The prisoner looked at the three of them.
“You do,” he said. “Where are we going?”
“Somewhere other than here,” said the man, tossing him a key. “Unlock the cuff from your wrist. Get up nice and slow, put your ’ands behind your back, and face the wall.”
The man complied, moving slowly. The three men converged on him, the outer two grabbing his arms while the one in the center handcuffed him. The man did not twitch.
“Well done,” acknowledged the leader. “I’m afraid the ski mask ’as to come on again. We don’t want you retracing your steps back ’ere.”
“Why?” said the captive. “Do you think I’ve acquired a liking for these accommodations?”
“I should ’ave added, we also need you to shut up until further notice.”
He grabbed the prisoner by the shoulders, turned him around, and pulled a ski cap over his face, reversed so the solid side covered his eyes.
“Right then,” he said. “Time to go. Mind the doorway.”
* * *
The Bentley pulled up to the corner of Norbiton and Salmon. It was a quiet, narrow residential street. The Brigadier and his driver looked around.
“Good choice,” observed the driver. “She can see if we’re being followed, and there’s plenty of places to get to on foot in case of trouble.”
“Sparks has a knack for escaping,” agreed the Brigadier. He caught movement off to his right. “Bogey at three o’clock,” he said.
“I see him,” replied the driver, easing his gun from his holster.
A man dressed in a pinstripe suit with a hideously wide tie ambled up to the vehicle. He held his jacket open, then turned slowly. No weapons were visible. He tapped on the window. The driver rolled it down, keeping his free hand on his weapon.
“You’ll be the gents Miss Sparks is meeting,” said the man.
“Who are you?” asked the driver.
“Call me Petheridge,” said the man. “Or better yet, call me Orpheus. I am your guide to the underworld.”
“Tell us where to go,” said the Brigadier wearily.
“I don’t tell you, I show you,” said the man. “I ’ave to go with you. Frisk me first, if you like. I would, if I were in your shoes.”
“Frisk him,” ordered the Brigadier.
The driver got out and patted the man down.
“He’s clean,” he said.
“Next to godly, I’m so clean,” agreed the man. “I’ll get in back with you, shall I?”
“Get in front,” said the Brigadier.
“You and me, then,” said the man to the driver as he sat next to him. “It’s all about the separation of classes with these blokes. Oppression of the working man.”
“This working man needs to know where we’re going,” said the driver.
“Of course. Take the next left.”
* * *
Stallings stopped the Bentley at the location and looked around suspiciously.
“I don’t see them anywhere,” he said.
“Are you sure this is the right address?” asked Lady Matheson.
“It’s the one she gave me,” said Mrs. Fisher, checking her note. “I made her repeat it. This is the place.”
“There’s someone coming up,” said Stallings, getting set to put the car in gear.
“Are you Lady Matheson?” asked a man at her window.
“I am. Who are you?”
“I’m to take you to Mrs. Bainbridge,” he said. “I’ll need to get into the car.”
“Not bloody likely,” said Stallings.
“I don’t like this man,” said Mrs. Fisher. “He frightens me.”
“It’s all right, folks,” said the man. “You can trust me, or my name ain’t Catherine Prescott.”
Stallings glanced back at the two women.
“Let him in,” said Lady Matheson.
“Oh dear,” Mrs. Fisher said with a shudder.
* * *
“You’re the Greek fellow?” said the spiv to Torgos as Tadeo drove.
“That depends on who is asking,” he replied.
“I got to see Athens while I was in the navy. Best-looking girls in the whole war, except for Cairo. You been to Cairo?”
“Many times. Where are we going?”
“We’re almost there. Take the next right.”
* * *
The Brigadier’s car pulled into a lot enclosed by a board fence next to a dark warehouse. There was another Bentley there already.
“Put these on,” said their guide, handing them black ski masks and donning one himself.
“Why?” asked the Brigadier.
“Because it’s a masked ball, innit? Now, do me the courtesy of leaving any weapons inside the car. It’s my turn to do the frisking.”
“Sir?” asked the driver.
“Do it,” said the Brigadier, putting his Browning in the compartment where the whisky had sat. “I have the feeling we’re outgunned tonight.”
The driver left his gun in the glove compartment and stepped out of the vehicle.
“Who else is here?” asked the Brigadier.
“Other people in masks,” replied their guide as he patted them down. “Should be a lark. Gentlemen, please follow me.”
* * *
Torgos’s car arrived shortly thereafter. He and Tadeo looked at the ski masks dubiously when they stepped out.
“Why?” he asked.
“Because that’s how the ladies wanted it,” said the spiv. “And leave your weapons in the car.”
“And if we choose to keep them?”
The spiv whistled sharply through his teeth, and a dozen masked men appeared out of a dozen locations, guns out.
“I don’t see as you have any choice on that,” said the spiv, backing out of the line of fire. “Remove them ’olding the butts between your thumbs and forefingers. Toss them in the car. Lovely. Masks on, then follow me.”
Torgos and Tadeo followed as the rest of the men took up positions around the warehouse.
It was almost pitch black inside once the doors were closed. Torgos sensed others nearby, but couldn’t count how many.
“You stand ’ere,” said the spiv, bringing Torgos and Tadeo forwards. “Team three in position. Take it away, ladies.”
A pair of matches were struck in the middle of the space, revealing Sparks and Mrs. Bainbridge, standing ten feet apart. They dropped the lit matches into a pair of oil drums filled with scrap lumber. The wood must have been soaked in paraffin, for it immediately caught fire, shooting flames several feet up in the air, illuminating a small table holding a pair of shoeboxes and a bit of the area around it.
Others stood at the perimeters of the room, barely visible. All were masked. Most were men, but Torgos glimpsed a pair of women on the other edge of the light cast by the fires.
Sparks and Mrs. Bainbridge stepped between the fires, arms raised to the ceiling.
“Given the Greek aspects of this matter, we thought it would be appropriate to invoke the rituals of Delphi,” said Sparks. “It was there, at the Omphalos, the navel of the world, that both the mighty and the small would come to seek the higher truth. It was recorded by Plato that carved into the temple walls were three phrases: gnōthi seautón, or ‘Know thyself,’ a worthy admonition that nevertheless scares the hell out of me; mēdén ágan, or ‘Nothing in excess,’ another useful piece of advice that I routinely ignore; and my personal favourite, engýa pára d’atē, which translates roughly as ‘Make a pledge and mischief is nigh,’ which anyone who has ever tried to marry me would know is certainly the case.”
“Welcome, ladies and gentlemen,” intoned Mrs. Bainbridge. “You are now in the Temple of Delphi, and we are your Oracles.”
CHAPTER 15
The space was huge, with rusting beams crossing high overhead, unlit lamps dangling from them like jellyfish floating in the night seas. The corrugated metal roof met the irregular walls at odd angles, so sound was reflected strangely, sending footsteps from
locations that were empty, while silence surrounded whoever lurked in the darkness pervading the room’s outer reaches.
The light cast from the oil drums didn’t illuminate much. Small clumps of shadowy figures could be glimpsed, scattered about like standing stones, the only brightness being the loud wide ties that marked the many spivs present.
There were guns in the darkness. They were hidden away, but of this, one could have no doubt. Mrs. Fisher, under her mask, certainly had none, her head swiveling around like an owl’s, trying to detect hidden threats.
“Introductions first,” said Mrs. Bainbridge. “I am Mrs. Gwendolyn Bainbridge. This is Miss Iris Sparks. We are the proprietors of The Right Sort Marriage Bureau in Mayfair.
“Not everyone here knows everyone else, but that’s the basis for a good party, don’t you think? I won’t introduce you, because that ruins the point of the masks. Each of you has some information or connection relevant to this matter, and we want all of you to walk away at the end of our presentation sufficiently enlightened so that you can get on with your lives without further assistance from us. Miss Sparks?”
“Thank you, Mrs. Bainbridge,” said Sparks. “On Monday last we were retained by representatives of the Queen. An anonymous letter had been sent to Princess Elizabeth, which they intercepted. It read, ‘I have what Talbot found in Corfu. I know what he knew. Ask Alice if she wants them back. There will be a price.’ We were asked to investigate if there was any potential scandal in the family of Prince Philip, Alice’s son, who is a suitor of our princess.
“Talbot turned out to be a member of British Intelligence, stationed in Athens at the end of the Great War. We learned that in 1921, he had been instrumental in saving the life of Prince Andrea, Philip’s father, and spiriting away the rest of his family, including Princess Alice, from their villa on Corfu. In a subsequent letter, our Mr. X stated that he had a trove of love letters between Princess Alice and another man, recovered by Talbot from the villa. Letters that could throw into question the legitimacy of Prince Philip.”
“This past Saturday afternoon, still acting on behalf of the Queen, we went to a rendezvous with Mr. X to obtain the letters,” continued Mrs. Bainbridge. “The Queen’s representative received the address on our office telephone. It was a bombed-out building at Poplar Dock. Inside, we found a dead man. He had been stabbed repeatedly. He had a dagger of his own with blood on its tip. His name, or at least the name on his ident card, was Nikolas Magoulias. The letters were not on the body.”
“We escaped from the scene with the assistance of a friend of ours who was waiting in a motorboat,” said Sparks. “We thought that was the end of it—but then Mr. X decided to make a personal visit to our office after we got back. He tried to initiate hostilities. There was a bit of a fracas, and when all was said and done, we were in possession of both the letters and Mr. X himself.”
“Which presented us with a number of choices,” said Mrs. Bainbridge. “The first was to go straight to the police with everything we knew, of course, but the happiness of the royal family was at stake. There was no ensuring that the letters would stay secret, and without learning more, we might have been playing into the very hands of the man or men who had concocted this scheme in the first place.”
“Scheme? What scheme?” called out Torgos.
“We’re coming to that,” said Mrs. Bainbridge. “I read the letters. They described a torrid affair between Princess Alice and another man. They made for a convincing narrative, and cast much doubt on Prince Philip’s parentage.”
She paused and glanced around the room.
“And they were fakes,” she said vehemently, “as I am about to prove.”
She went over to the table holding the shoeboxes, removed the lid from one, and plucked out a cream-coloured piece of paper.
“They were written in German,” she said. “I am going to translate for the benefit of those who do not speak it.”
She cleared her throat, held the letter up to the firelight, and read.
My darling,
It was wrong of you to kiss me. It was wrong of me to let you. I cannot, cannot believe that I followed you to the roof while the others were dancing, but Andrea was so oblivious, and you were so kind. The touch of your hand on my waist as we danced was agony—that that, and mine on your shoulder and our other hands clasped were all the contact that we were allowed was a cruel jest. But then we slipped away and found ourselves high above the world, dancing on the roof, our bodies drawing ever closer, the strains of the music drifting up from the ballroom so far below. I could no more have withstood you in that moment than I could a hurricane.
She finished and looked around expectantly.
“Well?” she asked. “Don’t you see how that proves they weren’t written by Alice?”
“No,” called one of the spivs. “But I wouldn’t mind ’earing you read that one again!”
“Sir, you are a romantic underneath that mask,” she said as the raucous laughter of the man and his mates echoed through the room. “Here’s the thing: she claimed to have heard the music from inside the hotel several storeys below while she was being kissed on the rooftop. Neat trick—considering Princess Alice was deaf.”
There was silence in the room as she looked around. Sparks grinned in approval.
“There were other references of that nature,” said Mrs. Bainbridge. “Birds chirping in the trees, rushing cataracts, and the like. Either love made a miracle happen for a relatively short term, or these are forgeries.”
“When Mrs. Bainbridge told me this, I wanted a second opinion,” said Sparks. “As it happens, I know an excellent forger from my days with British Intelligence. I’m guessing many of you know him, too. We took some of the letters to him, and guess what? He said they were the genuine article!”
“I was gobsmacked,” said Mrs. Bainbridge.
“But then something peculiar happened,” said Sparks. “That same night, we were picked up by British Intelligence and questioned about the late Mr. Magoulias, the still living Mr. X, and the letters. This wouldn’t have happened unless my friend the forger had called them up the moment we left to let them know that we did have the letters, despite the failure at the rendezvous.”
“And the conclusion you drew from that?” prompted Mrs. Bainbridge.
“That we had brought the letters to be verified by the very man who had created them,” said Sparks. She turned to look at the Brigadier, who stood impassively in his mask. “And that he was doing it on behalf of British Intelligence,” she concluded.
“Why would British Intelligence go to all this trouble, Sparks?” the Brigadier asked.
“Why does British Intelligence do anything nowadays?” she asked. “To winnow out the spies in our midst. Which brings us back to the most important question: who killed Magoulias?”
“And the question you should be asking us first is, how did our friend get to the rendezvous point ahead of us?” asked Mrs. Bainbridge. “For that, we must call him as our next witness. Sally?”
The silent manifestation of Sally’s massive physique out of the dark caused a stir in the room.
“Theatre in the round,” he muttered to Mrs. Bainbridge. “I love it!”
He stepped between the fires and held out his arms, embracing the invisible audience.
“O for a Muse of fire, that would ascend the brightest heaven of invention!” he declaimed.
“Sally?” interrupted Mrs. Bainbridge.
“A kingdom for a stage—”
“Sally,” said Sparks.
“Princes to act and monarchs to behold the swelling scene!”
“Sally!” cried the two women together.
“Sorry,” said Sally. “I couldn’t resist. That’s from Henry the Fifth, Act One—”
“We know the bloody play,” called one of the spivs. “Get on with the important bits. You can do the Saint Crispin’s Day speech later.”
“Yeah, after we’re gone,” added another.
“Critics everywhere,” Sally sighed. “Call me Sally. I am a friend and odd-job boy to these two. On Saturday afternoon, at the request of Miss Sparks, I embarked on one of the odder jobs I’ve ever been given. I stood under the window of The Right Sort. A note came fluttering down, giving me the time and place of a rendezvous, though, alas, not one of a romantic nature. We had allowed for a number of contingencies. This one required escape by water. I jumped on a motorcycle, roared through the streets to where I had a boat stashed, and putt-putted my way to a location by Poplar Dock, where I maintained vigil with a pair of opera glasses.
“Shortly after my arrival, I observed a man emerge from the warehouse, toss something into the Thames, then limp off. Minutes later, Miss Sparks and Mrs. Bainbridge came through that same door, and I transported them away.”
“As I stated, we have Mr. X,” said Sparks. “Bring him forwards, lads.”
The captive, now with his hands free and his face visible, was shoved towards them. Sally peered at him closely. The man smirked.
“No,” said Sally. “That’s not him at all.”
“Right,” said the man. “So I can go?”
“We’re not done with you,” said Sparks. “Thank you, Sally. Stand by for a moment.”
She beckoned to someone behind the table.
“The main point of Sally’s story was to show how we could get someone else to the rendezvous point ahead of us on short notice,” she said. “Obviously, two other men also got there: Mr. Magoulias and his killer, the limping man. You also saw the limping man?”
“Yes,” said the captive. “I don’t know when he got there. He must have come up from the other side. But I saw him come out.”
“So you would recognise him if you saw a photograph?”
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