As everyone fell silent, the shriek was followed by another, and a female voice babbling incoherently. It was coming from the royal table, Lily was certain. She was almost sure that the voice belonged to Connie Beauclerk.
Tugging Zinia along in her wake, she hurried towards the source of the noise, now pierced by the clatter of falling dishes and the sound of a wine glass shattering.
Into the general silence that follows breaking glass, Connie’s voice rang out again: ‘I told you he’d had enough, Rupert! You should never have given him that last glass!’
And, from a concerned male voice which might have been Sandilands’: ‘No, no! He’s not drunk. Well, he may be, but that’s not the worst of his troubles … Oh, good Lord, he’s having a heart attack! Tuppy! Help me with this!’
A further howl from Connie startled everyone within earshot. ‘Fetch someone! The prince is having a seizure! The prince is dying!’
Chapter Twenty-Three
‘Connie! Calm down!’ The Prince of Wales’s voice was surprisingly firm. ‘Fetch someone? We have Scotland Yard and Harley Street here. Who else do you want to conjure up? Florence Nightingale?’ He threw an arm round her shaking shoulders and gave her a hug.
‘Sorry, David. So sorry! I’ve never seen anyone die before.’
‘Nor have I,’ he said gallantly. ‘Shock to the system, what? But look here, we might not have … yet. Don’t give up hope. Prince Gustavus is in the very best hands, you see. If anything can be done, Tuppy will do it.’
Joe had hurled himself round the table at the first splutter. And now, a practised double act to all appearances, he and Tuppy were working on Gustavus, oblivious of the sideshow. As Edward spoke, Sandilands was wrenching off the starched collar from the throat of the man retching and gasping for breath on the carpet by the side of an overturned chair, while Tuppy had a finger on the pulse behind one ear and reaching out his other hand for the stethoscope which, improbably, his wife was handing him from the depths of her evening bag.