‘The best laid plans of mice and hens often go astray’ goes
the famous poem by Scottish poet, Rabbit Bones, who is the lesser-known
second-cousin twice removed of the more famous Robbie Burns. But the Grand
Duchess Yekaterina is having none of this things-might-go-wrong malarkey, even
if Mercury is retrograde at the current time of writing. She has magic on her
side – magic, cunning and the fortitude in her veins from her family who lived
through the Bloody Revolution of 1917.
(N.B Mercury retrograde finished three days ago on 15th,
but the Lady Author was writing the closing chapters during the actual
retrograde itself, and didn’t she bloomin’ well know it? What sensible person
tries to use technology during a Mercury retrograde? No sensible person, that’s
who.)
Back to the Revolution. Oh yes, the Grand Duchess knows all
too well the horrors of living through a period of political and social change
where monarchies are abolished in favour of a socialist republic. And there is
no way she is going to let it happen to King Charles and his family. She and
her family have many fond memories of the kindness afforded to them by the previous
incumbents of Buckingham Palace. This is her opportunity to repay those
kindnesses. Besides, if Great Britain was to become a republic state, heaven
only knows who would end up as President. The very thought makes the Lady
Author shudder.
‘Zere are several vays ve can go about quashing zis minor
revolutionary uprising, and rescue your Phantomine in ze process,’ says the
Grand Duchess, indicating for Mrs Poo and Mrs Miggins to sit on one of the
nicely upholstered benches that line the corridors of the Palace. ‘And vich vun
you choose depends on how much cleaning up you vant to do afterwards.’
‘Okaaaay,’ says Mrs Miggins, who would still rather call the
police and let them clear up any ensuing mess.
‘What are the options, Grand Duchess?’ says Mrs Poo.
‘Vell,’ says the Grand Duchess, gliding back and forth in a
ghostly approximation of pacing up and down whilst deep in thought, ‘ze first
iz based on pure and unadulterated violence. It vill be short, sharp, bloody
and ve can bury ze bodies beneath ze patio. No vun vill find ze bodies for
centuries and zen it vill be thought ze site vas some kind ov plague pit.’
‘I don’t think I am keen on option one,’ says Mrs Miggins.
‘Vy not?’ says the Grand Duchess. ‘Zere are only three
kidnappers. Ze Palace is full of veaponry – swords, cudgels, axes, lances,
those spiky iron balls on chains zat you sving around your head – ah, happy
days,’ she sighs. ‘Days ven people knew how to defend zeir homes properly.’
‘Again,’ says Mrs Poo, ‘it’s different these days, Grand
Duchess. We don’t want to encourage any form of litigation from the victims if
things don’t go according to plan…’
‘...we also don’t want to get thrown into prison for
murder,’ says Mrs Miggins.
The Grand Duchess sighs. ‘I thought Polovitskas were made ov
sterner stuff,’ she says. ‘But never mind. If you don’t vant to go for ze
easiest and qvickest option, ve can go for something more subtle.’
‘Subtle sounds good,’ says a relieved Mrs Miggins. ‘What is the subtle option?’
The Grand Duchess approaches them and her voice drops
to a whisper. ‘Vot I am about to tell you is known only by a tiny handful of
people. Zis must NEVER be made public knowledge, you understand, yes?’
Both hens nod. The Grand Duchess looks first one way up the
corridor and then the other.
‘Beneath ze Throne Room floor, zere is a deep and large pit.
It is accessed through a trap-door vich is opened by a small lever concealed in ze arm of ze throne upon vich ze Monarch sits. It is an old mechanism,
installed ven ze Palace vas first built in 1837 in order to deal wiz, how shall
ve say – awkvard guests.’
‘Wow,’ says Mrs Poo. ‘And is there anything in the pit?’
‘Crocodiles!’ says the Grand Duchess.
‘Crocodiles??’ chorus Mrs Poo and Mrs Miggins.
‘SssssssHHHHHH!!!!!’ says the Grand Duchess. ‘Yes,
crocodiles. Ze only people who know of zis crocodile pit are ze King and ze
Qveen, and ze Royal Crocodile Keeper, who is called Elton ‘Ze Crocodile’ Rock.’
‘Goodness me!’ says Mrs Miggins. ‘Who knew, eh?’
‘Vell, nobody, obviously,’ says the Grand Duchess, crossly.
‘I just told you – it iz a great secret.’
‘Surely there is no longer any need to keep crocodiles in a
secret pit to deal with awkward guests?’ says a horrified Mrs Poo.
‘You’d be surprised,’ says the Grand Duchess, narrowing her
eyes. ‘But mostly it is a tradition. You know, like ze ravens at ze Tower of
London. Vell, Buckingham Palace has its crocodiles. And also, its team of rabid
hamsters, but I am definitely not telling you about zem.’
Well! What an interesting proposition for getting rid of the
kidnappers and quelling an uprising!
‘All ve haf to do is make sure ze kidnappers are standing
over ze trapdoor,’ says the Grand Duchess. ‘Your Phantomime is spending a lot
of time on ze throne. All he has to do is pull ze lever and BAM! Down zay go
and Dave, Dee, Dozy, Beaky, Mitch and Whopper get dinner and Elton ze Crocodile
Keeper gets a day off cooking. It’s a vin-vin situation.’
Mrs Miggins and Mrs Poo look at each other. It all seems so
simple…yet so morally dubious, too.
Comments