“I would.”
“Mr. Cornell, I believe that’s your cue,” said Sparks.
A man stood behind the table. He was small, with thinning hair and a narrow nose on a narrow face. The sort of man who would be unnoticed in a crowd. Or standing alone.
“My name is Morris Cornell,” he said. “I am a licensed private investigator. I was hired by The Right Sort Marriage Bureau to maintain surveillance on the front entrance to their building on Saturday afternoon, and to photograph everyone going in and out. I was situated in a car parked about eighty feet down the block, and was using a Zeiss fifty-millimeter lens.”
He held up a manila folder, then removed a stack of photographs from it.
“These are the pictures I took. At one twenty-six, a Bentley pulled up in front of the building. Three people got out: the driver—a man—and two passengers, both women.”
He removed three pictures, showing close-ups of Stallings, Lady Matheson, and Mrs. Fisher.
“This woman is our contact with the Queen,” said Sparks, pointing out Lady Matheson. “With her are her secretary and bodyguard.”
“So much for keeping our identities hidden,” said Lady Matheson. “I’m taking this damned thing off. It’s ruined my hair.”
She peeled off her ski mask. Mrs. Fisher and Stallings followed her lead. Mrs. Fisher stood nervously, eyes shooting about, while Stallings stood expressionless, his body tensed and ready to leap into the fray.
“As you wish,” said Sparks. “Please proceed, Mr. Cornell.”
“Here you see them entering the building at one twenty-seven,” he said, holding up another picture. “You can get a glimpse of Miss Sparks at the door. Now, one minute later, this fellow shows up.”
The photograph showed a powerfully built man with blond hair, wearing a cheap brown suit that fit him tightly across his chest.
“The next picture shows him entering the building. There was a period of time when nothing happened. Then at eight minutes past two, he came out again. He moved quickly in my direction, then crossed the street. I got one more quick shot, which showed his face, then put my camera down so he wouldn’t see what I was doing. He got into a car across the street from me and drove off.”
Sparks picked up the close-up picture and held it up for all to see, then walked over to Sally, who looked at it.
“That’s the man I saw come out of the warehouse,” he said. “The one with the limp.”
“Mr. Cornell, did he walk with a limp when you saw him?”
“No, Miss Sparks, he did not.”
She turned to face their former captive, looking at him contemptuously.
“How about it?” she said, holding it up.
“That’s him, you clever little witch,” he said.
“Know him?”
“Never saw him before that afternoon.”
She turned back to her audience.
“Three men found their way to that warehouse before we arrived,” she said. “Sally has told you how he learned about the location. This man got that information as we did—from the conversation in the office.”
“But he was never in the office,” protested Lady Matheson. “He couldn’t have been—my bodyguard was—Oh!”
Stallings made a break for the door, but Archie’s men were waiting. There was a struggle in the dark, then a blow and a cry. Then two of them brought Stallings forwards into the light, holding his arms behind his back. A bruise was forming on his jaw.
“Five thousand pounds is a lot of money, isn’t it, Mr. Stallings?” Sparks asked softly. “You were standing right outside our door, guarding—and listening. You passed the information to your confederate, who was waiting on the stairwell, and off he went.”
“He wasn’t supposed to kill no one,” said Stallings. “He never knew the Greek fellow was going to be there.”
“No, he was waiting with a knife for two young women to show up with a bag of money,” she said. “What was he going to do to the two young women? Especially if they resisted? Who was he, Stallings?”
Stallings said nothing.
“We don’t need you to answer that question,” she said. “This morning, I brought copies of these photographs and the results of our investigation to Detective Superintendent Parham of the CID. Get any results yet?”
“As a matter of fact, we have,” said a man, stepping forwards.
He removed his mask and nodded convivially at the room, smiling slightly as most of the spivs recoiled.
“At ease, gentlemen,” said Parham. “I’m with the Homicide and Serious Crime Command. Your preferred activities don’t interest me at the moment. Mr. Stallings, this afternoon we arrested Zacharias Stallings on suspicion of the murder of Nikolas Magoulias. A cousin of yours, I believe?”
Stallings said nothing, his body sagging between the two men holding him.
“Upon examination of the suspect, we found a recent knife wound on the back of his right calf,” continued Parham. “It had become rather badly infected, I’m afraid, so he is currently in hospital, but we expect him to pull through well enough to face the gallows. When the ladies have finished their presentation, I shall be taking you into custody for conspiracy and other charges. Ladies?”
“Thank you, Detective Superintendent,” said Mrs. Bainbridge. “Now, that accounts for the murderer’s presence at the scene, but what about the late Mr. Magoulias? How did he get there? Was he also there for the money? We believe it was for something else. We suspected at first that there might have been a plot to destroy the budding romance between Prince Philip and Princess Elizabeth. The elevation of a member of the Greek royal family in exile to this status would be a tremendous boost to those supporting their restoration to the throne, while Prince Philip’s disgrace would provide equal support to those opposing it. But we realised—”
“You realised,” said Sparks. “Take credit where it is due.”
“I realised that the sender of the letters must have known they’d be intercepted by Lady Matheson, which means they were intended for her, not the princess. And when we received the photographs from Mr. Cornell, we realised that the origin of this scheme, at its heart, was something even more tawdry. Mr. Cornell, if you would?”
“Certainly, ma’am,” he said, holding up more photographs. “I continued to maintain my watch as instructed. At twelve minutes past two, the three people from the Bentley exited the building. The driver, as you see here, held the door for the ladies. The one who was in charge got in first, followed by the shorter one. The car then drove off. Now, look at the sidewalk here.” He pointed at a small bit of white that was resting by the curb next to where the car had been parked.
“If you compare it with this photograph from before they came out, you’ll notice that the sidewalk was clear,” he said, holding up an earlier one. “Look again at the ladies entering the car. Look closely at the right hand of the shorter lady. There’s a bit of white showing as she gets in. I was lucky enough to catch it as it fell from her now empty hand.”
A woman began to weep in the darkness.
“Immediately after the Bentley departs, this gentleman walks up,” continued Cornell. He had caught Magoulias mid-stride. The following sequence of photographs showed Magoulias stopping in front of the building, kneeling and reaching for the scrap of paper, reading it, then dashing back to a nearby car.
“We don’t know for which faction Mr. Magoulias worked,” said Mrs. Bainbridge. “We suspect one in league with the Soviets, given that this despicable plot had its genesis in British Intelligence. It was cooked up to draw out spies who had infiltrated the Palace, and whatever networks they were connected to. In this case, by throwing red meat into shark-infested waters. Only the plan didn’t anticipate another plot, one based on simple, brutal greed, getting in the way. We don’t know which man got there first, but they were both armed, and both ready to kill. Mr. Magoulias was sent to his doom by the woman who dropped that note. Mrs. Fisher, come into the light, please.”
&n
bsp; “No!” Mrs. Fisher shrieked, struggling in the grasp of two spivs who had come up behind her. “It wasn’t like that! I’m loyal, Lady Matheson. You must believe me!”
“What is happening to me?” asked Lady Matheson faintly.
“To you, nothing,” said Sparks. “You’ve done nothing other than hire one spy and one thief for your staff. Happens to the best of us. Well, not to Mrs. Bainbridge and me—we don’t have a staff.”
“Hey,” objected Sally.
“You’re not staff, darling, you’re a freelance private contractor.”
“Oh. That’s all right, then.”
“So now that we’ve caught these two, there is only one thing left to do,” said Mrs. Bainbridge.
She picked up the shoebox containing the letters, walked over to one of the drums, and upended the box. Blue and cream-colored stationery cascaded into the fire, causing a momentary flare.
“No!” cried Lady Matheson.
“What’s the matter?” asked Mrs. Bainbridge, turning to her. “‘Burning them would be the best course of action.’ Those were your exact words, weren’t they?”
“Of course,” stammered Lady Matheson. “But—”
“Anything else would suggest that you still had ulterior motives for these letters,” continued Mrs. Bainbridge. “Such as using them to influence the selection of the princess’s future consort. Perhaps steering her away from Prince Philip so that some favourite of yours, or of one for whom you are working, might benefit.”
“I wouldn’t—”
“Or just to hold as a threat over her husband after the marriage. You do play the long game, Patience. Your name was well chosen. But this is all idle speculation on our part, isn’t it?” Mrs. Bainbridge walked over to her cousin, drawing herself up to her full height to look down at her.
“Isn’t it?” she asked again.
“Burning them was the proper thing to do,” said Lady Matheson, choking slightly on the words. “You saved me a match.”
“Then I think we’re done,” said Sparks brightly. “Thank you all for coming. Leave your masks with the lads outside.”
The Brigadier walked up to the edge of the firelight.
“Detective Superintendent,” he said.
Parham turned towards him. The Brigadier pulled out his wallet, removed a card, and showed it to him.
“Right,” said Parham. “She’s yours. But Stallings is mine.”
“That will be satisfactory,” said the Brigadier. “Take her to my car.”
His driver took Mrs. Fisher from the men holding her and led her away.
Parham turned to the spivs holding Stallings. “Now, would you two fellows mind taking my prisoner to my car?” asked Parham. “It’s parked a block away. I’ll meet you outside.”
“Look at us, assisting Scotland Yard in their enquiries,” muttered one of the spivs as they dragged Stallings towards the door. “I’ll never be able to look anyone in the face again.”
“Wait!” commanded Lady Matheson.
They stopped. She walked up and stood in front of them.
“Stallings?” she said.
“I’m sorry, Lady Matheson,” he said. “I never meant for it to—”
“The keys, Stallings. I need the keys for the Bentley.”
One of the spivs patted Stallings’s pockets, then reached into his coat and pulled them out. “Here you are, lady,” he said, handing them to her.
“Goodbye, Stallings,” she said.
She turned and walked back to Sparks and Mrs. Bainbridge, without watching as the spivs dragged him away. “What about the money?” she asked. “I assume, since it wasn’t exchanged for the letters, that you still have it.”
“Most of it,” said Mrs. Bainbridge, fetching the other shoebox from the table and opening it. It was filled with banknotes, with a neatly typed sheet of paper on top. “There were expenses,” she said. “The rental on this building for one night was surprisingly affordable.”
“So glad to hear it,” said Lady Matheson. “I shall host my next party here.”
“But the security costs were hefty,” said Sparks. “Along with the fee for Mr. Cornell, the consultation with our forger, and some miscellaneous items. It’s all there in the itemised inventory on top. We took the liberty of deducting those portions to save you the trouble of writing so many cheques.”
“How thoughtful of you,” said Lady Matheson. She looked down at the car keys in her hand. “I don’t know how to drive,” she said. “Is there anyone here who can bring me and the car back without depriving me of both car and money?”
“Sounds like a call for Odd-Job Boy,” said Sally, holding out his hand for the keys.
“Do you trust this man?” Lady Matheson asked Mrs. Bainbridge, looking up at Sally dubiously.
“With my life,” she replied.
“Very well,” said Lady Matheson, tossing him the keys. “Come along.”
“Oi, Big Man,” said a spiv, coming forwards. “You do any fighting? You could make a nice bit of change. We could set something up.”
A momentary spasm of self-loathing passed across Sally’s face. Then he collected himself and stared down at the spiv.
“Sir, I am a man of the theatre,” he declared haughtily. “I detest actual violence in all of its forms. Good evening to you, ladies and gentlemen. Oh, and one more thing. ‘This day is call’d the feast of Crispian. He that outlives this day—’”
“Oh, bloody hell!” cried someone in dismay.
“‘And comes safe home,’” continued Sally, “‘will stand a tip-toe when this day is named, and rouse him at the name of Crispian!’ There’s more, but I have to drive this lady to the Palace.”
He bowed with a flourish, then followed Lady Matheson out the door.
“Well, ladies, that’s two murders solved in two months,” observed Parham. “You’re giving us quite a run for the money.”
“You can have the next one,” said Sparks wearily. “Did you ever find out who called the police to the scene?”
“It was Zacharias. He was hoping to have you keep them occupied while he made his escape. Now, as to the man who attacked you—”
“He’s ours as well,” said the Brigadier.
“Is that so?” asked Parham. “I must say, I don’t like the game you’ve been playing in my city.”
“You protect the city, we the Empire,” said the Brigadier.
“I’m still of a mind to haul you ladies in for kidnapping and interfering with an official police investigation,” continued Parham. “Not to mention destroying evidence right before my very eyes.”
“As to the kidnapping, I don’t believe there will be a complainant,” said Sparks, looking at their former captive, who was standing next to the Brigadier. “Will there?”
He gave her a long look, then shook his head.
“Nor will we be pressing charges against him,” said Mrs. Bainbridge. “As for destroying evidence, wait one second.”
She walked off into the shadows, then returned, carrying another shoebox.
“We don’t expect the Stallings cousins to go to trial,” she said. “If they do, then of course you may use these. But once they’ve been sentenced, we expect you to consign these to the fires.”
She handed him the box. He opened it and peered inside to find the complete set of fake correspondence.
“The ones you burned?” he asked.
“Blank stationery purchased for the purpose, of course.”
“But you read one.”
“I have an excellent memory, Detective Superintendent. Too good, sometimes.”
“Right, that’s two crimes swept away. As for interfering with a police investigation?”
“We apologise,” said Mrs. Bainbridge, casting her eyes downward.
“And we promise never to do it again,” added Sparks.
Parham looked back and forth at the two, then nodded.
“See that you don’t,” he said brusquely.
Then he walked out,
the shoebox tucked under his arm.
A man began to applaud in the darkness. Torgos walked up, still masked.
“Satisfied?” asked Sparks.
“Very entertaining,” he said. “You know that the Greeks invented theatre.”
“Yes,” she replied. “But the English perfected it.”
Torgos turned to the Brigadier.
“You will let us know what you learn about their networks,” he said.
“We’ll talk.”
“We always talk,” said Torgos. “You never say anything. Good night, ladies. Perhaps we will tango again some evening.”
He and his son walked out, handing their masks to the spiv at the door.
Sparks turned to the letter carrier.
“We still don’t know your name,” she said.
“And you’re not going to.”
“How’s the hand?”
“Hurts.”
“It’s your own damn fault. You were stupid. You overplayed the situation. All you had to do was exchange the letters for the money, but you thought it would be fun to terrorise two defenseless women. Put a gun to one, run your hands over the other.”
“Thought you enjoyed that,” sneered the man.
“You picked the wrong women,” said Sparks. “You got off light. If I ever see you again, it won’t be a dart, and it won’t be your hand. Take your boy home, Brigadier.”
“Come along,” said the Brigadier, walking towards the exit. The man followed him.
Around them, men were slipping out of different doors into the night. Two folded up the table and carried it out, waving to the women as they did.
“And that’s that,” said Gwen as she waved back.
“That’s that,” agreed Iris. “Excuse me.”
She walked up to one of the remaining masked men, threw her arms around his neck and kissed him hard.
“’Ow did you know it was me?” said Archie, lifting his mask.
“What makes you think I did?” replied Iris.
“Oh, that’s nice, that is. I thought we ’ad a rule about kissing while conducting business.”
“You should know by now that I’m not good at following rules,” she said. “Profitable night?”
“Profitable and entertaining,” he said. “Think we’ll get invited to the royal wedding?”
A Royal Affair Page 29