“You have to understand,” Anton said, “that we were not attempting to cover up a murder just so that a wedding can take place. This man’s death could have significance for the future of my country and this entire region.”

“And you are . . . ?” Patrascue asked insolently.

“I happen to be Prince Anton of Bulgaria,” Anton said coldly. “In case you don’t know, you are sitting next to Prince Nicholas, my older brother, heir to the throne and bridegroom.”

“My felicitations.” Patrascue nodded to Nicholas. “And these other people—your fellow conspirators. Why are they here?”

“I am Lady Georgiana, cousin to King George of England,” I said, reverting to my imitation of my great-grandmother, as I always do when I feel threatened. “I am here representing Their Majesties at this wedding. These two ladies are my companions, sent to accompany me by Queen Mary.”

“And the reason you sit here now? I did not think the power of the British Empire extended to central Europe.” Patrascue eyed me insolently.

“Actually I’m here as a relative,” I said. “As a descendant of Queen Victoria I am related to the Bulgarian royal family and more remotely to the Romanian one. Also I was sitting opposite Field Marshal Pirin at the fateful dinner, and thus witnessed everything. My companion Lady Middlesex was the first to suspect that his death was not a heart attack.”

“You say you witnessed everything,” Patrascue went on. “What exactly did you see, ma chérie?”

I bristled at the words “my dear.” I had come to believe that there is at least one obnoxious policeman in every country and he was facing me. “I saw Field Marshal Pirin give a long, rambling toast, take a swig of his wine and then seem to be choking and pitch face forward across the table.”

“He seemed to be choking, you say. Was it possible that he was indeed choking and a simple slap on the back could have revived him?”

“He had finished eating at the time,” I said. “There had been speeches and toasts for some minutes. Besides, he was dead almost immediately. Initially it was suspected that he had had a heart attack.”

“But someone thought it might be murder?”

“I did,” Lady Middlesex said. “I’m Lady Middlesex, the wife of the British high commissioner in Mesopotamia. My husband has represented the British Crown all over the world. I know poison when I see it.”

“And what poison would that be?”

“Why, cyanide, of course. Red face, staring eyes and the odor of bitter almonds. A classic case. I saw it once before in the Argentine.”

Patrascue turned back to me. “Did you see somebody administer this poison?”

“No. I saw nobody come near the table except the servers and Count Dragomir.”