Prologue King Eric used to tell us a fable about a common family who went to see the lions at London Zoo. It was a narrative of his own creation and he was always very proud to share it. It was a fable crafted to inspire, to encourage deep thought, to allude and tantalise a hidden deeper well of meaning, as many fables were. We came to fear the fable whenever it was regaled, but not for any reason that King Eric intended. The fable was chiselled into all of us, as commandments into stone, but still it would come to assault our ears and prod at our hearts. Every time the King's delivery would become grander - a simple recounting becoming an unfurling parchment, turning into costumes to be worn, transforming into a show of which we increasingly had to be a part. He meant it to inspire, but the truth was that whenever it revealed itself, we just desired it to be over - any "deeper well of meaning" circumvented, any feelings of thought or inspiration usurped by boredom and apathy. However, we let the King tell it. He did like it so. A common family one day decided to go to London Zoo, with a particular desire to see the lions residing there. They woke up early. They rode the train into the city - all morning it took them. When they finally arrived at the great gates of the zoo, they rushed to the lion exhibit along with all the other patrons to find a great enclosure encased in a thick layer of protective glass. Inside, the lions were woken from their slumber and paraded out in front of the expectant crowd. The children of this hypothetical family squealed with glee at seeing these great beasts. The crowd of people clapped and cheered as these majestic creatures feasted upon whatever was on the menu that day. There the narrative would end, revealing itself to be not much of a narrative at all. We were not masters of the craft, but we knew that there should have been some kind of denouement, some kind of rise and fall and rise again until the inevitable full stop. But no, for this was a fable, and once it was done Eric would ask a question: Who or what was the most important in the story? Some of us would say the lions, seeing as they were the entities inspiring joy and offering some respite from the family's oh so dull life. Some of us would say the family, as they were making the world go round, and really, if the lions had any sense they would understand that they were merely passengers in this existence and they should delight in offering others enjoyment. Some of us would try to be smart, seeing other options - the zoo workers, for instance, who prodded the lions from sleep so the family could view them? Or, further afield, the explorers who brought the lions to London in the first place? How about the manufacturers of the train which carried the family to London to enjoy such a spectacle? But no matter how hard we tried, not even one of us got the right answer. King Eric would shake his head time and time again, resolving to tell the fable again another day. The story has not been told today - his favourite day of the year. Christmas Day. We are all in the drawing room, after our dinner, and the time for the tale may have passed, but Eric will still find a way to fill our ears with his words. His famous post-dinner speech is looming - but this speech brings promise. A promise of change. The King will say a name. Just one. I wonder what happens if my name leaves his lips. Although I know it won't. A life of even more restriction, but a life as a God. Yes, I would be a monarch - the most important person in the country. To be royal is to be seen. We are the lions, after all. Maybe one cannot know the answer to King Eric's fable until it is too late. Eric takes a long drink of whiskey. He starts talking. "It is an honour to be able to spend time with this family of mine on..." But his voice starts to crack, his face starts to go an odd shade of puce, and his hands go to his throat - the glass of whiskey bouncing off the lush shag. Eric collapses violently over the table in front of him, as we scream and cry and mutter in confusion, wondering if this is part of the speech. The chef rushes over in a breathy panic to confirm what we all, deep down, already know. King Eric is dead. Hardly surprising, considering I poisoned the whiskey. Now I just have to get away with it. Ten Hours Earlier... I A Modest Breakfast Whenever one desires the attention of those beyond a door, one cannot go wrong with three sharp knocks. No more, no less. Two knocks might be misconstrued, while four knocks seem needlessly excessive. This was the mantra of Jonathan Alleyne, the King's private chef, and it did not change even at five o'clock in the morning in the echoey halls of Balmoral Castle. Balmoral Castle, an illustrious fortress of a country residence standing in the remote Highlands of Scotland, came into the possession of the monarchy when it was purchased by Prince Albert for Queen Victoria in the mid-1800s. Queen Victoria loved cold, wet weather, and Balmoral stood in maybe the coldest and wettest locale in the British Isles. Conditions were positively dreary at most times of the year, with whipping winds and constant rain. Locals would refer to the rain as 'rude' whenever it came, so ferocious that it would often feel as though it were piercing them through. It hardly seemed like a place for a Royal, but Victoria and Albert were happy with their purchase. When the original castle proved too small, it was entirely rebuilt to their specifications - further proving they bought mostly for the location. Balmoral now stood as the summer home of the current monarch, King Eric, and his family - summer being the only time of year where the sun would grace the land with its presence. However, if one were to look outside the castle windows at that moment, one might have been forgiven for thinking the concept of summer was a figment of some collective imagination. A tremendous blizzard was laying waste to the greater part of the United Kingdom, surprising meteorologists somewhat and grinding the gears of a semifunctional society to a halt. The castle, much like the country, was under siege, and Jon could hear the wind whistling around them, threatening to break in and bring the snow with it. It would never happen - Balmoral had stood against worse and would once again. The weather was often ferocious here. The River Dee, which ran through the grounds, regularly burst its banks, and the castle had faced hurricanes, world wars, and the destructive passage of time. Balmoral was still standing, and it was hard to imagine a world where one day it would not be. The blizzard had started almost exactly one hour after everyone had left. The mass exodus of staff from Balmoral was truly something to behold, as if the workers of the castle had seen what was to come and fled. Jon's army of chefs, having stayed until the bitter end helping him prepare, filed out of the kitchen trying to mask the apprehension that their commander might not be able to complete his mammoth task alone. Jon could not blame them - he hardly believed it possible himself. These doubts now resided in the bags under Jon's eyes, and in his shortness of breath, and on the slick layer of cold sweat resting upon his skin, like dew on a morning lawn. As it always seemed to do on important nights, sleep had eluded him. He had tossed and turned, involuntarily reciting the list of completed chores in his mind, plagued by some phantom worry that he had forgotten something terribly important. Finally, he did find a pocket of that desired thing one usually found in scenarios such as this - something akin to rest, but never akin enough. It did not last long. He was up before his alarm roused him. The day had begun. Time always had a pesky habit of raging on. Jonathan Alleyne was far too well acquainted with the pitfalls and follies of time, stuck in the chasm of feeling both that he had lived too long and not long enough. He was a wistful man of fifty-five years, of which thirty-three had been spent in the service of the Crown. As the King's private chef, he regularly followed the Royal Family among their various residences, doting upon them with whatever they desired. His food had been served to prime ministers, presidents, delegates, and dignitaries - and some even complimented him on it. He walked in the corridors of power, lining the stomachs of the powerful. How he loved his job - to be an important cog in this goliath of a machine. To prepare the King on Christmas morning was a single piece of lightly toasted wheat bread, with a layer of low-fat butter and a lavish coating of raspberry jam. To accompany this was a coffee - two teaspoons of premium instant Kenco (upon strict request - 'instant coffee is often more potent, in my opinion - as if it has something to prove') and a dash of semi-skimmed milk. Jon had carried this, under a small cloche, all the way from the kitchens to the most important of the fifty-two bedrooms. It was a journey he knew so well, he could do it blindfolded. His years of service had carved maps, calendars, menus, birth charts, and all manner of other things into his brain - all to do with a family that wasn't his and would never be. Sometimes, on cold nights, Jon wondered what he would do when it was all over, when he was relieved of his duty and told to go home for the final time. The vast amounts of information he had amassed declared redundant, he would step out onto the cold cobbled street, free to do as he wished - only to realise that his own life had passed him by. It had been forfeited so that he might be a mere footnote in somebody else's. Would it be worth it? Many times the answer was yes - about nine times out of ten. It was unfortunate that the world seemed to reside in the tenth. Jon had a secret. Not a nice one - like the knowledge of where the Christmas presents were hidden - but a dark personal secret that burned his heart merely to think about and manifested a throbbing pain in his gut. Then again, maybe the pain was not just the withholding. Before Jon had time to think on his burden, the strong call of "Enter" came from inside. Three knocks had done the trick. Jon did as commanded. The fire was roaring in the large bedroom and the four-poster bed was empty, the bed made perfectly as though the maids were still present. Churchill, one of the King's calico cats, was lying on a plump pillow, purring away to no one. King Eric was sitting at his desk, matching a pile of Christmas cards with their corresponding scarlet paper sheaves. At intervals, he peered up through the window into the blizzard, smiled, and continued his work. Upon seeing Jon, he rose - as if the chef were the royalty and vice versa. "Jon. Happy Christmas." "Happy Christmas, Your Majesty. I have brought you your breakfast." Jon was not surprised that the King had already woken and started his Christmas morning. Standing in front of Jon, the King still cut an imposing figure, even at eighty-five years of age and dressed in a slightly unfortunate fuzzy purple dressing gown. He was a man with the weight of the country on his shoulders, and they were shoulders that could bear the burden. However, especially of late, it was impossible not to notice that the years were starting to take their toll. Jon could look at the old man and see the Eric Windsor of old - full of a (dare he say) cheeky energy and a righteous indignation that somehow coupled perfectly with a desire to uphold the foundations of the monarchy. He was still that man now behind it all - it was the body that was betraying him. Eric Windsor was crumbling, decaying, unable to portray any of the qualities that made him him. The saddest part was that the man saw it himself. The good King was a picture of how time always won in the end, even against a god. If the King had to bend the knee to time, what chance did Jon have? Jon went to the table in front of the fire and put down his tray, knowing that the King would not get to his toast for some time yet. He knew that it would be stone cold by this point anyway, but also knew that anyone who partook in toast had to always accept this as a possibility. Jon gave the King his coffee, coming to stand at his side with a brief detour to scratch Churchill behind the ears. Jon gazed out of the window with his King. The window presented a positively glowing scene. The grounds were under a deep layer of snow, with more whipping down on the ferocious wind. The sky was filled with clouds, promising no respite in the immediate future. The King took a sip of coffee, raising it to his lips with a shaky hand. It had gotten worse. When he was done, Jon took the coffee again and placed it on the desk. It was an entirely wordless interaction, but one the King appreciated. "I daresay you've come just in time to see the end of the show." The King nodded downwards, and Jon traced his gaze. Far below them, through the icy fug, Jon spied the slightly obscured lights of a vehicle slowly moving away from the castle. It wasn't long before the lights ceased their journey, and a small figure came into view carrying a snow shovel. Jon could not see who it was through the falling snow, but he didn't have to. "Miss Darcy is still here?" "She stayed for as long as she could. And then she gave me my big red box and went on her way." The King nodded to the despatch box on the table next to the cloche. Jon had failed to note it. "But it's Christmas Day." The King was allowed only two days off a year - one being Easter Sunday and the other being Christmas Day. The box contained missives from the government to the Monarch - dealings and events that the government thought he should know about. "Merely an excuse to come back to the 'Moral. She's paying for her choice now though." A fresh bout of wind buffeted the window as if even the elements answered to him. Below, the King's private secretary, Miss Darcy Tharigold, dug out her wheels, only for the snow to whip back into the holes. "Dear God, please let her get away. I really would not fancy having to feed another at the table. I do not desire to know what Miss Darcy considers party chitchat." "I can go and help her if you like, sir," said Jon, although he really couldn't. He had to get back to the kitchens as quickly as he could, and resume his 135-point list for the dinner. Thankfully the King laughed. "And spoil my fun? No, friend, thank you. But you could answer me one question - do you think they have really obeyed the orders?" Jon thought about this. The decree had come to them sometime in early December - The King wants a family Christmas. They did not know exactly what that meant until it was revealed that everyone was to leave the castle on the twenty-fifth. Jon had his own thoughts on whether that was likely. He did not think himself a man of high intellect (far from it), but he knew how to talk to the King. "I believe they will obey your orders to the letter, sir. And within those letters, they will somehow find a way to do as they wish." The King seemed to understand but still said, "Elaborate please, old friend." Jon's eyes drifted downwards. Darcy Tharigold was back in her car, and she might have even made some progress since last viewing. But where was she going? Home for Christmas? He hardly thought so. "This is merely a theory but - I believe that, at some distance, there are two dozen or so members of the security service funneled into a Scottish hotel, awaiting any signal from Tony Speck that they are needed, and then they will come running." The King combined a smile with a sigh in an odd display of resigned dismay. It was one of his specialties. "Yes. I rather thought the same. Blast, why can't they just go and enjoy their holidays for once? Balmoral used to be our little slice of freedom. But now it's exactly the opposite - it's the very sign we are not free. Even the wild hills of Scotland contain us. The new fences across our property lines, the security, the signs of the times. The wilds where even my private secretary will just pop up for a visit. Queen Victoria would perish all over again for the injustice of it all. Even the weather has turned against us." Jon did not know what to say. He had spent a lot of time at the King's side. The two of them had struck up an unlikely friendship throughout the years, ever since Jon had walked in on the King having trouble with a crossword, one which Jon had the answer to. After that, the King made a point to keep the crossword for when Jon was present. They spent more time together than one would think of a king and his chef, and it was because of this that Jon could see that the old man was genuinely troubled by his soliloquy. The vines of royalty had gripped him his entire life, but never - it seemed - more tightly than now. The moment passed, the dark cloud banished, and the King became cheery again. "Ah, before I forget." He almost skipped around Jon to his desk and plucked the card from the top of the pile. "Sir? I'm afraid I didn't get you one," Jon said, taking it. "Pishposh, you're making us a grand dinner all by your own hand. I daresay I can forgive you a card." "Then thank you very much, sir. I must get back to this dinner then, and make it as grand as can be." "And I must get back to this ongoing Miss Darcy situation. I wonder when she is going to retrieve the horses to pull her car like a sleigh. You are dismissed." They separated there - the King going back to his joyous voyeurism and Jon heading for the door, believing the exchange to be done. Before Jon could open the door, however, the King said, '"hank you for being here with me. It's a big day, old friend." Jon nodded. "It's my honour, sir," before leaving the King to his observation. For the rest of his life Jonathan Alleyne would forever come back to that last thing the King said to him in the early morn of Christmas Day. Excerpted from A Murder at Balmoral by Chris McGeorge All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.