Along with over 150 million other citizens of the United Kingdom and her Commonwealth, without thinking much about it, I went about living my life as a ‘New Elizabethan.’  Despite the connotations of the word ‘Elizabethan’ and obvious links to Shakespeare, I have never worn a lacey ruff or tights, sported a moustache or pointy beard, or uttered ‘hath’, ‘doth’ or ‘gadzooks!’  Nor have I skipped about singing ‘hey nonny, nonny,’ or ‘Lorks a Lordy!’  I was a New Elizabethan.  Then it happened.

At 3.10pm on Thursday 8th September 2022, my Queen, Elizabeth the Second, took her last breath at her beloved Balmoral Castle.  A hidden fairy tale retreat set beside the shallow, burbling River Dee, which snakes through the purple heather swathed hills and valleys of a remote corner of Aberdeenshire, in North East Scotland.  A place I know well.

Although that day is over a year past, like so many of my fellows, it still seems strange to me to no longer have our Queen.  For the vast majority of us Brits, after reigning for seventy years, without giving it much logical thought, we assumed she’d always be there, as she always had been.  Of course we were wrong.  We shouldn’t have been shocked and surprised, there had been signs but we were.  So it was, as Her Majesty’s heart, in her surprisingly little body, finally rested, without realising it, I ceased being a New Elizabethan and became a Carolean.  (from Carolus, the Latin for Charles.)

I must declare a personal interest at this point, I am now retired but for thirty years I was an officer of London’s Metropolitan Police and for the final ten of those years I was a member of the Royalty Protection Department of that Service.  I met and interacted with most of the senior Royals, the late Queen in particular, when posted to Buckingham Palace, Windsor Castle and Balmoral in Scotland, where she passed away.  With a couple of exceptions I really liked The Royals I met, so I hereby declare myself a Royalist.

Queen Elizabeth’s funeral was code named ‘London Bridge’ and had been planned and periodically updated since the 1960’s, ‘just in case’.  (Each Royal’s funeral is code named after a bridge, her Mother was Tay Bridge, her husband, Prince Philip, was Forth Bridge.  His funeral had long been prepared for too, even the long wheel base Landrover, which on his orders would carry his coffin, was kept ready for decades, stored in the Mews at Windsor Castle, started and driven once a week and kept immaculately clean). 

The State Funeral of Her Majesty took place on Monday 19th September 2022 after ten days of National Mourning.  An image seared into every viewers memory is of her coffin, draped with the Royal Standard upon which sat, apparently precariously, the Crown, The Sceptre and the Golden Orb.  As the red-coated and red faced Guardsmen skilfully manoeuvred the weighty, lead-lined coffin, the nation held its breath, fearful the ancient, priceless objects should perhaps slip and fall.  They were of course, securely fastened.

For me, it was the small, almost unnoticeable vignettes which adhere to the memory and move me deeply.  The Queens daughter, Anne, The Princess Royal, her face riven with sadness, curtseyed slowly and reverentially as the coffin passed her by, honouring her Mother for the very last time.  The New King, Charles III, his eyes glistening with tears which he fought and failed to keep from falling as his ‘Dear Ma’ma’ began the descent into the Vault of Windsor Castle’s St George’s Chapel, to rest beside her Father, King George VI, her Mother Elizabeth and her Husband, Philip.  Most moving of all was the single piper, playing the lament, ‘Sleep, Dearie, Sleep.’  The drone of the pipes and the soulfulness of the tune echoed through the five hundred year old Chapel walls, and as the piper slow stepped away the sound diminished until it could be heard no more. 

It made me recall each morning at Balmoral Castle, The Queens Piper, my friend Pipe Major Jim Stout, played for exactly fifteen minutes, pacing the terrace beneath the dining room window as Her Majesty enjoyed her breakfast.  He could be heard each evening, in his quarters at the Castle, practising for the next morning, to get the timing precisely right.  His tune would begin as Balmoral’s clock struck the hour and finish fifteen minutes later.  The clock would strike the quarter hour the briefest moment after his tune ended.  Jim’s accuracy was fearsome.  The Queen loved the sound of the pipes and it was his honour and joy to please her.

At the end of The Summer Court at Balmoral the Queen would hold the famed Ghillies Ball.  An evening of Highland dancing (called a ceilidh, pronounced kay-lee) attended by whichever Royals were in residence and invited members of the Royal Household Staff.  Initiated by Queen Victoria in 1852 and held every year since, it is named for the estate Ghillies (Highland Gamekeepers).  By my time among the one hundred guests were servants, cleaners, soldiers, cooks and hairdressers, and a few very lucky police officers, such as myself. 

A total novice, I needed Highland dancing lessons for eight weeks in preparation for the event.  Queen’s Piper Jim Stout, who would provide music for the dance, oversaw my feeble efforts, oft declaring (with an amused twinkle in his eye) that I was a “flat-footed, uncoordinated English oaf.”  (Thanks Jim, love you too).  Somehow I eventually passed muster and on the great night was permitted to cavort enthusiastically around the ballroom demonstrating ‘Strip the Willow’, ‘The Dashing White Sergeant’, ‘The Eightsome Reel’, and my particularly flamboyant interpretation of ‘The Gay Gordon’, which I imagine is recalled by traumatised witnesses with incredulity.  The climax of course was dancing with Her Majesty, whose hands were soft, whose stature was petite, whose feet were tiny and whose radiant smile was so, so warm.
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She rests in peace now, for evermore.  Surrounded by her family and noble ancestors, encompassed and protected by the thousand year old walls of Windsor Castle. 
Like millions of others, I can’t quite believe it.  Like millions of others, I miss her.
God save The Queen. 


Steven Packwood was born in the economically declining industrial Midlands of England in 1960 to parents who worked in factories.  In 1984 he moved south to London to become an officer of the Metropolitan Police.

He served in many departments and in many capacities until specialising as one of the British Police’s, very few, firearms officers.  He was employed for several years on armed response vehicles and motorcycles until selected to undergo further training, to qualify as a Protection Officer.  There followed several exciting years safeguarding Prime Ministers, including Margaret Thatcher and Tony Blair, as well as other senior Government Ministers and visiting Heads of State.

Steve was invited to join the Royalty Protection Group, initially on Prince Charles’s team (now King Charles III) and ultimately with H.M. Queen Elizabeth II at Buckingham Palace, Windsor Castle and in Scotland at Balmoral Castle.  In 2014 Steve retired from the police relatively sane and reasonably intact after providing “Thirty years of exemplary service.”.

Steve has been very happily married to Sue for ten years and has two daughters from a previous marriage.  Amy is twenty seven, a nurse in a central London hospital, whilst Emma is twenty four and has recently followed in her father’s footsteps to join the ranks of the Metropolitan Police.

Steve’s wife encouraged him to start writing when he retired, mainly as a creative outlet after so many years of living a disciplined and regimented life but also, he suspects, to keep him from getting under her feet.  He finds the process of writing both enjoyable and cathartic and admits to savouring being told that his stories are “not bad,” or sometimes even “quite good.”  Words of high praise in a country steeped in a tradition of understatement.​

Steve and Sue are passionate about the theatre and love to travel, having so far ticked off the Far East and the Indian sub-continent as well as most of Europe but take special joy in crossing the pond to visit the USA which they adore.  The couple have relatives in Florida and good friends in New York, so these are the most frequent destinations but they plan to explore the rest of the country soon, pandemics permitting.

Steve has an adventurous spirit, as a qualified scuba diver he has a passion for swimming with sharks, misunderstood creatures he adores, he has also sky-dived, para-glided, abseiled and bungee jumped.  Sue keeps a substantial life insurance policy in her back pocket.  Steve considers himself amongst the luckiest of people and loves his life, often exclaiming with a satisfied sigh to anyone who will listen, “where did it all go so…right!”.  
       

When I began writing Murder on the Med, book three of the Kat Lawson mysteries, I felt as though I was channeling a slightly different voice for my protagonist, Kat Lawson. In the previous two books, Kat was a level-headed, if not a headstrong, reporter determined to follow the story no matter what the risks. But as I opened a blank page on my computer and began to write, I realized Kat needed a vacation.

As writers, we all understand the difficulty in trying to get a character to do something on the page they don’t want to do. Try explaining this concept to a non-writer, and they will look at you like you’re crazy, but writers understand. Our characters either talk to us or they won’t, and when they don’t, it’s because we’ve taken them where they don’t want to go, and they simply disappear!

So I went with the idea that we all need a break, and voila! There on the page in front of me was Kat sitting onboard a luxury yacht having High Tea with two elderly British ladies who felt it was their duty to inform Kat of a drowning, or at least what they felt was a probable drowning. 

It was a nonsensical conversation, for sure. Kat was uncomfortable, aware the two spinster schoolteachers with whom she was having tea were either daffy or drunk. Either way, the scene was the perfect setup for Kat’s next adventure on the high seas, where she’s been rewarded with an all-expense paid cruise around the Amalfi Coast by her employer, Journey International. All she needs to do is write a feature article about Athena, a luxury cruise ship designed as a floating retirement community for seniors wishing to spend their waning years sailing blissfully into the sunset. This assignment her employer promised was just for fun. A bonus for her previous work as a feature writer while working as an undercover operative for the FBI. What could possibly go wrong? 

It shouldn’t have come as a surprise to me that I would choose a retirement center as the location for Kat’s next adventure. My mother had been ailing while writing this book, and I was spending a lot of time at her retirement complex. Mom was ninety-nine-and-a-half years old when she passed—she insisted I always include the half when referencing her age. She was very proud she had lived such a long and healthy life, and I felt fortunate that I was able to spend time with her at the end. My mother was bright, articulate, and well-read. Her favorite authors were Agatha Christie and Dorothy Sayers. She loved mysteries, and she looked forward to my reading to her what I was working on every day. Without a doubt, she was my biggest fan.

My mother loved the idea that Kat’s next adventure would take place aboard a floating retirement center with a bunch of quirky senior citizens. The more I let Kat take charge, the more I began to accept the idea that the tone of this book would be a little different. My theme:  A group of rogue seniors trade their pensions for piracy as they sail into their sunset years. 
 
I’ll admit I held my breath while writing this book. Would my readers accept a slight change of tone, a blending of genre, in the series? I’m relieved to say early reviews for Murder on the Med have allied my fears, and I’ll share a few.
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• This is my third Kat Lawson Mystery, and I’ll confirm that they keep getting better; some are more history, some more mystery, and this one has great rom-com vibes.
• Reading Murder on the Med was like watching Love Boat or Murder She Wrote...great Agatha Christie vibes.
• A great beach read!

I don’t know why characters and stories come to writers as they do. But I do know that as a writer, it’s important to trust our instincts. Sometimes, we just need to take that leap of faith and go with what shows up on the page. At the end of the day, I think it makes us better writers.

Nancy Cole Silverman spent nearly twenty-five years in news and talk radio before retiring to write fiction. Silverman’s award-winning short stories and crime-focused novels, the Carol Childs and Misty Dawn Mysteries (Henry Press), are based in Los Angeles, while her newest series, the Kat Lawson Mysteries (Level Best Books), takes a more international approach. Kat Lawson, a former investigative reporter has gone undercover for the FBI as a feature writer for a travel publication. Expect lots of international intrigue, vivid descriptions of small European villages, great food, lost archives, and non-stop action. Silverman lives in Los Angeles with her husband and thoroughly pampered standard poodle, Paris.

The writing process is filled with stress. I don’t believe it matters if it’s a hundred-thousand-word manuscript, a short story, or a blog. No matter how easily words flow from your mind through your fingers to the page, second guessing is inherent. Will the reader understand your plot, or the emotion? Will they care? Are you true to the story line?
In my mind, the easy part is writing the story. The difficult stage is editing. Beta readers asking why? Copy editors slicing and dicing. Got an agent? Well, they have an opinion. Publishers are waiting, red pen in hand. As soon as you blink, they’re on you. What comes next are re-writes, adjustments, updates. Your precious creation. Your baby is about to undergo a healthy dose of Botox.

My writing style is behind curtain #3. I am a plodder. I get started, put down everything regardless of order, and when I’m finished, I get busy. Each segment is its own small, stapled bit. I lay it out on the table, shuffle the cards to create order, and then look at the book. Do I like it? Yes. No. Why? Reshuffle, new read. Now, I’m talking to my pre-beta people. There’s a lot of nodding, a couple of what are you talking about, and then I’m ready for production.

Finally, I’m face-to-face with the finished piece, complete with cover, and a marketing plan. Pardon me if I giggle hysterically. Where was I? Oh, yes, marketing. When working with a publishing house, they have a plan, but be aware, a lot of it is still in the writer’s lap. Self-publishing? Developing a marketing plan is as stressful as writing the book. Is there another option? Why, yes, there is! I call it seat-of-my-pants.

Somewhere during the writing process, I’m already keyed up and telling people about the book. I’ve been told not to do this, but it happens. When I have the first copy in hand, the fun part begins. I’m telling everybody, anyway that I can think of. I love talking about the stories. It’s not so much bragging, as wanting people to read and enjoy. I’ve just never figured out that my joy might not be theirs. I love doing cold calls. I’ll talk to anybody, go to any group that will have me.

Case in point. Local church group wanted a woman entrepreneur. They might have been surprised I wasn’t writing Christian, but they were polite. During my spiel, I got invited to a neighborhood book club. Tiny, but engaging. Lovely home, husband walked in, we chatted, he laughed at my energy, asked me if I’d like to do a couple of minutes on local access TV. Wonderland, right? I showed up for the segment, found out it was going to be thirty minutes, not the ten I expected, and, are you ready? It was going to be me and the camera. Also, not expected. I explained I wasn’t good with that and was nervous. He pointed; I sat behind the desk. He sat off to the side and asked, ‘So, when you do a cold call, how does it go?’
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Twenty-eight minutes later, the lights came on, the guy held up his hand, and said, “Okay, that’s a wrap!”

Bingo, we were done, and his part ended up on the floor, so to speak.

DonnaRae Menard began writing in junior high school and has been scribbling since. She is the author of the An It's Never Too Late Mystery series. A 1970's suspense featuring Katelyn Took and 17 cats. The Woman Warrior's series, historical fiction, The Waif and The Warlord, fantasy, Detective Carmine Mansuer series, set in Boston, Mass. Dropped from the Sky, It takes Guts, Willa the Wisp, and several short stories. She splits her time between Vermont and New Hampshire, has an affinity for odd jobs, and rescued cats. Check out her website donnaraemenardbooks.com. Find her on Facebook.