‘In the light of events, I don’t anticipate any opposition this time round.’ Bacchus grinned. His expression grew more sombre as he murmured: ‘Even from Winston. Though he’ll be a dashed awkward subject. Old soldier that he is, he expects to look after himself. And he can. I wouldn’t want to try conclusions with him.’

‘Are we thinking Winston is the next one on the list then?’ Chappel asked.

‘No. This organization, if organization it is,’ Bacchus added with a concessionary glance at Hopkirk, ‘would seem to be going for that moment of weakness, that chink in the armour offered by a person who finds himself – temporarily – both socially and geographically disoriented.’

They all frowned, trying to work out what he meant.

‘You mean – General Lansing was just back off the boat from Ireland and making his way home down his own street, whistling “Rule Britannia”, when he was accosted and shot at? Admiral Dedham, ditto, and had got as far as his own doorstep … I see …’ Inspector Chappel gave voice to all their fears. ‘Oh my Gawd! You know, don’t you?’ He glowered at Bacchus. ‘Who and when. Who’s going to cop it next and when it’ll happen. You bloody know!’

Joe noted the foreboding that descended suddenly on the four-in-hand as the name of the target burst on them, but in an effort to change the mood and move the meeting on to the next and all-important stage he spoke lightly. ‘And I want this operation … um …’ He hesitated then smiled round the table. ‘Let’s play Boy Scouts for a moment and give it a name! Why not? I think we can allow ourselves a little frivolity, in view of the unpleasantness that would appear to be waiting to bite us in the bum. I’m reaching for a female name … Operation Morrigan – that’ll do. What do you say?’ He looked round the table, gathering the assenting nods and smiles. ‘I want Operation Morrigan to get under way at once.’

‘It’s all in hand, I think you’ll find, sir,’ Bacchus assured him smoothly. ‘Fanshawe has the details somewhere. Go and get them, will you, Rupert? We left them on the side table over by the window. Semper paratus as we say in the Right Royal Cock-ups. The Scouts don’t have all the best sentiments. We’ll be delighted to show the CID how to prevent a killing. We don’t want to leave them with any more “murders” to clear up.’ His smile faded. ‘And if we get it wrong, we’ll all be for the chop. We’ll have on our hands the most infamous political assassination on English soil since King Rufus got it in the eye in the New Forest.’

‘Lung. I think you’ll find it was an arrow to the lung, Bacchus,’ Hopkirk corrected. ‘I’ve never been able to decide whether the guilty party was his friend Walter or his brother Henry. Whichever it was, they left an unsolved mystery and a body lying on the forest floor. Fascinating! I’d love to have done the scene of crime stuff on that! But none of us wants to see the next name on that ruddy list of yours lying dead on the streets of London. I’ll gladly forgo the chance of solving the crime of the century to preserve the life of any one of the three fine Britons on Bacchus’s list,’ he concluded, with an unaccustomed show of patriotism that was rewarded with curt nods from the Branch.

Inspector Chappel leaned to Hopkirk under cover of the stir-about that occurred as the detailed planning with its accompanying maps and charts began to be laid out. ‘Who the hell’s Morrigan, when she’s at home?’ he hissed in his ear.

Hopkirk snorted and shot a glance at Sandilands. ‘Deity in the Celtic pantheon, you’ll find, Bert. Seat at the gods’ top table. Specializing in mischief and mayhem – she’s the flame-haired Irish goddess of terror,’ he murmured. ‘And she’s in our back yard.’

Chapter Seventeen

Applying the handbrake, Albert tipped back the brim of his bowler hat like a visor and squinted a challenge at the mock baronial flourishes of New Scotland Yard. He was not overawed. Any of Cromwell’s Ironsides sizing up King Charles’s palace would have shown the same derision and loathing. And intent to take by storm, Lily thought, admiring.

Boldly, he’d driven Jacob’s Buick in through the Derby Street entrance into the courtyard and pulled up by the grand public entrance.

The duty constable hurried forward at once, impressed and alarmed by the ostentatious motor car. ‘May I help you, sir?’ he asked stiffly. ‘Vehicles belonging to the general public are not authorized to park here,’ he added. ‘I shall have to ask you to move on.’ He eyed Lily, puzzled to see a woman in evening stole and lip rouge in the confines of the Yard.

‘We’re not general – we’re very particular public,’ growled Albert in his basso profundo. ‘And, yes, you may help us, Sunny Jim. Go inside to reception and tell Commander Sandilands his date for the evening is waiting below.’

The constable reacted at once to the name and hurried inside. He came out a minute later. ‘The commander is in his office and would be pleased to receive … um …’ He consulted a notebook, raised an eyebrow and battled on: ‘Miss Matty Harry, I believe he said? And requests her to kindly nip upstairs. She knows the way, he says.’ He gave Lily a playful but admiring salute before going back inside.

‘Cheeky blighter,’ Albert commented. ‘Can’t even get your name right. Are you sure about this, Miss Lily? There’s some rum coves work in this building,’ he went on, surprising her. Albert’s communications were normally restricted to ‘yes’ and ‘no’ or, at best, a grudging ‘if you say so, Miss Phyl’. ‘There’s men in there with wide smiles and serpents’ tongues. Not to be trusted, any of ’em.’ He turned a look on her that might almost have been thought tender. ‘I mean not any of ’em. Watch it, Miss Lily. Me, I’d line ’em up and machine-gun the whole boiling.’

‘Gracious, Albert! I’m only having dinner with my boss.’

Too late, she realized this information would do nothing to allay the fears of the muscled Puritan by her side.

‘Boss, miss? Dinner, miss?’

‘It’s not social, Albert … It’s more in the nature of an interview. I think he wants to establish that I know how to hold my cutlery correctly.’ She fell silent, realizing that she was failing to persuade Albert that the commander was not an evil exploiter.

‘Got it. In that case, I’ll hang about and wait till you come out and then I’ll follow you to the Café Royal or whatever den of iniquity these interviews get done in these days,’ he said. ‘We wouldn’t want to risk a scene and go upsetting Miss Phyllis.’

Albert lived to please Auntie Phyl and Lily understood his anxiety. ‘She wouldn’t expect you to go so far, Albert. Better do just as she told you and no more. Anyway, I shall be out late – past midnight, I’d say.’ With a sudden rush of affection for the obdurate old thug, she turned to him and landed a kiss on his scarred cheek before he was aware the assault was coming. ‘Don’t fret about me, Albert. I’ll remember what you told me to do if he turns nasty – eyes, knees and bumps a daisy!’ She mimed vicious stabs on three sensitive parts of the male anatomy. ‘And I’ve got my running shoes on.’

The same young constable was loitering in the vestibule. ‘Allow me to conduct you upstairs, miss,’ he said, oozing affability. ‘It’s quite a warren in here and, the commander being on the third floor and you in your finery, I thought you might like me to show you to the lift.’

He spent the awkward few moments in the lift pushing buttons and trying to stare at her under his lashes. Luckily this was an officer she had never met before so she stared confidently back at him. ‘Charming weather we’re having, don’t you think, constable?’ she said, enunciating clearly.

‘Yes, indeed, madam. Very charming.’

From ‘miss’ to ‘madam’ in two sentences. Lily smiled. This was going well. As she stepped out of the lift, she slipped back her cahsmere wrap and allowed it to twine negligently down one arm as Phyl had told her. (‘Knock him for six, duck. You’ve got the shoulders for it.’)