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.’
‘Ah, yes. Well, there are indeed several versions of the events of that night circulating, you know,’ said Edward. ‘And I too have had my ear bent. But I say it’s always interesting to hear from a chap who was on the spot.’ His blue eyes sparkled with mischievous invitation.
Gustavus smiled. ‘In the end, it took a company of us to dispatch the terrible old ox. He had survived previous assassination attempts, that was well known. The man was indestructible, it was rumoured, and rumour further had it that his strength came from a source beyond the natural. We took no chances. He received and accepted an invitation to a drinking party at the palace of Prince Yussupov on the river in St Petersburg. A merry, unbuttoned evening among like-minded chaps. First we poisoned him – three times – then we shot him – four times – and finally we clubbed him about the head, seized him and threw him into an ice-hole in the freezing river Neva. We watched as he sank under.’ He smirked with secret knowledge. ‘At least, that’s how the story goes.’
This was hardly dinner-table talk, but the audience was eager for more. The death of the Tsarina’s sinister influence had taken on a quality of dark farce that made it an acceptable topic of conversation. Rasputin, the much-feared and meddlesome evil genius, had been reduced, in death, to a pantomime villain.
‘The pathologist.’ Gustavus gave a rumbling laugh. ‘You have to feel for the poor chap. He must have been puzzled indeed to come up with a cause of death amongst so many possibilities. Stomach full of poisoned cake and red wine, body riddled with a mixture of Russian and English lead, skull cracked, lungs full of river water and the whole body frozen stiff! I do believe your revered Spilsbury would have been somewhat challenged.’