“The autopsy is still in progress. Samples of tissue and stomach contents are being analysed in our laboratory. We hope to have a result before the end of the day.”

“But you must have some idea?” she pressed him.

“A thousand ideas, Miss Herbert, and you can be certain that nine hundred and ninety-nine of them will be wrong if I share them with you now. I don’t speculate. I draw conclusions from evidence when that evidence is in.”

She nodded, accepted the gentle rebuke, and asked less sharply, “Have you established her identity? We are all concerned for her … and her family.”

“Not yet. We hope to have her name at any moment. Now—you are an experienced medical practitioner? A Matron, I understand?” He listened as she outlined succinctly her nursing career. “I have to tell you that our pathologist confirms all you had to say at the scene as far as I can judge from the notes made by my inspector.”

“A young fellow, your physician,” she commented. “They need the occasional guiding hand under their elbow. It would have been easy to miss the pin prick under the hair behind her left ear. From a syringe most probably. Did he pick that up?”

Joe smiled. “He did indeed. Nothing escapes Doctor Rippon. And the severed toe, of course, he could hardly miss …”

“Strange that. Hard to account for. Trophy? Men do have their disgusting ways. It’s probably sitting on the villain’s bathroom shelf in a bottle of formaldehyde. And such a distinctive toe! She was a ballet dancer, you know. All the signs were there.”

“Yes, indeed. Such was our conclusion. The ranks of the Ballets Russes are being combed at this minute. And of the rival company at Covent Garden.”

“Why would anyone seek to disfigure her body in this unpleasant way? A toe! The essential part of her physical equipment? These girls are still referred to as ‘toe dancers.’ A message there? Did someone envy her prowess?”

“I can’t imagine it, but then—it’s hard to imagine any motive for destroying such beauty and, I assume, talent.”

“Oh, talent, certainly. An appearance even in the chorus line denotes years of hard toil by a talented performer. She will be missed, whoever she is. He couldn’t have done the girl any further harm after her death,” Hermione put forward a considered suggestion, “so the mutilation was performed either for his own sick satisfaction or to speak vile thoughts to the living.” Her eyes questioned him: Have you reasoned this far? But she stopped short of voicing the challenge. Out of respect for his rank, Joe assumed; his sex and relative youth, he guessed, would not carry much weight with Miss Herbert.

“It wouldn’t be the first time, in my experience, that a corpse had been used as an elaborate vehicle for the outpourings of a twisted mind.” He answered her thought. “It is extremely rare, thank God, but must always be considered when the more usual motives can be discounted. I don’t think it applies in this case for the good reason that he hid her body well away from the eyes of the living. If your group hadn’t been there on that spot at that moment, she would have been lost forever, with or without toe. The sight of this body was not intended for the eyes of the public.”

She seized on one of his words. “Intention. You’ve seen it. This was not a crime of passion or even emotion. I’d say it was calculated and timed to the last minute.” She leaned forward to make her point. “The man—or men—you’re seeking, Commissioner, was in possession of and knew how to interpret one of these.”

Hermione opened her bag and produced a timetable of Thames tides. “I’ve compared the time I estimate she died with the time of low tide after dark on the river on that reach. There’s a space of an hour and a half during which her body might have been disposed of. There, I’ve marked it on the chart.”

“May I keep this?” Joe made no attempt to conceal his interest from those sharp eyes. “Do you know—I watch the tide rise and fall every day from my window but I couldn’t tell you when exactly it happens. I just know it’s not a regular thing. I wouldn’t set my watch by it. I think I shall need to take a little advice from our river police with this in hand.”

Hermione nodded her approval and Joe had the feeling that he had performed successfully at interview. “Always a sign of strength in a man, I think—the ability to take advice when necessary.” She gave him a smile of quiet triumph. “So glad I was able to catch Clive at his desk this morning.”

Clive Who or Who Clive? Joe pretended to know and stayed silent. Home Office mandarin perhaps?

“I told him, ‘This case could prove intractable. It calls for the attention of the best you have,’ and Clive replied, ‘Sounds to me as though you need a dose of Sandilands.’ ”

“Ah, yes … Bloated? Irritable? Undigested fats blocking the system?” Joe quoted from an advertisement for something with the lugubrious brand name of Bile Pills. “They will think of me when it comes to clearing a blockage.”

“A slug of Sandilands Stomach Salts was prescribed,” she said, picking up his reference with glee. “So far, so good. I’ll let you know the outcome.”

He thought Miss Herbert had a very attractive gurgle when she was amused. He sensed she was about to bring her interview to a close and decided to forestall her. She’d had her fun. “Now, Miss Herbert, is there anything you would like to add to the notes we already have? No? I will send an officer to your home tomorrow to take the formal statement. You’ve all had a long day. Yes, that will be all for the time being. I’m sure Inspector Orford has thanked you for your timely and helpful intervention in all this. Please add my thanks to his. I’m going to give you my card, which has my telephone number on it. Here at the Yard.” He picked up his pen and wrote on the back. “And a second number where I may be contacted.” Joe was breaking his own rules and those of the Yard by doing this but something in the woman’s calm and intelligent manner filled him with trust. If Miss Herbert had any further thoughts he would be interested to hear them.

“Oh, one last T to cross …” he said as she reached the door. “How long ago had you decided on the group’s dowsing venue?”

Unhesitating, the answer came back: “Two weeks ago. In discussion with Charles—Colonel Swinton. We announced our choice of location six days ago at our last group meeting. Charles it is who makes all our logistical arrangements—taxis, charabancs, permissions to dig …”

“Lunches at the Savoy?” Joe suggested.

The austere features were suddenly enlivened by a girlish grin.

“Was that bad of us? I suppose it was but—don’t be concerned on his account! Charles has pots and pots of money, lucky old so-and-so. We try not to exploit his good nature but his largesse is legendary. And his enthusiasms. He’s much more than just a military man, you know. He’s a great supporter of the Arts. His mother was Amity Deverell, the actress, so one might expect it. Now who would you like to see next?”

“I expect the professor is straining at the leash, whimpering and scratching to get in.”

“Better get it over with,” she advised, “before he makes a puddle on the floor.”

IT HAD BEEN unwise to refer facetiously to the professor. Amusement was still alight in Joe’s eyes and softening his judgement when Reginald Stone stalked in. The professor posed in the doorway to be observed checking the time on his pocket watch before casting the cold assessing stare Julius Caesar might have reserved for the Gaulish forces of Vercingetorix drawn up in front of him at Alesia. He advanced on the desk. The performance was meant to be intimidating but Joe could only see a pompous clot who was, for reasons which might become apparent, taking up an antagonistic stance. The man was just putting the bobby in his place, Joe reckoned.