Chapter Fifty-Eight

CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT

O nce the applause for the encore had subsided a little, the door to the royal box opened. The Prince of Wales, smiling broadly, emerged first, but as soon as he was out of sight of the auditorium the smile disappeared.

Jack struggled to his feet.

‘Your Highness, Sir Gideon Wells has come up from London with urgent news. He’s in the shop downstairs, with Vladimir Taargin from the Marakovian embassy.’

The prince raised an eyebrow. ‘Will the excitements of this evening never cease? Can we get there discreetly, Treadwell?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘In that case, lead on. If Taargin is there, I presume they need us both, Stefan.’

The Crown Prince put a finger to the collar of his military-style jacket, to loosen it a little. ‘David, an attempt was made on our lives. Shouldn’t we call the police?’

‘Indeed it was. We’ll get to that in a minute. Presumably Mr Treadwell does not want to have a pair of shells in his office indefinitely.’

‘They’re secure for now. This way, sir.’

Jack led them down the stairs, and through the back entrance to the shop, which opened directly off the lower promenade.

The shop was in partial shadow. The only lights illuminated a group of tables just outside the recording rooms. Jack saw a man who looked like a taller, uglier version of Dixon, and the man who had insulted Lillian at the wedding.

Both men got to their feet and bowed.

‘Stay with us, Treadwell,’ the prince said over his shoulder.

‘What are you doing here, Taargin?’ Stefan asked. ‘You were told not to come to this city.’

Taargin looked as if he had seen a ghost, glancing between the princes in horror.

‘In the circumstances . . .’ Sir Gideon murmured.

‘What circumstances?’ Stefan asked.

Taargin began to speak haltingly in Marakovian.

‘Osman, what’s happening?’ the prince asked, lighting a cigarette.

Osman inhaled sharply through his nose, then began to translate. ‘He is saying the King of Marakovia is dead.’

‘Bloody hell,’ the prince said quietly.

The young Crown Prince had gone very pale. ‘My father?’

Taargin dropped clumsily to one knee.

‘No! Get up! There is some mistake. My father was in good health.’

‘Damn,’ the prince said softly, then cleared his throat. ‘Stefan, it is shocking news . . .’

‘No . . . I . . . Where is Nikolai?’

The door from the corridor opened, and the man himself came through it and approached the pool of light in which the new king was standing. Lillian, shimmering in her gold evening gown, followed him.

‘Nikolai!’ Stefan cried. ‘They say my father is dead.’

Nikolai hesitated, then walked into the room and knelt down. ‘Your Majesty.’

The two men who had manhandled Nikolai the previous evening also knelt, their heads bowed.

The Prince of Wales sighed. ‘I think we had better give them some privacy.’ He waved at his equerries. ‘Osman, gentlemen, with me. Show us your recording studio, Treadwell, while they get themselves sorted out. You, too, Sir Gideon.’

Jack, still hazy about how he was putting one foot in front of the other, showed them into the musicians’ den and turned on the light, vaguely aware Lillian was following them. In the sudden pale yellow glow, they discovered Dixon hunkered on a stool in the corner. He got to his feet as the party entered.

‘Jesus,’ the prince exclaimed, then recovered. ‘Dixon, I remember you from the factory. What on earth are you doing in here in the dark?’

‘Hiding from me, I expect, sir,’ Gideon said, his voice dripping with contempt. ‘I’m sorry to admit it, but that is my son. He ran away from his mother’s house months ago. Sends postcards.’

‘He’s over twenty-one,’ Jack said, walking over to Dixon and standing next to him. ‘So it’s more accurate to say he left.’

‘Dixon . . .’ They all turned. Lillian had closed the door behind her, and through the viewing window Jack noticed Nikolai was standing again, and had his arm around Stefan’s shoulder. ‘Dixon, why did you come to Highbridge?’

She looks like some ancient goddess standing there in her gold dress , Jack thought. He should have asked her to act as hostess at the old restaurant – if she’d dressed like that, they’d have had a full house every night, whatever the cooking was like.

Next to him, Dixon sighed very deeply and looked at Lillian. ‘The picture of you and Jack in the newspaper,’ he said quietly. ‘You looked kind. And I recognised you.’

‘How?’ She turned from Dixon to Sir Gideon. The prince and Osman exchanged curious glances. Jack felt his blood begin to slow and thicken in his veins.

‘My father had a picture of you,’ Dixon said. ‘When I was little. He had a drawer of them in his desk. Postcards, and portraits. Lots of beautiful girls. I told my mother about them – I thought they were nice. But she threw them out. And Father beat me.’

Sir Gideon tutted.

‘Then I saw the picture in the newspaper, and I knew you from the picture. Lillian Lyons – artiste. Then I realised Jack has eyes just like my sister. I didn’t understand what the pictures meant when I was little. But I understand now. Or at least, I suspected. I wanted to come here and see.’

Jack heard a rushing in his ears. He looked between Sir Gideon, Dixon and Lillian. She was staring at Sir Gideon with an expression of such disgust and contempt, he was surprised the ground around the man’s feet didn’t burst into flame.

‘Lillian,’ Jack said. ‘Is that man my father? Is he the man who raped you?’

‘Yes,’ Lillian said.

Jack launched himself across the room at Sir Gideon, but Osman intervened, hauling him backwards.

‘For God’s sake!’ Sir Gideon said. ‘This is slander from an actress and a feeble-minded child.’

‘You are not a good man,’ Dixon said very quietly. ‘I had to get away.’ He turned to the prince in appeal. ‘He kept threatening me with doctors, so I came here, and I thought the doctors wouldn’t be able to commit me if I’d shown I could hold down a job and be useful. I was going to tell you – tell you both – about the picture, but I was afraid you’d send me away, Lillian, if you knew.’

The prince was still considering them all, blowing cigarette smoke through his nose.

‘Nonsense,’ Sir Gideon said. ‘Your Highness, I’m so terribly sorry you have to listen to this. My boy is in an unfortunate state. The sooner we can get him the care he needs, the better.’

The prince held up his hand. ‘Treadwell, stop fighting Osman. He’s not going to let you attack Sir Gideon, though I understand the temptation.’ It took an effort of will of which Jack had never thought himself capable, but he stopped, his fists balled.

‘Sir, this is nonsense—’

‘Gideon, I’ve had a trying evening already,’ the prince went on. ‘You’re making it worse. Osman, now you’ve pacified Treadwell, take note . . . If any attempt is made to confine Dixon Wells, you will let it be known that the Prince of Wales considers this young man to be of sound mind. That should scare any of them off from signing any committal orders.’

‘Your Highness,’ Gideon began. ‘You can’t possibly believe—’

‘And yet I do,’ the prince replied crisply. ‘You have a reputation, Sir Gideon, and it is not a good one. I believe Dixon, and I certainly believe Lillian, not to mention,’ he looked between Jack and Sir Gideon, ‘the evidence of my own eyes.’ He turned to Lillian. ‘Mrs Kuznetsov, what would you like me to do with him? Given the years that have passed, I fear a criminal prosecution might be impossible. But whatever I can do, I will.’

Lillian inhaled sharply, then slowly closed and opened her eyes. Jack stared at her and several slow seconds ticked by. Then she replied, with the smallest hint of a smile.

‘Exile, sir.’

‘Very well.’ The prince put out his cigarette and lit another. ‘Sir Gideon, absent yourself. Go tonight. At once. Osman will manage whatever needs to be managed here. Leave for London, then find a job as far away as is humanly possible from England. Kenya, perhaps, or Canada. I’ll give you a month to make the arrangements, if that is acceptable to Mrs Kuznetsov.’

Lillian nodded.

Sir Gideon rocked backwards a little, his hand reaching towards the wall for support. ‘No, no. This is ridiculous! You do not have that power, sir.’

The prince studied the end of his cigarette. ‘No, not as such, but I can make your life bloody uncomfortable if you remain on these shores.’ He glanced up, a brittle anger in his eyes. ‘You will go. Treadwell, I will not let you beat him, but do you have anything you wish to say to your father before he leaves?’

Jack was caught up in the mysterious sensation of things coming together and falling apart at the same time. The line of Sir Gideon’s jaw, familiar from his own shaving mirror; the kink in his hair, an inch from his scalp, which seemed to resist the blandishments of brilliantine: it was terrible to see his own familiar features distorted by that superior sneer, the purplish nose of a drinker and the unhealthy redness of his skin.

‘Dixon may be my brother, sir, but that man is not my father. My father raised me in a village twenty miles from here, and is buried in the churchyard next to his wife.’

The prince studied him for a long moment. ‘Seems he did a decent job of it. Gideon, get out of my sight. And go quickly, before I release Treadwell and he kicks your arse over the threshold, as is his right, and which I’m sure would be very satisfying.’

Sir Gideon walked stiffly over to the door. Lillian faced him for a second then, without lowering her eyes, stepped aside to let him go.