Текст книги "The Blood Royal"

Автор книги: Barbara Cleverly

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Текущая страница: 14 (всего у книги 27 страниц)

Chapter Twenty

Charles Honeysett reckoned he had the most demanding job in the world. Steward-in-chief, as he styled himself, was one rung in the hierarchy below the manager (a gentleman whose position Charles had in his sights). He was standing, gold pocket watch in left hand, notes, which he was never observed to consult, in right, an ear ostentatiously cocked towards the double doors that communicated with the Grand Salon.

He listened to the God-awful piece of Scottish misery thrashing itself to a climax – he was glad he’d held out against the bagpipes – and with a flick of a finger dissuaded a flunkey from fiddling nervously with the door handle. The voice of his old sergeant rang in his head: ‘Wait for it! Wait for it, laddie!’

Timing. It was everything. He’d learned that much from the army. When to make an appearance and when to disappear. The day after his demob, he’d presented himself at the hotel where he’d worked before the war. And, with his luck, the incumbent steward had been on the point of retiring. It hadn’t taken much of an effort to gain the old boy’s support with the management. The usual persuasive mix of flattery and discreet financial arrangement. And the job had fallen into his lap.

And now the luck was theirs. With his early background of service in one of the grandest houses in the east of England and four war years’ experience at a rarefied level in the catering corps based in Paris, Honeysett offered them the best management in London. The bookings flooded in. London had taken off on an unstoppable wave of jubilation. Party followed party. The lights stayed on all night. ‘Brighten up London!’ the government had commanded and people leapt to obey. The vineyards of Champagne risked being drunk dry. And there must surely be a limit to the amount of roe you could squeeze from a sturgeon?

Honeysett eyed the gleaming silver tureens filled with caviar. All colours. From the ends of the earth. And obtained at vast expense. It had cost a hundred quid just to fill a small bowl with that special red stuff the princess had demanded. His lip curled at his memory of tasting it when it arrived on the refrigerated truck the day before. He wouldn’t offer it to his dog. Honeysett tasted everything in his quest for perfection. But he’d had to call in a second opinion on this one. Young Anna had been working for him for over a month now and had settled well. She claimed to be Russian and claimed to know her caviar when he asked. About 25 per cent of his staff were Russian. And they had a fast turnover. But this girl was different from the usual run of untrained chancers. Her references had been unimpeachable. And she knew her table placements seemingly by instinct. Most girls took a week to learn. And, above all, she was obliging. Didn’t object to working extra hours. Perfect English with just a trace of an accent – Scottish, he could have sworn. Was always at his elbow with a whispered suggestion or a sweetly termed correction.

She reminded him of himself at the same age, he thought, and decided she’d bear watching.

When consulted, she’d dipped the tip of a teaspoon into the red slime, delicately licked it with her cat’s tongue and closed those big dark eyes of hers. Silence followed. Honeysett was convinced his judgement was right and she was going to be sick until she sighed, opened her eyes again and, to his dismay, burst into tears. Lucky his handkerchief had been clean and crisp. Through the sniffling and gulping he’d managed to learn that the caviar was not only not off – it was wonderful. Supreme. A heavenly taste she’d not experienced for five years. He’d helped her get over her outburst of nostalgia, muttering: ‘There, there!’ and ‘Brace up now, dear.’ Emotional lot, these Russians. But five minutes later Anna was polishing the glasses and humming a jazzy tune under her breath, fully recovered from her emotional storm. He appreciated a woman who didn’t make an undue fuss. And his handkerchief had been returned this morning washed and ironed.

He’d promoted Anna to joint head of the serving squad for tonight’s shindig. Young Antonio, from Italy, would keep an eye on her. This high-stepping matched pair pleased him: Antonio and Anna, handsome and dark and just deferential enough. There they stood, uniform perfect, starched cuffs impeccable, napkin over left arm, at the ready. They’d been told to expect the guest of honour and his partner first in line and to take their time serving up their choice of dishes. After all, the glamour of the presentation was part of the entertainment. The guests should be allowed to feast their eyes on the shining display rising up in artistically arranged ranks on stepped buffets before choosing. Antonio and Anna would place samples of the dishes requested on china plates with a gold rim and heraldic double-headed eagle in the centre.

Some dishes were nestling in wreaths of crushed ice, others were being kept hot in chafing dishes – it seemed to Honeysett a strange and uncomfortable way of serving food and went against all his training and experience but that was what, increasingly, this informal world demanded. Experimentation. Novelty. And Honeysett was nothing if not supple. He rather liked to think that, in the most discreet way, he identified the trends and set the style. And young Anna had come up with some intriguing ideas. She was the right generation, after all. Buffet luncheons, short skirts, fast cars, picture houses – she was becoming a bridge between his Edwardian world and her modern one. He must find a way of retaining her services. By some means or other.

The doors rolled back and the crowd gasped. Several broke with tradition and sacrificed their dignity sufficiently to join the prince in a congratulatory clap of the hands at the sight of the buffet.

The prince leaned over and whispered to Lily, ‘Did I say picnic? No. Ali Baba’s feast, that’s what we’ve got. What fun! Let’s go in, shall we, and inspect it more closely? I don’t know whether we’re expected to eat it or paint it. Tell you what, where’s that photographer chappie? We’ll get him to record it for posterity … Ah, there he is!’

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.’

‘Ah,’ said Rupert, nodding his head sagely, ‘the good old Enfield revolver.’

‘No. A Webley. Of the kind used by … well, you know who uses them, Fanshawe. A .45 unjacketed bullet fired by the steady hand of an Englishman, an Englishman who rid the world of a meddling villain. One bullet in the centre of the forehead.’ Gustavus drilled an imaginary hole in his own head with a forefinger. ‘One bullet which changed the course of the war—’

‘Well, well,’ Rupert interrupted loudly. ‘A word of advice, Your Highness: ladies present. Not too keen on hearing about the war, you know. We try to avoid any mention. More wine?’

‘Oh, don’t be a killjoy, Rupert!’ Connie complained. ‘It’s a jolly good story. I love a bit of Grand Guignol! Prince Gustavus, I’ve got one more question. There are those who say’ – her voice took on a tentative tone – ‘that Rasputin – or his spirit – did in fact survive even those extremes of punishment. There was a hideous scene, I’ve heard, and one reported by many reliable men who were present at his cremation?’

‘You’re right, Miss Beauclerk,’ the Serbian assured her. ‘His funeral pyre was set ablaze in public so that all might see with their own eyes that the beast had at long last been annihilated. I was unfortunate enough to be of the company that witnessed the spectacle. The horror! Many swooned.’

He glanced around the table, gathering the earnest expressions silently urging him to reveal more. Sure of his audience, he lowered his voice and went on: ‘In the middle of the flames, the corpse began to sit up. Rasputin drew his knees to his chin and then, slowly, his torso began to rise upright.’

‘Golly gosh!’ breathed Connie, clutching her bosom. Edward leaned over and patted her shoulder, throwing a concerned and warning look at the Serbian.

‘Perfectly understandable,’ said Tuppy drily. The Navy man seemed to have taken a dislike to this dark foreigner whose eyes were as wintry and unfathomable as the ice holes he conjured up. ‘Clearly some careless funeral parlour operative forgot to cut the tendons. In the heat, they shrink, you know, and pull the limbs about in a disturbingly life-like movement.’ He gave a hearty bellow. ‘Ha! I’ve seen corpses get up and dance!’ Enjoying the surprise, he added: ‘Not just a matloe! I was a medic with the Navy before I inherited my father’s London practice. Travelled a lot, saw a lot of strange burial customs. Oh, I say – have I ruined your story, old man?’

Gustavus turned to glower at Tuppy. The sailor’s cheery confidence deflected the look, unaffected, but Lily, catching it, had to repress an instinctive shudder. The Serbian’s reaction to the set-down was one of anger barely held in check. He had enjoyed the fencing with Rupert but a trip-up by a medical man had fired his wrath. He breathed deeply, chewed his lips and, mastering himself, decided to reclaim the attention of the table. He raised his glass and admired the colour of the red wine against the candlelight. ‘It was such a strong wine as this that he was given the night he entered the trap we’d set for him at the palace on the waterfront,’ he recollected. ‘A wine laced with enough fast-acting poison to kill ten men.’

‘What on earth was the poison?’ Tuppy asked. ‘Rat poison? Digitalis? Arsenic? Strychnine? Forgive my curiosity – a physician is always interested in extending his knowledge.’

The Serbian paused for a tantalizing second, apparently quite aware that Tuppy had offered him a test: a menu of poisons from which to choose the correct one. Finally, he replied: ‘None of those. It was potassium cyanide.’

‘Makes sense. Not difficult to get hold of, and a minuscule amount will kill a man. Less than a gram would do for a twelve-stone chap. I understand that one gram is standard issue in the glass suicide capsules we dole out to our secret servicemen.’ His cheery gaze, which had been taking in the whole company at the table, skipped lightly past Rupert, Lily noticed, at the mention of the service. Another man in the know, she concluded. ‘Though for an ox of a man – as you describe him – perhaps you’d need a little more,’ Tuppy added sagely. ‘And a little research might have told those amateurs that baking it up in a cake is a pretty feeble way of going about things. It’s the heat, don’t you know. It vaporizes the noxious element. It’d take more than a slice of Victoria sponge to lay low a chap like Rasputin.’

‘Well, I’ve never heard of the stuff, and I read all the whodunits,’ said Connie. ‘I bet you couldn’t just stroll into Boots the Chemist and ask for an ounce, as you can with arsenic.’

‘Anything is obtainable. Anywhere. If one has the right connections,’ Gustavus told her. Judging, rightly, that his listeners were ready for some relief from the drama, he raised his glass again and proposed a further toast. ‘Let us repeat the word that was on every Russian’s lips on hearing of his death. In the street, strangers shouted it to each other in their joy and relief that justice had been done. Ubili! Ubili! “They have killed!”’

Thoughtfully, all murmured something along those lines, raised their glasses and took a very small sip.

Lily’s palms were beginning to sweat with fear. It seemed a cold draught was blowing on the back of her neck. She told herself that the male members of the gathering were not her responsibility. She told herself that a six-foot Serbian sporting a duelling scar and brazenly imposing himself on the company was hardly the elusive Irish woman they were seeking. But the feeling of dread would not leave her. With a surge of relief, she saw the imposing figure of Sandilands passing with a full plate some yards away. She screwed up her courage and called out to him.

‘Joe! What ho, Joe!’

He spun around, concerned, alerted by the intimate use of his name.

Almost crushed by the sudden attention she was attracting, she managed an encouraging: ‘Won’t you come and join us?’

He stood surveying the group until Rupert took over, inviting him to sit next to the Serbian in the remaining place. He introduced Sandilands to his neighbour.

‘You’ve just missed an amazing tale of derring-do,’ Edward commented.

‘Oh, yes!’ Lily added. ‘A chapter from John Buchan, you’d swear! Do you realize you’re sitting next to an assassin, Joe?’ Her voice sounded improbably girlish to her own ears but Sandilands’ presence was giving her confidence and she knew he was receiving her message. ‘A self-confessed assassin! An expert in poisoning, shooting, clubbing and drowning.’

‘Great heavens! Your Highness is not, I trust, about to demonstrate any of these skills this evening? Perhaps someone should tell him whom he’s sitting next to?’ Sandilands said calmly, shaking out his napkin.

‘A Scotland Yard detective, I understand?’ Gustavus nodded. ‘But off duty tonight, I’m presuming? No cause for concern on either side. I perform no lethal tricks where there are ladies present.’

‘And, speaking of ladies – where is your own beautiful new wife?’

‘You are acquainted with Zinia?’

‘No, I haven’t yet had the honour, but I read the society pages of the Tatler,’ Joe said happily. ‘May we expect her to join us?’ He leaned towards Lily and remarked: ‘I think you’d admire her, Lily. I hear she is a dark-haired beauty with a profile to give Cleopatra a run for her money. I’ve been looking out for her all evening without a single sighting.’

‘Zinia has retreated to the powder room to perform some small task – she caught the hem of her dress on a heel, I believe.’

Lily tried not to jump to her feet too eagerly. ‘But she’s missing the fun! I shall go and find her. Perhaps I can be of assistance. I’m a jolly good needlewoman … though there’s usually a woman in attendance down there with needle and thread.’ She tilted her head to the guests and made off before anyone could call her back, glad to escape the demands of her assumed role for a few minutes.

The prince – her prince – was surely safe enough guarded by Sandilands and Rupert. But what of the assas-sin’s wife? Was she another weapon in Gustavus’s armoury? Lily reversed her thinking. Was Gustavus a weapon in the armoury of the mysterious dark lady skulking down below away from public view? Lily didn’t believe she’d caught sight of any such woman since she’d entered the hotel. Could anyone possibly be hiding in the cloakroom all this time? Ladies’ cloakrooms, she remembered from her briefing, were her responsibility. Sandilands would expect her to take action.

Lily found there were two vast and ornate powder rooms in the basement. She was directed away from the farther one by the attendant, who seemed, Lily thought, rather distraught.

‘Can you help me?’ Lily asked her. ‘I’m looking for a friend of mine who came down here some time ago. She’s having problems with the hem of her dress.’

The attendant’s relief was instant. ‘Oh, thank goodness someone’s come for her. She’s in a right state. I’ve offered her assistance but she just screams and yells at me to leave her in peace. I didn’t know who to call for. She’s commandeered a whole room for herself. What am I meant to do, miss, when the after-supper surge comes down? She’s in there.’

Lily went through the padded door into a lavender-scented space lit by discreet electric light bulbs. ‘Zinia? Are you there?’

Her only answer was a stifled snuffle and ‘Didn’t I tell you to go away?’ from the armchair placed in one corner for swooning ladies who needed to take the weight off their feet. Lily approached, watchful and prepared for action, though the pitiful bundle curled in the depths of the chair seemed to offer no challenge.

‘Hello. My name’s Lily Wentworth. I hear you could do with some help with your dress.’ As there was no reply she added: ‘I was just talking to your husband upstairs. He’s wondering when you’re going to re-join him at the party.’

A howl of anger greeted this offering. A flood of Russian – oaths by the sound of it – and then: ‘Never! Swine! Evil, loathsome man! I’m sitting here trying to get up the courage to find a back way out of this place. I shall walk away and never see him again.’