Joe swallowed. “Have I got this right, sir? An international contingent of the world’s most powerful, most sophisticated and most energetic men is about to be let loose on London. Some at daggers drawn with each other. Scores to settle. Serbians? Albanians? Greeks? Turks? And let’s not forget everyone’s friends, the Germans? Assassination targets, the lot of them!” Joe gave a theatrical shudder. “And one of their number: the dashing, debonair Cornelius Kingstone. A man who habitually walks the streets with a bull’s-eye on his back, a grin on his face and two fingers raised. Thank you very much, sir.”

The commissioner allowed himself a rare smile. “I thought I’d detected something of an affinity! Oh—the Senator and his inamorata have both been allocated rooms on the third floor of the hotel. I took the precaution of obtaining one for you also. I don’t suppose I need to warn you to keep well out of the lady’s clutches, do I?” He looked away in embarrassment. “It wouldn’t be fair not to warn you. From your reading of the gossip columns, you have gathered that she has the reputation of being something of a predator. True. And, indeed, something of an expert in the ars amatoria with an experimental bent. She’s a well-travelled young lady. And you’re a well set up young feller. Still the right side of forty, fit and smart. A potential target for Cupid’s darts, what!”

“If she invites me to come backstage for a private viewing of her entrechats, I’ll exit at speed, stage left,” Joe promised.

“Leave the waggery to Harry Lauder, Sandilands.”

“In any case, sir, I’m a happily affianced man,” Joe objected with a smile.

“Well, well! Relieved and glad to hear it. Congratulations. I hadn’t read about it in the papers.”

“It hasn’t been announced yet.” Joe grinned. “You’re the first to hear, sir.”

“Indeed?” Suspicion was in the commissioner’s voice as he asked, “Are you sure you’ve asked the lady?”

Joe was taken aback, as he often was by the man’s sudden insights. “I don’t believe I ever have, come to think of it,” he admitted cheerfully. “But an agreement seems to have been reached.”

“Anyone I know?”

“Oh, sorry, sir! As a matter of fact, yes … at least you will know her name. It’s Dorcas Joliffe. The daughter of Orlando Joliffe.”

To his credit, the commissioner did not groan, though he could not repress a startled blink. “And protégée of young James Truelove, if I’m not mistaken? Weren’t the two of them involved in that dreadful case in Sussex that you pulled the plugs on last January?”

“That’s the girl, sir.” The confirmation was produced with a proud smile.

The commissioner took a few moments to digest his information and question some preconceptions. “A girl of some spirit, I’d judge. You’ll pardon me for speaking out of place but I like to get these things straight … I’m sure I’d been told—on the hush-hush, don’t you know—that, er, if an announcement of Miss Joliffe’s matrimonial intentions were to be released, the name linked with hers would be a political one to conjure with.”

Joe decided to be kind and put the old fellow out of his embarrassment. “A government minister, no less? Sir James Truelove? Yes, I’ve heard the same rumour myself. They’re good friends and colleagues and find themselves thrown together in a working environment. The unfortunate death of Lady Truelove last month inevitably gave an extra turn to the rumour mill.”

The unhurried delivery and the unconcerned smile had eased down many an unpalatable dose of the truth.

“Ah yes. The as-yet unexplained death out in the wilds somewhere, wasn’t it? I was expecting some appeal for help from the local constabulary. Are they coping, d’you suppose?”

“They are supremely competent, sir,” Joe reassured him. “Though, knowing their readiness to seize on the crime passionnel as a likely scenario, I was relieved to establish that both my fiancée and her boss were a hundred miles away at the time. In opposite directions,” he added with a happy grin.

“Indeed. Poor James … That must be a very silent house these days …”

Joe nodded. He knew what Trenchard was thinking. Lavinia Truelove had been one of the silliest women in London and one of the noisiest.

“How we should mistrust the gossips! I’m sure I’d heard that you were, in some way, that girl’s uncle.”

Joe smiled again. He was going to have to get used to this. “Such was my own misapprehension, sir, for many a year.” He nodded his understanding. “Misleading term. There is no family connection whatsoever. Being much younger than myself, Miss Joliffe, as a girl, assumed a relationship that was socially acceptable at the time. A mere device. After an absence of some seven years, she came back into my life again quite recently. She’s a mature young lady of twenty-one these days. And, as you say, under the wing of the Minister for Reform.”

“Um … a girl who keeps her powder dry. She was lucky to find you still on the loose, Sandilands, from what I hear. Odd way of going about finding a wife. And the Joliffe family isn’t perhaps the first place a patriotic chap would think of looking.” He realised his comment might well have given offence and, reassured by Joe’s easy smile, felt free to add in his avuncular way: “Look here, you’d better warn the young lady that you’re going to be up to your ears for the foreseeable … working day and night.”

“That won’t be necessary, sir. Miss Joliffe is away in France sorting out some pressing family matters. Out of range of a telephone.”

“Never had any success with a French telephone. Good. That leaves you free to concentrate on the job in hand. You can turn all your attention to Kingstone’s dancer. You’re going to be … what’s the phrase?… riding herd on this pair for the duration of the conference. She’ll have every chance to get to know you pretty well. So—stand to attention and think of England! Have a happy time, Sandilands!”

The car was held up in Park Lane behind a throng of omnibuses. The frustrated sergeant at the wheel was amused when his race winner in the back seat snorted, sighed, fished in his pocket and held out a paper bag.

“Like a mint humbug, Sarge? Steady the nerves?”

CHAPTER 3

Joe followed the Claridge’s footman through to an almost deserted dining room where breakfast was being served to those few who chose not to have it taken up to their rooms. He stood in the doorway and looked about.

He noted a couple quietly ignoring each other behind copies of the Telegraph. He caught a snatch of the conversation between two Italian men—last night’s performance of Rigoletto. A middle-aged man with a luxurious ginger moustache looked up in the act of pouring a cup of tea and their glances crossed without emphasis. Good. Cottingham was in place. The presence of the Chief Superintendent was always reassuring.

He spent rather longer absorbing the details of a single man sitting with his back to the door. Tall and athletic-looking, he was addressing a plate of bacon and eggs with a generous serving of black pudding on the side. As the man reached over for the salt, Joe’s sharp eye caught a slight bulge in the small of his back, marring the smooth line of his American suiting. Colt revolver? Pinkerton’s Special? What were these chaps using these days? Joe would have expected any permitted gun to be kept more discreetly in a shoulder holster. He watched the man for a second or two as he wielded his knife and fork energetically on the black pudding and Joe remembered with a stab of hunger that his own breakfast had consisted of half a pint of milk drunk straight from the bottle standing in his kitchen. Time he was married.

The footman hesitated politely and leaned close. “We’ve put you over there in the corner, sir,” he murmured. He indicated a table laid for two, fringed by potted plants. “Your host is aware that you’ve arrived and is on his way down to join you. He asks that you be seated. May I bring you coffee or tea while you wait?”