Chapter 20

Post Script: Lunch With Dr Julian

Julian Castwich had suggested lunch. Since his proposed venue was in the dining rooms of Her Majesty's own appointed grocers, Messrs Fortnum and Mason, I was happy to agree.

I spent my time on the journey across London reading the day's newspaper. Headlines trumpeted successes against the Ottoman and Macedonian forces but it seemed clear to me that the conflict would continue for some time.

As I left my Stanley taxi-cab in Jermyn Street, a dark shadow fell across the street. I looked up to see that one of Brainstorm's dirigibles was sliding towards its docking station at St Pauls.

At Fortnum's Fountain Restaurant, a tail-coated waiter greeted me and led me to a table where Castwich was already seated. He had been reading the same paper, I noticed. One small article on the front page, describing the betrothal of a Balkan prince, had been circled by Castwich. More input for his Geneao-Plan, I assumed.

Julian smiled as I sat down and suggested a drink. I am wary of alcohol. I never use it when I am working – which of course is most of the time – since my methods need a precise understanding of the responses of my subject. On this occasion, though, the cellar at Highgate was without an occupant and so I felt able to accept his offer. He nodded approvingly at my choice of Highland Park, a single malt whisky, and decided to join me.

"How is your work going?" I asked, as much to break the ice as from any real interest.

"There has been some encouraging progress on the Geneao Plan." He leant forward earnestly. ""In confidence there had been concerns that one of the members of the Royal Family had been seen in the company of someone who – well, let us just say that while we are keen to extend the gene pool, there are limits."

It didn't surprise me. In the end the British establishment cleaves to its own kind. I wondered how much argument there had been about the choice of Helena but thought it impolite to ask. "And your work with the Prince's charity?" I was still intrigued by the women in brown and by the fact that Castwich could hold such unscientifically sustainable views.

"Not so well, I must confess. My studies seem to be leading nowhere and the proponents of the theories are failing to produce work that supports their theories. It is most confusing but I am sure I will think of a way to proceed. The Prince's work goes on, however. His wife is now a patron as well. He has her join the girls on occasion clad as they are by way of encouragement to celebrate their new role."

I could imagine the Prince gaining some simple enjoyment from his wife dressed as a servant. I wondered if it extended to other games in the household.

"I assume you have heard nothing from the Prince directly," he went on.

I nodded. "No, but I hardly expected to. My work is done. It will take time before it is clear whether or not it has been a success."

Castwich sipped his whisky. "You are too modest. The Prince has asked me to convey his heartfelt thanks. The management methods you prescribed are completely effective, he says, and have provided him with a wife both dutiful and pleasing. What is more, he tells me that he is experiencing a vitality that he had previously felt impossible. I assume you realise what that means?"