Free Mrs Midnight and Other Stories by Reggie Oliver

with heavy, unequivocal lines. Here was a man who had lost a country and failed to find a role.
    His courtesy of manner compensated a little for the gloom of his aspect. He began to ask me about my friendship with Princess Helen in London and appeared pleased by my glowing reports. I noticed that this line of conversation was making Fafner and Fasolt uneasy and they started to try to divert the talk onto more general topics. Their methods were clumsy and once, when Fafner interrupted the King, he was given a stern regal look. Then the Contessa, who seemed to be acting as backstop to the giants, entered the conversation.
    ‘I have met the dear Princess many times in London, of course,’ she purred. ‘Such a charrming person. So devoted to her charities. Now, tell me young man,’ she said, turning to me. ‘You are here, as I understand to assist our friend the King to write his biography?’
    Her eyes were fixed on me with such ferocious concentration that I was in no doubt that she intended to intimidate. I nodded.
    ‘And what approach, may I ask, do you intend to take with this biography of yours?’
    ‘That depends upon His Majesty. I am merely helping him with his autobiography.’
    The Contessa grimaced and closed her eyes, as if to imply that my answer had been feeble and cowardly. Further interrogations from her were forestalled, however, by Fafner who asked me how much I knew about the I.P.H. The Contessa shot him a look of anger and contempt, presumably because she thought his blunderings had robbed her of her prey. I told Fafner cheerfully that I was wholly ignorant of the I.P.H. activities and would be very glad if he could enlighten me. Fafner, assisted by Fasolt, then subjected me to a string of ponderous generalities about what they called ‘The Work’. I noticed that the King was watching our exchanges intently, though how much he understood of it was hard to tell.
    During all this we were being served with food: lentil soup followed by a chicken dish, nourishing and plentiful but bland. I noticed that at most other tables some sort of self-service system was in operation. It was only at a few select tables nearest the window like ours that waiters, or rather I.P.H. volunteers acting as such, were provided.
    Towards the end of the meal, I remember the Contessa once more fixing me with her burning eyes and saying:
    ‘We must arrange that you meet with Mike who is heading up our work. I believe it is very important that you should meet with Mike.’
    ‘Is Mike here?’ I asked, glancing round the room.
    ‘Mike’s work never ceases,’ said the Contessa. ‘He is with us everywhere.’

    III

    The following morning I started to help King Kyril with his autobiography. In many ways he was extremely easy to work with. He was quite willing to place himself in my hands and, up to a point, answer any question I asked him. He was unbothered by tape recorders, or note taking. He never spoke anything except his own mind, but if there were parts of it into which he did not want me to intrude, he told me so directly.
    For example, I wanted to know what he was doing with the I.P.H. but he would say very little. I asked if he had met Mike and gathered that he had been on very close terms with him until about ten years ago but that since Mike’s ‘withdrawal’, he and Mike had only communicated through intermediaries. Further enquiries as to Mike’s withdrawal yielded a little more information. Some ten years ago Mike had for a brief while become ill, since when, though he had apparently made a full recovery, he lived in the St Germain Palace isolated from the majority of his followers, seeing only a chosen few. I expressed surprise that King Kyril had not been one of those chosen.
    ‘I have been assured,’ said the King, ‘that there will come a time when I shall meet again with Mike.’ With those words he made a little cutting gesture with his hand to indicate that this particular topic was no longer to be