“Hang on—these attaché cases—you’ve lost me. What did they look like?”

“A bit like the things Freemasons carry their leather pinnies to meetings in. No distinguishing marks. All the same design. A job lot you’d say.”

“Oh, Lord! A secret society! That’s all we need!”

“That’s what I thought. So I acquired one of them. Just to check.”

“Safely acquired?”

“Of course. When they left I was on the spot and I helped the one who was most unsteady on his pins into his coat. The gentleman happened to drop his case during the manoeuvre and staggered off without it. Luckily it had his name in it. Turns out he’s a certain Adolphus Crewe from New York. A top lawyer with links to the FBI. I got the Victoria to ring his hotel (which happened to be Claridge’s) ten minutes later with a message that it had been handed in and was in safekeeping. Would he collect or should they send it round?”

“Ten minutes? Was that long enough to break the US navy code?”

“We did that last year. Took us five. No—there was nothing much in there to detain the attention.”

“Well, go on. What was there?”

There was a pause as Bacchus considered. “A square of leather. Plus eighteen ivory counters. It’s a game. A portable game.”

“What? Like drafts? Chequers?”

“Not quite. It’s a very ancient game. Though you can still get them at Hamleys toy shop in Regent Street. Goes back to Ancient Egypt. The Bronze Age Celts of Ireland played it. The Romans whiled away the hours on Hadrian’s wall with it. My uncle Arthur was addicted. He carried one about with him too in his pocket. But—more significantly—the pilgrims, confined at sea aboard their tiny ship for two months, played it. It’s called Nine Men’s Morris.”

“And those were the Nine Men? Is that what you’re thinking? That you’d uncovered a secret gaming club? An inner temple dedicated to an ancient tradition? More like a joking link with the past, I’d say. The Masons go in for that sort of stuff, don’t they? Leather aprons, scrolls, memorised speeches?” He floundered on: “You’ll probably find the others in the society know what’s going on and think it’s a bit of a laugh. The men you tracked may be a special group who’ve achieved the Ninth Level of Peregrination and are accordingly charged with the preservation of the Society’s ancient rituals. Seems a harmless, bloke-ish way of spending the afternoon. Wish we had the time, James …”

Bacchus left a silence in which Joe replayed his own dismissive, comfortable words. His voice took on a little uncertainty as he added, “Look, James, I’ll tell you straight: I don’t much like splinter groups or secret societies within societies.”

“Time wasters usually. Overgrown boy scouts. All mouth, no trousers. They probably collect cigarette cards too. But—speaking of cards—they’re not the only collectors. I have my own bits of memorabilia. Tell you what …” Bacchus looked at his watch. “I’ll make time to rootle through my files with the Times list in hand and send round a rogues’ gallery for you to give your opinion on. All the faces I can remember. It may be important.”

“You’re needling me into saying the obvious: these nine men are no boy scouts. They’re running our world, aren’t they?”

“I’d say so. They’re certainly greasing the wheels it runs on. But look—if you want to know more, you could always ask your sergeant.”

“My sergeant?” Joe knew he was prevaricating. “Which one? I’ve got a hundred and forty seven on the books.”

“You know who I mean! Armitage. He was there. Right on the spot.”

“With his ear to the keyhole?” Joe spluttered in amusement and disbelief at the effrontery. “He waved you away and listened in to their private conclave? Cheeky bugger! From what I know of his habits, never mind their secrets, they’d be lucky to get out of there with their gold cuff-links still in place.”

“No. Nothing so crude! Armitage oozed in under his own steam. Carrying his own little case. Your sergeant is one of the Nine Men.”

CHAPTER 9

After a stunned silence, “I’ll speak to him,” was all Joe could reply. “If I don’t like his answers to my questions, I’ll stick him straight back on board the next Mayflower out of Plymouth.”

“And cause an international incident? The bloke’s a United States citizen, remember. Before you put the boot in—I’d try the soft pedal first if I were you. See if you can get a tune out of this old joanna. There’s time.”

“You’re probably right. It’s not making much sense so far. Listen, James—there is one more thing—I want you go back a bit. To last night. Thursday. Seems a lifetime. Any of our subjects out and about? Or were they all tucked up with a mug of cocoa? It may be important. A link with a murder case I’ve got on my desk.”

Bacchus was relieved to be able to return an unexciting response. “Only one left the hotel. The maid. She nipped off at seven, by herself, nothing said, and got back when it was getting dark.” He riffled through his notes. “Ten o’clock. It was hardly worth the bother but I had a man spare. He followed her to Leicester Square. Yup! He wasted an evening sitting behind her at the movies.”

“Any contacts?”

“None observed.”

JOE’S CALL A moment after Bacchus left brought Armitage to the telephone in reception at Claridge’s. He hoped his voice didn’t betray the tension and suspicion he was feeling.

“That lady’s maid or whatever she is … Julia Something?”

“Ivanova.”

“Is she in the hotel?”

“She’s down here having tea. I can see her from here.”

“Good. Tell her I want to have a word with her in half an hour. I’ll join her at the tea table.”

“Right.”

Joe asked the question he knew he should have asked first and had put off in an unreasoning but human desire not to know the answer. “Any news yet of her mistress? Natalia? Kingstone’s inamorata? We have nothing to report ourselves yet, I’m afraid.”

Armitage tuned in at once to his agitation. “Something wrong?”

“Just answer the question.”

“No. She’s not here.” There was an uneasy pause. “No sign or message. Okay?”

“No. I think you know that’s not okay. Say nothing to alert Kingstone.”

Sharply: “To what? Alert him to what?”

“I’ll explain when I get there. I’ve a bad feeling our two worlds are about to collide. Sarge—don’t let that girl out of your sight.”

“That’ll be no problem. She’s very easy on the eye. Come and take a look, Captain.”

“TEA’S A BIT stewed,” Julia Ivanova told him wearily. “Better ask for a fresh pot if you’re staying. The Darjeeling’s good.”

So this was the girl whose looks had so impressed Armitage. Remotely, darkly, foreign. A girl with the austere beauty of the bust of Nefertiti, Queen of Egypt, Joe would have said fancifully—until she spoke and shattered the illusion.

“ ‘Stewed’?” Joe picked up her word with a genial grin. “I think I must be talking to a London girl?”

He’d already judged from her voice that she had probably been born with the sound of Bow Bells in her ears. She was taking no pains to hide it. He caught the waiter’s attention and pointed to the pot with a smiling request for more.

“A trifle over-brewed, then. That better? I’m half a Londoner. My ma. My father was a Russian immigrant over here before the war. Political refugee. The kind who’s always on the wrong side. The Tsar? The Bolshies? He could get up anybody’s nose.”

Joe would have liked to establish precisely which faction Ivanov had supported but didn’t want to interrupt her. He always listened with particular attention to the first confidences made to him. Truth or lies—the information he was fed was usually significant.

“He came from a not very fashionable part of Moscow. So I can talk two languages fluently and impress no one in either. Well?” She fixed him with a gimlet eye. “Where’s Natalia? Haven’t you found her yet?”