your seat belts, please?”
It was a friendly safety tip, and one which James and Cal might have done well to heed — psychologically speaking.
Eight
They settled back and watched the city slide silently past the windows as the car sped along Pall Mall towards their destination. The Palace of St. James, like nearly all royal properties, had been appropriated by the Government on behalf of the nation. Under the terms of royal devolution, the former residents had returned the buildings and lands to the public which had, after all, paid for them in one way or another. As if to underscore the point, the Government had turned the palaces and apartments of the royals into offices for civil servants. Only two properties remained outside direct Government control: Buckingham Palace, which had been abandoned by King Edward’s predecessors some years before devolution began in earnest; and the Balmoral estate in Scotland.
Buckingham Palace was leased to a private corporation that maintained it as a venue for special State functions but primarily as a tourist attraction, selling tickets for tours. There was still a changing of the guard, but the soldiers and marching band were hired. The contract had a good few years to run, although it was assumed that when the lease expired, Buckingham Palace would go the way of Kensington, Windsor, Sandringham, Hampton Court, St. James’s, and the other stately piles already devolved. As for Balmoral, always much the favorite of the royals of yesteryear, the King had been allowed to keep that — as long as he paid taxes on it like any upright citizen. A fellow had to have some place to live, after all.
St. James’s, that fine old red-stone monstrosity built by Henry VIII for Anne Boleyn, had received a much-needed general refurbishment; its ruddy facade had been scrubbed until the stonework fairly glowed in the early winter light. Even the giant clock high up in the six-storey gatehouse gleamed a wintry white and gold.
The black Jaguar rolled to a halt at a red-and-white striped barrier, where an armed guard waved the car through. After parking in the courtyard between two wings of the building, Rhys led James and Cal through a second security gate and metal detector, then into a veritable rabbit warren of rooms, corridors, offices, and reception areas large and small, down many flights of steps, and along an underground passageway which delivered them eventually to a tiny vestibule presided over by a steely-eyed woman with bright red lipstick; her hair was scraped tightly to her head, and her stark white blouse was an old-fashioned variety with a high, starched collar.
“Mrs. Garrison,” said Rhys, “this is Mr. Stuart.” The woman nodded, regarding James narrowly. “And Mr. McKay.” Cal beamed placidly at the woman. “Mrs. Garrison,” Rhys explained, “is Embries’ administrative assistant. I will leave you in her capable hands.”
“Good morning.” The prim woman rose at once to take their jackets. “He is expecting you.” The way she said it made James think she was talking about the Almighty. “He said to bring you in directly.” Indicating the door behind her, she said, “This way, gentlemen, please.”
Embries’ assistant conducted them through a short, book-lined entryway to another door, knocked once, and, without waiting for an answer, pushed it open. They were ushered into a windowless office about the size of a single-car garage. The entire space was wholly occupied with books, books, and more books — overflowing the floor-to-ceiling shelves that lined every wall. As many as there were, they shared three traits in common: all without exception were thick, dark, and old — reeking with age, in fact, giving the close room the distinct odor of an antiquarian bookshop. There were no filing cabinets,
“St. James’s Palace,” came the reply. Rhys closed the door, and took his place at the wheel. “Would you mind fastening your seat belts, please?”
It was a friendly safety tip, and one which James and Cal might have done well to heed — psychologically speaking.
Eight
They settled back and watched the city slide silently past the windows as the car sped along Pall Mall towards their destination. The Palace of St. James, like nearly all royal properties, had been appropriated by the Government on behalf of the nation. Under the terms of royal devolution, the former residents had returned the buildings and lands to the public which had, after all, paid for them in one way or another. As if to underscore the point, the Government had turned the palaces and apartments of the royals into offices for civil servants. Only two properties remained outside direct Government control: Buckingham Palace, which had been abandoned by King Edward’s predecessors some years before devolution began in earnest; and the Balmoral estate in Scotland.
Buckingham Palace was leased to a private corporation that maintained it as a venue for special State functions but primarily as a tourist attraction, selling tickets for tours. There was still a changing of the guard, but the soldiers and marching band were hired. The contract had a good few years to run, although it was assumed that when the lease expired, Buckingham Palace would go the way of Kensington, Windsor, Sandringham, Hampton Court, St. James’s, and the other stately piles already devolved. As for Balmoral, always much the favorite of the royals of yesteryear, the King had been allowed to keep that — as long as he paid taxes on it like any upright citizen. A fellow had to have some place to live, after all.
St. James’s, that fine old red-stone monstrosity built by Henry VIII for Anne Boleyn, had received a much-needed general refurbishment; its ruddy facade had been scrubbed until the stonework fairly glowed in the early winter light. Even the giant clock high up in the six-storey gatehouse gleamed a wintry white and gold.
The black Jaguar rolled to a halt at a red-and-white striped barrier, where an armed guard waved the car through. After parking in the courtyard between two wings of the building, Rhys led James and Cal through a second security gate and metal detector, then into a veritable rabbit warren of rooms, corridors, offices, and reception areas large and small, down many flights of steps, and along an underground passageway which delivered them eventually to a tiny vestibule presided over by a steely-eyed woman with bright red lipstick; her hair was scraped tightly to her head, and her stark white blouse was an old-fashioned variety with a high, starched collar.
“Mrs. Garrison,” said Rhys, “this is Mr. Stuart.” The woman nodded, regarding James narrowly. “And Mr. McKay.” Cal beamed placidly at the woman. “Mrs. Garrison,” Rhys explained, “is Embries’ administrative assistant. I will leave you in her capable hands.”
“Good morning.” The prim woman rose at once to take their jackets. “He is expecting you.” The way she said it made James think she was talking about the Almighty. “He said to bring you in directly.” Indicating the door behind her, she said, “This way, gentlemen, please.”
Embries’ assistant conducted them through a short, book-lined entryway to another door, knocked once, and, without waiting for an answer, pushed it open. They were ushered into a windowless office about the size of a single-car garage. The entire space was wholly occupied with books, books, and more books — overflowing the floor-to-ceiling shelves that lined every wall. As many as there were, they shared three traits in common: all without exception were thick, dark, and old — reeking with age, in fact, giving the close room the distinct odor of an antiquarian bookshop. There were no filing cabinets,
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