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 consta
ble 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.
Chapter Twenty-Six
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