The man, to whom Joe was relieved he could give a name—Orford, that was it, Orford—was red-faced and breathing heavily. He was standing about, tense, and giving off a smell of river water and sweat. In his agitation, he ignored Joe’s invitation to take a seat. Calmly, Joe took the bowler hat from the twitching fingers and put it firmly on the hat stand. The command to sit down was accepted when Joe repeated it more forcefully. It was followed by a friendly request for an account of the inspector’s adventures on the riverbank.

Joe listened, fascinated, to his account of the discovery a short time ago. Inspector Orford knew a good deal about the case since, while in the area on police business, he’d been diverted from an early morning stakeout by the sound of police whistles and shouting. He’d been very quickly on the scene. Joe was invited to figure the inspector’s horror when he’d come upon seven members of the public digging up and making off with a corpse with the apparent collusion of two uniformed beat bobbies. A pair of strapping blokes in red neckerchiefs were helping the officers to load the body onto a sling hurriedly fashioned from their police capes and carry it up to the Chelsea embankment.

“But the scene of crime!” the inspector revealed that he’d yelled. “You’ve pounded it to pieces! Nothing should be disturbed! You know the procedures!”

Joe had nodded, understanding that the man was carefully covering his back. “Quite a proper response,” he’d said encouragingly. “Do go on.”

A different view had prevailed when one of the bobbies had pointed to the river. The desperately struggling officer had informed the inspector in blunt terms that in three minutes time he’d have lost the scene of crime under six foot of water. He’d remarked that they were lucky they’d got the manpower on hand to get her out before worse occurred and muttered that he didn’t believe even a Met inspector had the power to command the Thames to retreat. Orford had lost no time in getting his Oxfords wet. He’d declared himself, in accordance with the latest practice: Scene of Crime Officer. As such, all decisions were his to take and not even the Commissioner, if he’d come strolling by, would have had the authority to say him nay. A bold move and the inspector’s subsequent instructions showed a calm and decisive mind, Joe concluded. He further concluded that the officer had assumed—and who should blame him?—that he would be given responsibility for the follow-up police work.

“So there you have it, sir,” Orford finished resentfully. “A corpse preserved in the nick of time, and waiting on the slab. The case taken out of my hands and handed over to a superior officer. Handed over, what’s more, at the suggestion of a member of the public.” His tone grew steely. “But a well-connected member of the public. Makes a difference. If that will be all, sir, I will surrender my notes to you. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have other things waiting for my attention.” He rose slightly in his seat, awaiting dismissal.

Joe had been impressed by the man’s speed of reaction, his workman-like methods, his sure-footed control throughout the whole difficult and unusual recovery of the body. He’d spotted with a flash of sympathy the tide line of oily Thames water reaching up over the knees of the inspector’s smart grey trousers, the soggy state of the black Oxfords on his feet. And, lastly, Joe had appreciated the man’s pluck in speaking up in a tone that bordered on mutiny to his Assistant Commissioner.

“No, that won’t be all, inspector. Remain seated, will you?” Joe said pleasantly. “This is your case. I’m handing it straight back to you.” He reached down and opened the murder bag he always kept to hand by his desk. “Look, I can’t offer much in the way of fresh trousering and clean shoes, but these might help.” He found and handed over a pair of black woollen socks. “Always keep a spare pair by me.”

Guardedly, the officer tugged off his shoes and squelching socks and pulled on the fresh pair. His face melted into an expression of bliss as he eased the soft fabric up to his knees. “Cor! That’s a good moment! Nothing like the feel of dry socks sliding up your shins. My old Ma used to send me a pair every month. I think you must have been in the trenches, too, sir?”

“Long enough to appreciate dry feet. As good for the spirits as a cease-fire.”

Joe picked up the shoes and, talking as he went, strolled over to park them on the sunny window sill where they sat, steaming gently. “You ought to know, Orford, that there are things going on in London even I have no knowledge of. The city’s full of important foreigners, some here with evil intent. There’s clearly something about this body that someone …” he stabbed a forefinger upwards at the ceiling, “wants kept quiet. If I were you, I’d be grateful that some other bugger with more gold frogging on his uniform has been shoved in to carry the can, which may well turn out to be full of worms.”

The inspector stared in surprise and sat back more easily in his chair.

“I’ll look into it. Think of me as advisor and can carrier, will you? Now fill me in on a few more details in the car. We’ll go straight there. Which hospital have they taken her to? St. Mary’s? St. Bartholomew’s?”

“Neither. She’s on the premises, so to speak. A few yards down the embankment in the police lab.” Orford paused, noted Joe’s raised eyebrow and answered his unspoken question. “Dunno, sir. It’s all a bit hush-hush. I’d guess somebody at the end of the line decided that until identity is established it might be more discreet to keep this one under wraps on our own premises. Even though conditions aren’t perfect.”

Joe nodded. “Hospitals being rather soft targets for the gentlemen of the press … easy of access and bribable informants behind every screen?”

“And this body being one as would be likely to get the flash bulbs popping and the headlines shrieking … Just wait till you’ve seen her, sir, you’ll start composing headlines yourself. I did!” Orford sighed. “The only reason the press hasn’t got wind of it is this group of witnesses knows how to keep their mouths shut. They’re not the sort who’d go blabbing. Members of some society or other … dowsers—that’s it. And the female in charge is a lady you’d not disobey if she told you to keep shtum. The Home Office has appointed a pathologist and he’s at it right now …” He put up a hand to ward off Joe’s objection. “No, no! Preliminary inspection only. He’s awaiting the arrival of the appointed case officer at the slab side before he gets down to any serious slicing. You don’t need to spell out the rules to a St. Bartholomew’s man.”

Joe grunted. “He probably wrote them. Name?”

“He’s one of the best. Dr. Rippon. Professor Sir Bernard Spilsbury’s department.” The inspector mentioned the name of the Home Office Pathologist in chief with reverence. “Sir Bernard’s student, now his colleague.” The inspector grinned wickedly. “Our demanding witness claims an acquaintance with the good professor and insisted he be fetched to officiate in person. Unfortunately, the person of Sir Bernard was not available to us on this occasion. He’s taking a well-earned break in Cornwall at the moment so we were unable to oblige. They agreed to accept Dr. Rippon when I clobbered them with his credentials.”

“Ah yes—these so-helpful witnesses? You say you have a list?”

Joe looked at the sheet of paper Orford produced from his file and burst out laughing. “Colonel This, Professor That, the Honorable The Other … Good God, man! You’ve got the English establishment on your back! What a lineup! I shall enjoy hearing them perform. Shall we take a minute to arrange an audition with this Greek Chorus? Back here at the Yard? Where’ve you confined them? I’ll ask my secretary to summon them here.”