Free Mrs Midnight and Other Stories by Reggie Oliver Page B

else, and this meant that for the first week or so, he would not consent to go down into Lausanne to consult the archive. I was aware too that external forces were also lending a hand. Once at lunch he mentioned the possibility of a trip into Lausanne that afternoon. (We sat always at the same table, with the same people.) The Contessa was onto him at once.
    ‘But my dear Kyril,’ she said, ‘we want you to lead a big meeting this afternoon in the main hall on “Strategies for Spiritual Government”. Your contributions to this important topic will be most valuable.’
    ‘That sounds interesting,’ I said, ‘Can I come too?’
    ‘Certainly not!’ said the Contessa with a hiss of barely contained rage. ‘This is a meeting at the highest level of our Psychic Development. You are totally inexperienced in such matters! Your presence could be very destructive.’
    The King seemed shocked by this outburst, but he remained silent. The following day we were in his suite when the lunch bell rang, and he said: ‘Let us go this afternoon into Lausanne to look at the archive. I think we will not mention this to the others at lunch.’ As we drove away from the hotel that afternoon, I noticed that Fafner was watching us go. I think King Kyril noticed too, but he said nothing. We drove all the way to Lausanne in silence.
    The King’s spacious and comfortable apartment was on the third floor of a modern block of flats. I might have said that it was in a respectable part of Lausanne, but this would have been superfluous: I have yet to hear of a part of Lausanne that is not respectable. It was furnished with some taste—his late wife, Kyril told me, had been a ‘connoisseur of antiques’—and, as was to be expected, there were royal portraits everywhere, some dating as far back as the sixteenth century. However, the place did have one unexpected feature. In the two principal rooms of the apartment the wall space not taken up by portraiture was occupied by shelves and glass fronted cabinets stretching from floor to ceiling. In and on them an uncountable number of model tractors was displayed, ranging from tiny toys to ones that could have been sat upon by a small child.
    ‘This is my great collection,’ said the King, with a sweeping gesture, as if he were pointing out his dominions on a map. The heaviness had lifted from his face, and for the time being he was young again. The next few minutes were devoted to a detailed survey of the science of model tractor collecting. Finally he pointed to a gleaming red machine about a foot high, obviously constructed with meticulous attention to detail.
    ‘This, I think, is my favourite. The Massey Fergusson. A fully working model.’
    ‘Have you always been interested in tractors?’
    ‘ Model tractors. Yes. It began when I was a boy before the war at our palace in Brzny, I had a special miniature tractor which I would love to ride upon. Alas, it was destroyed or lost in the war, like so much else. It had been a present to me from the United Agricultural Workers of Slavonia. My father, King Bogdan would even let me ride up and down the palace steps on it!’ (Here at last, I thought, was a picturesque detail, suitable for the book.) ‘Now I correspond with model tractor collectors all over the world. In this circle I am regarded as a great authority on the model tractor. A friend of mine has humorously called me “the model tractor king”. It is a good joke, is it not?’
    I acknowledged that it was an excellent joke, and did my best to laugh at it.
    We did some work in his archives which were comprehensive and orderly to an almost obsessive degree. A whole room containing filing cabinets and a computer had been devoted to these vital relics and proofs of Kyril’s kingship. He seemed to take almost as much pride in these records as in his model collection and this was an enthusiasm I could share. At four the King sent down for coffee and apfel strudel from a nearby café, and, as