The exquisite Russian doll inclined her head graciously and confided that yes, indeed, she did know it. It was one of her favourite songs. Cecil Cardew with a twirl of his baton unleashed the string section of his orchestra and they swung into the introduction to a well-rehearsed rendition of the heart-breaking Scottish lament. A delicate compliment to the host country and obviously a favourite with the Russian contingent, who joined in soulfully with the last chorus.
‘Gracious!’ the prince confided, leaning close. ‘The Scots and the Russians caught in mutual lament? Really wrings the withers! Well, I don’t know about our hosts but that dirge has quite given me an appetite. Shall we prepare to lead the throng into the dining room? I think it’s expected. This, I’m told, may well be the tricky bit. Have your wits about you, Lily! It’s to be a sort of indoor picnic, if you can believe! Balancing plates and glasses and chatting to left and right. Always taxing! But it does, they say, enable people to circulate more freely. One is not pinned down with the same neighbours for hours on end. I can see their point. Oh, and someone may be planning, in the help-yourself skirmish they’ve got planned, to bean me with a ladle or fillet me with an oyster-knife.’
He helped her to her feet with a hand that gave the briefest quiver before being brought under control. His shoulders squared, his chin went up and he surveyed the throng with a merry blue eye. Lily remembered that his formative years had been spent in the tough, no-quarter-given-or-expected world of a Navy training ship. Bombs and bullets seemed not to impress him but the thought of an encounter with a knife at close quarters made him grit his teeth.
‘Now, let’s stay alert, Lily!’
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 newc
omer 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-’
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