So, you’re in Buckingham Palace. The official London residence of the sovereign, by the Grace of God, of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland and of His other Realms and Territories, King, Head of the Commonwealth, Defender of the Faith.
You’ve picked a nice spot. Located in the heart of London, at the end of the Mall, the palace is nestled in 42 acres of grounds, with magnificent gardens, a lake, a helicopter pad, and a tennis court. The original building was constructed in the 18th century, but it’s been expanded many times since. Nowadays, it has 775 rooms, including offices, state rooms, bedrooms (Royal, guest, and staff), a throne room, a ballroom, a picture gallery, a police station, an ATM, and scores of bathrooms. It contains its own post office, a jeweller’s workshop, a doctor’s surgery, and a cinema — and a myriad of opportunities to be murdered.
Presumably, you’re meant to be there. If you’ve followed the examples of such unauthorised entrants as the boy Jones, Mr Michael Fagan, and the BFG, then, honestly, in this situation, it’s best to get out the way you came in, as quick as ever you can. If you can’t manage that, then lie face-down on the floor, limbs spread out, and start crying. Act bewildered. Officials are much less likely to harm you when they find you in that situation. You’ll still have some problems to address, but that is beyond the scope of this article. I’m just trying to help you not be murdered. Trespassing on a Protected Site is on you.
If, on the other hand, you are supposed to be there, then take a quick moment and drink in the surroundings. Regard the stately hallways, the majestic staircases, the antique furniture. Plinths are dotted about, holding exquisite sculptures and porcelain (perfect for plucking up and smashing you over the head with. Although there would be the consolation of having been murdered with a centuries-old invaluable antique). On the walls hang magnificent paintings – Titians, van Dycks, Rembrandts and a Vermeer. That gorgeous vista of Venice? A Canaletto. Dotted all around you are portraits of those who have walked these very corridors over the centuries.
From these walls, history looks down upon you, and is probably judging you a bit.
There’s also some very expensive pictures of horses.
Now, we’ll posit that you’re in the palace because it’s your home (because if you were just a visitor, or worked there, then it’s difficult to think of a more inconvenient place for someone who wants to murder you to do the deed). Yes, you live in Buckingham Palace, and let’s agree that you’re a royal person. (There are more than three times as many staff bedrooms as there are royal bedrooms, and some staff have apartments there, but there’s a word limit to this article, and I can’t keep everyone alive.)
The bad news is that as a result of your newfound royal status, people’s motives for murdering you go up a great deal in number. Quite aside from the usual reasons that people get murdered (love, money, failing to put the toilet lid down for the fifteen thousandth time), there’s also the fact that you’re now a prominent person. Your face is known, your actions feature in the press and the national awareness, and so you’ll attract the attention of lots of people, some of whom may be a bit peculiar. It’s entirely possible that some of that peculiarity may be manifest itself in unhealthy obsession.
Worse, you’re a symbol, so you’ll attract the attention of people who hate the idea of what you represent. These are people for whom your death will be an important statement, or a key step on a path to a better world. Some will loathe you as the personification of centuries of conquest and oppression. Some will despise you for your inherited privilege. Some will whisper that you’re on the board that controls the secret supernatural wing of the British civil service which is, of course, absolutely preposterous. That said, just out of interest, where did you hear such a thing? From whom? How do you spell that? And what is their address?
The good news about being a royal personage (aside from guaranteed accommodation and income, and having people to cook your meals and clean your miles and miles of corridors and put the toilet lid down for you) is that a lot of the work in not getting murdered will be done for you. There’s a whole system designed to keep you from being murdered. It starts from just over your shoulder, where a discreet but effective agent of Scotland Yard’s Royalty Protection Group is standing, ready to spring into action if anyone looks like they’re going to make a move on you.
From there, the system of protection radiates out, through the hallways of the palace which are monitored by security cameras, out through the thick walls and the bulletproof windows (with bombproof curtains that are weighted at the bottom), across the grounds out to the beautiful but very high and very spiky fence, the armed guards in magnificent hats, and the polite signs asking people not to trespass. This isn’t just a palace, it’s a fortress, and you’re the treasure at the centre.
Do you feel safe? Because the system spreads out even further than that. People sit at desks in office buildings all around the country, monitoring threats to you. Police officers go undercover with extremist groups to defuse plots before they become actions. Any number of civilians would make a call because they were worried for your safety. You’re at the centre of a whirling constellation of protection.
Which means that you only have to worry about murderers who are very, very good at murdering.
Perhaps that is not as comforting a thought as it might appear at first glance.
The whole situation would all be a lot more secure if you didn’t keep inviting people in. Over 800 people work at the palace. And then there’s receptions, audiences, investitures (if it’s a knighting, keep a firm grip on that sword – you don’t want it wrested from your hand and turned on you), state banquets (at which you are actually providing people with metal stabbing utensils). Each of these events involve a multitude of guests, any one of whom might decide you need murdering. Over the course of a year, over 30,000 people attend royal garden parties. Of course, there’s background checks, and security arrangements but who knows what evil lurks in the hearts of garden partiers?
The final concern is: do you trust the system that’s designed to keep you from being murdered? Because a system is just people. You don’t know who will have prepared the meals that are brought to you, or who carried it through the hallways to your table. How many hands did your linguine alla putanesca pass through? Can you trust all of them? The person running the hoover down hallways doesn’t need an excuse to walk in your direction, or even just to linger where they know you’ll pass by. The Royalty Protection Group officers have guns – you’d better hope they all like you.
That’s how you don’t get murdered in Buckingham Palace, by relying on the goodness in people’s hearts, and by being worthy of their loyalty.
But it’s always good to have a fallback, so you should probably also carry some sort of knife in your handbag or in a cunningly installed inner pocket of your Savile Row suit.
But don’t stab someone unless you’re really certain it’s necessary. The press fallout will be hideous.
And look, if it all goes wrong, and you do fall to the hands of some villain, well, you’ve picked a marvelous place in which to be murdered. The crime scene photos will look amazing.
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