From Fitzroy's Private Diary (Extract 83)

I am over thirty years of age. I haven’t done everything (as Tolstoy claimed), but I have killed a man. Yet, I now find myself hiding in the cellar of a country house in England when in no immediate peril. Alas, it seems, the most threatening event on my horizon is a game of charades.

Admittedly, I hate charades with a passion, and in general never play. However, I am here at White Orchards this Christmas, to facilitate, with Euphemia’s and Bertram’s help, a conversation between various foreign and British diplomats, and other such people of significance in the current world arena.

I am excellent at doing this kind of thing. The number of weekend functions, both in my own country and abroad, where I have fostered such negotiations under the cover of polite society, is numerous. There are usually lovely ladies to woo, either for my cover, or for national security interests, or there are other dire shenanigans afoot. In short, there is usually entertainment enough, albeit with a spicy element of risk.

At this most awful of gatherings, no one is trying to kill anyone else (how boring), Euphemia would have a blue fit if I found myself some side entertainment of the female variety (goodness knows why) and, worst of all, I am being portrayed as the kind of man who plays charades (quite intolerable for my image as a dangerous international agent).

Why, I merely offered a lovely young woman a tea cake yesterday afternoon, and Euphemia shot me looks that would have wilted a lesser man. Afterwards, she claimed she did not want me distracted from our urgent business. I knew from the first two hours that the situation was hopeless in terms of making any significant political progress. None of the parties had come prepared to move the slightest on any issue, merely wanting to be seen to be taking part. I told her this and asked her to trust my well-founded judgement. But no, she insisted that if the participants can see each other as real people, rather than just the opposition, then they will all join hands and start singing Christmas carols, or some such rot.

To facilitate this, she has arranged numerous party games, and given each of the three of us leading roles in the entertainment.

Horrifically, although I still do not believe it will encourage any political progress, the attendees upstairs have bought into her games wholeheartedly. When Bertram announced a game of The Vicar’s Cat (a game that involves the participants meowing), I had no choice but to flee the scene.

I have come armed with a corkscrew and a wine glass, and thanks to my benevolence, Bertram’s cellar actually has some bottles worth drinking. I also lifted a rather nice Stilton from the kitchen, so I am quite content. If I thought I could get away with a cigar, I would have brought one of those down too, but one must be discreet. And while I would much rather find myself being discreet in one of the ladies’ bed chambers upstairs, I shall make do with the wine and cheese.

Should Euphemia send Bertram to find me, I shall give him the option of either being tied up in his own cellar or joining me in my mischief.