‘An internal number please, miss,’ Lily said firmly. ‘Could you put me through to extension 371?’

A few mechanical noises were followed by a gruff male voice. ‘Yes?’

‘Hello. This is switchboard again,’ Lily announced in a fair copy of the telephonist’s voice. ‘Do tell me I’m through to Catering Supplies?’ She managed to insert a touch of uncertainty.

‘I can’t. You’re not.’ The voice was military. Uncommunicative.

‘Oh, no! I’ve done it again! Most frightfully sorry, sir!’ she gushed. ‘I do hope I’ve not disturbed you. Please forgive me. It’s my first day going solo, you see. I’m on test. I so hope you won’t tell? I think I’ve just inserted my toggle into the wrong slot and made a bad connection …’

A guffaw greeted this. ‘We’ve all done that, darlin’,’ said the fruity baritone, unbending suddenly. ‘Think nothing of it. Your secrets are safe with me. Well, they would be, wouldn’t they – this is the War Office here. Ho, ho!’ He seemed to find his remark hilarious but stopped slapping his thigh long enough to add: ‘And when you do finally plug into Supplies, tell them to change the tea. That Darjeeling they’re using this month is as weak as gnat’s pee.’

‘Assam? Shall I suggest Assam, sir?’

‘Yes. That the dark brown stuff? That should do it. Well – good luck with the test, Iris! This is Iris, isn’t it?’

‘I didn’t give my name, sir. That would be against the rules.’ Lily summoned up exactly the right touch of scandalized rebuke. ‘Goodbye, sir.’

She replaced the receiver, stunned by what she’d heard.

War Office? What had Sandilands and, it seemed, herself, by association of some not-yet-defined form, to do with the War Office? For what exactly did they need to know that she was ‘ready and able’? Why did they have a presence in the Scotland Yard building? The questions lined up to ambush her. The answers did not immediately present themselves. There were rumours in the force that a shadowy enforcement arm of some sort had a toehold in the Whitehall warren. Everyone had heard of ‘C’ and his department of patriotic scoundrels. MI1b? Or was it MI1c? Had Lily stumbled upon an organization of that nature? Not such a formidably secret department, she concluded, if an interloper like herself could ring them up and discuss tea supplies.

This flippant thought was supplanted by a more chilling one. She had done nothing to bring her own name to their attention. And yet their earlier conversation with Sandilands showed that they knew of her. Indeed, seemed to have plans for her. Plans on which she had not been consulted. What had he said? ‘Not fully briefed yet …’

‘Mata Hari?’ Lily had suggested half-jokingly, taking a stab at a description of the work he had in mind for her. A female spy, Dutch by birth, Miss Hari had used her allure to get information from both sides of the recent conflict. It was rumoured that, at the time of her arrest in a Paris hotel, the exotic dancer turned courtesan counted, amongst her many lovers, the German crown prince and the chief of the French anti-espionage bureau and that crucial information had passed from head to head to head on the pillow. All too unregulated. No one could be quite certain to whom the wretched woman really owed allegiance. As an agent, she had been turned and turned again. Done to a crisp, was the final decision, and she had been removed from the scene. A put-up job by the French it was generally thought, with the compliance of the British. The affair was considered significant enough to have her put on trial and executed by a firing squad in 1917.

If it was a woman with skills of this dubious nature they were seeking, they would have to look elsewhere. Their choice was laughable. Lily’s sense of proportion kicked in. She was confident that she failed to fill the bill on two vital counts. Her most exotic dance was the tango she’d learned at the Stretton Academy of Terpsichore on Saturday mornings and she had never had a lover, civilian or military. Really – she’d had enough of this shambolic crew, playing at war games and juggling with careers.

Lily reached into Sandilands’ paper tray and took out a sheet of writing paper. It was entirely suitable that it should be headed Scotland Yard, Whitehall. She wrote down her name, rank and number at the top and followed this with a brief statement of her resignation from the force, For reasons made clear to you this morning, she summarized. With immediate effect, she added, dating it. Nothing further. He had heard her views. She folded it, wrote his name on the outside flap and put it away in her pocket. It gave her the reassurance of a lifebelt tucked under her shoulders. She owed him nothing. He could ask nothing of her.

And yet she was disconcerted to find her mind returning to the possibilities he had distractingly opened up. No woman would be made such a tantalizing offer, out of the blue, without the most demanding payback being extracted, she reasoned. What had his proposition amounted to? No less than an instant elevation to detective officer working alongside the commander. Could that be right? That was no opening position with a laundry in Clapham.

She tried to remember what Sandilands had said in his doubtless manufactured confession. That he’d been in Military Intelligence during the war years … that much she was prepared to believe. Had he ever given up his role or was his present position a screen for other, murkier activities? Perhaps he was still at war and fighting on fronts other than crime? And why would he suppose that he was automatically entitled to count on her assistance with his schemes?

She was trying to recall all the wars in which England was involved from Afghanistan to Zululand and had got stuck on Ireland when she heard Sandilands stamping back down the corridor.

Chapter Seven

Sandilands went straight to Miss Jameson’s room across the corridor and stayed there for a few minutes before returning to his own office, where he found Lily closing the file and laying down her pencil.

She looked up and gave him a friendly smile. He swept off his hat, offered a clean-cut profile and asked: ‘Well, what do you think of Raoul’s handiwork?’

‘Raoul is an artist, sir. He could find a position with the finest embalming parlour in the land.’

He grinned. He decided he could get along with her cheerful lack of deference. ‘Well, how’s it going with the Dedham affair? Reached any conclusions?’

‘It’s a bit early for conclusions, sir. There’s a lot of evidence still to come in. But I have one or two thoughts.’

‘Go on.’

‘There’s something not quite right with all this. Someone at the centre of it is telling you naughty lies.’

Joe had decided as much himself in the early hours. ‘You think so? But it’s perfectly straightforward, isn’t it? A shooting occurred and the killers were apprehended, guns still smoking in their hands. And we have a confession from both of them.’

Lily produced Hopkirk’s sketch. ‘Where exactly had these men concealed themselves to lie in ambush? They must have been laid up there for ages. No one could have predicted to the minute – or even the hour – when the Dedhams would fetch up home at the end of their evening. I don’t suppose they knew themselves. And these thugs weren’t just passing by. This was not their territory. They wouldn’t have been comfortable here.’

‘And regular police patrols would have picked up – at the very least recorded – any doubtful strangers,’ Sandilands confirmed.

‘According to Lady Dedham the cab driver checked the shrubs nearest the house before she alighted and gave her the all clear. She had her wits about her but tells us that she too saw nothing of concern near the house. And yet, less than a minute later the gunmen emerged from these very bushes …’ She pointed with the end of her pencil. ‘Did the cabby look properly? Was he mistaken? Or was he lying and leading them into a trap?’