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.’