The Queen gazed out of the window as a team of paramedics, flanked by dark-suited security men, slid the stretcher into the ambulance. Its occupant, whose face was covered, had been pronounced dead at the scene, slumped over his dinner at the top table in the Long Library. It had only been by great good fortune that the contents of the glass he’d been holding had missed her spangled evening gown. White silk was a devil to clean, apparently.
Standing by the back of her chair, her butler coughed discretely. The Queen turned to him and gave a conspiratorial wink. ‘Don’t worry, Watkins. You were only acting under orders.’ The Queen smiled serenely. ‘And I am monarch and above the law.’
‘Very good, ma-am.’
‘Worked a treat, didn’t it?’ she giggled. ‘Something Philip was given on a State visit. I knew it would come in handy one day.’
‘Indeed, ma-am. If I might be permitted to say, the poisoning was entirely justified. Not that one’s Royal Highness would need to.’
‘He might have been the Leader of the Free World, but in all my years as Queen, I have never, ever come across such an odious man.’
‘He actually asked for a Coca-Cola when Blenheim has such a wonderful wine cellar!’
They both glanced at the portrait hanging over the fireplace. ‘I’m not sure what Mr Churchill would have made of him, or his own current successor.’
The Queen raised her glass to the portrait. ‘He’s a problem for another day.’
Written in response to a prompt from Susan T. Braithwaite
Genre Scribes Friday Fiction Writing Challenge #32
The challenge this week was dinner.