“Well, that’s ivory-tower dwelling intellectuals for you! Corpse on our hands, Thames lapping round our ankles and the prof’s raving on about some petty little military venture that occurred about two thousand years ago!” the colonel huffed with amusement.

“Still, that did come to pass on that very spot, didn’t it?” Joel objected mildly to his boss’s dismissive tone. “That were weird!” he said, eyes appealing to Joe. “Man on his knees in front of them towers, the river behind him and a ship going by. I got a good look at it before the colonel took it off the prof and made it safe. Like a photograph from the past. It fair made my skin crawl! And the prof—he were explaining as how it were the young lady’s fare across the river. But not the Thames …”

“Lethe, he called it,” Sam supplied. “Lethe—the river of Hell. Entrance to the Underworld.”

Joe broke the automatic silence of respect for the dead that followed. “I’ll settle for a bunch of roses and a corner of a Surrey churchyard when someone decides my time has come,” was his quiet comment. “And then the colonel took the item into safe custody, as you say, Joel. Your handkerchief, Swinton?”

“Certainly. And with care. I know you fellows are fanatical about fingerprints though I don’t suppose any suspect ones would survive the conditions they were subjected to—saliva, river water?”

Joe counted himself no boffin and had no clear idea either but the three men were looking at him with the eager enquiry of students sitting in the front row on the first day of term. He replied firmly, “The forensic techniques we have these days surprise even me, colonel. Our backroom boys have made huge advances since the war. I’m always amazed by the ability of the most minute traces of natural grease excreted by the human skin to survive adverse conditions. And, if we’re so lucky as to find them on a resistant surface such as metal or glass, an imprint can stay clear for years. As both you and the professor handled it, Colonel, I shall have to ask you both to supply—”

“Already done, old chap. Orford here—it was one of the first things he arranged.” He nodded at the inspector, acknowledging his efficiency.

“And the third attraction of the Chelsea foreshore?” Joe prompted.

“Ah, yes. Three: discretion. If we’d put our waders on and started squelching about outside Westminster or in the Archbishop’s front garden … well, questions would have been asked. But out there in Chelsea … that’s still quite a rough area with a reputation for a certain bohemian laissez-faire atmosphere. Full of poets and painters and other lefty loose-livers who aren’t going to pay much attention to a group like us: busy bees braying across the mud to each other in confident English voices. An irritation at the most. Clear field given.”

“So all those involved knew the location some time before the dig?”

“Six days before,” said the colonel firmly. “Ah. I follow. That would be three or four days before she died, if Hermione got it right.”

“Hermione got it right,” Joe confirmed with a smile. “Now, sir, would you take me through the moment of discovery once again? It was Miss da Silva, I understand whose implement was responsible?”

The colonel was on Joe’s wavelength with alarming speed. “I see where you’re going with this. Ludicrous notion—I agree!—but you have to follow it to source to discount it. Yes—she alone, I’d say, located whatever it was she located. The coin? The dead flesh? Who really knows what triggered the response? I don’t claim to. No one indicated that precise spot. She was merely trawling over the wide area Hermione had outlined. I’ll swear no human agency guided her hand. It could just as well have fallen to young Jack to feel the twitch of his device. And, well, you’ve seen our Doris! No malice aforethought, I’m sure,” he concluded comfortably, closing Joe’s main line of enquiry.

“By your group, perhaps, Colonel. But someone was malicious enough and murderous enough to kill that poor child and leave her to rot in London mud. I won’t rest until I have him.”

The colonel’s chin went up as he said, with feeling: “By Jove! That’s the stuff! I only wish the villain were here to see the light in your eye, Commissioner.”

CHAPTER 8

Left alone with the inspector, Joe was amused to see a swiftly stifled expression of relief flit across the stolid features when he announced that he was returning to Claridge’s and leaving Orford in charge. But relief was chased away by a growing uncertainty and it was with a brave show of confidence that the inspector confirmed he had the night’s procedure in hand and would report back any interesting development to Joe.

“You have good men on this?” Joe asked, distancing himself yet showing support.

“I’ve hand picked ’em.” Orford passed a list over the desk. “Mix of uniform and CID. I’ve added a couple of blokes I know in the River Police. Good lads.” And, casually: “Shall I be reporting back to you, sir?”

“Yes. Here. Could you manage this evening? I’m planning to hang around pestering Rippon for his conclusions so you may find me in the labs. I’ll leave a message for you at the desk downstairs.”

As the inspector left, Joe called after him, “Don’t think I’m deserting you, Inspector. I’m following a different track. A track which may, if things go very badly, lead to the same outcome. I pray I’m heading in entirely the wrong direction.”

AS THE DOOR closed, Joe lifted the phone and a minute or two later he had Bacchus at the other end.

“Still there, James?”

“Still there, Joe? I was just knocking off. Look—are you there at your desk for the next half hour?”

“I can be. Something on your mind, James?”

“Yes. I need to give you the usual update but there’s something more.”

“I’ll be here.”

James Bacchus came in clutching a sheaf of files under his arm and settled down, a weary smile on his face. “On my way to the Savoy. The French are kicking up again. How do you say, ‘Up yours!’ in French, Joe?”

Joe told him. “But make sure you’re exchanging a salute when you utter the words. That way, their gun hand is nowhere near their holster.”

“My fault. I’ve been neglecting them. I’ve been spending more time than I ought on your American.”

Joe trusted Bacchus’s nose for trouble well enough to feel uneasy. “Give me what you have, James. I’ll make some notes and save you the time.” He began to write.

“So, all going quietly about their business … He lunched where? Hotel Victoria? Ah, yes. This was scheduled, I understand. Prime Minister and the ambassador present—that meeting. And you covered it yourself? Good man. Luncheon in honour of Cordell Hull. Given by? The Pilgrims … Pilgrims? Who are they? I confess ignorance.”

“It’s an Anglo-American Friendship charity. A very grand one. You know—it’s a reference to the Mayflower, the ship that carried the first English pilgrims to Cape Cod in sixteen twenty. They have more descendants than you’d believe over there, considering half the passengers died within a year of landing. President: the Duke of Connaught. Patrons: our king and the president of the United States, whoever he happens to be. They gathered to hear an address by Lord Derby and drink a toast to”—Bacchus referred to a notebook—“to ‘the continuance of good relations between this country and the United States.’ Cordell Hull replied that the Pilgrims’ organization had become renowned throughout the world by reason of the splendid services it had rendered in fomenting friendship and cementing better relations between nations.”

Joe stifled a yawn. He was getting restive and wanted to move on. “All this fomenting and cementing is nothing but good news, I’m sure. I can’t think of a safer place for our bird to be roosting than in the bosom of these patriots. Did you get a guest list? I’d like to hear who was there.”