Her phone rang at ten minutes to midnight.
Putting down her glass of whisky, she picked up the receiver.
‘Lady Tradescant?’
‘Speaking.’
‘I sincerely hope you will allow me to call you “Penelope”?’
‘Who is that?’
‘An admirer. My name would mean nothing to you. You don’t know me, though our eyes did meet today, for a split second.’
‘I am afraid I don’t know what you are talking about.’
‘I am sure you do. You have a lovely voice. I haven’t been able to get you out of my mind, you know.’
‘How do you know my name?’
‘I heard your husband address you. Earlier today. This afternoon, to be precise. At Claridge’s.’
He heard her draw in her breath sharply. The girlie was losing her poise, eh? ‘You have nothing to fear from me,’ he said slowly.
‘I don’t know what you mean. How did you find my phone number?’
‘Where there’s a will, there’s a way.’
‘How did you know that that was my husband?’
Captain Jesty smiled. He had started enjoying his power over her. It acted as an aphrodisiac. Not that he needed an aphrodisiac. He reached out for the bottle and poured himself another glass of champagne.
‘Questions, questions. How did I know? Let me see. Well, I made some inquiries. I have my spies at Claridge’s. I hope you won’t think it boastful of me, but I enjoy a certain popularity, mainly thanks to the generous baksheesh and racing tips I bestow on some of the waiters. It was one of them who carried out some checks for me. A most enterprising little chap. You have a Claridge’s account, correct? You have provided an address and a phone number. A highly desirable address, I must say. You enjoy life among the fleshpots? Hello? Are you still there?’
‘I am still here,’ she said.
‘You and your husband—who is thirty-six years your senior—have been to Claridge’s for tea and dinner a number of times. You are both well known to the staff and, as it transpires, the object of some wide-eyed fascination. People love outrageous age disparities between spouses, since it is invariably linked to big money. Look at the unfortunate Anna Nicole Smith. What else do I know?’ Jesty sipped champagne. ‘You are a former Harper’s model. Your origins are veiled in mystery. You appear to have been to a decent school, but you have always been something of a wild girl. You get bored easily. You have lived in sin with a racing driver, an actor and a footballer—before you bagged the eighteenth baronet.’
‘The waiters couldn’t have told you all that.’
‘No, of course not. The waiters, as you so prosaically put it, have their limitations. But they provided me with leads—started me off on my quest. I did my own research after I got back home. These days there is very little one cannot find.’
‘The internet,’ she said after a pause.
‘Your maiden name is St Loup—rather Proustian, what? You have some French blood, apparently. Unless you made it all up—to impress the eighteenth baronet? Penelope St Loup—dashed euphonic—dashed memorable. Pictures of you going back to your modelling days are available on the net. In all of them, without exception, you look stunning. As a matter of fact,’ Jesty went on, ‘I am looking at one of your pictures at this very moment. I downloaded it, printed it and I intend to have it pinned above my pillow tonight. If you only knew what I’d like to—’
Penelope interrupted. ‘Which of the two are you? The fair-haired one or the one with the moustache?’
‘Now you are talking. I rather like your matter-of-fact tone. I am the one with the moustache. The dashing one.’ Jesty frowned. ‘Damned unfortunate that the fair-haired one—I mean, that particular brother officer of mine—turned up when he did. The chap’s a major pain.’ He laughed at his joke. ‘You didn’t get that, did you? No, you couldn’t have.’
‘I didn’t get what?’
‘Never mind. Even more unfortunate that I told him what I saw you do. Damn. Should have kept my mouth shut.’
‘What exactly did you see me do?’
Jesty’s eyes opened wide. ‘Swap the capsules, of course. What else? Poison for medicine, correct?’
‘Aren’t you being a little presumptuous?’
‘I don’t think so. What else could it have been? Powdered monkey glands? Bicarbonate of soda? You wouldn’t still be talking to me if you weren’t a little afraid of me. You’d have rung off by now. You’d have threatened me with the police. Or maybe you have started playing some game of your own? Well, I like games.’
She said, ‘You wouldn’t believe me if I told you you’d got the wrong end of the stick altogether?’
‘I wouldn’t. You looked guilty as hell. But I would very much like to hear your version of events. You have such a lovely voice. I have fallen for you in a bloody big way. I want us to meet. Tonight, if possible? I am not famous for my patience.’
‘N-not tonight.’
Jesty smiled again. The girlie was weakening. ‘Perhaps not. I suppose you are expecting to hear the terrible news any moment? Your husband is dead, must be. Unless he forgot to take the capsule? That would be a bore, wouldn’t it? You must be on tenterhooks. You poor girl. I will take good care of you, I promise. Tomorrow then, it’s got to be tomorrow. We could have lunch somewhere smart. I am mad about you.’ He poured more champagne into his glass. ‘Don’t tell me you would rather wait till after your husband’s funeral.’