The Blood Royal

London, 1920
‘Are you sure this is the place, cabby? It looks rather grand …’
‘St Katharine’s Square, number one, guv’nor, just like you said. They’re all grand in this neck of the woods. This is a Royal Borough, sir. But if you don’t fancy it, we can always move on.’
‘No. Wait here. I’m in no hurry.’
The passenger in naval uniform peered again through the gloom of an October evening, taking in the magnificence of the four-storey mansion.
‘Well I may be in a hurry,’ the cab driver objected. ‘Fog’s coming up.’
‘A pea-souper, eh? I’ve been away for years. I’ve forgotten what they look like.’
‘Pea-souper nothing! This one’s going to be a brown Windsor, judging by the smell of it. Straight up off the river. It’s to be hoped they’ve got the acetylene flares alight round Trafalgar Square or I’ll never get you back to the station, guv.’
The Navy man was barely listening, all his attention on the stuccoed, balconied façade. Electric lights penetrated the growing darkness, offering a welcoming orange glow behind drawn curtains. In the upper floors, lamps or candles were moving between rooms as staff came off or went on duty.
‘Well at least there’s someone at home,’ he said, awkwardly throwing a conversational pebble into the silence ponding between him and the young woman by his side.
She made no reply.
He took her hand and gave it a brief encouraging squeeze. ‘Nearly there, Miss Petrovna. Three thousand miles and three years — but you’ve made it!’ He spoke with a cheerfulness he couldn’t feel.