Poppy and Rollo went up to the fourth floor together and entered the newsroom. Ike was still at his desk and Rollo went over to catch up with him. Poppy listened to Ike’s good-natured ribbing of Rollo the Jailbird as she slipped into the restroom. When she emerged she saw Rollo examining Vicky’s flowers on the filing cabinet, a scowl on his face. “How did these get here?” he growled.
Poppy was surprised at his tone. She hadn’t thought Rollo would be so offended by flowers. Perhaps it was a feminine touch too far in the previously all-male newsroom. Which reminded her: she really needed to speak to him about getting a separate restroom for ladies installed on the fourth floor. The only ladies’ lavatories were on the ground floor, just off the foyer. So she and Vicky had to go all the way down and up to spend a penny if they didn’t want to use the communal facilities in the editorial department. But perhaps now was not the best time.
“Vicky found them in Ivan’s bin. She thought they had some life in them still, so she brought them up here. I think they’re lovely.”
“In Ivan’s trash can? What were they doing there?”
“Exactly the question I asked. She didn’t know. Perhaps you can ask him about them when you see him tonight.”
“Perhaps I shall,” said Rollo through pursed lips. “Well, Miz Denby, I’ll be off to warm a stool at the Cock. Drop in before you go home, will you, and let me know which line of enquiry you’ll be following next.” He looked around the near empty newsroom. “Oh, and Poppy, don’t stay after Ike’s left. We don’t want a repeat of the Saunders incident.”
Poppy shuddered at the memory of what had happened during her last big story, when she had been working alone – or so she thought – in The Globe offices after hours, and was attacked. Why on earth would Rollo be thinking of that now?
Poppy frowned and then lowered her voice to a whisper. “What are you suggesting, Rollo? Do you think we have another mole?”
Rollo shook his shaggy red head. “No, not that. But people are dying, Poppy. I –” he cleared his throat. “I just don’t want you to be hurt, that’s all.” He reached up and touched her cheek. “And I don’t want to be responsible for it.”
Poppy was taken aback. First, by the emotion in his voice and secondly that he had touched her so … so personally. It wasn’t like Rollo. What was going on?
“Are you all right, Rollo?” she asked.
He was gathering his things and preparing to leave. “Right as rain, Miz Denby, right as rain.” Then he left the newsroom.
Still puzzled, Poppy waited until she heard the lift open, close and then start its descent to the ground floor. She thought of mentioning Rollo’s odd behaviour to Ike, but he was engrossed in typing and she didn’t want to bother him. He was already behind deadline on tomorrow’s lead and he wouldn’t thank her for the distraction.
She walked quietly to her desk and sat down. Poppy had already submitted her copy for the morning’s edition, so she was free to have the night off. But she couldn’t possibly go home, not yet. There was too much up in the air. Delilah, Adam, Oscar, Daniel … she shook her head. No, she was not going to think about Daniel now. She needed to patch things up with him, yes, but she was still too angry – and too busy – to do so. It would have to wait until the morning. Perhaps they could thrash it out over lunch.
She refocused on her desk, reaching for the small pile of memo notes from the receptionist, Mavis Bradshaw. It was nothing unusual; there were often messages waiting for her when she’d been out following a story – people who had called to see her, sources passing on leads and occasionally a visitor who had dropped by on the off-chance she was there, like Delilah had done earlier that day.
The first message was from Miss King, who asked Poppy to give her a ring. Poppy did, anxious to hear how the older woman had got on in her search for Delilah. Poppy checked her watch – it was a quarter to eight, and Aunt Dot and Miss King would be having dinner. The telephone was in the hall outside the dining room, so it didn’t take long for someone to answer.
“The Denby residence. May I help you?”
“Miss King? It’s Poppy.”
“Poppy,” Miss King answered, lowering her voice. This was not a good sign; clearly Miss King did not want Aunt Dot to hear what she was going to say. Poppy’s stomach tightened.
“What is it? Did you find Delilah?”
There was a pause, then: “No. I didn’t. Firstly, I rang the theatre to see if she was there, but she hadn’t returned after visiting you. So then I popped down the road. She wasn’t at Oscar’s – the place was still crawling with police – and she wasn’t at the flat. I knocked and there was no answer. However …”
“What?”
“I thought I heard a clatter, like someone was going down the fire escape.”
Poppy could just imagine the situation. She had once fled Delilah’s flat the very same way when an undesirable had come calling. Although Delilah’s apartment was swish, it was not large, and it was quite feasible that Miss King had heard someone on the fire escape from the front door.
“Did you see who it was?”
“No. By the time I got around to the back of the building he – whoever it was – was gone.”
“Why do you say he, Miss King? It could have been Delilah.” Then she told the older woman what had happened during the Dorchester story and how she had left Delilah’s flat via the fire escape. “Delilah told me she occasionally let suitors out that way when she didn’t want the neighbours to see who had been calling.”
Poppy could hear the disapproval in Miss King’s voice. “Well, that’s as may be, but I had the distinct impression that it was a man – and that he was up to no good.”
“What gave you that impression, Miss King?”
“I have not always been an invalid’s companion,” she said primly. “I have – how should I say? – a certain background in such things.”
A certain background? Poppy’s head spun with possibilities. But they would have to wait until she had more time. Miss King’s shady past was the least of her worries now.
“I’m sure you’re right,” said Poppy in a conciliatory tone. “Did you alert the police?”
Miss King sucked in her breath. “I did not. In my experience the police are not always the best port of call in such circumstances. There is no evidence that a crime has been committed and – well – after the way they behaved here at your aunt’s house last night, I think they would be more likely to think of “our lot” as suspects, not victims.”
Our lot. Poppy stifled a giggle. The phrase encompassed so much: suffragettes, socialists, theatre folk, journalists …
“Well, thank you, Miss King. And obviously, if you see or hear anything, let me know. I – I’m still concerned about Delilah. And it may require a telephone call to her father in Malta. His boat should be docking tomorrow, I think. Let’s see what the morning brings and we’ll decide then, shall we?”
“I think that would be wise, Poppy. And I wouldn’t mention anything to your aunt yet either. Considering Miss Marconi’s track record, there could be a perfectly reasonable explanation for her whereabouts.”
Poppy agreed that there could be, thanked Miss King again, then hung up the telephone. There could be, but what if there isn’t? thought Poppy, recalling how distressed and out of character Delilah had been earlier in the day. And there was also the odd coincidence of Delilah’s telephone having been disconnected. Poppy needed to see for herself. She had a key to her friend’s flat – she occasionally house-sat when Delilah was out of town – so she might just pop by and check things out for herself. Yes, that’s exactly what she would do. She just needed to go through the rest of the messages from Mavis and then she’d be on her way.
The next note was to say that Andrei Nogovski had called to remind her that they had agreed to have drinks this evening. Agreed? I don’t remember agreeing to anything. I said he could call the office and we could make an arrangement, but I didn’t agree … There was a telephone number for her to call. She was peeved at his presumption, yes, but intrigued to hear what he had to say. He had suggested he might have information for her. And of course, she had quite a few questions for him as well …
She took hold of the candlestick telephone and lifted the ear piece. Then she replaced it. No, she didn’t have time. She needed to see to Delilah first. If Mavis had still been there she would have asked her to return Comrade Nogovski’s call and tell him she would speak to him during office hours tomorrow.
But Mavis wasn’t there. And neither was Vicky. And Ike was too busy … She lifted the receiver and dialled. A woman answered, announcing that she had got through to the Russian embassy. That was a relief. She didn’t have to speak to him directly. She left a message.
The next note was in a different handwriting – Daniel’s. It read: Adam came to see you. He’s worried about Delilah. We weren’t sure what time you’d be back so we’ve gone to look for her.
Poppy caught her breath. Daniel was with Adam, the man who may or may not be a killer. Although her gut had told her no – he was more than likely a thief – her gut could be wrong; Daniel could be in danger. What was she to do? So much lay out of her control. What else could she do but pray? Oh God, I’m in a bit of a fix. I need your help. Will you protect Daniel, please; and Delilah, wherever she is? Help Daniel and Adam to find her. And Adam … I don’t know what to pray about him … Give me wisdom to know what to do next and who to trust. Amen.
She sat for a few moments allowing the prayer to settle in her soul. Gradually, her breathing calmed and her thoughts slowed down. “Thank you, Father,” she whispered.
Right, it was time to go. No ideas other than the one she already had – to go to Delilah’s flat – had come to mind, so she packed her things into her satchel … Hang on, I’ve forgotten about the envelope from Marjorie. She pulled it out, laid it on the desk and reached for a letter-opener.
Inside was the gift card from the chocolate box in Selena’s dressing room that she had asked Marjorie to have fingerprinted. She read the message again – the message in the familiar handwriting: To Princess Selena Romanova Yusopova, the Old Vic Theatre. From a repentant fool.
Surely it was just a coincidence. Lots of people had similar-looking handwriting. But fingerprints were unique. Modern science had proven that. She unfolded the single sheet of paper in the envelope, stamped with the Home Office moniker. On it were glued four square pieces of card, each with a copy of an inked fingerprint. They were labelled A, B, C and D. Under them was a typed paragraph:
Three full prints (A, B & C) were retrieved from the exhibit, and one partial (D). A does not match any prints on record. B is a match for Count Sergei Andreiovich (P674) and C & D for the same person, Roland Bartholomew Rolandson (T437).
A rush of bile gushed into Poppy’s mouth. She swallowed it, then reached for a glass of water, her hands shaking. She took a gulp, then put the glass down with a clatter. Roland Bartholomew Rolandson. Rollo. The handwriting had belonged to Rollo; she wasn’t wrong. But why? Why had he sent poisoned chocolates to Selena? Assuming, for argument’s sake, that the poison was added later (and, please God, let him not have known about the poison) why had he sent the chocolates in the first place? A repentant fool … To say he was sorry? She had slapped him at the exhibition on Sunday night when he had asked her for a higher kill fee to quash any stories suggesting she was thinking of stealing the Fabergé egg for herself. That was before the actual theft. The chocolates must have been sent yesterday – Monday – as gift delivery services were not open on Sundays. Why was he saying sorry? For being so ungentlemanly? Possibly. But Rollo didn’t usually apologise for deliberately provocative behaviour unless he was hoping to get something in return. What did he want in return? Money? A cut of proceeds from the theft? Rollo was always looking for new ways to make money. He was a gambler. And he always seemed to be in need of more income to keep the paper going.
Poppy took another sip of water, her hands steadier now. She simply couldn’t imagine Rollo as a killer. But how well did she really know him? She’d only worked with him for five months …
Focus, Poppy, focus. There are two other fingerprints on this card. Either of them could be the killer … Yes, but Rollo is still involved somehow … Focus!
Someone whose prints were not on record … that could be anyone. The delivery person perhaps? Not very helpful. But Count Sergei Andreiovich was. She’d heard that name only this morning. He was the father of the Moscow family that had been murdered. What had Marjorie said about him? He had been spying for the British? No, that wasn’t it. They’d been hoping he’d spy for the British. He was a reformist sympathiser who held sway with the tsar. They hoped he would use it to influence the despot into making reforms. But they’d lost track of him. He was last seen during the war, somewhere on the Western Front … Well, it seemed that Sergei Andreiovich was alive and well and right here in London. Another connection. Another Russian. Another potential murderer …
Poppy felt a chill run down her spine. She looked around her. She was alone in the office apart from Ike, his bowed black head and the click-clack of typewriter keys comforting. Should she tell him? Tell him what? That their boss might be a murderer? No, she needed more evidence. She really needed to speak to Marjorie. She pulled out her contact book and found Marjorie’s number. She rang it. No one answered. Poppy let out a long, deep sigh. What was she to do? She closed her eyes and prayed again. Oh God, I’m completely stumped. What must I do? I ask for your guidance. I ask for your help. Please. She opened her eyes and closed them again. It’s Poppy, by the way. I’ve been meaning to go to church, I really have; it’s just that … I’m sorry, God. Can we talk about this later? I promise I will. Can you just help me with this for now? Please. Amen. Then she waited for an answer. Nothing came other than the word “Delilah” – which is what she’d been thinking before she opened the envelope anyway. Should she still go to her flat?
After a few more moments of waiting for divine revelation, nothing else came. She packed her satchel, said goodbye to Ike and went out into the October night.