‘Sam? Got out six months ago. And, yes, he’s still on the hook.’

‘Good. Get him out of bed and give him a rush order. Our own press won’t be up and running until nine.’ Sandilands scribbled a note and passed it to Bacchus.

‘Now, Wentworth. What were you planning to ask the princess?’

‘I shall ask her to give me a name, sir. She’ll have kept a list of all the people who attended last night.’

Someone sighed in irritation; someone bent to adjust his sock. Joe asked patiently: ‘But why, constable? We have such a list ourselves. You can confirm, Bacchus?’

‘Yes, sir. We can produce it right here and now. If you think it of interest. All vetted by the Branch. MI1b has gone over it with a magnifying glass … MI1c raked through it with a fine-tooth comb. The foreign secretary has a copy on his bedside table next to his bible. But if you’d like to pass it before Miss Wentworth, I’ll certainly hand it to her. For the purposes of checking it against her instinct, perhaps?’

Joe saw Lily flinch and decided to neutralise the Branch man’s sarcasm. ‘A quality that served us better than glass and comb and British intelligence this evening, I’m thinking,’ he said ruefully. ‘You were saying, Miss Wentworth?’

Lily shook her head to clear her thoughts and, having got a hold on them, addressed them to Bacchus. ‘No. Listen a minute! It’s not the people who were there that we’re interested in. We need to see the princess’s original pencilled-in list of guests. The names she first thought of. And check that against the final attendance list. If this girl is Russian and has the confidence to attempt a coup with such swagger, then it’s likely that she would be known to this society, isn’t it? An insider? One of them. She’d have been invited all right. What it would be intriguing to find is the name of someone who failed to turn up or who refused the invitation. Someone who was not there to be blamed. An unaccountable absence. We’re looking for someone who didn’t make an appearance at the ball.’ She realized she was repeating herself, sounding over anxious. She ground to a halt.

‘Ah!’ said Hopkirk with a rumbling laugh. ‘Now I’ve got it. I was thrashing about in the wrong fairy tale. It’s the Bad Fairy we’re looking for.’

‘Or a Bolshevik aristocrat?’ grumbled Chappel. ‘No such animal!’

‘Like “darkness visible”,’ agreed Bacchus. ‘An oxymoronic and quite ridiculous invention. Looks a teeny bit desperate, I’d say.’ He shrugged his shoulders.

‘Well, if the constable cares to waste her morning scanning party lists … hobnobbing with the princess … comparing hemlines and dancing partners …’ Fanshawe had found his voice again. He oozed on, decorating his theme: ‘… chirruping over a samovar of tea and a dish of Viennese pastries … well, that’s up to her. Who shall say her nay?’

‘You make the occasion sound quite delightful, Fanshawe. Hadn’t realized that was your idea of a Sunday morning’s entertainment. Are you volunteering?’ Joe asked cheerfully. ‘No? Then I say Wentworth shall go.’

‘Beats pounding the streets, I will allow,’ nodded Bacchus. The Branch man turned to Lily and favoured her with one of his rare smiles. Or at least she took the movement in the region of his mouth to be a smile, though the vigorous twitch of the upper lip could as easily have been an attempt to dislodge the sleeping rodent. There was no mistaking the accompanying flash of even white teeth: it held all the challenge of a metal gauntlet thrown at her feet.

Lily thought she had very likely made two implacable enemies before breakfast.

Chapter Twenty-Six

The smell of egg, bacon and black pudding frying and the clatter of a teapot lid brought Lily yawning and sniffing back into the world.

‘Seems a shame to wake you up, ducks, after five hours’ sleep but you did say ten o’clock sharp.’ Auntie Phyl was in her apron and enjoying having someone at home to treat to a lavish breakfast. ‘Here – scramble into this dressing gown and come straight through to the kitchen. Bacon’s just as you like it – nice and crozzled.’

They ate at the scrubbed deal table. Phyl had domestic help these days but the staff were dismissed at weekends. Never idle, she liked to polish and repair and cook for herself. Lily struggled with her fry-up in silence, hoping Phyl wouldn’t expect a full account of her evening until her head cleared.

Phyl was happy to chatter on regardless. ‘Well, you didn’t quite come clean about your boss, did you, sly-boots? Albert had quite a bit to say – for Albert – when he got back. “Every bit the gent … nice man … well set up and polite” was his verdict. And Albert’s a good judge. Has to be in his line of work. Nothing known to Sandilands’ disadvantage from the war years … quite the opposite, in fact. I’ve had him followed. He lives alone in a flat down in Chelsea. No distractions, apparently – works every hour God sends.’

‘Sounds too good to be true, are we thinking?’

‘Perhaps. Further and better particulars needed, I’d say. No one’s that innocent. And your bloke’s a busy bee too – was he up all night? These came for you – special messenger – an hour ago. I looked. Calling cards. Here you are. I’ve put them in a case for you because I don’t expect you have one.’

Lily had almost forgotten. She took out a card from the silver case she was being offered and examined it.

‘There’s a dozen, that’s all. Not the usual gross, so you’re not intended to go scattering them like birdseed … or have them for long,’ Phyl noted. ‘Look at them. Best quality card, embossed, straight edge not deckle and lovely copperplate. Best of taste. And the wording’s interesting too. Odd, but interesting. I didn’t realize I’d be entertaining an “Honourable” this morning. I’d have swapped the black pudding and tea for kedgeree and Buck’s Fizz if I’d known. So this is who you are now: the Honourable Lily Wentworth. No address, but you have a telephone number. And what a number! Whitehall 1212 and an extension number which I assume is …’

‘Sandilands’ office, of course. One of these is meant to get me access to a Russian princess this morning. A passport over the front doorstep. These are my business cards, I suppose you’d say. It’s a cheat. Not sure I can go through with all this. It makes me uncomfortable.’

‘Go on! It’s being a load of fun. Stick with it, if only to entertain your old auntie.’

‘Phyl, it’s not a barrel of laughs,’ Lily muttered. ‘I saw someone die last night … poisoned. And the corpse could easily have been mine.’ She went to put the kettle on again. ‘This is going to be a two-pot story.’

The butler was elderly, English and intimidating. His glassy eyes swept her discreetly from head to foot, seeing and assessing while appearing, with the knack only butlers and royalty have, of keeping their subject discreetly out of focus. He allowed himself a well-judged sniff of disdain in response to her yellow print cotton frock. The three-year-old straw hat elicited a twitch of the left corner of his mouth. Without her card, she guessed she would have been instantly sent round to the tradesmen’s entrance where an interview for would-be parlour maids might be on offer from the housekeeper. The butler studied the card she gave him and could find no reason to object to it. Nor to the accent in which she spoke the lines Sandilands had prepared her to deliver.

‘Good morning, Foxton. I’m here to see Her Highness. I believe Commander Sandilands has made an appointment.’

‘Yes, indeed he has, miss. You are expected. If you will follow me? The ladies are still in the morning room.’

She padded after him through a spacious marble-tiled hallway and down a corridor hung with paintings of a quality that risked distracting her. She took a deep breath as he opened a door and announced her. ‘Miss Wentworth of White Hall to see you, Your Highness.’ With a butler’s tongue-in-cheek tact, he had managed in two syllables to turn the formidable police headquarters into a genteel grand house.