The Blood Royal

Chapter Five

Joe looked up from his notes and ran a hand over his bristly chin. He blinked and focused wearily on his secretary across the desk. ‘Who did you say, Jameson? Constable Wentworth? Oh, Lord! My nine o’clock interview. Didn’t I say she was to be intercepted and her appointment deferred?’

‘Well, she’s sitting out there now in the corridor, sir, large as life. I’ve no idea how she managed to sneak past them at Reception. I did tell them.’ Miss Jameson dabbed at her eyes with a damp handkerchief. ‘Today of all days!’ She gulped and sniffed in distress. ‘We’ve got quite enough on our plate. She’s only been summoned to hear her dismissal. I’ll tell her to go away and come back later. A week here or there can’t signify.’

‘No. Wait a moment.’ He pulled towards him a file bearing the constable’s name and number. It also sported an ominous red tag.

Discharge.

Notice of termination of employment with His Majesty’s Metropolitan Police. Announcing that an officer was surplus to requirements was always a difficult duty when not deserved and, as far as Joe was aware, none of the women did deserve dismissal. Mostly, they left with relief to get married or because their ankles swelled. When the austerity cuts demanded it, he had chosen to break the news to the men himself, rather than expose them to the abrupt, acerbic style of the Assistant Commissioner whose job it normally was, but had left the women to be dealt with by a high-ranking female officer like his cousin Margery Stewart, better acquainted with the subject and better equipped by nature with a comforting shoulder to cry on.

The young woman waiting outside was a special case, however. And time was running short.

The decisions arrived at in last month’s Gratton Court conference Joe now saw had been right and timely. With a grim irony, it had been Admiral Dedham himself who had argued against them and, outvoted at the time, had immediately set about dismantling the sensible schemes. After last night’s tragedy, it fell now to Joe to reinvigorate the plans without delay, before worse occurred. Before much worse occurred. His deadline was a week on Saturday. Not long enough.

‘Bring her in, Miss Jameson. I do need to see her. Might as well get it over and done with.’

While Miss Jameson’s back was turned, he slipped the red marker off the file, considered throwing it away in the bin, then put it in his pocket. The outcome of this interview was by no means certain. And, whatever the result, he had an unpleasant task ahead of him, a task imposed upon him by a pincer movement from above. At Gratton he’d found the courage to make his views clear and they’d heard him out but in the end, as the youngest and least experienced of the assembled strategists, he’d been overruled. Politely, he’d been made aware that his role was one of … what had Churchill said? … implementation, not grand design.

‘Cat’s paw.’ Lydia had it right, as ever. If all went well, they would take the credit. If disaster followed, Sandilands would carry the can.

Joe screwed his eyes closed and conjured up without too much difficulty the face that went with the number on the file. It had made quite an impression on him. The station platform. Smoke and noise. And in the middle of the mêlée, a pretty girl grinning in triumph. Under her bottom one of the West End’s nastiest specimens and in her hat a jaunty rose. Joe smiled as he remembered the scene. He recalled watching the tiger-like silence of the stalk, the swift pounce, the fearless attack. He hadn’t forgotten the eager rush of gratitude for his intervention, delivered in an attractive, low voice. The constable could well be the best England had to offer in the way of womanhood, he thought with a rush of sentimental pride.

And that was something he would have to eradicate from his thinking in this job: Edwardian gallantry. There could be no place for the finer feelings in this ghastly modern world. Chivalry itself had fallen victim to bloody-handed assassins, if he read the situation aright.

Yes, this had to be the right girl. If he were minded to preachify, he might even say that Fate had delivered her into his hands that day at Paddington.

And the next day down in Devon, he had delivered her into the hands of three of the most ruthless men in the land.

‘Look no further, gentlemen,’ he’d said, after a second glass of port. ‘If this is really what you are prepared to do, I think I may I have the very girl for you.’ He’d even announced her name and number. Satisfyingly, eyebrows had been raised, grunts and nods of encouragement had broken out. Warmed by the general approval, he’d undertaken to haul her aboard.

Joe shuddered. He’d saved her from a knifing at Paddington but had probably exposed her to a worse fate.

He’d have to play his cards carefully. He could take nothing and no one for granted. This wasn’t the army where orders were given, received and blindly obeyed. The woman was perfectly free to reject his overtures and scoff at his suggestions. And foul up some well-laid plans.

Lily Wentworth followed Miss Jameson into the room and looked about her. Astutely anticipating a dismissal committee, he guessed. Her eyes rested briefly on him, widened in surprise, narrowed again in distaste and slid down to her boots. Well, if she’d been expecting to see the knight-errant from Paddington, all smiles and panache, she was going to be disappointed this morning; what she’d got was a Sandilands sore and seething with rage. He realized that in his dark-jowled state he presented an unappetizing sight. With not a minute to dash to his Chelsea flat and change, he’d resorted to a quick cold splash in the gents’ washbasins an hour ago. He’d stared back in dismay at his image in the mirror: black stubble, red eyes, and a dark tan looking unhealthily dirty in the morning light, as well as throwing sinister emphasis on the silver tracery of an old shrapnel wound across his forehead. If he’d encountered that face in Seven Dials, he’d have clapped the cuffs on and searched the owner’s pockets for a stiletto.

The cold wash hadn’t gone far towards dispelling the night’s build-up of fatigue and filth. He glanced down at his blood-stained tie and cuffs. His attempts to dab them clean had not been entirely successful. Whose blood? It could have been from any or all of the four victims. Ah, well … she’d probably seen worse down the Mile End Road at chucking-out time on a Saturday night. No need to draw attention to it. He rose to his feet and came round his desk to greet her.

‘That will be all, thank you, Miss Jameson,’ he said genially enough. ‘Go and get yourself a cup of tea or something. You look as though you could do with one. Oh, and while you’re at it, remind PC Jones I haven’t had mine yet. Tell him to bring a tray. Two cups. Milk and sugar. Biscuits too — gypsy creams would be good — not that dog kibble he brought me yesterday.’

The door closed and they were left staring at each other.

‘Sir, I arrived early for my appointment …’

‘Did you now?’

‘I did knock.’

‘Good. Good. Thought I heard something.’

Disconcerted by the fresh-faced, soap-scented presence, Joe went to open another window. That done, he began to pace about in a distracted manner.

‘Sorry to have kept you waiting, Miss Wentworth. We’re running a bit late today. Look here … I’ll get straight to it.’ He began to speak in her general direction. ‘You may have heard … no, how could you? Anyway — there was something of a bloodbath last night in the West End. Admiral shot to death on his doorstep, butler wounded, beat bobby left for dead like a dog in the road, London cabby fighting for his life in hospital,’ he confided in a rush. ‘Carnage on the streets, I’m afraid. You’ll read all about it in the papers, no doubt. It’s just what those hyenas have been waiting for. I’ve been … um …’ he glanced at the telephone sitting in the middle of his desk, ‘involving myself. Rather emphatically. Hard to stand back when one of the victims was a man I counted as my friend. And a friend avowedly under my protection at the time.’

He stopped his pacing and added bitterly: ‘There will be many to ascribe responsibility for the whole shambles to me. Not least myself.’

His flood of alarming information seemed to have rendered the girl speechless. Well, how else might he expect a young policewoman to respond to a throbbing monologue from her superior but with a wise silence? Finally she managed to say softly: ‘I’m so sorry you’ve lost your friend, sir. You must be very distressed. And you must want to be left alone to get on. Would you like me to go away for now? I can come back some other time.’ She took a step back towards the door.

He held up a staying hand. ‘No, don’t go. I shall mourn the admiral later and in my own way. Which is to say with targeted vigour.’ He shot a glance of such deadly intent in her direction that Lily looked aside. ‘Now you’re here, come on over and let’s renew our acquaintance.’

She approached the desk, ignored the chair set in front of it and stood to attention as she’d been trained. Feet a precise eighteen inches apart, straight back, shoulders down, palms to the rear. All very correct. To salute or not to salute? Joe realized she was questioning the protocol. She hesitated for a moment, then, apparently deciding he merited the gesture, gave him a perfect salute.

He managed a grin. ‘Returning mine of the fourteenth, I take it? Thank you. Do sit down and we’ll start again.’

Puzzlingly, the girl stayed on her feet.

Wrong footed by her silence and rigid stance, Joe re-launched the conversation in a welcoming and very English prattle.

‘Looks as though it’s going to be hot again today.’

‘We’ve had the hottest summer for twenty-seven years, I understand, sir.’

‘Yes … When will it end? Pigs keeling over with heat stroke at the county show …’ he offered with a bland smile.

‘Reckless swimmers getting into difficulties in the Serpentine.’

‘But there’s some good news. We have our Prince of Wales back home safe and sound at last.’

Her voice was tight with strain as she returned yet another answer in this tedious sequence. ‘After eight months touring India, he will be acclimatized to this heat.’

‘Well, that’ll do for our review of the papers,’ Joe said, and fell silent.

In pursuit of his brief he began to pace about the room again, noting for the record, in what he hoped was an unobtrusive fashion, her height, weight and general deportment. He was relieved to see he’d remembered correctly the trim figure, the modest height. He couldn’t be sure about the face. With the downcast eyes and the large-brimmed hat, she could have been anybody.

A closer inspection was now essential. He went to perch on the front edge of his desk, eyes on a level with hers, improperly close. This overbearing male behaviour was calculated to disturb, to test the subject’s mettle. It was a crude ploy he’d had much success with in the interrogation of male prisoners, military and civilian. The scar skewed his face and Joe had learned to use the sardonic twist with its suggestion of pain survived to intimidate his subjects. He’d noticed that even the tough nuts were unable to hold his eye. Their gaze faltered and slid to one side. They began to fidget and tell him their lies with less confidence.

If the girl ran whimpering from the room or kicked him in the shins at this point, he wouldn’t blame her but that would have to be the end of it.

She responded by staring calmly at a spot on his tie, a slight twist of disdain on her lips.

Perfect.

‘Now then, Miss Wentworth … er, Lilian? That your given name?’

‘I’m usually called just Lily, sir. By those who know me. “Constable” by those who don’t.’

His scrutiny had been over close and over long. And perhaps it was unfair to expose her to blood-spatter and bristle at this hour of the morning. When she caught him inspecting her feet he muttered: ‘Those boots are a disgrace. Not your fault. Poor quality leather. Won’t take a polish. The men wouldn’t put up with them for two minutes. I’ll have a word in the right ear.’

‘It will go straight out through the left, I’m sure, but thank you for the thought, sir.’

Was the tone rebellious? Joe frowned. Not yet. Just this side of acceptable. He’d push her further. He peered playfully under her brim, questioning. She went on looking straight ahead, impassive.

‘Why don’t you sit down? I don’t want to conduct this interview standing. We may be here some time.’

She sank uneasily on to a chair.

‘You’re smaller than I remembered,’ he remarked.

‘Tall enough to satisfy the height requirement.’

Joe picked up a pencil and scratched a note for himself: 5′6″?

‘And younger.’

‘I lied about my age. Sir.’

A swift glance into the unblinking, innocent eyes told him she was certainly lying now. Personal details of recruits were meticulously checked. Joe knew when he was being needled. He wrote again, taking his time: 26, could pass for 18. Insubordinate?

‘And your weight, miss? You would appear to be … er … not exactly well covered in the flesh department.’

He’d clearly touched a nerve at last. The nostrils flared and her voice when she replied was glacial: ‘After eight years of privation, sir, are we surprised? There’s been a war on.’

He scribbled: Skinny. Insubordinate! ‘Look — remove your hat, will you?’

She took off her hat and placed it on her lap.

Joe stared at her hair in surprise. ‘Always interesting to see what you’re hiding under those domes. Glad to see it’s just a dolly-mop of hair and not a bomb.’ He glanced again at her thick bob and scribbled a note on a pad. ‘Tell me — again for the record — how would you describe the colour of your hair? Blonde?’

‘Say straw, sir. If it could possibly be of any interest to anyone.’

Joe thought Miss Wentworth’s shining flaxen hair would interest any man. He busied himself for an annoying moment or two, unconvincingly jotting a further note: Hair — fair, fashionably cut. Brows and lashes darker. Green? eyes. V. pretty … and cut himself short.

He was making a pig’s ear of this.

Should he have delegated the unwelcome task to his super? To his Branch man? Joe reassured himself by remembering both men’s lack of experience with the fair sex and their declared antagonism to the Working Woman. No, neither officer could have gone one round with this sample. He was becoming increasingly certain his choice was a good one. He just had to make the right approaches.

He settled back in his chair, trying for friendly and approachable. ‘Now, before I tell you why you’re here …’ he indicated the file with her number on the cover, ‘I’d like to congratulate you on your prompt and decisive action at the station. I’ve entered a commendation on your file. Would you like me to read it out for you?’

‘Thank you. Very good of you, sir. I’ll take it as read.’ And, sweetly: ‘I’m sure my commanding officer could have passed that on and saved you the trouble.’

And, of course, she was right. A man of his rank didn’t concern himself with the actions, however creditable, of a lowly policewoman.

‘Quite. But I did have, you will recall, a personal interest in the episode. And I’m the chap, for the moment, in charge of hiring, firing and redeployment, not your CO. Redeployment, Wentworth. Which brings me to the second reason for calling you in.’

She startled him by leaping to her feet, triggered, Joe thought, by the word ‘redeployment’. With automatic good manners he rose also, registering surprise.

‘I know what you’re up to. Before you proceed with this, sir, I have to tell you that I will not accept redeployment. I will not be sent to some northern city with the likes of Constable Halliday.’ Her eyes narrowed to a glare. ‘Nor will I stand here and be sacked.’

Joe listened in astonishment as she forged on: ‘This would seem to be a bad moment for both of us. I’m leaving now to go away and write out my resignation from the force. It will be on your desk within the hour. It will make mention of the impossibility of suffering any longer the prejudice and arrogance the women are confronted with at every turn. To say nothing of the low pay and the long hours. And the questionable company of tarts, drug fiends and corrupt coppers.’

She must have been aware that her words sounded undignified. Pre-prepared words, he guessed, that she’d been mulling over and getting together while she’d been sitting in the corridor expecting dismissal. Well, the girl showed some spirit and he wasn’t looking for a doormat. He decided to take her insubordination on the chin.

She hurried to finish, eager to be away. ‘I’m sorry, sir … not the Ciceronian speech I’d planned. A bit light on concessive clauses and qualifying phrases.’

‘And possibly charm, Constable?’ he teased.

‘It’ll have to do. You must excuse me. Good day to you, Commander. I’ll leave you to your sorrows and … more demanding concerns.’

Petulant, foot-stamping stuff. Good girl. But it was decidedly inconvenient for him. Joe began to think he’d mishandled the whole thing. He’d allowed her to provoke him. He’d certainly raised her hackles and now they risked losing her. In what looked very like a rush of light-headed recklessness, she turned without waiting for his dismissal and made for the door.

His voice, lazily enquiring, snaked after her, catching her by the ankle, staying her step. ‘Don’t you want to hear what became of the children in the case?’

It seemed he’d come up with the one formula that would have stopped her from leaving the room. She hesitated.

‘And the villain whose head you sat on? Were you aware you broke his nose? Resume your seat and hear me out. That’s better,’ he said as she settled on the edge of the seat. ‘Ah! Here’s our tea. Put it on the desk, will you, Jones? Thank you, that’ll be all.’ He heaved a layer of files and boxes on to the floor to accommodate the tea tray, then he took up the pot and filled two cups. ‘Drop of milk, one sugar, I understand? You always pay for it. And these are your favourite biscuits. Do have one.’

He relished her astonishment for a moment. ‘I’m a detective by inclination. I still poke about, making enquiries. Military Intelligence during the war. It leaves its mark, don’t you know. Once a busybody, always a busybody. I took time to speak to old Stan on my way back through Paddington. He was very happy to talk about you. And I was more than happy to hear his eulogies. I’m going to confess to you, Miss Wentworth, that, though I rather relish the influence my rank brings me, I’ve been promoted out of step with my interest … if you follow me. I find there’s a sight too much form-filling, committee-sitting and politicking in it to please me.’

He accompanied his speech with a rueful smile. It seemed to alarm rather than reassure the girl he was directing it at but he pressed on anyway. ‘However — we’re not here to talk about my career. I want to propose a change of direction for you, Miss Wentworth. I don’t know where this nonsense about redeployment to the north comes from. You are in no way bracketed with that reprobate Halliday.’ He leafed through the file and found the sheet he wanted. ‘Halliday … Yes, here we are. He has indeed been sent north — to Yorkshire for re-training — and no one’s expecting to see him back in the metropolis again.’

Joe read on for a while, absorbed. ‘Your ex-partner had some pretty unkind things to say about you, I’m afraid.’ Silently, he scanned the vindictive phrases meticulously recorded by his superintendent, flinched, and decided not to reveal them. Common as cat shit and twice as nasty … Gift of the gab … Looks like the bleeding fairy on the Christmas tree — but don’t turn your back on her or you’ll find out what her wand’s for …

‘You must be awfully glad he’s gone, Miss Wentworth. Not quite sure what they’ll make of him in Yorkshire — more of a man, one would hope. No — I propose to deploy you in a different area, though still within the city of London. I have in mind a different role for you. And a different partner.’

He waited until, intrigued, she turned her eyes back to him before announcing with a mock bow and a broad smile: ‘Myself. Now — two exhibits.’ He shuffled his files again and produced a photograph. ‘What do you make of that?’

She seemed stunned but she took the photograph with a shaking hand and studied it. It provoked a spontaneous reply. ‘It’s a posed group photograph. Centre front I see an elderly and distinguished gentleman in the uniform of a high-ranking police official …’

‘He’s Chief Constable of the Lancashire Constabulary,’ Sandilands supplied. ‘Philip Lane. Fine fellow. Go on.’

‘And the lucky man has surrounded himself with a retinue of twenty or so pretty women. All young. Under thirty? I’d have said women policemen if they weren’t in mufti. Silk stockings, smart shoes, lovely frocks …’ She paused for a moment, appreciating what she was seeing. ‘And they all look very pleased with themselves.’ She must have caught the flash of humour in his eye and dared to add: ‘Especially the Chief!’

‘Oh, Lane’s having a happy time. He dislikes the women’s uniform as much as I do. And there’s something else we agree on — those women are indeed in the police though they are not being used, as they are here in the Met, in a social service role. Escorting schoolchildren across the road, prising illicit couples apart with a crowbar in the park, sitting on sparrowhawks … that would seem to be the limit of our expectations of the women’s patrols, Miss Wentworth. Tedious, degrading stuff. No, my friend Lane employs his girls as part of the detective force. Look at their faces. Sharp as a pin, every last one of them! You could send any of those women in like a terrier down a foxhole and she’d flush out her prey.’

‘They’re detectives, these women?’ Incredulity and envy were blended in her tone.

‘Yes, indeed.’ He looked at her sharply, pleased with her reaction. He thought he was beginning to understand what made this girl tick. And her interest chimed with his own. He would have no problem in fostering it. ‘You’re impressed by these young ladies?’

‘I’ll say! Detectives! I hadn’t realized it was possible. Lucky women!’

Joe smiled in quiet triumph to hear the longing in her voice. He was seeing his way through to his goal at last.

‘I believe, along with Philip, that the talents of you and others like you are being under-used in the force,’ he confided. ‘But the Geddes Axe has swung over the police service as much as other public services — we have a four-year war effort to pay for, after all, and we musn’t grumble, Wentworth, must we? But your numbers have been halved — you’re reduced to fifty now, I believe, and the ultimate target is a mere twenty. And that doesn’t please some of us. I, for one, am determined to hang on to the core of exceptional women remaining to us and pray that Nancy Astor can work her magic in Parliament to get the women’s contingent reinstated.’

Daring and undisciplined. A view contrary to that of the Commissioner himself. That would make her think and wonder.

He gave her a glance across the desk, the calculation in the eyes meant to be offset by the smiling lips. Joe thought grimly that he was probably recreating the effect, in his present state of dark dishevelment, of an ancient Greek reveller he’d seen decorating a vase in the British Museum. Bearded, knowing, conniving and with the same winsome smile, the Attic figure had been leading a garlanded heifer. With one reassuring hand he caressed the silken flank, with the other he tugged on the rope, urging the animal forward up the Sacred Way. If you walked round and inspected the far side of the vase, you could see that they were only steps away from an altar where they were confidently awaited by the priest who stood at the ready, sacrificial knife raised.

‘Your name, Miss Wentworth …’ the smiler with the butcher’s knife administered a further calming pat, leaning confidingly towards her though there was no one else in the room, ‘has come to the top of the dismissals list, as I would imagine you’ve calculated, perceptive girl that you are. And that’s exactly what I ought to be doing this morning — handing you your cards and showing you the door. You were aware of this, of course?’

He waited for her nod before going on. ‘But it’s my opinion that you would be a loss to the force and I’m suggesting a way of circumventing the necessity to terminate your contract. I propose a scheme which, rather than striking your name from the roll, will put it in brackets and move it sideways, so to speak … something on those lines,’ he finished vaguely. A slashing hand mimed the expunging of her name and was followed by a demonstration of the bracketing: two cupped hands moving with the care of a cricketer’s to draw aside and bring to safety.

Lily’s eyes followed them, mesmerized. Large, brown and capable hands. The message they were conveying was easily understood. In the small space between them lay her career. It could be dropped or held firm and she was powerless to decide the outcome.

She made no comment and he pushed on. ‘But further, I think there should be a change in the character of your employment. I’ve chosen you, Miss Wentworth, to help me out. In a rather unusual duty. It’s all a bit hush-hush. Got a dainty summer frock, have you? Well, I want you to mothball that ugly blue outfit you’re wearing, get into mufti and do a bit of undercover work for me.’

‘What? Like a spy, you mean? Like Mata Hari?’

Joe managed not to smile at her innocent remark but his reply was light and teasing: ‘Something like that, perhaps. But I don’t envisage you making an appearance, like that unfortunate lady, before a firing squad. And seducing generals would be an entirely optional activity. No — I simply want you to blend in with the surroundings I’m going to pop you into. I want you to help me sort out a little problem I find I have.’

‘Why me, sir?’

‘Because I’ve seen for myself that you have pluck and initiative. From your file — and from the admiring Stan — I gather that you are utterly reliable. And — a rather essential element in my schemes — you’re a girl who doesn’t mind getting her hands dirty. The task I have in mind is hardly one for a lady …’

Her glare told him he’d made a faux pas. Unaccustomed to making social gaffes, Joe was flustered. ‘Er … don’t misunderstand me. I intended no insult, Wentworth. And you will understand that when you embark on the very particular task I’m about to set you. I was merely trying to convey that I have no use for idle flibbertigibbets who spend their mornings in Asprey and their evenings in Ciro’s.’

‘Horses for courses?’ she suggested.

‘Exactly! You know where you are with horses,’ he said, grinning. ‘You read me right — I’m not looking for a thoroughbred so nervy you have to clap blinkers over its swivelling eyes to stop it dancing sideways.’

‘If you’re seeking a plodding percheron, I can’t help you, sir.’

‘Quite! I’d be looking at you a long time before a cart horse came to mind, miss! No — what I’ve got my sights on is a hunter. Light bay with an intelligent eye. Shows courage over fences. Ideally one that doesn’t bite your hand off down to the arm-pit when you offer it a sugar lump.’

At last she’d smiled at him. He returned her smile and forged on. ‘Now — a further test. The lout you sat upon at Paddington … the Sparrowhawk. Had you been in charge of the case instead of Inspector Proudfoot, how would you have proceeded with him?’

She nodded and sat forward in her chair, understanding that her interview had, at last, got under way. She spoke up with confidence. ‘I’d have located his headquarters and raided it.’

‘Easily said — but if he refused to reveal its whereabouts? And I have to tell you — he did refuse. Rather forcefully. Hard man under that foppish exterior.’

‘I would have assumed so. But there were other indications. The flowers were freshly bought and the florist whose wrapper was still around them might have something to tell. But, for speed, I’d have consulted the one reliable witness we already had at the scene. The witness who would have led us straight to his base of operations. I’d have just followed the dog, sir. Let it lead me to its home, which would most probably have been a shortish distance away — I’m guessing somewhere north of the park, along the Bayswater Road. Then I’d have mounted a raid.’

‘Good. Good.’ He nodded. ‘Proudfoot — and the dog — got there in the end.’

‘And the little girl and her brother?’

‘Are safely lodged with the aunt they’d set out to find in London. She lives out east in one of those streets between Petticoat Lane and Spitalfields … they’d never have found her under their own steam. The poor woman! She’d no idea they even existed, so it must have been quite a shock when the NSPCC knocked on her door. But she rallied round quite admirably, they report, and took them in. And what a Dickensian scene I imagine that to have been! They were runaways from a particularly distressing situation in their home village. Brave little pair. They’ll come through.’ Something in her expression made him add: ‘And yes, I shall be checking on their well-being.’

He slid a file across his desk at her. She’d passed the first two of his four tests. Physically: perfect. Under nine stone, less than five foot seven and attractive. Intellectually: astute. But what sort of a strategist was she? He needed a girl who could think for herself, and fast. He’d decided which fence to put her at.

‘And now we come to it … the reason I summoned you here. Your first case, Wentworth. Disturbing, urgent and of national importance. I want you to acquaint yourself with the contents of this file, which must not leave my office. When you’ve read it-’

She interrupted him. ‘Sir, excuse me but I’m meant to go on Park patrol in half an hour.’

Joe wasn’t pleased to be distracted by routine. ‘Park patrol? Forget it. Don’t concern yourself with regulations. Consider yourself removed from whatever were your daily duties. I’ll have a word with your commanding officer. Tell me — to whom do you report?’

‘To Inspector Margery Stewart, sir.’

‘Ah! There’s a piece of luck. The Honourable Margery, eh? A distant cousin of mine. I’ll square it with her. Leave all the boring operational stuff to me. Now — this file …’

The telephone rang and he snatched up the earpiece at once.

‘Speaking. Ah, yes. The matter is in hand. In fact I have her here in the room with me right now.’ Sandilands glanced across the desk at Lily, who was politely scrambling to her feet to leave the room. He flapped a hand to indicate that she should remain seated. ‘No. I won’t be pushed on this. You interrupt my interview. Yes, yes … entirely suitable. And I’m sure I can say ready and able … Not fully briefed yet, of course.’ He paused to flash a placatory smile at Lily. ‘Understood … I’ll work to that.’

He replaced the earpiece, deep in thought, then exclaimed, made a pantomime of shaking the fatigue from his head, and picked up the phone again. When the switchboard answered, he asked, ‘Can you reconnect me please with that last number? It was extension 371.’

‘You’ve got Sandilands back. I forgot to say — don’t try to get me here at my desk until at least tea time. I shall be out at the scene.’ A burble of protest at the other end was audible even to Lily and set Joe frowning. ‘It’s my back yard. My concern. My responsibility. You’ll just have to await further instructions.’

His broadside delivered, he hung up, grinned at Lily and picked up his conversation where he’d left off. ‘When you’ve read it — and assuming the telephone doesn’t ring in the meantime to announce that the Home Secretary has decided to accept the resignation I put on his desk first thing this morning — we’ll proceed to St George’s hospital with a notebook and a bunch or two of flowers. Now-’

‘Hang on a minute! You’ve turned over two pages at once there. Your resignation? Blimey! Sir!’ Astonishment stripped away the veneer of cool accent, revealing something more earthy and emotional below. ‘You’re never giving up. Over this business of the admiral? Go on with you. You shouldn’t do that, sir.’

He bit his lip. Fatigue. He’d said too much. But what the hell! It had provoked a spontaneous but sympathetic reaction. Joe decided to follow up his unexpected advantage. ‘Least I could do in the circumstances. You and me both — in the same boat. And if I’m scuppered, so are you. Your career and mine are hanging by a thread this morning. And, I’ll tell you, it’s the same thread. With gross unfairness I carry on as though nothing has happened … I offer you a new partner one moment only to have you discover the next that he is compromised. Professionally speaking, of course.’ He peered at her suspiciously, realizing that her composure was unusual. ‘Some girls would have been wailing at me by now … or weeping … Don’t you care?’

‘I’m still trying to absorb your news, sir. And its implications.’ She leaned towards him, fixing him with eyes which he could have sworn held a certain understanding and — at last — approval. ‘And of course I care. It would seem to me that a great injustice is about to be done. It’s not my place to say it, but — don’t go chucking in the towel. Surely there’s something you could do?’

He sighed and leaned back in his chair, looking away to glower moodily into the middle distance. And then, with the brittle firmness of a man who has just come uncertainly to a decision: ‘It seems to me we have three choices: we can combine our strengths — such as they are — to plot a rearguard action and go down fighting; we can accept our fate and hear each other rehearsing our farewell speeches in the taxi; or we can simply jump ship. Leave this mess behind us. Climb aboard the next boat train and be in the casino in Monte Carlo by tomorrow evening, glass of champagne in hand.’ Joe fell silent, caught out by a sudden heady vision of eyes full of mischief holding his over the rim of something chilled and fragrant. The champagne bubbling between them was Pol Roger 1911. The eyes were dark and deceitful, and after all these months they still had the power to ambush his thoughts.

He saw Lily’s very different eyes flare in surprise and fix at once on the notes in front of her. All three of his suggestions were alarming and ought never to have been uttered, fuelled as they were by a cocktail of exhaustion, tension and guilt, and triggered by the lethal touch of female sympathy. Always his Achilles heel. Joe sensed, too late, that he was losing control, teetering on the crest of an emotional wave and threatening to drag this innocent down with him. What must she have thought?

She seemed aware of the danger and, when he might have expected a hissing intake of breath and an offended drawing away of skirts at his desperate third suggestion, she replied calmly, ‘I don’t agree. There is a fourth. And I suspect it’s a course you’ve already decided on. We simply carry on doing our jobs for a bit longer. I’ve got a week to work out. That’s the routine. Not sure how long you have — it’s probably different for the upper ranks. I would suggest carrying on normally while awaiting further developments. See what the Home Secretary has to say and then think again.’

He nodded glumly, regretting his outburst and avoiding her eye.

‘And then, sir, when you know the worst, I’ll join you in whichever of the above schemes seems most attractive. With a preference for the last.’

He looked at her in sharp astonishment, scanning her face for signs of flirtation.

‘But may I substitute Nice as our destination? I hear it’s much more agreeable than Monte Carlo in high summer. And they have palm trees along the promenade. I’ve never seen a palm tree.’

Her manner, relaxed and completely un-coquettish, let him off the hook. There was no hint in her tone that she had interpreted his suggestions as in any way salacious. The potential dynamite of his careless third proposition had, in a cool way, been acknowledged and playfully rendered harmless. Joe responded with a surprised stare and a cough, and was back in control again. ‘Point taken, constable. Nice it is, then. We’ll agree on that much. Though perhaps we shouldn’t dismiss Biarritz too readily … Now, finish up those biscuits. You won’t be getting any lunch today. I’m going to leave you here to absorb that lot while I dash to my rooms and change and then set out for Jermyn Street for a shave. There’s a man at Trumper’s who can make a down-and-out look like Douglas Fairbanks in ten minutes flat. He may well be able to work his magic for me. Can’t be seen going about London looking like a ruffian. To think that today of all days I chose to wear a slouch hat!’

He grabbed a black felt hat from the hat stand and put it on, pulling it down exaggeratedly low over his forehead and leering. ‘There! What do you think? Shall I be taken for a Bolshevist, do you suppose?’

Lily responded to his flash of good humour with a chuckle. ‘Well, it’s certainly a look, sir. It goes with the red eyes and the purple bags under them. Cosmopolitan roué — would that be what you’re aiming for? It may pass in Piccadilly but I wouldn’t try it out in Eaton Square. They’ll string you up from the nearest lamp post.’ She turned back to the notes he’d passed her, eager to make a start.

‘And don’t think of making a run for it,’ he said, before he left. ‘I shall alert my secretary on my way out and tell her she’s to have you detained if you so much as put your nose round the door. She’s just across the corridor and she has a button to the desk downstairs. Oh … er, should you need to … um … Miss Jameson will show you the way.’

Oh, Lord! That was another thing. Facilities: females for the use of … Could they provide? He assumed there were such things in the Yard as Miss Jameson would have complained otherwise. And it was likely to be the least of the problems this wretched scheme threatened to lumber him with. Joe glanced over his shoulder at the earnest young face already totally absorbed by the distracting bone he’d thrown her way.

Bloody orders! This was a good officer. She deserved better.