‘Well, thank you for that exposé, Superintendent. I understand you’d have us believe that the nationality of the gunmen is pure coincidence?’ Bacchus’s voice was gently scathing. ‘Now tell me if I’m hopelessly adrift here – two Irishmen, both, you are able at last to tell us, with links to Fenian gangs, lay ambush to the most vocal and most respected of British opponents to the notion of Irish self-rule – barring only Winston Churchill perhaps – and you say the motive was not a political one? Moreover, these chancers choose the very moment when protection squads have been stood down … and the target steps back on to his home stage in the capital again after a long absence. Well, well! My question is: if we’re called on to leave political sensitivities aside, one does rather wonder what Lord Dedham could possibly have done in his last twenty-four hours to upset these fellows to the point of having them turn a pistol on him?’

Hopkirk was not put out. ‘A deliberate misinterpretation. I’m just saying we ought to keep an open mind for a bit longer. The victim was other things in his life besides Navy man and politician. He was rich – and that’s always something worth bearing in mind. We plan to look with interest at his will when we can get our hands on a copy. And he was an abrasive type … even his wife admits he’d made enemies, not all of them in the field of politics.’

‘That much is true,’ Sandilands said. ‘Damned annoying old goat. I nearly throttled him myself once. And his wife Cassandra is a saint. Poor dear! Hopkirk, you would do well to go back and speak to her again when she’s had a chance to recover her equilibrium.’

‘Oh, I don’t think it’s me she’d be wanting to open up to, sir,’ said Hopkirk with a sly glint in his eye. ‘But I’ll make a note.’

‘Get on with it, Hopkirk.’

‘No reason at all to suppose these men we’ve got banged up in Vine Street held a personal grudge … they were easy enough to hire. To recruit to any cause or none. One of them at least drank every night at the same pub – Ye Olde Cocke in Petticoat Lane. The bar round the back’s full of ex-soldiers on the lookout for a bit of action that’ll bring in cash. They put themselves about for all sorts of strong-arm stuff. Bodyguarding, chucking out and, yes, rumour is: killing. They could just as easily have been home-bred Cockneys, or Italians or Russians or Lascars. They’re all on the menu.’

‘Could have …’ Bacchus’s voice was dismissive. ‘Speculation. We prefer to deal in certainties – established facts. You may not have been aware that the older one of this pair of charmers – whose identity seems at last to have been established – has been in our sights for some weeks now, his activities monitored. We rather regarded him as one of our targets. Two of his drinking cronies report straight back to us – on the books, you might say. Money changes hands occasionally. If we’d gained access to this villain at once we’d have known what to ask him and how to ask it.’ He shrugged. ‘We could have passed one of the inside blokes off as a prisoner and stuck them in a cell together … listened in to the conversations … for starters. But here we are, left playing guessing games.’ He tapped his neatly trimmed fingernails on the table to underline his irritation.

‘Would the super care to indulge in a little more speculation? The provenance of the weapons used?’ Rupert Fanshawe took over the polite grilling. ‘How did two Irish lads get their hands on service Webleys?’

‘No clues about the weapons,’ Hopkirk muttered. ‘Nothing unexpected from fingerprinting. But, as I’m sure the captain knows, London’s awash with Webleys. They could have been provided by whoever commissioned the hit. No reason to suppose the instigator ever laid hand on the guns.’

‘No indeed. These deals are arranged anonymously, by telephone. Which brings us to the third shot. The one to the heart that finished him. Browning or the like, you say?’

Hopkirk nodded and passed a copy of Spilsbury’s postmortem report over the table. The Branch men fell on it and spent some minutes absorbing it while the CID maintained an anxious silence.

‘At this distance it looks as though we’re contemplating a fatal shot fired by the taxi driver, his lady passenger or a third hand hiding in the shrubbery,’ Fanshawe commented.

Hopkirk nodded again.

‘No mention of such a shot in the evidence given by the passenger?’

‘No. She was too hysterical to be able to distinguish one calibre from another. In fact, I couldn’t be certain she understood what I meant by “calibre”. Pistol, revolver, Gatling, Big Bertha – all just guns to her. Nasty, noisy things. And she was sensibly cowering down in the back of the cab with her hands over her ears while all this was going on. Poor girl – if she hadn’t rolled herself into a ball like a hedgehog, she could have been a third victim. In every respect her statement echoes all that we now know to have happened. The cab driver’s actions; the shooting of the police patrolman; the bashing on the head of the cabby when the killers ran out of ammunition. We’ve now accounted for all the bullets. They each started with a full magazine, it seems, and would indeed have run out by the time they thought of silencing the cabby. Bit of luck for him.’ He fell silent for a moment, then added, ‘Her every statement adds up.’

His tone was a shade too firm.

Bacchus picked up on it at once. ‘Tell us more about this passenger, Hopkirk. Unusual, don’t you think to come across an unaccompanied young woman out and about at that time? Did you discover what she was doing there?’

‘She said she was visiting a friend.’

‘A friend who, we presume, backed up her assertion?’

‘Um … no. We knocked on all doors in the vicinity, in the pursuit of our inquiries. No one claimed to know her. Including the local Lothario at number thirty-nine. His man denied all knowledge.’

‘But you have established her bona fides? I’m assuming she has been re-interviewed?’ Bacchus said.

Hopkirk hesitated for a moment. ‘We sent men to the address in Park Lane next morning … the one she gave us for the record and the one to which we returned her after interview at Gerard Street police station. No trace of her. She’s disappeared. Done a runner.’

Under the glare of the Branch men he referred to his notes. ‘Smart address. Upper-class rooming house. It took us a while to get past the major domo and the maid to the owner. A Mrs Throckmorton eventually deigned to give me her card.’ Hopkirk leafed through his notes again and unclipped a small, white, gilt-edged card. He passed it over the table.

Bacchus took it eagerly. ‘No idea this place existed,’ he said. ‘Is it kosher?’ He scanned the card again.

Mrs Adela Throckmorton.

Choice accommodation for single ladies visiting the city.

A home from home in Mayfair.

Congenial chaperonage arranged.

‘Chaperonage?’ he questioned.

‘They run a service escorting young ladies to concerts and exhibitions, the theatre, even shopping trips. They do pick-ups and deliveries to railway stations. You know – a sort of “Universal Aunts”.’

‘Mmm … no suggestion of an Uncles Unlimited facility, I suppose?’ Bacchus asked.

‘You’re not the only one with a dirty mind, Bacchus,’ said Hopkirk. ‘Thought did occur to Inspector Chappel here. This is Park Lane we’re talking about, within a stride or two of Pinks.’

‘And this is Inspector Chappel, late of Victoria Vice?’ Bacchus acknowledged with a raised eyebrow.

‘Sir. Confirm nothing untoward known on this establishment. I personally watched the place for an hour or two,’ said Chappel. ‘Lady guests coming and going. Some dropped off by Daddy and Mummy – or should I say Papa and Mama? Some being picked up by a succession of old boots in tweed skirts and sensible shoes. The Aunts, doubtless.’