A CROWN OF TASSILO STORY

Posh Boy and Dead Boy

A Matter of Life and Death

I

‘Mr Tofts?’

Martin nodded. The policeman stationed at the Treasury arch checked a clipboard, then motioned him through.

He looked around. Everywhere in Whitehall, workmen were stacking sandbags around doorways. The Treasury was no exception. Martin stared at the unusual sight of a soldier in khaki and steel helmet on guard at the main entrance.

Within, things were more normal. A blue-coated porter indicated a staircase and a room number. Martin climbed the marble steps to a carpeted, plush Olympus.

The door was open and a male secretary waiting there offered his hand with a smile. ‘Sir Eric is expecting you, sir.’ Martin was ushered through tall mahogany doors into an office of noble proportions with an outlook on to Horse Guards. ‘Mr Tofts, Sir Eric.’

‘Marty!’

Martin grinned as the stocky figure of his old friend and ex-lover grabbed his hand, kissed him and then hugged him hard.

‘Take a seat, old thing.’ They occupied wing chairs facing across a hearth devoid of fire. Outside was a hot June day, the great parade ground below the windows flooded with sunlight.

Martin Tofts assessed what the years had done to Eric Kirby. His face had reddened and his waistcoat had swelled, but the air of camp and the ironic smile were still the same. ‘A knight of the realm, Eric, an MP and an under-secretary of state? Who’d have believed it when we first met … where was it? A brothel in Shepherd’s Market … and I don’t mean the conventional sort.’

‘Marty dearest, as the years go by, that cold, smelly room and my nocturnal activities seem more and more a lost wonderland. You were a beautiful trick, sweetheart. Nowadays I can only find boys who look like you did then by distinctly dangerous and illegal means. And you? A fellow of … where is it?’

‘Balliol.’

‘Very nice. And author of so many books. You’re beautifully tanned. Coco Chanel would die for that tone. How was Syria?’

‘Hotter than here. I was glad to be coming back home. How did you know about my movements, by the way?’

‘Oh … one hears things, dear … one hears things.’

Martin pulled a face. ‘Still not lost your taste for mystery have you, Eric? Out with it.’

‘What, here? In my private office, with the delectable Arthur just outside the door?’

‘You know what I mean.’

‘Really, Marty! Having you by me is such a breath of fresh air, you rough, direct archaeologist you! Oh well, as you wish.

‘You’ve been in a series of sandy holes in Syria for the past year, so I’ll assume you’re not totally au fait with matters European. Of course, you must have picked up that our German friends have pushed the British and French to the very limit, especially over Czechoslovakia. You know they swallowed it up back in March. Well, that was that. Even our venerated prime minister now realises that war with the abominable Reich is unavoidable. So at last, some amongst us have been allowed to get things moving.’

‘Of what exactly are you under-secretary, Eric?’

‘Finance is of course my forte, so I belong to the Treasury, but I have other strengths. Knowledge of Central Europe is one of them, as you are aware, you being rather well-connected there yourself.’

‘I was wondering when Leo would come into it.’

Eric smiled blandly. ‘I won’t deny that Leo is a consideration. Nonetheless, people like you are suddenly in great demand, Marty. You speak German and Rothenian like a native. You have academic contacts across Europe, and know the region intimately. Your old country needs you, darling. I need you.’

‘What for?’

‘It’s rather late in the day perhaps, but we’re beginning to put together departments which can collect intelligence about our prospective enemy. Now oddly, the Treasury is a ministry which specialises in a high level of intelligence gathering, something that you must realise has always been my addiction.’

‘What, gossip?’

Eric laughed affectionately. ‘Now, now, sweetie! But yes, gossip if you like. Gossip is the graphite in the engine of state. Did dear, roguish Oscar W say that? No, far too allusive for him … but I digress.

‘We need to know things, Marty, and the people who can tell us are few and far between.’ Eric’s smile faded, his face taking on an unaccustomed sternness, the look of the serious man of affairs who lurked somewhere near the core of his being. ‘I’m one of those who think the coming war will be the greatest trial our nation has ever faced. We both know enough about the Nazis to have no illusions as to how they will conduct themselves.

‘Marty, you are needed urgently. The time has come to stand up, as Maxim and old Gus Underwood did in their days. We have work to do, and it must begin now. I know your summer term is ending back in Oxford, leaving you with the freedom to engage in a mission we have lined up for you.’

‘Does it pay?’

‘Oh for heaven’s … I’d not taken you for a mercenary-minded man.’

‘I’m not, but if you want me to gallivant across Europe, someone has to fork out.’

Eric’s knowing grin returned. ‘So, you’ll do it?’

‘When did I ever refuse you anything? Remember that Good Friday at Piotreshrad back in ’29?’

‘Could I ever forget? You were so masterful. Quite took my breath away. Marty, I’m so pleased you’ll be helping us. Believe me, for what we have in mind, you’re the only possible person.’

‘And what is it you have in mind?’

***

The Waterloo train drew up at Dorking station in a huge burst of steam. After he had manhandled his bag on to the platform, Martin Tofts was still unable to penetrate the obscurity to see if anyone had met him.

Eventually a shape solidified in the vapour. ‘Sir! You shouldn’t have!’

‘Of course I should, Marty. There’s no rule saying I have to send a footman to do what I can do perfectly well myself. I’ve been driving for over thirty years now, y’know.’

Maxim Elphberg, former king of Rothenia, smiled as he reached for Martin’s bag. He was by then in his early fifties, dignified although not in the least condescending. He showed not the slightest trace of the stiffness of age when he lifted the bag to walk easily alongside the younger man. Only after they left the station and Maxim had placed the bag in the back of the open tourer did Martin notice the sudden greying of the king’s formerly dark hair.

They took the road for the Downs and Belsager Priory, the king’s home for the past twenty years. Maxim resolutely kept off the business they both knew had brought Martin to Surrey. Playing along, Martin confined himself to small talk, offering vivid descriptions of his excavations at Edessa and Halab, and his views on the northern Crusader states in the Latin East. His host responded with polite and interested noises.

The Priory looked beautiful in the fresh summer green of its lawns. The horse chestnut trees in the park were still in flower. Rothenian servants in Elphberg green took the bag and drove the car round to the stables as the king led Martin up the stairs and into the drawing room, where the queen was waiting.

Martin made his bow and kissed her hand. ‘Where are Pip and Sissy?’ he asked, settling into a chair.

The king looked gloomy. ‘Pip? I thought you’d heard he’d joined the East Suffolk Yeomanry, his father’s regiment, two months ago as a second lieutenant. He’s in barracks at Ipswich. It seems he’ll be heading for Egypt, though I’m not supposed to know that.’

The queen shook her head. ‘Naturally we’re worried. The whole world’s mobilising. It’s horrible, days we never thought would come again! Dreadful!’

‘Where’s Kate?’

‘With her parents and the children at Wilton for the time being. Sissy is with Emil at Haseldorf, and we worry about her even more if anything.’ Elisabeth Underwood, countess of Templerstadt, had married the German prince of Carolath-Beuthen three years previously, and was now the mother of a young prince of her own.

Maxim surveyed his protégé. ‘I don’t suppose there’s any secret why you’re here, Martin. Before we adjourn to the library, though, we’d better have tea. How’re your mother and sister?’ They chatted about neutral matters for a bit while servants laid the table.

After they had finished, the king took leave of his wife and led Martin to the library in the western wing of the house, where he settled them into armchairs. ‘Martin, I imagine I know one reason you’re here. War is coming, and people like you will be at a premium: polyglot academics with a wide knowledge of Germany, its politics and neighbours. The Foreign Office was very keen to recruit Pip, but the boy had other ideas.’

‘You don’t approve, sir?’

‘Pip’s his own man. If it’s to be war, he wants to fight, not gather intelligence at some Whitehall desk. Of course, his late father had something to do with it. I think that deep down Pip wanted to take up the torch his father laid down at Passchendaele. I couldn’t argue with him when it came to the point. Were I his age, I suppose I’d want to do the same. The consequences of the Great War are still playing out in men’s lives as much as in European politics.’

‘That’s what I want to talk about, sir.’

‘You want me to brief you about Rothenia, don’t you? Very well, then.’ The king settled back in his chair and steepled his hands. ‘The political situation is, as usual, pretty dire. In fact, matters are on a knife edge. The coalition government is crumbling. The German seizure of the Sudetenland last year convinced no one in Strelzen that Hitler’s ambitions were satisfied. It was no surprise to anyone when the Wehrmacht marched into Prague in March. And now there is huge pressure on the Vaszny government in Strelzen to cede Mittenheim to the Reich.

‘The Nazis have a presence in Mittenheim and their Rothenian affiliates are vociferous about Slavic oppression of the Rothenian Germans … it’s the old story, just like in 1918. Although the reserves were called up last week, no one is under any illusions that the present Rothenian army has the strength to resist an incursion for long. If the Germans cross into Mittenheim, they won’t stop at the river Ebrendt. The industrial centres around Eisendorf and Zenden are likely to be the next item on Hitler’s menu, now his army has seized the Czech munitions industry. He wants the Falke and Torfinn works to expand his capacity to produce tanks and warplanes.

‘Chamberlain and Daladier have of course issued guarantees to the Rothenians about their borders. Unfortunately, only the desperate believe the British and French have any ability — or will — to back up their words with deeds.’

Martin interjected, ‘It seems pretty clear to me from what I saw in London that the British now know they must fight.’

‘I agree, Martin. The point is, though, that the Germans probably think they can get away with anything. A bite of territory here and there will be difficult for the Allies to take as justification for military action. What’s more, there are so many Germans living in western Rothenia, and Hitler won’t fail to use their “legitimate aspirations” as his excuse for incorporating Mittenheim and Merz into Greater Germany. As for the rest of Rothenia …’ Maxim tailed off into moody silence for a while. Finally he said, ‘I feel a good deal of responsibility for this situation.’

‘Oh no, sir …’

Maxim held up his hand. ‘I had such hopes that the new order of national self-determination and the League of peaceful nations would change Europe. But what did we get? Rampant nationalism mutating into racial supremacy, Mussolini posturing as a Caesar building a new Rome, and the vile Nazis proclaiming the Germans a Herrenvolk, a master race to subject all others to their rule. I never saw the danger of Versailles.’

‘You worked for peace in our time, sir. What better or more noble endeavour could there be? You kept Rothenia free and united while the rest of Europe was locked in a futile and devastating war.’

‘Perhaps. But it’s come to nothing now. My poor country.’ Martin was not sure whether the king was referring to his native country, or the land he had once ruled.

There was a long pause. Eventually Maxim sighed. ‘Events are out of our hands, and what must be can’t be prevented. What more can I tell you, Martin?’

‘How’s Leo dealing with it all, sir?’

‘Hasn’t he been in touch lately?’

‘We decided that Syria was just too far away for a regular correspondence. Then there’s the matter of his marriage to your niece.’

The king looked gloomy. ‘It was for the best. I know you think I arranged it with the respectability of the family in mind, but it wasn’t so.’

‘No, sir?’

‘No. The Nazi regime in Germany is intolerant of your sort of … eccentricity. Were Leo ever to be denounced, he would disappear into Dachau, and God knows what would happen to him then. My sister, the archduchess, knew the score and so did young Flavia Helena; Hapsburg princesses do not shirk their duty. The girl breeds her dogs and horses at Heinrichshof, while Leo lives his bachelor life on the Heilbrod estate. They get on better than most other married couples. Both of them are sensible types. They’re discrete and that’s all that’s required for Leo’s safety. And talking of discretion, when did you last see him?’

‘We had a holiday together in Beirut in February. We didn’t talk much about politics, we just wanted a good time together, and Beirut is quite the place nowadays: French style and sunshine, Hamra Street cafés and strolling the Corniche. We had a villa in the mountains for all of five weeks.’

Maxim gave a smile. ‘I’m glad you two are still happy together. Aren’t you going out to Heilbrod to see him?’

‘Er … that was the initial plan, sir. But something has come up.’

‘Oh?’

Martin blushed. ‘You remember Eric Kirby?’

The king laughed out loud, looking a lot younger when he did. He mastered himself. ‘I see him sometimes at the club. The queen has a very soft spot for him, though we’ve not had him at Belsager for some years. He did extraordinarily well for himself in the City over the last decade, as I’m sure you know. His friends found him a safe Tory seat … I hear he got something in the latest government reshuffle.

‘Of course, I perfectly recall Leo’s and your escapades with the man. We all know about him and Georgie Kent before the duke took the plunge into marriage. I hear your Eric recently had a thing with the entertainer Novello.’

‘Really? He has kept the home fires burning. I had no idea. Eric is nothing if not enterprising, though I never thought him in the least musical, in the usual sense of the word. Anyway, sir, the thing is, he invited me to a meeting in Whitehall yesterday. He wants me to undertake a … a mission.’

‘Mission?’

‘I’ve volunteered to join one of the new intelligence agencies, and I’m to begin next week. I’ll go first to Italy, then head on to Yugoslavia. But I think I’ll end up in Rothenia.’

‘Martin, that’s worrying. Things are coming rapidly to a head in Central Europe. War can’t long be delayed.’

‘I know, sir, so before I go, I need your help.’

***

Martin Tofts enjoyed the familiar lurch in his stomach when the de Havilland Express airliner lumbered into the air. Croydon aerodrome fell away beneath them and, as the droning plane rose through the cloud, the dark and spreading mass of London disappeared into greyness. The machine shuddered and bucked with a sudden drop in the temperature outside, but soon the light brightened and they were soaring upwards in clear skies above the overcast. Martin loved this experience more than almost anything else, other than perhaps finding an interesting artefact in one of his trenches.

An elbow nudged him. ‘When do they serve the drinks, Tofts?’ His companion lit a cigarette and wreathed them both in a cloud of blue smoke.

‘When they get round to it, Harries,’ Martin replied indifferently, looking out through the Perspex at an inaccessible world of blue air, sunlight and cloud tops. The cables of the biplane’s wings visibly thrummed in the wind of its passage, while the cabin walls transmitted the vibration of the four great engines.

Martin, already irked by Captain Harries, was having his doubts about the team that Department IE had put together for its first mission. Harries was a red-faced, bulky man with a pencil moustache that screamed ‘cad’ to Martin. He seemed a painfully obvious Englishman abroad.

The elbow prodded Martin again. ‘You’re wanted, Tofts.’

Martin craned up above the seat in front of him to see a purser signalled to him. Unbuckling his belt and pushing past a complaining Harries, he slid into the empty seat next to a slight and rather handsome man at the front of the plane.

The man gave a remarkably boyish grin. ‘Glad to see you, Marty.’

‘The pleasure’s all mine, your royal highness.’

‘You make a fine equerry. You have the air, dear feller. How are you getting on with Harries?’

‘I forbear to comment, sir.’

‘Georgie. You and Leo used to call me Georgie in the old days.’

‘It doesn’t seem appropriate in the circumstances, sir.’

The Duke of Kent sighed a little regretfully before continuing, ‘I should warn you Harries has a good record in shindigs like this one. Eric knows what he’s about in sending him. The man was in military intelligence.’

Martin paused before asking, ‘How are relations between you and Eric, sir?’

The duke gave Martin a considering look, then smiled. ‘Marina’s been very good for me, Marty. She’s the best thing that ever happened to me. She’s got a way of anchoring me … and of course now there’s the children. The Georgie you knew disappeared some time ago. But to answer your question, Eric and I remain good friends, and he’s found ways of consoling himself for any disappointment he may have felt. He’s got in with a curious crowd, but say no more. While we’re on the subject, how are things between you and young Leo, now he’s followed my route to the altar?’

‘I’d like to say “the same”, but change comes on us, like it or not. I love him as much as ever, and he loves me, I know. Unfortunately, our lines have fallen in separate places. I’m an academic and he’s a landowning aristocrat. Mostly we live in different worlds. I think we’ve both come to accept that for the time being we’ll be apart more than together. There is this, however: When we are together, it’s as if we’ve rediscovered what love is.’

The duke nodded gravely. ‘Not all bad then. I’m glad to hear it. I imagine your plans over the next couple of months will take you to Heilbrod or … where is it he has a house in Rothenia?’

‘A place called Ceresczhalsch above Lake Maresku. He bought it a few years back, since he can’t use his grandfather’s old residence in Piotreshrad anymore.’

‘Pip Murranberg has it, isn’t that right?’

‘Yes, sir. And of course Leo’s old home at Hentzen belongs to the Burlesdons now.’

‘So will you be meeting up with Leo after we’ve completed our mission?’

‘Oh yes. But you’ll excuse my not going into details.’

The duke gave Martin an appraising look. ‘Marty, you know why we’re really going to Florence.’

‘Yes, sir. You’re attending the marriage of Princess Irene of Greece and the duke of Spoleto, where you’ll represent the king your brother.’

‘Precisely … and?’

‘You’ll be taking soundings on the position of the king of Italy in the growing crisis, and having secret talks with Prince Philipp of Hesse, your cousin.’

‘So Eric briefed you fully.’

‘What do you think we’ll gain from this, sir?’

The duke frowned. ‘Philipp Hesse is high up in the Reich. He’s reputed to be a close pal of Göring and of the Führer himself. You know my links with the Foreign Office. I can act as an informal conduit for anything they have to say through Philipp.’

‘And do you have any instructions from Lord Halifax, sir?’

‘Can’t talk about that, Marty dear…’ He shot a shrewd look at Martin. ‘… anymore than you will tell me exactly why the intelligence services are so keen on having you accompany me.’

‘Fair enough, sir.’

‘Please call me Georgie.’

***

Martin flipped the Morocco-leather case he had withdrawn from his battered travelling trunk, the same one which had travelled with him to Medwardine School the year he had first met the boy then called Leo Underwood. Sixteen years later, the trunk still followed him round the world, its exterior papered now with exotic labels. Martin smiled at the thought of the personal history represented by a piece of luggage.

For a banquet after a royal wedding, it was appropriate that he should wear his orders, especially as he was acting as equerry to a British royal prince.

There, resting on purple satin, was the medal of an officer of the Humanitarian Order of St Lucasz, awarded him by King Maxim of Rothenia, and beside it the star of the Noble Thuringian Order of the Wyvern, given him with a kiss by the prince of that land, the man he loved. He hung the medal round his neck on its violet-and-blue ribbon, then placed a watered-silk ribbon of black and yellow over his right shoulder. After slipping into his jacket and clipping the star to the breast pocket, he grinned into the mirror. He would not look out of place amongst the brilliant uniforms, the glitter and insignias of a gathering of European royalty. What was there that so delighted him about dressing up?

Martin waited in the lobby for the Duke of Kent, who came down arm-in-arm with his duchess. They made a handsome pair, the duke in the uniform of a British rear admiral. A carriage was already drawn up outside, its outriders seconded from a cavalry regiment. Martin and the British consul took their seats behind the driver opposite the duke and duchess. Then they were off beneath the dazzling, hot Tuscan sunshine through a city bedecked with flags and garlands. People waved and cheered as the carriage trotted through the narrow streets of Florence.

The Palazzo Pitti was colourful with banners and royal heraldry. Uniforms and guards were everywhere. The austere lines of the palace rather reminded Martin’s architectural eye of the Residenz in Munich, which he had visited with Leo a few years back. He was very much missing Leo as he followed the Kents through a lane formed by guard cavalry, swords at the salute.

Because of his association with Leopold of Thuringia, Martin was not unaccustomed to gatherings of royal and princely houses. He rarely enjoyed them, but he had learned something from them about the customs and behaviour of the Continental aristocracy.

The thing which had initially astonished him was that English was the lingua franca for many of the princely families, especially the Germans; they even corresponded amongst each other in the language. Leo had explained that the pre-war habit amongst the imperial aristocracy had been to employ English nannies and governesses. His ear had subsequently picked up the vowels and consonants of the Thames basin in the speech of several German princes. Leo’s own English was more upper class and idiomatic, as he had been educated in an English public school and studied at Oxford, from which he had graduated with a First in Classics.

So, as he moved through the throng, Martin was not surprised to be buttonholed in English by Princess Victoria Mechtild, Leo’s elder sister. They shook hands and kissed.

The nature of her brother’s relationship with Martin had eventually dawned on her, and though nothing had ever been said, it was a relief to Martin that she had remained friendly towards him. Continental princes could be quite tolerant of that particular ‘fault’, provided the decencies were observed. Leo had caved in to his family on the matter of marriage.

‘Where’s Ferdy, Vicky?’

‘Oh, out in the garden with the boys. They were being intolerable. The girls of course are bridesmaids, and not my responsibility today.’ The princess, who had married a scion of the Neapolitan royal house, was now the mother of four young Bourbons. ‘I was talking to the bride. Delightful girl. I am a little surprised to see you here, Marty dear.’

‘I was drafted by Prince George. He needed an equerry with the proper background. Wasn’t Leo invited?’

‘Yes, but he sent his apologies and a large silver tureen for the happy couple.’

Taking her arm, Martin led the princess through the throng to get iced drinks. The state rooms were hot and oppressive, the scent of lilies so heavy in the air as to be almost narcotic. Having done his duty and despatched a waiter with a tray to the Kents, he asked, ‘Which is Prince Philipp of Hesse, Vicky?’

She smiled. ‘Phli?’

‘Flea?’ echoed a puzzled Martin.

‘Phli … it’s what the family call him. Wait and watch. You’ll soon work it out.’

Puzzled, Martin looked round the room, and then he got Vicky’s point. A brisk figure in a black SS uniform, a swastika band around his arm, was standing off to one side. The man had a receding hairline and a thin moustache. He looked bored and was listening to his wife without making much response.

‘So that’s him? Yes, it is a bit obvious. Do you know him well?’

‘Our fathers were quite friendly: both imperial princes and generals in the last war. Philipp and Wolfgang were often at Ernsthof in the old days.’

‘Wolfgang?’

‘Phli’s twin … though not an identical one. D’you know, the odd thing is that their mother had two sets of boy twins within five years. Fancy that! It’s probably unprecedented in the annals of aristocracy. Six boys in all.’

‘They must have extended the nursery wing.’

‘No, I think they had quite a lot of room to begin with.’

‘What do you know about Prince Philipp?’

Vicky gave Martin an amused look. ‘You can find out most of it in the Almanach de Gotha, Marty dear. They say he’s quite high up in the Nazi regime. He’s president of the region of Hesse, which is all very right and proper as his family used to rule it when it was a grand duchy. He’s in Italy a lot, since he married one of the king’s daughters. He gets on well with il Duce too, they say. He’s the acceptable face of Nazism here. Now, why the interest?’

Martin forced a light laugh. ‘It’s just idle curiosity, Vicky, that’s all. Tell me about the children.’

The orchestra struck up the Italian national anthem, a distinctly operatic piece, Martin thought. The king had arrived. A way parted through the crowd for his diminutive figure, rather dwarfed by his new daughter-in-law, who had taken his arm. The mass of guests followed the royal pair into the banqueting room in some sort of order of precedence.

Martin, near the back of the throng, found his place set near the door. On one side of him was a Yugoslav military attaché, on the other a Fascist party official in uniform. They talked across him about the current state of Albania under Italian occupation. Martin conducted a desultory conversation across the table with a contessa, who had very little acquaintance with anything other than Italian, though they did share some Latin.

Eventually the speeches and toasts put an end to the conversation, such as it was. Martin admired Prince George’s adroitness, when he toasted the newlyweds, in avoiding any recognition of the Italian monarchy’s contentious claims in Africa and Europe.

As the dinner ended and the party began to break up, Martin made his way to the side of Prince George. ‘All well, sir?’

‘Yes, thank you, Marty. The consul is happy to escort the duchess back to the hotel. You and I, however, have a little work to do first, I think. Walk with me in the gardens.’

Martin dutifully followed the duke out through a loggia and on to the paths of the beautiful palace grounds, closed that day to the public. After pausing to offer Martin a cigarette, which was refused, the duke lit up one of his own. The two men loitered while other groups from the wedding party moved past, until Martin caught sight of a dark figure striding purposefully towards them. The prince of Hesse extended his hand to the duke and, with no more than a brief exchange of civilities, they walked off along the paths. Philipp ignored Martin, who trailed behind the princes at a discreet distance.

Eventually the two men separated and George came back. ‘Well, Marty. We’ve sorted out a meeting tomorrow in his hotel. I expect you to come along as my aide. By the way, what happened to Harries?’

‘No idea, sir. He didn’t have a wedding invitation, though he’s supposed to be here as your bodyguard. He grunted something about your being protected by the Italian army today, so I suppose he took the afternoon off.’

***

The car pulled away from Prince Philipp’s hotel. Martin kept himself to himself. The meeting had not been an easy one, the prince’s protestations that his Führer had no more demands to make in Central Europe having convinced neither Martin nor Georgie. Martin had nevertheless been impressed with Prince George’s coolness in pursuing the German’s understanding as to what he thought Hitler actually did want.

The woolliness of the German’s responses had rather indicated to Martin that he was actually not very bright. Martin was more and more persuaded that the meeting had been a German blind, encouraged by cleverer men in Berlin as a distraction to keep the British government off balance at this moment of international crisis.

When they reached the station, Prince George gave Martin a quirky look. ‘That was as big a waste of time as I thought it might be.’

‘You handled it well, sir.’

‘Thank you, Marty.’

‘And I was most impressed that, when you saw the way it was going, you effortlessly forgot you were carrying Lord Halifax’s proposals for a negotiated cession of Mittenheim to the Reich.’

‘You knew about that!’

‘Eric has his sources.’

Prince George leaned back in his seat and stared at Martin as if he were a stranger. ‘What else do you know?’

‘That this meeting with the prince of Hesse is itself a blind. Your real business is in Belgrade. You’re double-bluffing Ribbentrop and Göring.’

The prince shook his head. ‘My dear Marty, you’re just too good at this. I’m beginning to wonder quite how far I can trust you.’

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