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.

‘Heart attack? Are we thinking heart attack?’ Joe muttered.

Glad of the chance, Joe ran his hands over the contorted body, encountering nothing in the pockets but handkerchief, cloakroom ticket, keys and a cache of folded pound notes. ‘Who the hell are you?’ Joe wondered silently and angrily. The man had come bounding on stage with all the élan of a pantomime villian. Braggart, liar and avowed assassin, he had himself been struck down in a spectacularly dramatic way. In the tradition of uppity heroes of classical times he had fallen abruptly, foaming at the mouth and clutching his chest.

Gustavus gave one last shudder and his limbs relaxed.

Stethoscope to his ears, Tuppy gave a barely detectable shake of his head.

Joe looked up and saw that Fanshawe had gone swiftly into action, and was directing a pair of footmen rushing forward with screens. Charles Honeysett stood, rock-like, in the middle of the surge, coolly ordering a mopping-up operation.

‘No!’ Joe snapped at the man who arrived with brush and tray to clear up the fallen crockery. ‘Leave everything as it is. We’ll have the screens gladly, but leave the rest alone. And have Honeysett move the other diners back into the ballroom.’ He exchanged a few words with Tuppy, nodded, and called the steward to his side. ‘Inform Princess Ratziatinsky, will you, that Prince Gustavus has had – no, say is having a heart attack. He’s receiving medical care and is on his way to hospital. The prince apologizes for the disturbance and has asked that the evening continue normally without him. And tell them to wind up the orchestra!’

‘Sir, we have a vehicle at the back that you can use for the gentleman,’ said Honeysett, as he set off. ‘My men know the routine.’

Not the first time a guest had been carried out feet first with the utmost discretion, then. A moment later, after a short announcement in several languages by the princess in the ballroom next door, Cardew’s band swooped into the opening bars of the waltz from The Merry Widow, the one tune guaranteed to lure everyone back on to the floor.

Becoming aware of the presence of Wentworth, who had squeezed through the closing barricade hand in hand with a second woman – oh, Lord! The man’s wife! – Joe beckoned them forward. He rose to his feet and said: ‘Heart attack. I’m looking for pills – medication – anyone know if he carries such a thing?’

Zinia had been staring at the recumbent form of her husband with the expression of someone who has almost put a foot on the rotting corpse of some strange wild creature on the forest path, a blend of fear, disgust and fascination. She took a step forward and spoke to Tuppy, who was passing a hand over the staring eyes. ‘The man you are attending to is my husband. What on earth’s happened to him?’

Tuppy straightened himself and replied, every inch the Harley Street doctor. ‘The prince was stricken by convulsions, accompanied by difficulty in breathing. He collapsed, as you see. A massive heart attack. There was nothing anyone could do to prevent his death.’

‘His face looks very … pink.’ Zinia voice was almost accusing. She peered again at the body. ‘Can you assure me that he’s perfectly dead?’

‘He is, indeed, madam. You have my commiserations. And my assurance that we did everything we could.’

‘His father went in just the same way,’ she said calmly. ‘No warning. It runs in the family. He fell off his horse in the forest, miles from the nearest doctor. Gustavus was fortunate indeed to have help at his side when his time came.’

‘Madam, I am most dreadfully sorry … Dr Thomas Tenby at your service. My card.’

‘Thank you, doctor. I am grateful for your efforts.’ Zinia was recovering her haughty demeanour. Still held firmly by Lily, she stared down at the body again.

Joe scrutinized her closely as he murmured his condolences, and then at last he turned his attention to Lily. His eyes said: No. This isn’t the woman.

He saw the relief with which Lily released Zinia’s hand. And was intrigued to note that the Russian instantly seized Lily’s back again and held on, her body beginning to tremble.

‘Why don’t you take a seat, madam?’ he said, taking in at last the girl’s emotional exhaustion and dishevelled state. ‘You’ve had a frightful shock.’ He led her over to a chair away from the table, then whispered in Lily’s ear: ‘Tate. Leave this and get him in here, will you? He’s needed.’

The scene of crime photograph. Lily didn’t have to search for Cyril. He was standing, equipment in hand, just outside the folding doors, arguing with a footman. She pulled him inside.

‘All’s well. I mean, better than you might fear.’ Joe told him. ‘It could have been worse. Look, I want you to take some … er … professional shots. For my album. Have you any flash powder left? Can you do this?’

Cyril took in the scene with a few swift glances, muttering, ‘Listen, I ought to warn you – they’re saying out there in the ballroom that the Prince of Wales has been murdered. Rumour’s going round like wildfire. They’re talking of storming the barricades to find out. Half the men are ex-soldiers, half the women ex-girlfriends! What I’d call an unstable mix. Concern is at fever pitch. Thought you ought to know. The princess is keeping the lid on it for the moment, but it can’t last.’

He went into action, showing all the disciplined anticipation of a police photographer and responding smoothly to Joe’s every guiding gesture. When he’d done, he told Joe: ‘I’ll go straight back and get the night staff on to this. I’ll bring the results round to the Yard myself as soon as I have them.’

Joe returned to the table, examining the dishes and glasses. Rupert went to stand at his shoulder.

‘I’ll get this lot sketched and labelled and then bagged up, sir,’ he said doubtfully. ‘It won’t be easy.’