Another nod.

“So, tell me why, Colonel, our scientists found two clear examples of your prints under-lying the professor’s? Here and here. Partials, because the professor’s dabs almost obliterate them, but you can make it out if you look carefully. I must ask for enlargements to present to the jury. Do you see—the lab has marked up two corresponding arches, a whorl, a bifurcation …”

There was no response as Joe waited for his thin ice to crack.

“Only one explanation, really. You had your hands on this coin before the dowsing brought it back to the light. Because you are the owner or you are the man who inserted it into the dead girl’s mouth. Probably one and the same.”

This was the pivot of his argument. If his reasoning was rejected, he could take it no further.

“Bravo! What a performance!”

“Don’t applaud yet—I haven’t finished. I was puzzled, Swinton, but I got there in the end, as to how you’d got hold of my telephone number. Alerted by Julia that I’d made off into the blue with Kingstone, Natalia consulted you. You got my Chelsea number from Hermione on some pretext or other. She wouldn’t have objected to telling you in the interests of furthering the case. Matron was it? The lady who pretended to be my secretary on the telephone? You sent Natalia to her death, you know. I don’t suppose you’ve ever—since the war—fired a shot at a man in anger, let alone broken a neck with your own hands but, in my book, you’re the guilty party.”

Wearily, Swinton looked at his watch. “How long does it take to brew tea in the Yard?” He sighed. “At last a mistake. Wrong, Sandilands, in the detail. Not that it matters. I was given your number by Natalia who had it from Julia herself. She got it from Kingstone’s bodyguard. Armiger? I’m quite certain that the Yard will sign Natalia’s death off as a suicide. Temperamental, these dancers. Crossed in love? Victim of blackmail? So many hazards encountered in a life led in the spotlight. Much less paperwork involved with a case of suicide. We can help you with that. If you’d like a useful second medical opinion, we have some excellent professionals on our books. So what have you got to charge me with? A burial? For sending an unknown girl off in some style? Generosity of spirit? Paganism perhaps? You’ll get laughed out of court, man. Thank goodness you’ve told me all this in confidence. There’s still time to save you from humiliation.”

Swinton tilted his large head and looked at Joe steadily for a few moments. “They tell me you’re a patriot,” he said, surprisingly.

“As much as the next man or woman,” Joe said, killing off the comment.

“A Scotsman, I understand? Ah! The Scots! Backbone of the Empire!”

“Would you say backbone? Many would say—head. My father is Scottish, my mother English. Can it possibly signify?”

“A British patriot, then?”

Joe was puzzled and annoyed by his insistence on the use of the outmoded word and he replied briskly. “Actions, to me, speak louder than words. I will simply say: I fought in the war for four years and I have spent the remainder working to uphold British law and order. The world, if it needs to, may draw its own inferences. My emotions and morals can be of no interest to you.”

Swinton was unabashed by Joe’s pomposity. Probably a style he admired and he was still intent on pursuing his point. “I should like to have your reaction to a story … piece of history, more like … Perhaps you know it?”

He sat forward in his chair, elbows on knees, a kindly uncle entertaining his nephews on a wet Saturday afternoon.

“The Second Opium War with China was a bloody business. One of my ancestors was a naval officer aboard a gunboat—the Plover—along with several others trying to get access to the mouth of the Hai River. In eighteen fifty-nine, Great Uncle Gerald’s fleet came under severe fire from the Chinese troops manning a shore fort and those of our boats that weren’t sunk were stranded, disabled, in a narrow channel. Turkey shoot! They were being pounded to bits. There sailed onto the scene an American steamer. Not much use to our Admiral since the United States had signed a treaty of neutrality with China. All the Toey-Wan was allowed to do was watch from a distance. But that’s not what happened, Sandilands. In sailed Commodore Josiah Tattnall of the US Pacific Squadron, guns blazing. With reckless bravery, he put himself between the Chinese guns and the British ships and towed our sailors to safety.

“When he was hauled up and charged with violating neutrality, he had one sentence to say in his defence. I’m wondering whether you know it.”

“ ‘Blood is thicker than water.’ ” Joe repeated the famous phrase to the colonel’s evident satisfaction. “I believe that’s what he said. Stirring tale! What concept are you trying to sell me, Swinton? I warn you, I’m not the kind of man who breaks down under pressure and buys the full set of encyclopedias.”

“We live in troubled times, Sandilands. And they’re getting worse. Men are not for much longer going to have the luxury of remaining unaligned. Neutrality, as Commodore Tattnall demonstrated, can never be binding. In these islands we could well find ourselves caught between two Bolshevik blocks: Russia, certainly, and this may surprise you—potentially, the United States, if steps are not taken, the right alliances made.”

“Alliances?” Joe was not sure he wanted to hear the answer.

“Alliances of the blood,” Swinton said with a clear uplifted eye and not the slightest trace of embarrassment. “Many Englishmen in the war questioned why we were turning our guns on the Germans. So like us as to be indistinguishable, apart from the uniform. Our boys played football with theirs that first Christmas Eve, you know. They tried to hush it up but it went on. Jokes were exchanged across No Man’s Land, cigarettes changed hands. Prisoners were taken when they should have been bayonetted on the battlefield. Our captured officers played chess with theirs. Brothers, you know, under the helmets. The menace to our society comes from a different direction. I work, Sandilands, with men of foresight to keep the disasters of poor political decisions at bay.”

He looked at Joe with speculation and decided to lob another whizz-bang. “There are those—men of standing—who see universal suffrage as a symptom of disease and decay in a nation. ‘Why?’ the Duke of Wellington might ask, ‘Why does the vote of a drunken, illiterate wife of a Glasgow fish-seller carry the same weight as my own?’ ”

“Ah! The Duke’s met my aunt Kirsty?” Joe thought that if he didn’t laugh at the colonel, he’d reach over and strangle him.

A weary sigh brushed his facetiousness aside. “The men I work with are men of influence and integrity. Patriots. Your presence amongst us might be welcome.”

Joe laughed. “I’ve had more persuasive approaches in my time. I find champagne and oysters at the Ritz works best for me when it comes to seduction. Look—if we’re talking patriotics, I’ll lay down my cards. I’m with G.K. Chesterton. ‘My country, right or wrong,’ is a thing that no patriot would think of saying except in a desperate case. It is like saying: ‘my mother, drunk or sober.’ I love her but I hope I would always have the courage to tell the old bag when she was sozzled and snatch the gin bottle from her hand. I’d give my life for my land but I’d always want to know it wasn’t being thrown away in a bad cause.”

Joe picked up the sound of shuffling at the door and with relief called out to Orford to come in.

“Here comes the inspector. No, Orford, Colonel Swinton won’t be taking tea after all. Perhaps they’ll be able to oblige him down at Vine Street. I’ll be along later to charge him and take his statement. Remind the sergeant down there that the prisoner is to be kept incommunicado. Whistle up your lads, will you? No need for cuffs. The colonel knows what the rules are.”