Joe spooned up the last of his pudding and eased back his chair, eyeing Lily silently. She’d been the subject of that calculating stare before and responded by pulling her stole higher over her shoulders, a gesture he acknowledged with amusement. ‘No need for alarm. I was trying to assess the effect you’re going to have on the rest of the male company gathered in the ops room. Yes! I want you to be there!’ He answered her look of alarm. ‘Your evidence is pivotal – but dolled up as you are … well, I’m concerned that the officers present may unwittingly consign to you a somewhat inconsequential role. You look the part, Wentworth – royal girl-friend – flapperish, fox-trotting gadabout. I don’t want to see my men reacting to that image. Most unfair. I’d like you to change.’
‘You mean they won’t take me seriously if I present myself dressed as I was ordered to dress, sir?’
He ignored the rebuke. ‘I know these men. Effective and clever, but women haven’t played a significant part in their lives, I fear.’
‘Oh, I expect they all had a mother, sir,’ Lily said mildly.
‘One can never be certain about Bacchus … Oh, Lord! Bacchus! Give me your impressions when you’ve met him. He’s the handsome dark cove with the heavy moustache. Looks like a Sargent portrait of an Italian peasant, I always think – the hooded eyes follow you round the room saying, “I saw what you just did!”. You may wish to look away.’
She was trying not to laugh at him. ‘Well, I don’t know what effect he has on the enemy, but by God, Bacchus terrifies you, sir. Has he any redeeming human features, this man of mystery?’
‘What, you are about to ask, does he “do for pleasure”? Well, I’ll tell you. Er … he translates stories from the Russian … Pushkin, I think.’
‘Ah.’
‘Into Portuguese.’
After a satisfying moment of disbelief, her laughter burst through.
‘My other men you already know. I’ve called in Hopkirk and Chappel, who are still working on the admiral’s death, and Rupert Fanshawe whom you danced with this evening.’
‘I’d feel easier appearing in uniform.’
‘The meeting’s called for three a.m. I can send you back to your hostel to change. It’s in the Strand, isn’t it? Mrs Turnbull’s ghastly barracks? I’ll put you in a taxi. No – I’d better come with you and face the old dragon myself.’
‘No need for all that, sir. I changed at my aunt’s apartment.’
‘The hat shop lady?’
‘Yes. She lives over the shop in Bruton Street. And don’t worry about a taxi. I’m quite sure I have my own conveyance close by.’
Sandilands raised an eyebrow. ‘Ah! The Pumpkin Express! It’s well after midnight. Are you sure it’ll still be there – the rather eye-catching Buick that’s been following you about all evening? Is that what you have in mind? It was at the Yard. It followed us to the hotel. It followed us from the hotel. It’s been at our heels all along the Embankment.’ He enjoyed her surprise for a moment. ‘I’m expecting it to be cheekily parked in the taxi rank when we leave. Now, tell me, Wentworth – who do you know who drives a cream-coloured American sedan?’
‘My aunt sent me out with her chauffeur, sir. She was concerned for my safety.’
‘Prescient lady! Sandilands? Not to be trusted with nieces. Everyone says so.’ Joe grinned and looked at his wristwatch. ‘You’ve got just over an hour. Long enough?’
‘Ample, sir.’
‘Then I’ll hand you over to … what’s his name?’
‘Albert, sir. Albert Moore. He was a sergeant in the London Regiment.’
The Buick was loitering conspicuously in the middle of a line of shiny black cabs, an exotically striped chameleon poised to lick up a row of beetles.
With a swirl of his cape, Joe approached the driver. ‘Albert Moore? Joe Sandilands … how d’ye do? Glad to see you’re on hand, sarge! Your Miss Lily’s had quite an evening. And so, it would seem, have you.’ He leaned forward, elbows on the lowered window, and said confidentially: ‘But it’s not over yet, I’m afraid. Look – could you take her back to Bruton Street and then on to the Yard? And see our girl doesn’t fall asleep on the back seat. We need her fresh, alert and firing on all cylinders. National emergency on our hands tonight!’
Fresh and alert? Lily paused at the door of the ops room at five minutes to three. Was that how she was feeling? Unexpectedly – yes. She’d got her second wind. A strong cup of coffee from the hands of Aunt Phyl, who’d waited up, had sharpened her wits.
She’d been glad of the older woman’s understanding comments. And her brevity. ‘Back there again? Must be urgent. No – don’t tell me yet. Save it for breakfast. It’ll be a late one – it’s a Sunday. Glad to see the dress has survived the evening intact. I’m assuming the same condition for you, love. I’ve ironed your skirt and put out a fresh blouse and bloomers. Bacon sandwich? No? A bath, then? You’ve just got time. Use the Yardley’s lavender. That’ll spruce you up a treat.’
Smelling sweetly, freshly uniformed, shiny faced, Lily knocked and entered, to find that the men were already in place. All rose politely to their feet. Five pairs of eyes watched her as she came in, some inquisitive, some hostile. Sandilands and Fanshawe were still in evening dress, the outer layers removed, collars discreetly loosened, waistcoats unbuttoned. The other three were in their smart city suits ready for the day.
‘Right on time, constable. We’ve saved you a place over there.’ Sandilands greeted her with an expansive gesture. He indicated a seat opposite him at the end of the table.
‘Settle down, everyone. Now – Miss Wentworth, I don’t believe you’ve met our James Bacchus, have you?’
Sensing that there was no time for a formal presentation, the Branch man and the constable nodded cordially at each other across the table. Lily registered quiet dark eyes above a large nose and a top lip so exuberantly moustached she had the impression that a small but hairy rodent had climbed aboard his upper lip and gone to sleep there. She found she was smiling at him and receiving a raised eyebrow in return.
‘Now then – we all know who we are, I believe? You’ll remember Miss Wentworth? And you know why she’s here. First I’ll update you on the Prince of Wales. He is safely back in his London home, unscathed, and will tomorrow be whisked away to the country – to an as yet undisclosed location – to stay with friends. The press will publish the usual false information concerning his whereabouts.’ He cocked an eyebrow at Bacchus, who nodded confirmation. ‘And, to go on – it’s likely we are contemplating a case of murder. We await the post-mortem report, of course, but according to the medical authority who was present at the scene, the victim died of poisoning. Potassium cyanide.’
The Branch men pursed their lips. A heavy silence fell.
Wondering at this sudden paralysis, Lily was struck by a sudden insight and kicked herself for not having made the deduction earlier: she was the only person at the table who was not feeling some measure of doubt and self-recrimination. Her excitement must have dulled her perceptions. Tonight, a man had fallen dead under their very noses and his death would have to be explained. As would the apparently fortuitous escape of the Prince of Wales. Someone would have to tell His Royal Highness how close he had come to a sudden and agonizing end. That the man he had witnessed writhing in agony at his feet was his stand-in.
Not only was there a crime to be solved, there was negligence to be accounted for. Blame to be assigned. And – here it was again – a career to be lost.
Which of these men would end the evening taking the blame? She calculated that whoever emerged as scapegoat would have the doubtful comfort of being accompanied into the wilderness by Sandilands – if the commander stuck to his form of shouldering responsibility. Hopkirk and Chappel, though evidently concerned, were most probably in the clear, she concluded, guided by her scanty knowledge of police politics. This had not been a CID operation. At all events, two of these five officers would not survive the night, Lily reckoned. Sandilands and …? She glanced around the stony faces and came to a sad conclusion.
Her selected candidate looked up at that moment, caught her eye, caught her thought, and scowled.
‘The question is – was the Serbian prince, Gustavus, the intended victim or did he barge in and accidentally consume poison meant for our own Prince of Wales? We must consider both possibilities. Either way, this is a task for the Branch. The dead man was a foreigner of doubtful origin and uncertain political leanings – you have a file on him, Bacchus?’
‘We have, sir. I’ll pass around a few copies for information.’
At this point, Lily, to her embarrassment, found that she’d raised her hand to catch teacher’s attention. Someone failed to repress a scoffing grunt.
‘Yes, Wentworth?’
‘The victim’s wife confided to me in the powder room that he is … was … “an impostor”, sir. That’s the exact word she used. I questioned her usage and she confirmed that she meant what she said.’
‘Interesting. Possible impersonation. Are we surprised? Lot of that sort of thing about in London town these days. Impostor, eh? We’ll take this up again with the Princess Zinia, whoever she may be. Takes one to know one, possibly. I’m aware that these jokers tend to work in pairs. Let’s admit, gentlemen – it would be greatly to our advantage if we could reveal the so-called Prince Gustavus to be a charlatan.’ He smiled round the table. ‘Even better if his evening suit should prove to have something interesting in the lining … like a slender garotting wire or a slim package of some white powder. Yes, Bacchus, a path worth pursuing. See what you can come up with.’
Bacchus gave a wry grimace in response and made a note.
‘And we’re considering the attempted assassination of a member of our own royal family. This also is in your purview, Bacchus. We’ll only get to the bottom of it by establishing just how the poison was administered. We’ll trace the events backwards. Rupert – you and I were sitting right there at the table when the Serbian succumbed. Much to our discredit. Miss Wentworth was, at the crucial time, performing her duty down below in the ladies’ room, and only surfaced to witness the last moments of the tragedy. Rupert, I want you to give the company an idea of what transpired.’
A knock at the door sent them all silent. A constable entered with a large brown envelope in his hand. ‘Sir, a newsman called in at reception. He said you’d be needing these. Top priority, he said.’
‘Indeed! Thank you, constable. Leave it on the table, would you?’
Sandilands opened the envelope and spent some moments inspecting the contents. ‘As good as police efforts,’ he commented. ‘No – better. We’ll start by reminding ourselves of the evening’s work – here’s a photograph of the POW at the start of the proceedings, safely in the arms of the Met.’ He paused for a moment, studying the print. ‘Goodness me! Whatever were you doing with him, Wentworth?’
‘A waltz, sir,’ Lily confirmed as Cyril’s deliberately glamorous photograph circulated to astonished stares from the CID men.
‘And he survives to waltz another day – let’s keep that in mind. And here’s a useful shot of the company at the table before the event.’ He paused, absorbed by the next subject. ‘Followed by a society pose showing our victim – scarred cheek, shifty grin – in the close and apparently friendly company of the POW.’
Rupert shuddered. ‘We should have picked him up and marched him straight out, sir. We sat there and watched.’
‘Your anxiety is shared, Fanshawe. But remember Gustavus was there at the Prince of Wales’s invitation. Let’s not indulge in unwarranted breast-beating; we were reacting to the social demands of the situation. This is not a police state. Our role is to advise and protect. We do not pick up and march out a gentleman who has been invited to seat himself at the prince’s table. We had both arrived at the same assessment: that there was no threat to the Prince of Wales’s well-being. Gustavus was unarmed. He’d been searched. He was surrounded by security officers – one false move and he’d have been rendered harmless. And he knew that. Rather tormented us with his heavy-footed humour on that score. He was revelling in the attention, you’d say. And enjoying cosying up to the prince.’
‘Sir!’ Lily spoke swiftly. ‘Again, his wife has an explanation. No sinister political motive involved – she claimed that he was seeking proximity for purposes of social aggrandizement. He just wanted his photo in the press … posing with the prince, on the front page of the society journals.’
Rupert groaned. ‘They will do it! I’ll make that steward account for the bulge in his back pocket.’
Sandilands nodded and carried on. ‘Now here’s a view of the table as it was at the moment Prince Gustavus sank gargling from view on the far side. The plates and glasses – I want you to consider them. The contents have been bagged and bottled and are at present at the lab undergoing the usual tests. Rupert – take us through it.’
‘The far side, where you see a half-full glass of wine, was the POW’s place. Next to him, on his right hand, where you see an empty glass, was the place Miss Wentworth had originally occupied. In her absence, Gustavus, finding the effort of shouting in Serbian from his original place over the table too demanding, had sidled round, taking his glass with him, and plonked himself in Wentworth’s vacated seat. He had previously turned down offers to have food fetched but had consumed a quantity of wine.’
Sandilands took over. ‘Aided in his consumption by the copious amounts poured out for him by Fanshawe here. What exactly were you hoping to achieve by that, Fanshawe?’
‘I thought I’d achieved my end, sir.’ Fanshawe’s tone was truculent and resentful. ‘I was trying to incapacitate the ghastly fellow. He tried several times to reveal secrets he ought never to have been in possession of. You heard him. Miss Wentworth may have branded him an impostor – whatever she means by that Boy’s Own Paper designation – but he showed a certain depth of knowledge of our services’ operations. Showing off for the prince, of course, but there were other receptive ears in the neighbourhood. It seemed the only way of silencing him. No one believes a word uttered by a man in his cups. Rendering the subject harmless, sir, that’s what I was doing. As no one else seemed about to take it upon himself,’ he added rebelliously. ‘It was hardly believable, the gross behaviour the man exhibited, but he caught sight of Miss Wentworth’s full plate – she had to my notice not attempted so much as a forkful – and began to dig in. He clearly couldn’t resist the red caviar – he started with that.’
Inspector Chappel grimaced. ‘Well, they say that Rasputin of theirs had the table manners of a hog and the appetite of a brown bear. Must be the cold winters that do it.’
‘Not immediately, but several forkfuls later, in mid-sentence, mouth still full of food, he keeled over.’ Rupert pushed on with his account. ‘Choking, red in the face, unable to breathe, clutching his heart. All the symptoms of a heart attack or cyanide poisoning.’
‘And I can confirm the latter. In attempting to resuscitate him, I’m sure I detected a strong scent of almonds on his breath,’ Sandilands said.
‘Sir, one of the dishes – the fricassee of Persian lamb – had almonds amongst its ingredients,’ Lily offered.
‘As well as all the spices of the orient. As good a way as any of disguising the scent of cyanide. I took some of that dish myself. Like many others now snoring peacefully in their beds,’ he added thoughtfully. ‘So – by mistakenly eating from Miss Wentworth’s plate, the Serbian signed his death warrant.’
‘Er … No chance, I suppose, that anyone would be targeting Miss Wentworth herself?’ Chappel asked sheepishly. ‘I know, I know – it sounds ridiculous, but training makes me bring it forward. Purposes of elimination and all that … clear out the underbrush. She was the one who was handed the poisoned plate, after all. Got to consider it!’
‘A reasonable thought, Chappel …’ Rupert Fanshawe allowed, ‘if we must plod every tedious inch of the pedestrian way to the truth. But – and this will come as a surprise to you fellows – Miss Wentworth was not, in fact, the one who was handed the poisoned plate.’
He waited for the astonished stares then carried on, his voice purring with anticipation: ‘And, as long as the spot-light’s on the constable, may I suggest we follow up with a further reasonable thought? We should remind ourselves that what we are seeking in all this is a malign female presence. An unknown woman on assassination bent. Our Morrigan.’ He turned a sweet smile on Lily. ‘Now, Miss Wentworth was the woman closest to the Prince of Wales from beginning to abrupt end and she had continuous access to him. We, gentlemen, had placed our prince in the hands of a stranger for the whole evening. A stranger to him … a stranger to us. Can any one of us claim to know who she is? Where she comes from? Who precisely stands as her guarantor? Oh, I am much to blame. I should have taken immediate action.’ He shook his head to underline his self-recrimination. ‘If only I had acted in accordance with my training and arrested Miss Wentworth the moment it became clear that her behaviour at the buffet was suspicious, we could have avoided a murder.’
‘Eh? What are you on about?’ Lily murmured.
‘Suspicious behaviour? Describe it, Fanshawe.’ Sandilands was peremptory.
Fanshawe enjoyed the incredulity for a moment. ‘I watched as the food was being put out. I watched as Wentworth followed the prince to a table. There she snatched his plate from him and replaced it with her own. Oh, it was neatly done. But the movement was not in the briefing. It exceeded instructions. It was surreptitious and possibly suspect. We were at the ball to prevent a young woman – a young woman with certain social graces – “Mayfair”, I believe, was the Assistant Commissioner’s judgement – from getting close enough to the prince to kill him. And here was one such sitting by his side and forcing the food of her choice on the prince with all the skill of a music-hall card sharp. She could easily have anointed the oysters with something nasty held in her hand. If I’d made a fuss and had both plates taken away at that moment, the poison would have been discovered there and then. And Prince Gustavus would still be alive. You have my unqualified apology, sir.’
Rupert drooped then raised his head in defiance. He swept his floppy blond quiff off his forehead, the better to stun them with his blue eyes ablaze with an emotion which clearly anticipated a coming martyrdom. ‘I’m ready to accept whatever proportion of blame you care to assign to me, sir.’ And he added coldly into the shocked silence: ‘After you’ve chucked the book at Wentworth.’
Lily shivered, devastated by the implications. The two plates had been exactly alike. If Fanshawe had proceeded with the scheme he’d just outlined there was every chance the plates would have been confused on their way to the laboratory. Intentionally or accidentally. Who would ever know? She wouldn’t have been able to distinguish them herself. Both carried her fingerprints and those of the prince. Accusations would have been made. From what they’d stitched together of her background she knew they could make a spectacularly convincing case against her. ‘Left-wing, anti-royalist, worms her way into the Royal Presence …’ Poison was known to be a woman’s choice of weapon.
A pit of horror opened up before her. If they were seeking an easy suspect to cover for their incompetence, she would find herself occupying a cell in Vine Street within the hour. She looked instinctively to the commander for support.
Her appeal went unacknowledged. He was watching Fanshawe, head on one side, quizzical, encouraging him to go further. It occurred to her – and the realization hit her like a thump in the stomach – that for these men, all of whom had a position to lose, the career, the life even, of a lowly woman policeman on the point of leaving the service anyway would count for little. She was expendable. They were officers. Ex-military. It was men of their kind who’d sent out Tommies to die in their thousands on the Somme. She too was no more than cannon fodder.
She’d been sitting here playing eeny meeny miney mo, choosing the unlucky victim, never thinking to enter her own name in the draw. If these five men were to behave in concert she was ruined. And there was every sign that, with Sandilands acting as ringmaster, they were coming to an understanding.
Coming to? These were men trained to think and plan weeks and years ahead. The chilling thought came to her that the understanding might have been arrived at some time ago, an undeclared Plan B. If all else fails, look to a scapegoat. Once again she felt the presence of the sacrificial altar and the raised knife.
Lily locked stares with Fanshawe, grasping for words to attempt a defence. Finding none.
But Rupert hadn’t finished with her yet. Urged on by Sandilands’ attention, he enlarged on his theory. ‘And the lady, according to our information, is not exactly a wearer of the white cockade! Oh, she has no overt affiliations with the red organizations rampant in the country … one would hardly expect it in someone planning a serious coup. But her father is known to be a Bolshevist sympathizer.’ He passed a sheet of paper to Sandilands. ‘We’ve been enquiring. Not much time available to us but we have strong sources among the red brothers … and sisters. I hand you a list we’ve got together of meetings attended, associates and acquaintances established.’
Rupert gave an elegant shudder as Sandilands scanned his offering. ‘And this is the background of the woman, the stranger, whom we allowed to enter the ballroom unsearched, unchallenged … the woman we allowed to juggle with the prince’s plate.’ His voice expressed disgust and anger in equal measure. ‘I’m only surprised we didn’t issue her with the latest dinky little pistol to hide in her garter. I’m sure she’s an excellent shot too.’
A horrified silence descended on the group.
Sandilands’ tone, when he began to speak, was, in contrast, light and controlled: ‘You forget to add to your list of notable accomplishments that the constable is also an adept at the dark arts of eastern combat, Fanshawe. I’ve seen her break a fellow’s nose by smashing his head against a station platform. She could have snapped the royal neck at any moment as easily as you or I had she been murderously inclined. But what about an Irish connection? Anything known to Miss Wentworth’s detriment on this score?’
‘I have to say that we could find no trace of Irish connections,’ Rupert admitted resentfully.
‘I’m sure you tried your hardest,’ Sandilands said. ‘I’m wondering why you held off from escorting Miss Wentworth from the premises and throwing her into the deepest dungeon, Rupert. Help us to understand why you didn’t react.’
‘It was swiftly done and I was on the other side of the room, waiting for Connie Beauclerk to decide between duck and grouse. By the time I got to them, the prince had already made inroads into his food. A difficult moment. I observed that Miss Wentworth was not attempting to eat her own and this she would surely have done – as cover – had she secured for herself an unadulterated sample. Confusing, I think you’ll agree?’ He looked round the table for support but was met on all sides by the hard stares of men each of whom thought he would have reacted with more panache. ‘Well, before I could decide on the action I should take, along comes the wretched, interfering Gustavus, shoving his oar in. So the moment passed. I let it go. But I watched her, and the plates, carefully.’
Around the table air was sucked in through gritted teeth at this admission. Eyes were averted, heads lowered, as they considered the catalogue of negligence. The swift fall of the axe was deserved and awaited.
‘Mmm … Let’s be clear. You sat watching the prince – our prince – eating from a plate you suspected might have been tampered with. I wonder at what point you would have advised him to put down his fork? Before or after the death rattle? I think, as well as indecision, you must have been suffering some puzzlement, Fanshawe.’ Sandilands’ voice was a tormenting drawl. ‘As the evening proceeded His Royal Highness did not fall dead, frothing at the mouth. He continued to chat and called for his pavlova pudding.’
He paused, deep in thought. No one dared interrupt. ‘I offer you an alternative scenario. The food may well have been untainted. Heat – as the good doctor told us – vaporizes the poison and renders cooked food containing it harmless. So we would be looking at the uncooked dishes – caviar for example. No other caviar eater succumbed. Isit not possible that the poison – if poison it was – was not administered by plate at all, but by the far less chancy route of the wine glass?
‘All those glasses of wine you poured out, Fanshawe? From the bottle? Easy enough for a smart operator like yourself to dispense a noxious substance with which he is very familiar and to which he has easy access through his employment. The death capsules. I’m sure you have been issued with one or two? I must ask you to do a little stocktaking, Bacchus. Account for Fanshawe’s hand-out, would you? Your job is largely of a secretive nature and has been known on occasion to require a certain readiness to get one’s hands dirty. How dirty is your pouring hand, Fanshawe, after tonight’s events? You were holding both glass and bottle. Easy enough to hold a broken capsule at the neck of the bottle and remove it when you’ve spiked a particular glass. If so, it was, as you’d say, neatly done. And I would expect nothing less of a man of your training. I must say I observed nothing untoward myself and I was watching closely.’ His words were unemphatic but Fanshawe’s lips tightened. ‘Though I wouldn’t rule out the possibility … not when a clearly inimical and dangerous man is about to spill information the Branch would kill to keep quiet.’
Fanshawe was unable to speak. Bacchus made an offended grunting sound. The CID men maintained a mystified silence.
Only one voice was raised in objection. Lily managed to splutter: ‘Sir! That’s barmy! It’s unfair. How can you say that? Sorry, sir, but Fanshawe wouldn’t … he couldn’t …’
‘Wentworth, he would and he could if the circumstances demanded it,’ Joe explained kindly. ‘Now – barmy, you say? Quite agree. Unfair? Completely. So let’s all relax and be sensible, shall we? Enough villains out and about to blame for this fiasco – absolutely no need to go looking for anyone nearer home, Rupert old man. I think we need at this stage to consider the prince’s plate again. Yes, I think it would enlighten us all if you were to account for the sleight of hand with the plates, Miss Wentworth,’ he suggested. ‘It worried Fanshawe and it worries me. Clear up our confusion will you?’
‘Instinct, sir.’ Seeing both Sandilands’ eyebrows shoot up, she hurried to add: ‘Sorry … that’s unclear. Say rather I was being over cautious. I know your agent was right there at the scene and she “tipped him the wink”, as the prince himself put it, indicating that all was well as she ladled out the food. I saw her do it. Her eyes made contact with mine too. She knew who I was. “One of Sandilands’,” the prince told me. But all the same, in spite of the reassurance, I had a feeling that—’
‘Wait a minute, Wentworth. Just go back a bit. Agent? What agent?’
‘The waitress who was putting out the food. There were two of them, a boy and a girl. Brother and sister, I think. Italian. Or putting on a convincing accent.’
‘Anything to do with you, Bacchus?’
‘No, sir. You had our list. All four of our operatives were men. We only use English males. You know that.’
‘Get them in for interview first thing tomorrow morning. Describe her behaviour, Wentworth.’
‘She wasn’t behaving surreptitiously, sir. She had rather a flamboyant way with her. Pretty girl as far as I could make out under the frilly headdress. She picked up a plate, one of those special Russian top-table-only-for-the-use-of ones. Those with the double-headed eagle on them. She ran a cloth over it in a marked manner. You know – rather like a conjurer showing the audience there’s nothing up his sleeve. She seemed to be declaring that all was well, impeccably clean plate, no need for any concern. I’ll show you.’ Lily got to her feet and demonstrated. ‘She was serving the gentlemen. Didn’t you see her yourself, sir?’
‘No. She’d disappeared by the time I shuffled to the head of the line. There were several men waiting on by then. No girl. Bacchus, get Honeysett on the telephone. He’ll still be up.’
They kept a polite silence while Bacchus went through the procedure of being connected to the hotel. Slim, strong and urgent of voice, the Branch man exuded enough energy to power the London telephone system if you could have wired him in, Lily thought, admiring. Not surprisingly he was put through the channels at speed even at that hour.
‘We have the hotel reception … They’re paging him now …
‘So that’s how they … she … did it,’ Bacchus commented while he waited, one hand carefully over the speaking section of the receiver. ‘The prince was handed a plate smeared with cyanide. One gram of the stuff isn’t hard to deposit. A broken capsule held in a clean white napkin, dripping poison. We’ve run tests on our own capsules. In extremis a chap needs to be able to count on his equipment. The scent is strong but would have blended with that of the other exotic spices coming from the food.’
‘Sir – the prince asked for plain salmon but the waitress talked him into accepting the more highly spiced dishes,’ Lily said.
‘And “on instinct” you snatched the poisoned dish from him and sat there with it in front of you for a good part of the evening, Wentworth. While the prince tucked in to a blameless offering. Um … Some might say your action was inspired by a blend of shrewd calculation, keen awareness and sound defensive play.’ Sandilands spoke slowly, his eyes on Fanshawe. ‘Rupert, you have something to say?’ he asked, in the kindly but reproving tone of a schoolmaster.
It was a moment before Fanshawe could come up with a response. ‘Only that it would seem the constable and her instinct saved the life of one prince and killed another, sir. I’m sorry for entertaining any suspicions of your motives, Miss Wentworth.’ The supercilious glint in his eye as he sketched a mock bow across the table gave the lie to his sentiments.
‘Thank you for the apology, Fanshawe, but, really, no need. We were both doing our job as best we could.’ Lily managed to keep her voice unemotional. ‘And neither of us killed anyone.’
‘No indeed,’ said Sandilands. ‘You both have a clear conscience. Gustavus was killed accidentally. Let’s hang on to that, shall we? His death was triggered by his own greed. The coarser spirits among us might even think he was the author of his own misfortune.’
Chappel grinned. ‘As the coarsest spirit here I’ll second that! Serve the blighter right!’
‘So, while we’re awaiting post-mortem reports and evidence from the hotel management and our agents in place, we must look again at this elusive woman. A killer who passes easily in Mayfair society – and now, it would appear, in Mayfair kitchens – as she works her lethal way through the list of IRA targets.’
‘Targets. I think in this company’ – Bacchus glanced round the table, his eye lingering on Lily for a moment – ‘we may say their names out loud, don’t you agree?’ He voiced everyone’s agitation. The Branch man was also, Lily realized, making a gesture of inclusion to her. ‘The two names remaining. We assume Miss Morrigan will have her eye on Churchill and Prime Minister Lloyd George next?’
‘Seems likely. The prince has gone into such deep cover I don’t think even I could find him with a map, a compass and a pack of bloodhounds,’ Sandilands said lightly.
His ironic eye skipped swiftly over her as he enjoyed a tension-breaking laugh with the rest of the table and she knew at once that he was lying. Sandilands could have the prince on the telephone in seconds, she guessed. Lily wondered if the men could read him with equal ease and thought, judging by their open and cheerful response, probably not.
‘Sir! I’ve got hold of Honeysett … Honeysett, hold the line, will you? I’m passing you to the commander.’
Sandilands strode to the telephone. ‘Glad to find you’re still up and doing, Honeysett. Now listen. You’re to come in to the Yard first thing tomorrow to make a statement. Present yourself at reception. First – a question: can you give me the name and address of the girl who was serving the buffet supper?’
He listened to the answer and called out to the table: ‘Anna Peterson.’
Pens scratched on notepads.
‘Living at … in lodgings at forty-two, Hogsmire Lane, Kensington. Russian immigrant. Working for you for six weeks … References, Honeysett? … Mmm … impressive. I shall need to see them. Bring them with you tomorrow, will you? … What was that! Stomach ache? Left the premises at what time? Eleven?’ Sandilands rolled his eyes at the assembly. ‘One more question for the moment. Where was this lady on the evening of the first of September? … Yes, it was a Wednesday … Morning shift and she left you at three p.m.? And you’ve no knowledge of her life outside the hotel?’
He finished the phone call and returned to the table, sombre and puzzled.
‘Another woman done a bunk, has she? Irish? Russian? Are we fighting on two fronts now? Who the hell are we looking for?’ Hopkirk was exasperated.
‘Same one? At all events, someone who can pass as a Russian to gain access … someone who has inside knowledge of the prince’s movements weeks in advance …’
‘But why would a Russian …?’ Chappel spluttered. ‘They’re relations of the prince, aren’t they? The Tsar, God rest his soul, was the spitting image of his cousin, our own King George. People couldn’t tell them apart! Best of friends. That posh lot at the ball tonight would never have the Prince of Wales in their sights. White Russians – monarchists to a man. They’d die defending the English cousin’s boy. Wouldn’t they?’
‘You’re right, Inspector. A Russian would make no such attempt,’ Sandilands said. ‘But we’re looking for a lady who, as you say, knew well in advance that the prince would attend this do. A lady determined enough to obtain and perform work for weeks in advance in a hotel kitchen.’
‘Taking orders from Honeysett,’ Lily murmured. ‘That shows a certain single-mindedness.’
‘What it shows is stamina,’ Hopkirk interrupted. ‘I’ve seen hotel kitchens. Not places for the faint hearted and gently bred. She’ll be a strong lass, then!’
‘Indeed. And she’s able to pass as Russian. I think we may be looking for an actress. Someone who can use a variety of convincing accents to approach her prey. A stalker, a hunter. Skilled at blending in with her background.’
‘A sower of discord and a spreader of mayhem,’ said Hopkirk. ‘What’s her score to date? From where we started counting, that is,’ he added lugubriously. ‘And we may be swinging in a little after the beat. Three dead, as far as we know: an admiral, a London bobby and a Serbian prince; and two critically injured: the butler and the cabby. A bloody-handed goddess of death and destruction. She’s a Morrigan, all right.’
Lily’s voice interrupted the descending gloom. ‘Sir. One thing we might try … I think someone ought to have a word with Princess Ratziatinsky.’
‘Would you like to undertake that task yourself, Wentworth? I was going to tell you to take the day off tomorrow … that is to say – today … but if you feel like it … Good. I’ll give you the address and ring ahead to make an appointment. It’s not far – somewhere in Kensington. I’ll try for midday. She won’t be receiving before that hour, I should imagine. Not after the night she’s had.’
‘Will the princess appreciate a police presence on her doorstep, sir?’ Bacchus wanted to know. ‘In her aristocratic quarter of town? On a Sunday morning?’
‘Almost certainly not. Mufti, Wentworth. Put a little frock on. Assume you’re front-door calling company. Do you have a calling card? No? I think we can provide. Bacchus? That forger of yours? That idiosyncratic printer over whose dubious production skills we have at times exercised a little influence?’
‘Sam? Got out six months ago. And, yes, he’s still on the hook.’
‘Good. Get him out of bed and give him a rush order. Our own press won’t be up and running until nine.’ Sandilands scribbled a note and passed it to Bacchus.
‘Now, Wentworth. What were you planning to ask the princess?’
‘I shall ask her to give me a name, sir. She’ll have kept a list of all the people who attended last night.’
Someone sighed in irritation; someone bent to adjust his sock. Joe asked patiently: ‘But why, constable? We have such a list ourselves. You can confirm, Bacchus?’
‘Yes, sir. We can produce it right here and now. If you think it of interest. All vetted by the Branch. MI1b has gone over it with a magnifying glass … MI1c raked through it with a fine-tooth comb. The foreign secretary has a copy on his bedside table next to his bible. But if you’d like to pass it before Miss Wentworth, I’ll certainly hand it to her. For the purposes of checking it against her instinct, perhaps?’
Joe saw Lily flinch and decided to neutralise the Branch man’s sarcasm. ‘A quality that served us better than glass and comb and British intelligence this evening, I’m thinking,’ he said ruefully. ‘You were saying, Miss Wentworth?’
Lily shook her head to clear her thoughts and, having got a hold on them, addressed them to Bacchus. ‘No. Listen a minute! It’s not the people who were there that we’re interested in. We need to see the princess’s original pencilled-in list of guests. The names she first thought of. And check that against the final attendance list. If this girl is Russian and has the confidence to attempt a coup with such swagger, then it’s likely that she would be known to this society, isn’t it? An insider? One of them. She’d have been invited all right. What it would be intriguing to find is the name of someone who failed to turn up or who refused the invitation. Someone who was not there to be blamed. An unaccountable absence. We’re looking for someone who didn’t make an appearance at the ball.’ She realized she was repeating herself, sounding over anxious. She ground to a halt.
‘Ah!’ said Hopkirk with a rumbling laugh. ‘Now I’ve got it. I was thrashing about in the wrong fairy tale. It’s the Bad Fairy we’re looking for.’
‘Or a Bolshevik aristocrat?’ grumbled Chappel. ‘No such animal!’
‘Like “darkness visible”,’ agreed Bacchus. ‘An oxymoronic and quite ridiculous invention. Looks a teeny bit desperate, I’d say.’ He shrugged his shoulders.
‘Well, if the constable cares to waste her morning scanning party lists … hobnobbing with the princess … comparing hemlines and dancing partners …’ Fanshawe had found his voice again. He oozed on, decorating his theme: ‘… chirruping over a samovar of tea and a dish of Viennese pastries … well, that’s up to her. Who shall say her nay?’
‘You make the occasion sound quite delightful, Fanshawe. Hadn’t realized that was your idea of a Sunday morning’s entertainment. Are you volunteering?’ Joe asked cheerfully. ‘No? Then I say Wentworth shall go.’
‘Beats pounding the streets, I will allow,’ nodded Bacchus. The Branch man turned to Lily and favoured her with one of his rare smiles. Or at least she took the movement in the region of his mouth to be a smile, though the vigorous twitch of the upper lip could as easily have been an attempt to dislodge the sleeping rodent. There was no mistaking the accompanying flash of even white teeth: it held all the challenge of a metal gauntlet thrown at her feet.
Lily thought she had very likely made two implacable enemies before breakfast.