Текст книги "The Blood Royal"

Автор книги: Barbara Cleverly

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Текущая страница: 17 (всего у книги 27 страниц)

Coming to? These were men trained to think and plan weeks and years ahead. The chilling thought came to her that the understanding might have been arrived at some time ago, an undeclared Plan B. If all else fails, look to a scapegoat. Once again she felt the presence of the sacrificial altar and the raised knife.

Lily locked stares with Fanshawe, grasping for words to attempt a defence. Finding none.

But Rupert hadn’t finished with her yet. Urged on by Sandilands’ attention, he enlarged on his theory. ‘And the lady, according to our information, is not exactly a wearer of the white cockade! Oh, she has no overt affiliations with the red organizations rampant in the country … one would hardly expect it in someone planning a serious coup. But her father is known to be a Bolshevist sympathizer.’ He passed a sheet of paper to Sandilands. ‘We’ve been enquiring. Not much time available to us but we have strong sources among the red brothers … and sisters. I hand you a list we’ve got together of meetings attended, associates and acquaintances established.’

Rupert gave an elegant shudder as Sandilands scanned his offering. ‘And this is the background of the woman, the stranger, whom we allowed to enter the ballroom unsearched, unchallenged … the woman we allowed to juggle with the prince’s plate.’ His voice expressed disgust and anger in equal measure. ‘I’m only surprised we didn’t issue her with the latest dinky little pistol to hide in her garter. I’m sure she’s an excellent shot too.’

A horrified silence descended on the group.

Sandilands’ tone, when he began to speak, was, in contrast, light and controlled: ‘You forget to add to your list of notable accomplishments that the constable is also an adept at the dark arts of eastern combat, Fanshawe. I’ve seen her break a fellow’s nose by smashing his head against a station platform. She could have snapped the royal neck at any moment as easily as you or I had she been murderously inclined. But what about an Irish connection? Anything known to Miss Wentworth’s detriment on this score?’

‘I have to say that we could find no trace of Irish connections,’ Rupert admitted resentfully.

‘I’m sure you tried your hardest,’ Sandilands said. ‘I’m wondering why you held off from escorting Miss Wentworth from the premises and throwing her into the deepest dungeon, Rupert. Help us to understand why you didn’t react.’

‘It was swiftly done and I was on the other side of the room, waiting for Connie Beauclerk to decide between duck and grouse. By the time I got to them, the prince had already made inroads into his food. A difficult moment. I observed that Miss Wentworth was not attempting to eat her own and this she would surely have done – as cover – had she secured for herself an unadulterated sample. Confusing, I think you’ll agree?’ He looked round the table for support but was met on all sides by the hard stares of men each of whom thought he would have reacted with more panache. ‘Well, before I could decide on the action I should take, along comes the wretched, interfering Gustavus, shoving his oar in. So the moment passed. I let it go. But I watched her, and the plates, carefully.’

Around the table air was sucked in through gritted teeth at this admission. Eyes were averted, heads lowered, as they considered the catalogue of negligence. The swift fall of the axe was deserved and awaited.

‘Mmm … Let’s be clear. You sat watching the prince – our prince – eating from a plate you suspected might have been tampered with. I wonder at what point you would have advised him to put down his fork? Before or after the death rattle? I think, as well as indecision, you must have been suffering some puzzlement, Fanshawe.’ Sandilands’ voice was a tormenting drawl. ‘As the evening proceeded His Royal Highness did not fall dead, frothing at the mouth. He continued to chat and called for his pavlova pudding.’

He paused, deep in thought. No one dared interrupt. ‘I offer you an alternative scenario. The food may well have been untainted. Heat – as the good doctor told us – vaporizes the poison and renders cooked food containing it harmless. So we would be looking at the uncooked dishes – caviar for example. No other caviar eater succumbed. Isit not possible that the poison – if poison it was – was not administered by plate at all, but by the far less chancy route of the wine glass?

‘All those glasses of wine you poured out, Fanshawe? From the bottle? Easy enough for a smart operator like yourself to dispense a noxious substance with which he is very familiar and to which he has easy access through his employment. The death capsules. I’m sure you have been issued with one or two? I must ask you to do a little stocktaking, Bacchus. Account for Fanshawe’s hand-out, would you? Your job is largely of a secretive nature and has been known on occasion to require a certain readiness to get one’s hands dirty. How dirty is your pouring hand, Fanshawe, after tonight’s events? You were holding both glass and bottle. Easy enough to hold a broken capsule at the neck of the bottle and remove it when you’ve spiked a particular glass. If so, it was, as you’d say, neatly done. And I would expect nothing less of a man of your training. I must say I observed nothing untoward myself and I was watching closely.’ His words were unemphatic but Fanshawe’s lips tightened. ‘Though I wouldn’t rule out the possibility … not when a clearly inimical and dangerous man is about to spill information the Branch would kill to keep quiet.’

Fanshawe was unable to speak. Bacchus made an offended grunting sound. The CID men maintained a mystified silence.

Only one voice was raised in objection. Lily managed to splutter: ‘Sir! That’s barmy! It’s unfair. How can you say that? Sorry, sir, but Fanshawe wouldn’t … he couldn’t …’

‘Wentworth, he would and he could if the circumstances demanded it,’ Joe explained kindly. ‘Now – barmy, you say? Quite agree. Unfair? Completely. So let’s all relax and be sensible, shall we? Enough villains out and about to blame for this fiasco – absolutely no need to go looking for anyone nearer home, Rupert old man. I think we need at this stage to consider the prince’s plate again. Yes, I think it would enlighten us all if you were to account for the sleight of hand with the plates, Miss Wentworth,’ he suggested. ‘It worried Fanshawe and it worries me. Clear up our confusion will you?’

‘Instinct, sir.’ Seeing both Sandilands’ eyebrows shoot up, she hurried to add: ‘Sorry … that’s unclear. Say rather I was being over cautious. I know your agent was right there at the scene and she “tipped him the wink”, as the prince himself put it, indicating that all was well as she ladled out the food. I saw her do it. Her eyes made contact with mine too. She knew who I was. “One of Sandilands’,” the prince told me. But all the same, in spite of the reassurance, I had a feeling that—’

‘Wait a minute, Wentworth. Just go back a bit. Agent? What agent?’

‘The waitress who was putting out the food. There were two of them, a boy and a girl. Brother and sister, I think. Italian. Or putting on a convincing accent.’

‘Anything to do with you, Bacchus?’

‘No, sir. You had our list. All four of our operatives were men. We only use English males. You know that.’

‘Get them in for interview first thing tomorrow morning. Describe her behaviour, Wentworth.’

‘She wasn’t behaving surreptitiously, sir. She had rather a flamboyant way with her. Pretty girl as far as I could make out under the frilly headdress. She picked up a plate, one of those special Russian top-table-only-for-the-use-of ones. Those with the double-headed eagle on them. She ran a cloth over it in a marked manner. You know – rather like a conjurer showing the audience there’s nothing up his sleeve. She seemed to be declaring that all was well, impeccably clean plate, no need for any concern. I’ll show you.’ Lily got to her feet and demonstrated. ‘She was serving the gentlemen. Didn’t you see her yourself, sir?’

‘No. She’d disappeared by the time I shuffled to the head of the line. There were several men waiting on by then. No girl. Bacchus, get Honeysett on the telephone. He’ll still be up.’

They kept a polite silence while Bacchus went through the procedure of being connected to the hotel. Slim, strong and urgent of voice, the Branch man exuded enough energy to power the London telephone system if you could have wired him in, Lily thought, admiring. Not surprisingly he was put through the channels at speed even at that hour.

‘We have the hotel reception … They’re paging him now …

‘So that’s how they … she … did it,’ Bacchus commented while he waited, one hand carefully over the speaking section of the receiver. ‘The prince was handed a plate smeared with cyanide. One gram of the stuff isn’t hard to deposit. A broken capsule held in a clean white napkin, dripping poison. We’ve run tests on our own capsules. In extremis a chap needs to be able to count on his equipment. The scent is strong but would have blended with that of the other exotic spices coming from the food.’

‘Sir – the prince asked for plain salmon but the waitress talked him into accepting the more highly spiced dishes,’ Lily said.

‘And “on instinct” you snatched the poisoned dish from him and sat there with it in front of you for a good part of the evening, Wentworth. While the prince tucked in to a blameless offering. Um … Some might say your action was inspired by a blend of shrewd calculation, keen awareness and sound defensive play.’ Sandilands spoke slowly, his eyes on Fanshawe. ‘Rupert, you have something to say?’ he asked, in the kindly but reproving tone of a schoolmaster.

It was a moment before Fanshawe could come up with a response. ‘Only that it would seem the constable and her instinct saved the life of one prince and killed another, sir. I’m sorry for entertaining any suspicions of your motives, Miss Wentworth.’ The supercilious glint in his eye as he sketched a mock bow across the table gave the lie to his sentiments.

‘Thank you for the apology, Fanshawe, but, really, no need. We were both doing our job as best we could.’ Lily managed to keep her voice unemotional. ‘And neither of us killed anyone.’

‘No indeed,’ said Sandilands. ‘You both have a clear conscience. Gustavus was killed accidentally. Let’s hang on to that, shall we? His death was triggered by his own greed. The coarser spirits among us might even think he was the author of his own misfortune.’

Chappel grinned. ‘As the coarsest spirit here I’ll second that! Serve the blighter right!’

‘So, while we’re awaiting post-mortem reports and evidence from the hotel management and our agents in place, we must look again at this elusive woman. A killer who passes easily in Mayfair society – and now, it would appear, in Mayfair kitchens – as she works her lethal way through the list of IRA targets.’

‘Targets. I think in this company’ – Bacchus glanced round the table, his eye lingering on Lily for a moment – ‘we may say their names out loud, don’t you agree?’ He voiced everyone’s agitation. The Branch man was also, Lily realized, making a gesture of inclusion to her. ‘The two names remaining. We assume Miss Morrigan will have her eye on Churchill and Prime Minister Lloyd George next?’

‘Seems likely. The prince has gone into such deep cover I don’t think even I could find him with a map, a compass and a pack of bloodhounds,’ Sandilands said lightly.

His ironic eye skipped swiftly over her as he enjoyed a tension-breaking laugh with the rest of the table and she knew at once that he was lying. Sandilands could have the prince on the telephone in seconds, she guessed. Lily wondered if the men could read him with equal ease and thought, judging by their open and cheerful response, probably not.

‘Sir! I’ve got hold of Honeysett … Honeysett, hold the line, will you? I’m passing you to the commander.’

Sandilands strode to the telephone. ‘Glad to find you’re still up and doing, Honeysett. Now listen. You’re to come in to the Yard first thing tomorrow to make a statement. Present yourself at reception. First – a question: can you give me the name and address of the girl who was serving the buffet supper?’

He listened to the answer and called out to the table: ‘Anna Peterson.’

Pens scratched on notepads.

‘Living at … in lodgings at forty-two, Hogsmire Lane, Kensington. Russian immigrant. Working for you for six weeks … References, Honeysett? … Mmm … impressive. I shall need to see them. Bring them with you tomorrow, will you? … What was that! Stomach ache? Left the premises at what time? Eleven?’ Sandilands rolled his eyes at the assembly. ‘One more question for the moment. Where was this lady on the evening of the first of September? … Yes, it was a Wednesday … Morning shift and she left you at three p.m.? And you’ve no knowledge of her life outside the hotel?’

He finished the phone call and returned to the table, sombre and puzzled.

‘Another woman done a bunk, has she? Irish? Russian? Are we fighting on two fronts now? Who the hell are we looking for?’ Hopkirk was exasperated.

‘Same one? At all events, someone who can pass as a Russian to gain access … someone who has inside knowledge of the prince’s movements weeks in advance …’

‘But why would a Russian …?’ Chappel spluttered. ‘They’re relations of the prince, aren’t they? The Tsar, God rest his soul, was the spitting image of his cousin, our own King George. People couldn’t tell them apart! Best of friends. That posh lot at the ball tonight would never have the Prince of Wales in their sights. White Russians – monarchists to a man. They’d die defending the English cousin’s boy. Wouldn’t they?’

‘You’re right, Inspector. A Russian would make no such attempt,’ Sandilands said. ‘But we’re looking for a lady who, as you say, knew well in advance that the prince would attend this do. A lady determined enough to obtain and perform work for weeks in advance in a hotel kitchen.’

‘Taking orders from Honeysett,’ Lily murmured. ‘That shows a certain single-mindedness.’

‘What it shows is stamina,’ Hopkirk interrupted. ‘I’ve seen hotel kitchens. Not places for the faint hearted and gently bred. She’ll be a strong lass, then!’

‘Indeed. And she’s able to pass as Russian. I think we may be looking for an actress. Someone who can use a variety of convincing accents to approach her prey. A stalker, a hunter. Skilled at blending in with her background.’

‘A sower of discord and a spreader of mayhem,’ said Hopkirk. ‘What’s her score to date? From where we started counting, that is,’ he added lugubriously. ‘And we may be swinging in a little after the beat. Three dead, as far as we know: an admiral, a London bobby and a Serbian prince; and two critically injured: the butler and the cabby. A bloody-handed goddess of death and destruction. She’s a Morrigan, all right.’

Lily’s voice interrupted the descending gloom. ‘Sir. One thing we might try … I think someone ought to have a word with Princess Ratziatinsky.’

‘Would you like to undertake that task yourself, Wentworth? I was going to tell you to take the day off tomorrow … that is to say – today … but if you feel like it … Good. I’ll give you the address and ring ahead to make an appointment. It’s not far – somewhere in Kensington. I’ll try for midday. She won’t be receiving before that hour, I should imagine. Not after the night she’s had.’

‘Will the princess appreciate a police presence on her doorstep, sir?’ Bacchus wanted to know. ‘In her aristocratic quarter of town? On a Sunday morning?’

‘Almost certainly not. Mufti, Wentworth. Put a little frock on. Assume you’re front-door calling company. Do you have a calling card? No? I think we can provide. Bacchus? That forger of yours? That idiosyncratic printer over whose dubious production skills we have at times exercised a little influence?’

‘Sam? Got out six months ago. And, yes, he’s still on the hook.’

‘Good. Get him out of bed and give him a rush order. Our own press won’t be up and running until nine.’ Sandilands scribbled a note and passed it to Bacchus.

‘Now, Wentworth. What were you planning to ask the princess?’

‘I shall ask her to give me a name, sir. She’ll have kept a list of all the people who attended last night.’

Someone sighed in irritation; someone bent to adjust his sock. Joe asked patiently: ‘But why, constable? We have such a list ourselves. You can confirm, Bacchus?’

‘Yes, sir. We can produce it right here and now. If you think it of interest. All vetted by the Branch. MI1b has gone over it with a magnifying glass … MI1c raked through it with a fine-tooth comb. The foreign secretary has a copy on his bedside table next to his bible. But if you’d like to pass it before Miss Wentworth, I’ll certainly hand it to her. For the purposes of checking it against her instinct, perhaps?’

Joe saw Lily flinch and decided to neutralise the Branch man’s sarcasm. ‘A quality that served us better than glass and comb and British intelligence this evening, I’m thinking,’ he said ruefully. ‘You were saying, Miss Wentworth?’

Lily shook her head to clear her thoughts and, having got a hold on them, addressed them to Bacchus. ‘No. Listen a minute! It’s not the people who were there that we’re interested in. We need to see the princess’s original pencilled-in list of guests. The names she first thought of. And check that against the final attendance list. If this girl is Russian and has the confidence to attempt a coup with such swagger, then it’s likely that she would be known to this society, isn’t it? An insider? One of them. She’d have been invited all right. What it would be intriguing to find is the name of someone who failed to turn up or who refused the invitation. Someone who was not there to be blamed. An unaccountable absence. We’re looking for someone who didn’t make an appearance at the ball.’ She realized she was repeating herself, sounding over anxious. She ground to a halt.

‘Ah!’ said Hopkirk with a rumbling laugh. ‘Now I’ve got it. I was thrashing about in the wrong fairy tale. It’s the Bad Fairy we’re looking for.’

‘Or a Bolshevik aristocrat?’ grumbled Chappel. ‘No such animal!’

‘Like “darkness visible”,’ agreed Bacchus. ‘An oxymoronic and quite ridiculous invention. Looks a teeny bit desperate, I’d say.’ He shrugged his shoulders.

‘Well, if the constable cares to waste her morning scanning party lists … hobnobbing with the princess … comparing hemlines and dancing partners …’ Fanshawe had found his voice again. He oozed on, decorating his theme: ‘… chirruping over a samovar of tea and a dish of Viennese pastries … well, that’s up to her. Who shall say her nay?’

‘You make the occasion sound quite delightful, Fanshawe. Hadn’t realized that was your idea of a Sunday morning’s entertainment. Are you volunteering?’ Joe asked cheerfully. ‘No? Then I say Wentworth shall go.’

‘Beats pounding the streets, I will allow,’ nodded Bacchus. The Branch man turned to Lily and favoured her with one of his rare smiles. Or at least she took the movement in the region of his mouth to be a smile, though the vigorous twitch of the upper lip could as easily have been an attempt to dislodge the sleeping rodent. There was no mistaking the accompanying flash of even white teeth: it held all the challenge of a metal gauntlet thrown at her feet.

Lily thought she had very likely made two implacable enemies before breakfast.

Chapter Twenty-Six

The smell of egg, bacon and black pudding frying and the clatter of a teapot lid brought Lily yawning and sniffing back into the world.

‘Seems a shame to wake you up, ducks, after five hours’ sleep but you did say ten o’clock sharp.’ Auntie Phyl was in her apron and enjoying having someone at home to treat to a lavish breakfast. ‘Here – scramble into this dressing gown and come straight through to the kitchen. Bacon’s just as you like it – nice and crozzled.’

They ate at the scrubbed deal table. Phyl had domestic help these days but the staff were dismissed at weekends. Never idle, she liked to polish and repair and cook for herself. Lily struggled with her fry-up in silence, hoping Phyl wouldn’t expect a full account of her evening until her head cleared.

Phyl was happy to chatter on regardless. ‘Well, you didn’t quite come clean about your boss, did you, sly-boots? Albert had quite a bit to say – for Albert – when he got back. “Every bit the gent … nice man … well set up and polite” was his verdict. And Albert’s a good judge. Has to be in his line of work. Nothing known to Sandilands’ disadvantage from the war years … quite the opposite, in fact. I’ve had him followed. He lives alone in a flat down in Chelsea. No distractions, apparently – works every hour God sends.’

‘Sounds too good to be true, are we thinking?’

‘Perhaps. Further and better particulars needed, I’d say. No one’s that innocent. And your bloke’s a busy bee too – was he up all night? These came for you – special messenger – an hour ago. I looked. Calling cards. Here you are. I’ve put them in a case for you because I don’t expect you have one.’

Lily had almost forgotten. She took out a card from the silver case she was being offered and examined it.

‘There’s a dozen, that’s all. Not the usual gross, so you’re not intended to go scattering them like birdseed … or have them for long,’ Phyl noted. ‘Look at them. Best quality card, embossed, straight edge not deckle and lovely copperplate. Best of taste. And the wording’s interesting too. Odd, but interesting. I didn’t realize I’d be entertaining an “Honourable” this morning. I’d have swapped the black pudding and tea for kedgeree and Buck’s Fizz if I’d known. So this is who you are now: the Honourable Lily Wentworth. No address, but you have a telephone number. And what a number! Whitehall 1212 and an extension number which I assume is …’

‘Sandilands’ office, of course. One of these is meant to get me access to a Russian princess this morning. A passport over the front doorstep. These are my business cards, I suppose you’d say. It’s a cheat. Not sure I can go through with all this. It makes me uncomfortable.’

‘Go on! It’s being a load of fun. Stick with it, if only to entertain your old auntie.’

‘Phyl, it’s not a barrel of laughs,’ Lily muttered. ‘I saw someone die last night … poisoned. And the corpse could easily have been mine.’ She went to put the kettle on again. ‘This is going to be a two-pot story.’

The butler was elderly, English and intimidating. His glassy eyes swept her discreetly from head to foot, seeing and assessing while appearing, with the knack only butlers and royalty have, of keeping their subject discreetly out of focus. He allowed himself a well-judged sniff of disdain in response to her yellow print cotton frock. The three-year-old straw hat elicited a twitch of the left corner of his mouth. Without her card, she guessed she would have been instantly sent round to the tradesmen’s entrance where an interview for would-be parlour maids might be on offer from the housekeeper. The butler studied the card she gave him and could find no reason to object to it. Nor to the accent in which she spoke the lines Sandilands had prepared her to deliver.

‘Good morning, Foxton. I’m here to see Her Highness. I believe Commander Sandilands has made an appointment.’

‘Yes, indeed he has, miss. You are expected. If you will follow me? The ladies are still in the morning room.’

She padded after him through a spacious marble-tiled hallway and down a corridor hung with paintings of a quality that risked distracting her. She took a deep breath as he opened a door and announced her. ‘Miss Wentworth of White Hall to see you, Your Highness.’ With a butler’s tongue-in-cheek tact, he had managed in two syllables to turn the formidable police headquarters into a genteel grand house.

‘Miss Wentworth! I’m delighted you could come – and so swiftly after the recent events. I’m told you bring news of the prince.’ The princess was smiling a welcome. Her voice was a throaty rumble but her English was perfect and, Lily guessed, her first language. She turned to the two young women who were sitting at a table covered in piles of envelopes, notes and cards. They got up eagerly and came forward in age order. They were both in their early twenties and both had dark hair and eyes, but Lily didn’t think they were sisters. The older one had a dreamy, rounded face and an easy smile; the other had a quizzical stare and a mouth that seemed ready to laugh.

‘Eirene, Sasha, may I present Lily Wentworth who was our guest last night? You may remember seeing her in the company of His Royal Highness. And she is, among many things, the cousin of Sandilands who visited the other day. Miss Wentworth, you will observe, comes to us under cover … Is that the right term?’ Her eye lingered meaningfully on Lily’s yellow print washing frock and slightly battered hat, and her two companions laughed nervously.

Lily lowered her voice to a conspiratorial tone and murmured: ‘It’s a Sunday. Maid’s Day Off. I blend in with the promenaders.’ In her imagination she heard her father splutter his outrage as her grandfather, with a dry rustle of bones, turned in his grave. With a rebellious flourish, she took off her hat and shook out her hair.

‘Ah! Now I remember! It’s the girl in the green dress,’ murmured Eirene. ‘The wonderful dancer! We all said … didn’t we, Sasha?’

The two younger Russians were wearing heavily embroidered silk kaftans, ankle length and unconstricting. They seemed to have been dealing with correspondence, so Lily gathered they were both resident in the house. Family or friends and clearly going nowhere for the moment. Their presence in the room was inconvenient.

Formal introductions were completed. The ladies seemed intrigued and pleasantly scandalized to be in the presence of a working woman and a woman policeman at that.

Sasha recovered more quickly than the placid Eirene. ‘Lily,’ she said, calling her firmly by her first name, ‘you’re very convincing. I’m only surprised you got past Foxton! And I would know about being convincing. When I escaped from Russia my disguises were every bit as effective. I became quite the expert. You’re to come to me if you need any advice on dissimulation. I’ve travelled a thousand miles being a peasant, a baker’s daughter, a babushka, a cavalryman … I’ve sliced off my hair and kicked off my heels. But the best part of it all was – no corsets! Oh, the joy of leaving them off! I haven’t put one on again since!’ She wriggled her slim shoulders under the silk wrapper and sighed with satisfaction.

‘And now Mademoiselle Chanel offers us all the same freedom,’ Lily agreed. She didn’t believe a word of this manicured and soignée little butterfly’s fairy story but she liked her insouciance.

‘But let me warn you.’ Sasha’s roguish glint faded and her expression became more stern. A finger was raised and she wagged it at Lily. ‘As one actress to another. The moment you find the role you are playing more comforting, more alluring, or just more stimulating than the one you were born to – you are lost. Cast adrift for ever on a sea of dissatisfaction.’

‘No need to worry about me,’ Lily replied as lightly as she could. ‘Dancing with a prince was good fun but I shouldn’t much care to have to do it every day. Be on my best behaviour every moment? Apologise every time I stepped on the royal toe? No. I’d rather put on corsets again.’

‘You choose to mistake my meaning.’ Sasha’s bright eyes were full of knowledge and Lily tried not to look away. ‘Good. I conclude that you are aware of the true danger.’

Only too well aware, Lily decided the moment had come to pull this interview back into line. She caught the eye of the princess and remembered her instructions. ‘But I’ve come, as you say, with news of the prince – that is to say of two princes.’ The company became still and attentive. ‘The Prince of Wales was in no way harmed, though very distressed, of course, by the events. He’s gone into the country to stay with friends for a week or so and has sent his condolences to the widow of Prince Gustavus, who, as you perhaps—’

‘Poor Zinia. I have told my friends what happened. You may assume they know as much as I and speak freely in front of them,’ the princess intervened.

‘It is confirmed that Gustavus died of heart failure.’ Lily delivered the lie with all the security of Sandilands’ coaching behind her. ‘The onset was very sudden. Although an eminent doctor was on hand to render immediate assistance, there was nothing that could be done to save him.’

‘Ah. No surprises there. Zinia will have told you, no doubt, my dear, that this is a family weakness.’ The princess spoke without emotion. Her words were greeted by understanding nods all round. ‘One is sad but not surprised. I was acquainted with the boy’s father many years ago. In looks, the son was the image of his father, and, it transpires, he had many of his deficiencies of character. A lying, murdering womanizer,’ she said pleasantly. ‘The kind the world is better off without. Just as well that the line has a built-in physical flaw … they manage to destroy themselves before someone is obliged to do it for them. Ah, here comes our morning coffee. You are able to stay and drink coffee with us?’

A maid entered with a loaded tray, and took in Lily’s presence with dismay. Sasha got up and bustled about helping her to find a space on the table. ‘Shall I bring another cup, Miss Sasha? I hadn’t realized you’d got company.’

Sasha hurried her away with a discreet, ‘No, thank you, Katy, that will do. Thank you, my dear. We’ll wait on ourselves. You can go now.’

Four delicate cups and saucers of Worcester porcelain, a silver pot, cream and sugar and French madeleines had appeared, Lily noted, pleased that Fanshawe had got it wrong. Though not all his speculations missed their target. Sipping the fragrant coffee and puffing away at Virginia cigarettes, the ladies allowed their affected sadness to give way with surprising speed to gossip and merriment. The hemlines and dancing partners Fanshawe had scathingly conjured up were now, indeed, being trailed before her. Lily was made to tell whether Prince Edward was as good a dancer as was reported. (‘As good as my dancing master.’ Lily had decided the man had earned a good report.) Was he fun? (‘He made me laugh a lot.’) Where had Lily come by that wonderful dress? (‘Ssh! A secret! Though perhaps I’ll leave the address with the princess before I leave.’) And who exactly was the fair-haired Adonis to her right… sitting at the royal table…clean shaven, cleft chin, was he really squiring Connie Beauclerk?’ (‘Rupert Fanshawe? The most dangerous man in England! You would not want to know him.’)