from the premises when a frail, cracked voice issued from just behind the door. Several of those present — a brace of private secretaries, two telephonists and a maid — found themselves picturing the Monarch with her ear pressed to a glass held against the door.
The voice was unquestionably hers — probably the most famous in the British Isles — reedily nasal, impeccably enunciated, a relic from an earlier and more decorous age.
“Arthur? Go away! Shoo! Skedaddle!” She seemed to relish that last word in particular, audibly enjoying the unfamiliar taste of the vernacular.
“Mother?” the prince wailed back, and for a moment, it was as though the servants, the advisers, the ceremonial train of lackeys and right-hand men had melted away and there was nobody else in that place but them, mother and son, still struggling to communicate after all these years. “Who is Mr. Streater? Is it true what he told me, about Leviathan? Why won’t you see me?”
There was a hissing sound from next door, then: “Have you still not disposed of that bitch of a wife?”
Several of the servants who had followed the prince from the moment he entered the palace at least had the good grace to look awkward at this, to turn to one side and choose not to gawp quite so openly as the rest. None of them, it must be noted, actually walked away.
“Mother…” There was a conciliatory cadence to the prince’s voice now, like that of a diplomat, faced with some intransigent warlord, trying his utmost to be reasonable. “I know we’ve never exactly seen eye to eye, but really-”
“Eliminate the girl, Arthur. Then we may talk.” There was a sliding, shuffling noise from the other side of the door which seemed to indicate that the speaker was retreating.
The prince stepped back. “Honestly, Mother. You can be most unreasonable at times.”
No answer came save for that same sliding, shuffling motion, growing ever fainter, as though something of immense bulk was dragging itself into the distance.
When the prince turned to face the assembled onlookers, there was an expression on his face which, to those who did not know him better, might almost have looked dangerous. “Take me home,” he said, and silently, respectfully, they did just as he commanded.
By lunchtime, the prince was surprised to find that he could barely wait to get back to Mr. Streater.
Usually, luncheon with Silverman was a joyous affair, brimming with talk of their schooldays, or of their time together at an expensively dour university, or of the prince’s short-lived military career (an almost wholly wretched experience save for the one spot of light that was Mr. Silverman — as faithfully attentive a batman as he had subsequently proved a valet, equerry and aide-de-camp). On that day, however, the prince could muster little enthusiasm for any of it. Silverman’s well-oiled anecdotes seemed so much conversational sludge, the food felt rubbery and tasteless and the wine turned to vinegar in his mouth. His one thought was to get back to Streater, to hear the story of his ancestor and, above all else, to drink another cup of tea.
The prince prodded his dessert away after less than a spoonful. “I should go. There are things which require my attention.”
“Is everything quite all right, sir? You seem rather distracted.”
“I’m fine,” Arthur snapped, and immediately felt guilty for it. “Really, I’m fine. Now I’m so sorry. I must go. I’ve a very important meeting this afternoon.”
“I’ve seen your diary, sir.” Silverman gazed unflinchingly at his master. “And I saw nothing in there for today. Nothing at all.”
The prince drew breath, opened his mouth and, guppy-like, closed it again.
He was saved by an embarrassed tap at the door. A young servant shuffled into the room, his had bowed low toward the carpet.
“Sorry to trouble you, sir.” Well into his twenties, he still looked like a teenager, his voice squeakily uncertain with protracted adolescence. “There’s a phone call for you, sir.”
“Well, tell them to call back.”
“It does sound important, sir.”
Suddenly, the prince was interested. “Is it Mr. Streater?”
The servant sounded bewildered. “No, sir. It’s your wife.”
He took the call in his study. “Laetitia?”
“Arthur, what on earth is going on?”
“What do you mean?”
“Don’t try to hide it from me. You went to see your mother today. Something is definitely up.”
“Well, perhaps we could discuss this at a more convenient time? Perhaps tonight… after lights-out?”
“I’ve no stomach for that at the moment. I thought you understood that. I need you to tell me what’s going on right now.”
“I haven’t got time to talk. I have a meeting.”
“A meeting with that Streater creature?”
“How do you know about Streater?”
“Silverman told me.”
“Did he really?”
“Ring me when you’re ready to tell the truth, Arthur. I can’t go on like this.”
She slammed down the phone.
Arthur sometimes wondered whether anyone was listening in on these calls of theirs, an enterprising underling, a junior butler with an eye on the checkbooks of the national press. Sometimes he even wondered whether he and Laetitia ought not to at least try to keep pace with modernity and invest in a pair of portable telephones. He strongly suspected that such an act would play well with the public, that it might finally and unequivocally prove him to be a man of the people, a modern prince almost psychically attuned to the lifestyles and concerns of twenty-first-century youth. Arthur scrawled a note to Silverman on the subject and, still muttering to himself like an unusually well-dressed wino, began the long walk to the old ballroom.
Mr. Streater’s trousers were concertinaed round his ankles and he was enthusiastically engaged in shoving a hypodermic needle deep into a vein somewhere in the region of his left thigh.
Arthur double-taked into the corridor, making certain that no one else had seen. “What are you doing?”
“Gets tricky after a while,” Streater drawled, “finding a new vein.”
“I can imagine.”
“Just a little pick-me-up after lunch.” The blond man stowed the hypodermic in one of his pockets and Arthur felt a pulsation of disgust.
“I’ve just bolted down my food,” the prince said softly. “I’ve been rude to my best friend and I’ve refused to speak to my wife. Why the devil can’t I stay away from you?”
“Gotta be my magnetic personality.” Like a used car salesman drawing a customer’s attention to the pride and joy of the forecourt, Streater gestured toward a china teapot on the table. “Up for a cup of tea?”
At the mention of tea, the prince seemed enthused. “Do you know, I think I am.”
“What were you saying about your wife?” the blond man asked as he poured the heir his first cup of the day.
Arthur seized it hungrily. “She says she needs to talk to me.”
“That right?” Streater laughed. “She wants you to jump and you ask how high? Is that how it goes with you?”
“No,” Arthur protested. “That is, I-”
Streater put his hand on Arthur’s shoulder. “Word to the wise, mate. Don’t put up with any backchat. Give birds an inch, they grab a bloody mile.”
Arthur seemed barely to have registered what Streater had said. He held out his cup, already drained. “Listen here. Is there any chance of a drop more?”
Streater smiled and filled the cup again. “We should press on. Your old mum’s keen to finish your education.”
“Why?”
