‘No clues about the weapons,’ Hopkirk muttered. ‘Nothing unexpected from fingerprinting. But, as I’m sure the captain knows, London’s awash with Webleys. They could have been provided by whoever commissioned the hit. No reason to suppose the instigator ever laid hand on the guns.’
‘No indeed. These deals are arranged anonymously, by telephone. Which brings us to the third shot. The one to the heart that finished him. Browning or the like, you say?’
Hopkirk nodded and passed a copy of Spilsbury’s postmortem report over the table. The Branch men fell on it and spent some minutes absorbing it while the CID maintained an anxious silence.
‘At this distance it looks as though we’re contemplating a fatal shot fired by the taxi driver, his lady passenger or a third hand hiding in the shrubbery,’ Fanshawe commented.
Hopkirk nodded again.
‘No mention of such a shot in the evidence given by the passenger?’
‘No. She was too hysterical to be able to distinguish one calibre from another. In fact, I couldn’t be certain she understood what I meant by “calibre”. Pistol, revolver, Gatling, Big Bertha — all just guns to her. Nasty, noisy things. And she was sensibly cowering down in the back of the cab with her hands over her ears while all this was going on. Poor girl — if she hadn’t rolled herself into a ball like a hedgehog, she could have been a third victim. In every respect her statement echoes all that we now know to have happened. The cab driver’s actions; the shooting of the police patrolman; the bashing on the head of the cabby when the killers ran out of ammunition. We’ve now accounted for all the bullets. They each started with a full magazine, it seems, and would indeed have run out by the time they thought of silencing the cabby. Bit of luck for him.’ He fell silent for a moment, then added, ‘Her every statement adds up.’
His tone was a shade too firm.
Bacchus picked up on it at once. ‘Tell us more about this passenger, Hopkirk. Unusual, don’t you think to come across an unaccompanied young woman out and about at that time? Did you discover what she was doing there?’
‘She said she was visiting a friend.’
‘A friend who, we presume, backed up her assertion?’
‘Um … no. We knocked on all doors in the vicinity, in the pursuit of our inquiries. No one claimed to know her. Including the local Lothario at number thirty-nine. His man denied all knowledge.’
‘But you have established her bona fides? I’m assuming she has been re-interviewed?’ Bacchus said.
Hopkirk hesitated for a moment. ‘We sent men to the address in Park Lane next morning … the one she gave us for the record and the one to which we returned her after interview at Gerard Street police station. No trace of her. She’s disappeared. Done a runner.’
Under the glare of the Branch men he referred to his notes. ‘Smart address. Upper-class rooming house. It took us a while to get past the major domo and the maid to the owner. A Mrs Throckmorton eventually deigned to give me her card.’ Hopkirk leafed through his notes again and unclipped a small, white, gilt-edged card. He passed it over the table.
Bacchus took it eagerly. ‘No idea this place existed,’ he said. ‘Is it kosher?’ He scanned the card again.
Mrs Adela Throckmorton.
Choice accommodation for single ladies visiting the city.
A home from home in Mayfair.
Congenial chaperonage arranged.
‘Chaperonage?’ he questioned.
‘They run a service escorting young ladies to concerts and exhibitions, the theatre, even shopping trips. They do pick-ups and deliveries to railway stations. You know — a sort of “Universal Aunts”.’
‘Mmm … no suggestion of an Uncles Unlimited facility, I suppose?’ Bacchus asked.
‘You’re not the only one with a dirty mind, Bacchus,’ said Hopkirk. ‘Thought did occur to Inspector Chappel here. This is Park Lane we’re talking about, within a stride or two of Pinks.’
‘And this is Inspector Chappel, late of Victoria Vice?’ Bacchus acknowledged with a raised eyebrow.
‘Sir. Confirm nothing untoward known on this establishment. I personally watched the place for an hour or two,’ said Chappel. ‘Lady guests coming and going. Some dropped off by Daddy and Mummy — or should I say Papa and Mama? Some being picked up by a succession of old boots in tweed skirts and sensible shoes. The Aunts, doubtless.’
‘Chappel, I want you to dig deeper and more energetically in this area. The girl was very keen on returning to Park Lane. You still have contacts?’ Sandilands asked.
‘How deep should I dig? That’s the question, sir. It’s posh round there. I could end up revealing cabinet ministers in their socks, military gents out of uniform, police chiefs in considerable embarrassment …’
‘All right, we get the picture, Chappel. Be discreet — but dig! Grease a few palms if you have to. I want this particular trail followed.’
‘Well, I’m taking Mrs Throckmorton’s for a dead end.’ Hopkirk took up the tale again, reddening. ‘Nothing known at the address she gave us.’
‘My fault.’ Joe broke in swiftly to stem his super’s embarrassment. ‘It was I who authorized her return to what she claimed as home. I was present for the last act of her performance. And what a turn she gave us. We should perhaps be combing the cast lists at the Old Vic to find her.’ He gave a rueful smile and admitted: ‘I even gave her my handkerchief!’
‘She’d already got through mine,’ Hopkirk grumbled.
‘Yes, I must say — and perhaps the superintendent will agree? — she was the perfect Mayfair gadabout. I still can’t picture her in the role of cold-blooded killer who turns up to witness an execution she has organized and paid for. And who coolly proceeds to deliver the coup de grâce herself when she sees that her minions have bungled it.’
Bacchus sighed with annoyance. ‘Never mind the character assessment. Can we stick to the facts? The gun? Was she searched?’
‘No. She could have put it into her bag. She had one of those little velvet dolly bags hanging on her wrist. A Browning’s not small but she could have got it in there.’ Hopkirk’s voice was leaden. ‘But — a Browning in a dolly bag? I ask you! Let’s be reasonable, shall we? This isn’t a woman’s crime. They don’t like guns. She probably had some perfectly acceptable female reason for being in the vicinity. It might not have been one she chose to share with the Old Bill but reasonable by her lights. Adultery … fornication … the usual.’ His voice was tight with distaste.
‘Takes two, Hopkirk, old chap … very often one of each sex … but in Melton Square?’ Joe laughed and pulled a face.
Bacchus and Fanshawe exchanged looks. After a moment, coming to a decision, Bacchus spoke for the Branch. ‘You’d be wrong to dismiss a female input,’ he said carefully. ‘Look here, gentlemen — we know there are Irish women heavily involved with the Fenian movement. And they are every bit as fanatical as the men.’ With a further glance of consultation with Fanshawe, he added: ‘Anyone who reads The Times will be aware of that much.’ He continued to speak slowly, weighing his words. ‘These are women who are adept with gun and bomb and doubtless dolly bag. We’ve been fortunate enough to extract … to come by … information from the inside regarding these recruitments.’
No one considered embarrassing the Branch by asking for further elaboration.
‘It’s what we feared. It begins to look as though we could have got one of those harridans over here,’ Captain Fanshawe commented, voicing everyone’s worst suspicions. ‘Fresh off the ferry? A sleeper recently activated? MI5 got anything useful?’
Joe shook his head. ‘Nothing they’re confiding to us, at any rate,’ he said, sidestepping the question. He was remembering the disturbing report by the head of Irish Intelligence delivered to the assembled group in Devon. Two or three women with links to the IRA had unaccountably gone missing. It was feared that one of them might be bringing her destructive rage to the capital.
‘I’m wondering if CID have scared her off. Did she h
ave any idea that you had suspicions of her?’ Fanshawe asked.
‘How could she? We didn’t!’ Inspector Chappel voiced his exasperation. ‘As far as she knows, she’s got clean away. Damn it! All the hankies she could use and a lift out of there!’
‘Followed by the sympathies of the crowd.’ Bacchus voiced his derision. ‘And she will therefore be feeling quite at liberty to take the next step in this escalating series of political murders.’ He made an effort not to sound triumphant. ‘Well, we are where we are. Snakes and ladders is a mighty good training for this sort of exercise. Welcome back to square one, gents!’
‘No. Welcome to the start of a fresh game,’ said Joe. ‘But this time we play with loaded dice. We look on this as a chance to move forward and up. Before we leave this room we’ll have exact plans in place for the next throw.’
Everyone nodded. Spines straightened, not unfriendly glances were exchanged across the table. The Branch men managed an easy smile.
‘And the scenario we have in mind? The list of targets we’ve supplied?’ Bacchus’s voice took on a chill drawl as he added: ‘I wouldn’t like to think our information was going to waste. A good deal of trouble — ours — and pain — others’ — went into the acquisition of that list. MI5, to whom we handed it, gave it very careful attention. The Home Secretary has commented.’
Joe spoke firmly. ‘It’s not being ignored by us either. The prime minister has had a copy, of course. But I’m not convinced that it was presented to Lloyd George with the right degree of urgency by our emissary. He was allowed space to dismiss it with a merry quip and a flourish of his usual Welsh panache. Rather preoccupied with the Russian menace, I’m afraid. I shall catch him myself at breakfast first thing tomorrow morning and draw his attention with some emphasis to the three names remaining. This calls for a degree of drama. Perhaps you could supply me with a fresh copy, James? A neat one. With heavy crossings out and asterisks by the last three?’
‘A little blood spatter with that, sir?’ Bacchus asked. ‘We can supply.’
‘No need.’ Joe didn’t hide his amusement. ‘One of those three names at least should give him pause. Might even make him choke on his toast and marmalade.’
He turned to the superintendent. ‘Hopkirk, I want your squad to continue to handle the admiral’s death as a civil case. Revisit the scene. Liaise with the press. Keep them on side. Make frequent mention of the Met’s involvement. This may be the moment to adopt the French style of crime reporting. The Branch has to hide itself from the public eye but there’s no reason why the CID shouldn’t show its face. Everyone loves a hero. Next time the flash bulbs pop, present your handsome features to the camera lens instead of the palm of your hand, Hopkirk.’
Bacchus peered across the table at the superintendent, affecting an interest. ‘Full face or side on, sir? In view of the idiosyncratic nose-line, I wonder if you have a preference?’
Joe chose to take the question seriously. ‘Full face. And take your hat off, Hopkirk. One look at your leonine head and the country will see a battered Beowulf. And feel itself in safe hands. Didn’t he promise to return to his people in their hour of need?’
‘That was King Arthur, sir.’
‘That was Sir Francis Drake, sir.’
Bacchus and Fanshawe offered simultaneous information.
‘Never short of a hero at any rate, this country of ours,’ said Joe comfortably. ‘Someone always steps forward. And just think, Hopkirk, what one compelling image did for Lord Kitchener!’
‘Sir!’ Buoyed by Joe’s tongue-in-cheek flattery, Hopkirk felt cheerful enough to offer the table his version of the famous Kitchener glare and a parody of the Kitchener gesture. ‘And I’ll remember not to give ’em the finger.’
‘Oh — and better to convey the clear impression we are looking no further. Stress that we have the villains under lock and key. We have their confessions. The next man to deliver judgement on the matter will be Sir Archibald Bodkin.’
‘Wearing his little black cap,’ said Fanshawe with relish.
‘James … time, I think, to narrow our focus and let the Branch loose to do what the Branch does best — anticipate, protect, save lives. And we’ll start by reinstating the security squads we’d set up.’
‘In the light of events, I don’t anticipate any opposition this time round.’ Bacchus grinned. His expression grew more sombre as he murmured: ‘Even from Winston. Though he’ll be a dashed awkward subject. Old soldier that he is, he expects to look after himself. And he can. I wouldn’t want to try conclusions with him.’
‘Are we thinking Winston is the next one on the list then?’ Chappel asked.
‘No. This organization, if organization it is,’ Bacchus added with a concessionary glance at Hopkirk, ‘would seem to be going for that moment of weakness, that chink in the armour offered by a person who finds himself — temporarily — both socially and geographically disoriented.’
They all frowned, trying to work out what he meant.
‘You mean — General Lansing was just back off the boat from Ireland and making his way home down his own street, whistling “Rule Britannia”, when he was accosted and shot at? Admiral Dedham, ditto, and had got as far as his own doorstep … I see …’ Inspector Chappel gave voice to all their fears. ‘Oh my Gawd! You know, don’t you?’ He glowered at Bacchus. ‘Who and when. Who’s going to cop it next and when it’ll happen. You bloody know!’
Joe noted the foreboding that descended suddenly on the four-in-hand as the name of the target burst on them, but in an effort to change the mood and move the meeting on to the next and all-important stage he spoke lightly. ‘And I want this operation … um …’ He hesitated then smiled round the table. ‘Let’s play Boy Scouts for a moment and give it a name! Why not? I think we can allow ourselves a little frivolity, in view of the unpleasantness that would appear to be waiting to bite us in the bum. I’m reaching for a female name … Operation Morrigan — that’ll do. What do you say?’ He looked round the table, gathering the assenting nods and smiles. ‘I want Operation Morrigan to get under way at once.’
‘It’s all in hand, I think you’ll find, sir,’ Bacchus assured him smoothly. ‘Fanshawe has the details somewhere. Go and get them, will you, Rupert? We left them on the side table over by the window. Semper paratus as we say in the Right Royal Cock-ups. The Scouts don’t have all the best sentiments. We’ll be delighted to show the CID how to prevent a killing. We don’t want to leave them with any more “murders” to clear up.’ His smile faded. ‘And if we get it wrong, we’ll all be for the chop. We’ll have on our hands the most infamous political assassination on English soil since King Rufus got it in the eye in the New Forest.’
‘Lung. I think you’ll find it was an arrow to the lung, Bacchus,’ Hopkirk corrected. ‘I’ve never been able to decide whether the guilty party was his friend Walter or his brother Henry. Whichever it was, they left an unsolved mystery and a body lying on the forest floor. Fascinating! I’d love to have done the scene of crime stuff on that! But none of us wants to see the next name on that ruddy list of yours lying dead on the streets of London. I’ll gladly forgo the chance of solving the crime of the century to preserve the life of any one of the three fine Britons on Bacchus’s list,’ he concluded, with an unaccustomed show of patriotism that was rewarded with curt nods from the Branch.
Inspector Chappel leaned to Hopkirk under cover of the stir-about that occurred as the detailed planning with its accompanying maps and charts began to be laid out. ‘Who the hell’s Morrigan, when she’s at home?’ he hissed in his ear.
Hopkirk snorted and shot a glance at Sandilands. ‘Deity in the Celtic pantheon, you’ll find, Bert. Seat at the gods’ top table. Specializing in mischief and mayhem — she’s the flame-haired Irish goddess of terror,’ he murmured. ‘And she’s in our back yard.’
Chapter Seventeen
Applying the handbrake, Albert tipped back the brim of his bowler hat like a visor and squinted a challenge at the mock
baronial flourishes of New Scotland Yard. He was not overawed. Any of Cromwell’s Ironsides sizing up King Charles’s palace would have shown the same derision and loathing. And intent to take by storm, Lily thought, admiring.
Boldly, he’d driven Jacob’s Buick in through the Derby Street entrance into the courtyard and pulled up by the grand public entrance.
The duty constable hurried forward at once, impressed and alarmed by the ostentatious motor car. ‘May I help you, sir?’ he asked stiffly. ‘Vehicles belonging to the general public are not authorized to park here,’ he added. ‘I shall have to ask you to move on.’ He eyed Lily, puzzled to see a woman in evening stole and lip rouge in the confines of the Yard.
‘We’re not general — we’re very particular public,’ growled Albert in his basso profundo. ‘And, yes, you may help us, Sunny Jim. Go inside to reception and tell Commander Sandilands his date for the evening is waiting below.’
The constable reacted at once to the name and hurried inside. He came out a minute later. ‘The commander is in his office and would be pleased to receive … um …’ He consulted a notebook, raised an eyebrow and battled on: ‘Miss Matty Harry, I believe he said? And requests her to kindly nip upstairs. She knows the way, he says.’ He gave Lily a playful but admiring salute before going back inside.
‘Cheeky blighter,’ Albert commented. ‘Can’t even get your name right. Are you sure about this, Miss Lily? There’s some rum coves work in this building,’ he went on, surprising her. Albert’s communications were normally restricted to ‘yes’ and ‘no’ or, at best, a grudging ‘if you say so, Miss Phyl’. ‘There’s men in there with wide smiles and serpents’ tongues. Not to be trusted, any of ’em.’ He turned a look on her that might almost have been thought tender. ‘I mean not any of ’em. Watch it, Miss Lily. Me, I’d line ’em up and machine-gun the whole boiling.’
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