Barbara Cleverly - The Blood Royal

As the small silver coin disappeared with coos and muttered thanks into the depths of Ethel’s pocket, Lily put her hat back on and stood up. ‘Well — I can see I shall have to go back to Paddington and pick up my suitcase before I knock on Mrs Royston’s door. Landladies don’t take kindly to females who appear with no luggage on their doorsteps and I see this is a very respectable part of town. A good five bob’s worth! Keep your eyes peeled for the rozzers, kids! Especially the ones with the moustaches. They’re the nastiest.’

Joe was uneasy. He prowled about his office closing drawers and straightening pictures. He tapped the wall clock and checked it against his wristwatch. They agreed that it was now two o’clock. Where’d she got to? He’d quite forgotten to tell her they were expected at Cassandra Dedham’s house for tea. Would she make an appearance back at the Yard in time to accompany him?

A phone call had come from Princess Ratziatinsky at noon to say that Wentworth had left. He wanted to finish up at the Yard, close his files and get something to eat. He’d had time for a shower and a cup of tea and a change of clothes back at his flat just before dawn but since then had been chained to his desk, listening to reports and moving his men around. He’d told her to take a taxi back. A ten-minute drive.

Common sense reasserted itself. She’d probably nipped off to visit her parents and tell them all her adventures. Sunday. It was her day off. She’d completed her self-imposed task and was clearly at liberty to spend the rest of the day as she wished. Yes, that’s what London girls did on the Sabbath, after all — they went back home for luncheon with Ma and Pa. The traditional slice of roast beef, no doubt. Apple pie to follow? A pang of hunger hit him and he dealt with it.

Hunger and lack of sleep he’d learned to accommodate in his war years. He hadn’t expected he’d need those skills working at a desk job. He allowed himself a momentary tight grin. He would never accept an easy existence. Too many mischief-makers to be brought to account; too many scores to settle. This blasted Morrigan, for one. The woman should have been under lock and key by now. She was running rings round him. A slight but unmistakable feeling of dry-mouthed giddiness disturbed him. He recognized it for the moment of controlled terror before the whistle blew. A warning he should heed?

Joe reviewed his plans. The prime minister and Mr Churchill? Aware, alert and doubly guarded. The prince? Hidden away. The rest of the royal family? Not on Bacchus’s list but, after much thought, Joe had taken the precaution of advising a week at Sandringham. On their remote estate in Norfolk they were easier to isolate but close enough to the capital to protect. Distance, the local plod and a selection of Branch men were covering the situation.

He grimaced. This was turning out to be an expensive operation in policing terms. And it would get worse.

Still no Constable Wentworth. There had been no problems with the interview. The princess had been impressed with the constable’s discretion and had been able to supply her with what she wanted, which seemed to be the names of five people who had ducked her event. No harm there … and she might even come up with one of her ‘insights’. And the girl was merely running errands, not running into danger. The pavements of London were her territory, its low life her confidants, by all appearances. She was probably safer in their company than his.

Joe grimaced as he reminded himself of the close shave Lily had had the previous evening, sitting, fork in hand, messing about with a plateful of poisoned food. The lab tests had, indeed, traced the cyanide to the lower stratum. She’d taken it well — no squeaks or recrimination. No, not one. But he’d rather not get a reputation for sending girls in to do a man’s job. And his chaps had certainly not been impressed — disharmony and disruption had been mentioned. Threatened , he’d say, if he were honest. Better take her out of the equation, all things considered, he decided. She’d done her bit and he wasn’t prepared to put unnecessary strains on morale.

He slid the photographs of the ball from their envelope and studied them, pausing for rather longer than he ought over the one where she’d been waltzing with the prince. He wondered if the arsehole Tate would sell it to one of his society rags. Joe doubted that he had the power to prevent him and he could see it would be hard to resist the temptation of publishing a shot as glamorous as this one. Please God the girl’s identity wouldn’t become the subject of national speculation! Embarrassment bound to follow for all concerned. Perhaps the undeclared hold Lily clearly had on Cyril Tate and the respect — even affection — he seemed to have for her would be strong enough to stay his hand? Puzzle, that. With her modest origins and his rackety, disgraced aristo background, any common ground between the constable and the newsman was a mystery to Sandilands.

He stared, disturbed by the print. He ran a speculative thumb around the face he rather thought Botticelli would have admired. With women about the place, he’d have to watch his language more carefully. Was it right to impose this extra discipline on his men? It had been fascinating to observe the reactions around the table. And informative. Joe liked to collect these impressions; he liked to be aware of weaknesses as well as strengths. He’d noted interest varying from lascivious appreciation (Chappel) to exaggerated distaste (Fanshawe). Hopkirk, he would have judged, was unmoved. Bacchus, like Sandilands himself, he would have sworn was intrigued in a professional way by the possibilities. Until she got up his nose and seriously challenged him. The girl was a chameleon. And, as such, she might have proved of some use to them. Shame no one else was prepared to acknowledge this.

But perhaps there was someone who would appreciate her qualities?

Sandilands came to a regretful decision. She’d fizzed like shaken-up ginger beer at the idea of redeployment but had been quite seduced, he was sure, by the group photograph of Philip Lane surrounded by his harem of bright young girls. He’d ring his friend in Lancashire and start paving the way for a transfer. Now she’d had a taste of the detect-ive’s life which Sandilands had, from their first meeting, deduced was an unusual but overriding ambition with this girl, she might welcome the chance to train on for the real thing with Philip.

He snatched at the telephone at the first warning burble.

‘Send her straight up, will you.’

‘Ah. Do come in, Miss Wentworth. Sit yourself down. Glad you could spare me the time. Sunday. Your day off, of course. Lots to fit in, I expect. Father and mother both well, I trust?’ The tone was understanding, the smile devastating.

Lily showed no sign that she was deceived by this show of affability. She looked at the clock in consternation. ‘Oh, I see. Gosh, I am late! Oh, sir, I hope you weren’t worried …’

‘Worried? I shot myself in a mood of black despair an hour ago,’ he said drily.

‘Terrible aim, sir! Glad you missed.’

He felt himself responding to her shy grin with a surge of good humour. He controlled it and cleared his throat. Straight to business.

‘Now — I’ll bring you up to date. Here, back at base, we’ve been very busy. The Branch have been gathering everything they had on these Russian women who seem to be blighting our lives at the moment.’ He pointed to a thick file on his desk. ‘This has just come up. It’s all the Branch could scrape together on Miss Peterson. Bacchus and his chaps went round with cat-like tread and cutlass between teeth to the address we’d had under surveillance since the early hours. They mounted a raid on the premises. With no result, I’m afraid. No one at home.’