‘No. She’d disappeared by the time I shuffled to the head of the line. There were several men waiting on by then. No girl. Bacchus, get Honeysett on the telephone. He’ll still be up.’

They kept a polite silence while Bacchus went through the procedure of being connected to the hotel. Slim, strong and urgent of voice, the Branch man exuded enough energy to power the London telephone system if you could have wired him in, Lily thought, admiring. Not surprisingly he was put through the channels at speed even at that hour.

‘We have the hotel reception … They’re paging him now …

‘So that’s how they … she … did it,’ Bacchus commented while he waited, one hand carefully over the speaking section of the receiver. ‘The prince was handed a plate smeared with cyanide. One gram of the stuff isn’t hard to deposit. A broken capsule held in a clean white napkin, dripping poison. We’ve run tests on our own capsules. In extremis a chap needs to be able to count on his equipment. The scent is strong but would have blended with that of the other exotic spices coming from the food.’

‘Sir – the prince asked for plain salmon but the waitress talked him into accepting the more highly spiced dishes,’ Lily said.

‘And “on instinct” you snatched the poisoned dish from him and sat there with it in front of you for a good part of the evening, Wentworth. While the prince tucked in to a blameless offering. Um … Some might say your action was inspired by a blend of shrewd calculation, keen awareness and sound defensive play.’ Sandilands spoke slowly, his eyes on Fanshawe. ‘Rupert, you have something to say?’ he asked, in the kindly but reproving tone of a schoolmaster.

It was a moment before Fanshawe could come up with a response. ‘Only that it would seem the constable and her instinct saved the life of one prince and killed another, sir. I’m sorry for entertaining any suspicions of your motives, Miss Wentworth.’ The supercilious glint in his eye as he sketched a mock bow across the table gave the lie to his sentiments.

‘Thank you for the apology, Fanshawe, but, really, no need. We were both doing our job as best we could.’ Lily managed to keep her voice unemotional. ‘And neither of us killed anyone.’

‘No indeed,’ said Sandilands. ‘You both have a clear conscience. Gustavus was killed accidentally. Let’s hang on to that, shall we? His death was triggered by his own greed. The coarser spirits among us might even think he was the author of his own misfortune.’

Chappel grinned. ‘As the coarsest spirit here I’ll second that! Serve the blighter right!’

‘So, while we’re awaiting post-mortem reports and evidence from the hotel management and our agents in place, we must look again at this elusive woman. A killer who passes easily in Mayfair society – and now, it would appear, in Mayfair kitchens – as she works her lethal way through the list of IRA targets.’

‘Targets. I think in this company’ – Bacchus glanced round the table, his eye lingering on Lily for a moment – ‘we may say their names out loud, don’t you agree?’ He voiced everyone’s agitation. The Branch man was also, Lily realized, making a gesture of inclusion to her. ‘The two names remaining. We assume Miss Morrigan will have her eye on Churchill and Prime Minister Lloyd George next?’

‘Seems likely. The prince has gone into such deep cover I don’t think even I could find him with a map, a compass and a pack of bloodhounds,’ Sandilands said lightly.

His ironic eye skipped swiftly over her as he enjoyed a tension-breaking laugh with the rest of the table and she knew at once that he was lying. Sandilands could have the prince on the telephone in seconds, she guessed. Lily wondered if the men could read him with equal ease and thought, judging by their open and cheerful response, probably not.

‘Sir! I’ve got hold of Honeysett … Honeysett, hold the line, will you? I’m passing you to the commander.’

Sandilands strode to the telephone. ‘Glad to find you’re still up and doing, Honeysett. Now listen. You’re to come in to the Yard first thing tomorrow to make a statement. Present yourself at reception. First – a question: can you give me the name and address of the girl who was serving the buffet supper?’

He listened to the answer and called out to the table: ‘Anna Peterson.’

Pens scratched on notepads.

‘Living at … in lodgings at forty-two, Hogsmire Lane, Kensington. Russian immigrant. Working for you for six weeks … References, Honeysett? … Mmm … impressive. I shall need to see them. Bring them with you tomorrow, will you? … What was that! Stomach ache? Left the premises at what time? Eleven?’ Sandilands rolled his eyes at the assembly. ‘One more question for the moment. Where was this lady on the evening of the first of September? … Yes, it was a Wednesday … Morning shift and she left you at three p.m.? And you’ve no knowledge of her life outside the hotel?’

He finished the phone call and returned to the table, sombre and puzzled.

‘Another woman done a bunk, has she? Irish? Russian? Are we fighting on two fronts now? Who the hell are we looking for?’ Hopkirk was exasperated.

‘Same one? At all events, someone who can pass as a Russian to gain access … someone who has inside knowledge of the prince’s movements weeks in advance …’

‘But why would a Russian …?’ Chappel spluttered. ‘They’re relations of the prince, aren’t they? The Tsar, God rest his soul, was the spitting image of his cousin, our own King George. People couldn’t tell them apart! Best of friends. That posh lot at the ball tonight would never have the Prince of Wales in their sights. White Russians – monarchists to a man. They’d die defending the English cousin’s boy. Wouldn’t they?’

‘You’re right, Inspector. A Russian would make no such attempt,’ Sandilands said. ‘But we’re looking for a lady who, as you say, knew well in advance that the prince would attend this do. A lady determined enough to obtain and perform work for weeks in advance in a hotel kitchen.’

‘Taking orders from Honeysett,’ Lily murmured. ‘That shows a certain single-mindedness.’

‘What it shows is stamina,’ Hopkirk interrupted. ‘I’ve seen hotel kitchens. Not places for the faint hearted and gently bred. She’ll be a strong lass, then!’

‘Indeed. And she’s able to pass as Russian. I think we may be looking for an actress. Someone who can use a variety of convincing accents to approach her prey. A stalker, a hunter. Skilled at blending in with her background.’

‘A sower of discord and a spreader of mayhem,’ said Hopkirk. ‘What’s her score to date? From where we started counting, that is,’ he added lugubriously. ‘And we may be swinging in a little after the beat. Three dead, as far as we know: an admiral, a London bobby and a Serbian prince; and two critically injured: the butler and the cabby. A bloody-handed goddess of death and destruction. She’s a Morrigan, all right.’

Lily’s voice interrupted the descending gloom. ‘Sir. One thing we might try … I think someone ought to have a word with Princess Ratziatinsky.’

‘Would you like to undertake that task yourself, Wentworth? I was going to tell you to take the day off tomorrow … that is to say – today … but if you feel like it … Good. I’ll give you the address and ring ahead to make an appointment. It’s not far – somewhere in Kensington. I’ll try for midday. She won’t be receiving before that hour, I should imagine. Not after the night she’s had.’

‘Will the princess appreciate a police presence on her doorstep, sir?’ Bacchus wanted to know. ‘In her aristocratic quarter of town? On a Sunday morning?’

‘Almost certainly not. Mufti, Wentworth. Put a little frock on. Assume you’re front-door calling company. Do you have a calling card? No? I think we can provide. Bacchus? That forger of yours? That idiosyncratic printer over whose dubious production skills we have at times exercised a little influence?’