Willy wasn’t interested in receiving it. What he was interested in was how well his racing yacht, Meteor, was performing.

The officer, knowing that the result of not getting an urgent message to Germany’s All-Highest would probably be a court-martial, folded up his despatch, put it in his cigarette case and lobbed it aboard the Hohenzollern.

‘What the devil?’ Willy said in annoyance, when a member of the crew nervously came to him with the cigarette case.

‘There’s a despatch inside it,’ the unfortunate crew member said apprehensively. ‘It is, perhaps, of some importance.’

Impatiently Willy ripped it open and then, seconds later, staggered. Assassinations were not uncommon – but they usually took place in Russia. Regicide! And so much closer to home than Russia! Fear and rage roared through his veins. He and Franz Ferdinand had been more than fellow royals; they had been close friends, and genuine grief added to his fear and rage.

The fear was for his own safety, for one royal assassination could very easily lead to another. The rage was at the thought of his friend and his gentle-mannered wife meeting their ends in a filthy Bosnian street.

‘Lower the imperial flag to half-mast!’ he thundered. ‘Head back to port.’

He needed to be in Berlin. He needed to be at the centre of things. And however Emperor Franz Josef, the Archduke’s uncle, decided to handle the matter, Willy needed to tell him that, whatever action he took, it was action that would have his full support.

Nicky was aboard his yacht, the Standart, enjoying a summer cruise off the coast of Finland with Alicky, Alexei and the girls. Both he and Alicky took the news of Franz Ferdinand and Sophie having been shot in a Bosnian street far more stoically than Willy had. For one thing, assassinations were regular occurrences in Russia and something they were desensitized to. For another, they had a far greater calamity to worry about, for they had just received news that Rasputin had been stabbed in the stomach by a madwoman and was fighting for his life in a Siberian hospital.

A telegram of condolence was sent to Emperor Franz Josef and their cruise continued, with Alicky praying several times a day for Rasputin’s recovery.

When Georgie received the news, his first instinct was to share it with May.

‘Terrible new, May dear,’ he said, disturbing her as she labelled gold teaspoons that dated from George IV’s reign. ‘Archduke Franz Ferdinand and his wife have been shot and killed in Sarajevo.’

May gasped, the blood leaving her face.

‘The telegram I’ve received from Vienna says they were on the last day of a short official visit. Shot down, May, like animals in the street.’ His voice cracked and broke. ‘It doesn’t bear thinking about. Their poor, dear children. And poor Emperor Franz Josef! What a dreadful, dreadful shock for him.’