“Her emotional balance, naturally, is in the forefront of our minds. It would be of interest to us to know if she had a visitor—perhaps even this man you mention—before she took off. Something clearly triggered the flight by Maybach … or someone. May I see your visitors’ book? That might help.”

Her response was instant. “Of course you may.” She opened a drawer and took out a large red leather notebook. Joe noted two further ones alongside—one blue, the other black.

“The writing is Susannah’s. She keeps the records. She is available to answer any further questions you still have.”

Joe opened the book using the red ribbon page marker provided and turned back to the week beginning the previous Monday.

“May I ask you, gentlemen, to confirm your discretion? This is a private health clinic and we guarantee absolute anonymity for our clients. I would not be showing you this, were the circumstances less disturbing.”

“Of course, Matron.” Joe ran a finger down the list. The patients were discreetly referred to by what Joe presumed to be their room number. The signatures were either illegible or clearly pseudonyms. Florence Nightingale appeared to have visited twice. Annoyed by the smug confidence that accompanied his perusal of the list, Joe raised his eyebrows and chortled. “Aha! Lucky for some! I see the lady occupant of room twenty three enjoyed the attentions of Rudolph Valentino for half an hour last Tuesday!”

Her flare of surprise was replaced with an indulgent grimace at his little joke but the starch in Miss Frobisher’s smile was slightly wilted as she hurried to point out: “Natalia’s number is two-B. It refers to the suite she occupied.”

“A VISIT ON Wednesday evening. Lasting for a half hour. From her maid, Miss Ivanova. And that’s all. That’s all?”

“That is a complete record. Her maid was delivering a small case containing personal possessions.”

“No visits after Wednesday …”

“That is the whole point, Commissioner. She needed privacy and rest. No one but her maid knew her whereabouts and, having seen her mistress settled, no further attention from the outside world was required or advised.”

“Do you have a record of people arriving at the clinic for purposes other than visiting?”

“Of course. If you wish to see when exactly our groceries were delivered, when our drains were last inspected, you may see the blue book.”

The blue book joined the red one on the desk and Joe made a cursory inspection, noting that no traffic was logged for the time Julia had rung the bell. One courier arriving at nine that evening was listed. Apart from that—an uneventful Friday evening.

“What other record of arrivals do you keep apart from this?”

“Only the record of our clinical clients. Established patients or ladies seeking appointments and that I will not let you see.”

Joe knew that she was within her rights. It would take a good deal of time and argy-bargy to get a search warrant in the circumstances. With their connections, he acknowledged it might never be forthcoming. He was never going to be allowed to open the black book.

The two men expressed appreciation for the excellent coffee they were served and made polite conversation with Matron over the Worcester china cups. Ellen Frobisher showed no sign that she was eager to be rid of them. She even refrained from consulting the large watch that dangled distractingly on a red ribbon over her left breast.

As they stood and shook hands, Joe held her long cool fingers and asked one last question. “Could you tell me his name? The father of Natalia’s baby? I should like to speak to him.”

She snatched her hand away and took a pace back from him. “What on earth are you talking about, man? Miss Kirilovna was not even pregnant.”

“WELL SO MUCH for turning the clinic upside down,” Bacchus commented grumpily as they retreated to the squad car. “Not the slightest touch of pregnancy, eh? That rather wrecks your theories, doesn’t it? You’re absolutely sure of the day and time of the maid’s second visit?” Bacchus asked grumpily as they retreated to their car.

“Armitage and I both noted it. She rang the bell and we watched her go into the reception hall. We waited for a quarter of an hour. She was back at the hotel two hours later.”

“Well, she wasn’t there to visit or make a delivery so—if they recorded it at all, and that must be a big ‘if’—she has to have been there in the capacity of patient herself. Or making an appointment. Your Julia was a black book entry.”

“Why would she do that? Women’s problems? She appears perfectly healthy.”

“No, she’s not, Joe! Even I noticed she’s had infantile paralysis and she’s coping with the effects of it still. It can’t be easy for her. She makes the best of it when she knows there’s someone watching but I’ve spotted moments when that pretty face shows she’s going through agony. Massage required? Painkillers? Drugs of some sort? A place like that—they could probably prescribe and supply just about anything, legal or illegal.”

“Telephone. Let’s get back to my office. That annoying woman may have held back on her clients but I had a good look at her blue supplies and deliveries book. There’s a laboratory whose name appeared two or three times last week. I’ll look up their address. They sent a courier to St. Catherine’s a couple of hours after Julia called by. I’ll see if I can trick some information out of them.”

JOE WAS GLAD Bacchus was driving an unmarked police car. No taxi driver would have agreed to venture out here. A squad car would have been stoned. He was down in the dark and dirt among the roots here all right.

“Well, this is it, Joe. Tower Bridge and civilisation behind us, the Highway and two miles of derelict port facilities in front. Half way between Wapping and Whitechapel. A stride or two away from the Thames. I bet Miss Frobisher hasn’t ventured out this far to check the credentials of her suppliers.”

“Not the back of beyond you might think. It’s minutes from the centre of London, access to the river and all the space you might need for little outlay. Number One, Waterman’s Reach, is what we’re looking for. This place was badly bombed in Zeppelin raids during the war. But I see signs of rebuilding. There! That’s it. That new place. Huge. Warehouse size. High windows, barred. I expect security’s a problem in these parts.”

Bacchus grunted. “Are they keeping crime out or crime in? That’s what we need to know. How are you going to find out?”

“I’ll think of something.”

“What do you want me to do?”

“Keep your hand in your pocket and look sinister.”

Joe banged heartily on the door.

The single man who greeted them claimed to be the manager, Mr. Kent. Joe noted he affected a flapping white surgical coat over his everyday clothes. He was young, too young to have been in the war, and brash with it. A Londoner. Unimpressed by Joe’s uniform or Bacchus’s expression, he asked cheerily how he might help them.

“We’re here to help you, Mr. Kent.” Joe gave him a dark smile. “We’re here to make sure you keep this business a going concern. Were you aware that your building is sited on the boundary line between Wapping and Whitechapel? It was redrawn after the bombings and there’s been some dispute. Upshot is—it’s been discovered that you’ve been paying local business taxes to one council when it should have been going to the other.”

“Naw! We’re in Wapping here. Always have been.”

“The Mayor’s office thinks otherwise. And Whitechapel is about to claim back ten years of unpaid rates. If you aren’t able to come up with the sum in question, I’m instructed to close you down until it can be sorted out. That could take six months. Plenty of time to become an ex-business.”