The Blood Royal (26 page)

A murmured word sent Cyril into the dining room where his flash devices were soon adding highlights to the aspic-gleaming mosaic. As he retreated, he managed to speak briefly to Lily. ‘All’s well. No dark horses in this paddock. Or nameless strawberry roans. More than halfway through the evening, chuck. I’ll stay close.’

The prince was still showing a flattering appreciation of the display and shooting a knowledgeable comment or two to the chief steward, who had remained in attendance to collect the compliments. In his easy way, the prince questioned the appearance of oysters in the line-up. Was this an oyster month? Was September quite safe? He seemed satisfied by the answer, which involved a eulogy to the vigorous Whitstable production. He showed a gratifying appreciation of the variety and quantity of caviar. The steward, with a confidential air, recommended that His Royal Highness try the … he tactfully suppressed the word ‘red’ and substituted ‘garnet-coloured variety’.

As they made their way towards the two servers, Edward grinned and treated Lily to a line or two from a West End show, the extravagant gastronomic celebration ‘Here Be Oysters Stewed in Honey’ from
Chu Chin Chow
. His grin widened when Lily joined in, supplying the next two lines of culinary oddities.

A dark-haired steward stepped forward, plate and napkin in hand, to guide Lily’s choice. A matching pretty girl offered the same service to the prince. Italians? Lily thought so.

‘Oh, Lily, how to choose. Shall we start with fishy things? Caviar? Oysters? Oh, I spot some salmon up there. Mademoiselle, I’ll have the salmon. And some soured cream and watercress sauce if you have it.’

The girl smiled and raised the plate she was holding ready for him. She fixed the prince with what Lily, in her state of alertness, recognized as a conspiratorial look and, with a flourish, wiped her napkin across it. A gesture that clearly said, ‘Clean plate, no problems.’ One of Sandilands’ team? How many women did he have on his books? The girl seemed to have the advantage of Lily, apparently knowing exactly who or what she was – there was no mistaking the swift complicitous smile she directed at her. In a gently accented voice she persuaded the prince to sample one or two more of the dishes … ‘almond-studded fricasseed tails of Persian lamb … shellfish tossed with spices …’

With smiling good manners, the prince watched as his simple choice of salmon was shouldered aside by piles of highly seasoned exotica. Lily turned to the male server. ‘That looks utterly delicious! I’ll have exactly the same dishes, please, if you can remember them.’

‘But of course, mademoiselle.’ Up came the plate and the ladles worked, scooping and spooning, producing a replica of the prince’s plate. They followed a footman to a corner table laid for eight and the prince indicated that Lily should sit by his side. They settled to wait for friends of the prince to emerge with their plates from the throng now steadily making inroads into the display.

Edward sniffed appreciatively at his food. ‘Ah! The scents of the east! I really grew accustomed to this sort of thing in India. Wonderful cooking! I say – not used to this new style of going on – how long do we have to wait before we can tuck in?’

‘Until at least one other couple has settled with us,’ Lily said firmly, inventing the etiquette. ‘But look, before you start – and you’ll think this a bit fussy—’

He interrupted her. ‘You’re the policeman. Just tell me what to do. I’m your obedient servant this evening.’

Lily took a deep breath. ‘I’m going to change plates. I took exactly the same dishes as you.’

‘Oh, no,’ said the prince with instant disobedience. ‘And have you slide under the table stricken with something ghastly? That’s just not on. I’ll send out for two plates of fish and chips if you like … there’s a stall over the road in the park that does wondrous haddock … but I’m not having a girl act as my food taster. Besides – it’s unnecessary. You saw that waitress – the pretty girl who served me? She’s one of Sandilands’. He’s planted some of his best people in there. She gave me the all-clear. And if any of the dishes were poisoned – well, the whole room’s going to be frothing at the mouth in minutes. You can’t target a single person with a dish at a buffet. Not possible.’ He lifted his knife and fork rebelliously. ‘Something else I learned in India!’

In a second, Lily had swept the plate from under his chin and replaced it with her own. ‘Orders, sir,’ she said firmly. ‘It’s all right – I’m not intending to eat any of this. I’ll just stir it about a bit. I ate before I came,’ she lied. ‘Ah – here comes someone who knows you, I think …’

‘It’s Tuppy! A chap I was at sea with. Tuppy! Come and join us! Ha! Last seen crossing the bar and swearing allegiance to King Neptune! Two years ago … HMS
Renown
… Remember, Tuppy? You were sitting in a ducking stool, mouth full of shaving foam! Gracious … I wondered if you’d survived that dunking! Good to see you again! And this is …? Your wife! Little Ginny Orde! Of course! I hadn’t realized you two knew each other. Well, well! Lily, may I present Thomas Tenby and Virginia, his wife? And I don’t believe you know Lily Wentworth who is my guest for the evening … Now shall we dive in? I’m faint with hunger!’

The introductions performed and the newcomers settled in their places, the prince picked up his cutlery again and all, apart from Lily, began to eat.

A moment later: ‘And here’s Connie Beauclerk. And who’s this she has in tow? Ah – it’s Rupert Fanshawe.’

The prince had this the wrong way round, Lily reckoned. Rupert was towing Miss Beauclerk along with some urgency. He’d cut a swathe through the other diners to reach their table and after a glower directed at Lily he joined them and performed further introductions.

Lily went through the motions of greeting the table guests as correctly as she knew how, liking what she saw. Connie, in pink charmeuse embroidered with silver, was a blonde beauty with large grey eyes that were missing nothing. In particular, they were noting everything that could be noted about Lily. The Navy man’s wife was neatly dressed in ivory ondine crêpe with a trimming of antique lace. Intelligent, rather shy but smiling, were Lily’s first impressions and she guessed that the couple must be recently married, so often did they exchange soft glances, so often did their hands touch apparently by accident.

Three couples. Lily wondered who had been delegated to occupy the two seats remaining at their table.

The prince looked about him. ‘Two more places. Now – for manners’ sake, I believe we ought to share our table with a representative of our hostess’s homeland. Find me a Russian!’ He held up a finger to a passing footman and said: ‘The dark gentleman over there. He answers. The gent with the blue star pinned to his bosom – the one ogling us through a monocle – d’you see him? Ask him if he’d like to come and join us.’

‘Sir, I believe Prince Gustavus to be … er … Serbian,’ said Rupert hurriedly. ‘May I advise that—’

‘So
that’s
him!
The
Gustavus? Well, if he’s the sporting gent I’ve heard tales of, I should rather like to shake his hand and congratulate him!’ said Edward. ‘Serbian, you say? It’ll have to do, for here he comes.’

Enter the assassin
, was Lily’s first paralysing thought.

The nobleman strode towards their table. Dark clothes, impeccable haircut, fashionably scarred left cheek, neat moustache, the man was a caricature of aristocratic menace. Lily found she was instinctively poised to rise to her feet, clutching a quite useless fish knife and scanning his tight-fitting uniform for concealed weapons. She was relieved to see that Rupert, who had shot to his feet to perform a courtier’s duty, was of the same suspicious mind. He was looking repeatedly from the stranger to Lily and she felt, though she could not account for, his concern.

Rupert was skilfully ushering the newcomer to a seat at the far end of the table and indicating that he should settle down on the chair next to himself. The new guest now found that he was seated with his sword arm an inch away from a muscled Special Branch shoulder and at an angle from Prince Edward. Lily admired the adroitness with which the manoeuvre was carried out. Prince Gustavus, whoever he was, had better not reach inside his jacket too abruptly for his cigarette holder, Lily reckoned. Having at once identified his target as a right-handed man, Rupert had, in one move, spoiled his aim and pinned down his gun hand. The smiling young man now drawling out pleasantries in the Serbian’s ear would fell him without warning or question. But Rupert had a further test of the newcomer’s bona fides in mind. He launched seamlessly into fluent Russian to continue his conversation. Gustavus replied with equal fluency and an eyebrow cocked in mild surprise.

The newcomer changed to German to address the Prince of Wales and a conversation in that language ensued. A pointed courtesy, Lily realized, when Edward broke off politely after a few exchanges and spoke again to the table in English. ‘So good to get a chance to air my German. It’s the only foreign language I’ve ever been at ease with. But Gustavus, I know, speaks excellent English so we’ll continue with that. Not eating tonight, Your Royal Highness?’

The prince replied that he was too impatient and too old-fashioned to stand about waiting to be served. He rather despised English picnics. And, moreover, he was quite content with the wine. A superb example from Georgia. The princess’s choice, he assumed. He took a sip and remarked wickedly that an appreciation of this vintage was the only thing he had shared with Rasputin. ‘God rot him!’ he added cheerfully.

‘Er, yes, quite,’ agreed Edward. ‘What a good riddance
that
was! The evil peasant priest! We owe a vote of thanks to the band of gallant fellows who finished him off.’ He raised his glass. ‘To the sportsmen who rid the world of the Mad Monk, God rot ’im! What?’

They sipped and murmured in agreement.

‘I had heard, Gustavus, that you yourself were … how shall I put it? … not unaware of, indeed, not
uninvolved
in the protracted demise of the Russian fiend?’

Edward had voiced the question that all were eager to ask.

The reply was low and curt. ‘Several men were involved in the conspiracy – one at least an English secret serviceman. I’m sure the details must have reached the ear of Your Royal Highness, concerned as you must have been to see the noxious threat to your dear Russian cousins removed. And, of course, his removal was of deep interest to your country. His death came at a most opportune moment—’

‘Long anticipated by many, I’d say,’ Rupert interrupted. ‘Half Europe and Asia wished the man ill. And there are dozens of stories circulating about his death. I know at least …’ he put his head on one side and appeared to be counting, ‘seven … no, eight, chaps who claim to have pulled the trigger. Or wielded the axe. Or pushed him in the river. Depends who’s bending your ear and how much he’s had to drink.’

‘Ah, yes. Well, there are indeed several versions of the events of that night circulating, you know,’ said Edward. ‘And I too have had my ear bent. But I say it’s always interesting to hear from a chap who was on the spot.’ His blue eyes sparkled with mischievous invitation.

Gustavus smiled. ‘In the end, it took a company of us to dispatch the terrible old ox. He had survived previous assassination attempts, that was well known. The man was indestructible, it was rumoured, and rumour further had it that his strength came from a source beyond the natural. We took no chances. He received and accepted an invitation to a drinking party at the palace of Prince Yussupov on the river in St Petersburg. A merry, unbuttoned evening among like-minded chaps. First we poisoned him – three times – then we shot him – four times – and finally we clubbed him about the head, seized him and threw him into an ice-hole in the freezing river Neva. We watched as he sank under.’ He smirked with secret knowledge. ‘At least, that’s how the story goes.’

This was hardly dinner-table talk, but the audience was eager for more. The death of the Tsarina’s sinister influence had taken on a quality of dark farce that made it an acceptable topic of conversation. Rasputin, the much-feared and meddlesome evil genius, had been reduced, in death, to a pantomime villain.

‘The pathologist.’ Gustavus gave a rumbling laugh. ‘You have to feel for the poor chap. He must have been puzzled indeed to come up with a cause of death amongst so many possibilities. Stomach full of poisoned cake and red wine, body riddled with a mixture of Russian and English lead, skull cracked, lungs full of river water and the whole body frozen stiff! I do believe your revered Spilsbury would have been somewhat challenged.’

‘English lead?’ Connie Beauclerk protested. ‘What are you suggesting? The man was shot by a fellow Russian. Prince Yussupov. Everyone knows that. The Tsarina had him put under house arrest. Poor Felix! My brother was up at Oxford with him. A sweetie! Did the world a favour is what my brother says …’

Gustavus paused, making a show of filtering the information he could safely allow an English lady to hear. ‘Rasputin was, indeed, shot by Prince Yussupov, Miss Beauclerk. Shot, but not mortally wounded. His Highness is not one of nature’s assassins. Willing enough but, as you probably know, he has the reputation of being – as you remind us – Oxford educated and something of a fop. And the rumours are true. The revolver he chose for the task proved not to be of a calibre sufficient to fell the monster. When Yussupov approached what he assumed to be a corpse to check on his handiwork, Rasputin reared up, bellowed and seized his would-be murderer by the throat. The prince was extricated from the situation by another gentleman who happened to be at the scene. A gentleman wielding a higher calibre weapon.’