Chapter 13: A Question of Inheritance

My opinion of the Prince was somewhat modified, however, by my next encounter with Doctor Julian. The following day I received a telegram from Castwich asking me to meet him at a London address. Fearing that some difficulty had arisen as a result of the previous evening's excursion, I was happy to oblige him.

Helena was less than happy at the prospect of a protracted stay in her cage but judicious application of a series of blows from one of my thinner canes, coupled with the introduction of an anal plug locked into her, gained her compliance and I was able to leave her, content that she would behave in my absence.

It was raining. I took my Baskerville – a heavy oilcloth coat, favoured by denizens of Dartmoor[1] –but I was still grateful when a Stanley taxi-cab hove into sight as I reached the end of my road. He stopped as quickly as he could, the wooden wheels with their solid rubber tyres not giving much grip on the slippery street cobbles. I climbed aboard and directed the driver to our destination – the Museum of Natural History in South Kensington.

The journey was short and as uncomfortable as a ride in a Stanley usually is. I was glad to leave the vehicle.

As I stood before the impressive architecture of the Museum's south front, I tried to remember how long it was since I had been inside and concluded that I had failed to visit it since being taken there as one of a school party in my youth. In truth I had found it dull then: there had been too many stuffed animals and old bones for my taste. No doubt the exhibits had now been excitingly rearranged for the even shorter attention spans of modern youth but somehow I felt a nostalgia for the tedium of my schooldays. If museums are to become exciting, what value will there be in the play houses and the fairgrounds?

My cultural musings were interrupted by the appearance of Doctor Castwich on the steps of the museum. He led the way inside, into the great central hall and past the giant dinosaur skeleton. It seemed an appropriate venue for Castwich given his mission to prevent genetic deficiency in a latter day group of dinosaurs.

Finally we reached a suite of offices with the royal crest and the initials "OGR" on the door. Inside, I found myself in an immensely long room running along the rear of the museum. Tall windows filled the room with an even light that was evidently needed for the work that was taking place on a table that stretched the length of the room beneath the windows. Along the other long wall ran a continuous rank of filing cabinets. The table was covered with a continuous length of paper, marked with names and lines. Six of what I took to be Castwich's staff – all women, I noticed – were busy at different points along the table. They were either working with piles of documents, reading newspapers or journals or placing red, black, and white markers of some sort – from where I stood they looked like chess pieces – on the chart.

"This is the heart of our operation," Julian explained. "The Geneao-Plan is the foundation for our work." We walked across to centre of the table. Approaching it I could see the names of the various members of our own Royal Family, together with lines indicating their relationships. To either side, the details of the various other Royal houses of Europe stretched out. "The results of the first Queen Victoria's fecundity were problematic, as you will understand." Julian went on. "Certain genetic traits were spread across a relatively small population. The risk is that these traits combine and recombine in subsequent generation."

"And the markers?" One of Julian's team, a woman of voluptuous beauty, had put down her copy of what appeared to be a French newspaper and was now moving a red and a black piece closer together on the chart.

"We track the activities of the various members of this extended genetic network. We have the resources of the Foreign Office and our intelligence services but, in all honesty, the celebrity columns of the continent's various newspapers and magazines give us most of what we need. Who has met whom. Who is dating who. Who is, pardon my vernacular Audrey," the voluptuous woman turned and smiled, "fucking whom. Red markers are those we believe to be genetically acceptable according to our standards – Miss Voutrakis for instance, you see her marker over there in London; black, those where we perceive a risk. Most of the immediate British aristocracy fall into that category, I fear. Earlier generations have been combined too frequently. Problems have arisen. The recessive chin, for example, has become so extreme in some cases as to render the sufferer completely inarticulate. There is a tendency to circulatory diseases, which could limit the reproductive success of the individual concerned."

"How so?"

"Hard to breed when you've had a heart attack I believe." Julian continued with his exposition. "There are the problems of congenital idiocy too. Although," for a moment his face took on an uncharacteristic expression of amusement, "history tells us that is not always an inhibitor for regnal success." He turned back to the table. "I fear we will come to rely on the white markers. Those are individuals completely outside the current royal line but who might be considered acceptable royal breeding partners." His expression returned to one of mild disapproval. "We will have to construct some rationalisation for including those concerned on the list of potential members of the Royal Family but no doubt we can manage that. Our greatest worry is when one of the Royals is seen associating with someone that has no marker on the board. It's an invaluable resource."

"Our French friend appears to be moving into murky waters, Sir," Audrey commented. "if Paris Match is to be believed." She slid two black markers closer together on the board.

"Thank you, Audrey. That removes one area of concern from our own arena, if I'm not mistaken."

"Yes, Sir," Audrey smiled enthusiastically. "Although Prince Lewis will, no doubt, be disconsolate."

"Luckily he's too dim to have worked out how to unbutton his fly," Castwich remarked with uncharacteristic coarseness. He turned to me. "We think that the Prince had formed a view of his own about the potential of one of the French princesses as a possible partner. Luckily it looks as though we won't have to convince him of the foolishness of that idea. Come through to my office. We really should get started."

With the two of us ensconced in Julian's office, Castwich felt able to reveal the reason for his summons. "We seem to have a problem," he announced.

"Was the Prince not happy with his meeting?"

"More than happy. He wants to know how soon your work will be finished."

"It's not as easy as that," I responded.

"It is when you belong to his family. He wants a date. Arrangements need to be made."

I had some sympathy with the Prince's point of view but, as I at once explained, there was a risk that Helena's preparation would not be entirely complete.

"If that is the case the Prince will provide you with access to the Palace after the ceremony."

"There is no reason why that should cause difficulty," I said. "I assume that the palace can provide appropriate accommodation."

"Given adequate notice. That was what I wanted to discuss with you. I hoped you might be able to provide me with the details."

I spent some time outlining the facilities available at the Highgate House. Castwich took careful notes and asked questions where he felt need of clarification but did not otherwise comment. At the conclusion of our discussions I made some disparaging remark about the Prince and his attitude to the project. Julian seemed about to disagree with me for a moment but then appeared to change his mind.