“Can you take it out?” Joe asked.

A pair of pincers extracted it neatly and placed it, shining brightly, on to a specimen dish.

“A museum piece you’d say. Handsome! It appears unused. Still—that’s gold for you—survives anything you can throw at it and comes up gleaming. Look, there’s quite a story to go with it. I think I can tell you the name of this rather splendid chap on horseback on the underside—the reverse, do they call it?—but I’d rather you interviewed the professor himself. He can dot all the Is and cross all the Ts for you. And he’ll get it right.”

Joe was staring, hypnotised by the coin. “Good Lord!” he murmured. “I never thought I’d actually clap eyes on one of these.” He took a magnifying glass from his bag and peered at the scene impressed on the coin. As he passed his glass to Orford, Joe realised that he was shivering and his mouth was dry. In a deliberately calm voice he said, “Do you see the ship?”

“It’s very clear. Roman galley, would that be, sir?”

“That’s right. The water it’s skimming over is the River Thames, would you believe? The figure on the right is kneeling in the mud on the riverbank in front of the gates of London as perceived in the year two hundred and ninety something.”

Inspector Orford looked up, astonished. “This could have been me on my knees just this morning. Those towers—you sure that’s not Battersea Power Station we’re looking at? Bit weird if you ask me …”

“No. This is most probably the first depiction we have, in any medium, of ancient Londinium. The kneeling chap, whose name escapes me, is surrendering the city to the horseman on the left. I remember his name—he’s Constantius, Emperor of Rome and from this moment on—of Britannia.”

“You’ve seen this coin before, sir?”

“Only in glossy sale-room catalogues. Few were minted and no one’s sure how many remain. Or where they may be.” He shuddered. “They’re quite valuable. To think it was within inches and seconds of being swept into the Thames …” He recollected himself. “Fingerprints, Orford? What are you thinking?”

“I don’t expect anything but the colonel’s and the professor’s dabs on that—both of them handled it. But we’ve got to give it a go.”

He produced an evidence bag and the doctor took up his tweezers again to place the coin inside. Orford tucked the bag into his inside breast pocket. I’ll walk it over to forensics myself,” he said. “Must be worth a bit.”

“Someone clearly valued this girl. Or old Charon’s put his rates up again,” Joe said, deep in thought.

Rippon took up his scalpel. “You know I make the incision from the base of the neck downwards?” he said carefully, preparing them for what was to come.

“I’ve watched Sir Bernard do many an autopsy,” said Joe. “I’m sure I shall appreciate the technique. Ready, Orford?”

BIG BEN WAS booming out Handel’s cheerful preamble to the one o’clock stroke when they left the postmortem laboratory. In silence, they turned from the Embankment and made their way up to Scotland Court where the Red Lion extended its usual beery welcome. They sank down at a corner table. “Stay where you are,” Joe said. “I’ll get us a pint. IPA do you?”

“Perfect,” said Orford. “But I’m not up to tackling any grub, sir, if you don’t mind.”

“I’ll join you in that.” Joe smiled. “Don’t believe what they tell you—you never get used to it. Not a good thing if you did.”

“It’s not the blood and guts and part-digested porkpies that are the trouble,” Orford said, searching for the source of his discomfort.

“No. The butcher’s shop aspect of it all soon ceases to shock. It’s the murdered person’s essence—I’m trying hard to avoid ‘soul’ or ‘spirit’ but you know what I mean—that grabs hold of you and won’t let go. Old, young, villains, heroes—whoever’s on the slab, you’re their slave until their story’s out in the open. Am I being fanciful?”

“Just a bit,” said Orford tactfully. “But I know what you mean.” He considered for a moment and then said carefully: “There was a down-and-out last summer. One of my cases. Bludgeoned to death and left on a rubbish heap in an alleyway. Not important in anyone’s book … but he wouldn’t leave me alone. Got into my head and stuck there until I sorted it all out. He’d been killed for a sixpence, but the old goat wanted retribution and I was the one detailed to get it for him. Because who else cared? His brother-in-law swung for it.” He brightened and added, “Let’s have that pint, shall we? And then I’ll mark your card in the matter of the witnesses. It wouldn’t do to meet this lot stone-cold sober and unprepared.”

COLONEL SWINTON SEEMED to have taken the same view, Joe thought as the military man shepherded his group into the interview room. He detected scents of whisky, wine and beer as the introductions were performed and floating over all, the lingering aroma of a rich Savoy luncheon.

Joe looked with fascination at the flushed and eager faces and fought back a smile. He’d never had a collection of witnesses quite like this one. A cohesive group, fired by civic duty and all singing from the same page of the approved hymn book. They were an interviewing officer’s dream. He could safely have left this to Orford. He reminded himself that one of the group had pulled strings and insisted on seeing a member of the top brass. It was up to him to shake an imaginary epaulette and refer at least once to “my good friend the Commissioner.” He would take the opportunity of establishing whether this was a self-glorifying gesture on someone’s part or a signal that a more acute instinct had caught the same ripple of unease as had Joe himself. This case was anything but straightforward. He was intrigued by several odd aspects; by the extravagance of the parting gift to the dead and by coincidences he had noted. Joe never felt at ease with a coincidence.

“We’re at your disposal, Commissioner,” Swinton said. “We’ve all made telephone calls and adjusted our schedules for the rest of the day.”

“Except for me. I did tell you, Charles, that I am due to give a lecture at three o’clock and I never keep my students waiting.” Joe identified the professor of archaeology. “I should be obliged, Sandilands, if you would take me first.”

Joe smiled broadly. “Punctuality is the politeness of princes—and of the Met, I’m pleased to say. I will put you in a squad car at two thirty, sir. You have my word on that. But our good manners extend also to respect for the fair sex.” He had noticed that one of the group, the young woman, appeared on the point of collapse. “I’m going to take Miss da Silva first.”

She sighed and smiled in relief.

“Now, the inspector, whom you know, will take the rest of you next door to wait your turn. Time is of the essence and I sense that you are not the kind of people to waste yours or mine. This will go a lot faster than you are expecting. Orford, can we arrange to have coffee served to those waiting?”

Orford marched off to do just that.

Doris da Silva stayed behind when the rest shuffled off and she sank instantly onto a chair.

Joe made notes as she outlined her relationship with the other dowsers, gave a brief but clear account of her special skills and confided how shocking she had found the whole experience. Never again, was her concluding remark. She had broken her wand in two and thrown the pieces into the river. After a few follow-up questions Joe was able to dismiss her with his warm thanks in eight minutes flat. Doris brightened and told him she would wait for Miss Herbert, who was taking her home in a taxi.

“Perhaps you’d be good enough to ask Miss Herbert to come in now?”

“WELL, COMMISSIONER, WHAT did she die of?”

Hermione Herbert took over the questioning the moment she sat down.