Joe reviewed his plans. The prime minister and Mr Churchill? Aware, alert and doubly guarded. The prince? Hidden away. The rest of the royal family? Not on Bacchus’s list but, after much thought, Joe had taken the precaution of advising a week at Sandringham. On their remote estate in Norfolk they were easier to isolate but close enough to the capital to protect. Distance, the local plod and a selection of Branch men were covering the situation.

He grimaced. This was turning out to be an expensive operation in policing terms. And it would get worse.

Still no Constable Wentworth. There had been no problems with the interview. The princess had been impressed with the constable’s discretion and had been able to supply her with what she wanted, which seemed to be the names of five people who had ducked her event. No harm there … and she might even come up with one of her ‘insights’. And the girl was merely running errands, not running into danger. The pavements of London were her territory, its low life her confidants, by all appearances. She was probably safer in their company than his.

Joe grimaced as he reminded himself of the close shave Lily had had the previous evening, sitting, fork in hand, messing about with a plateful of poisoned food. The lab tests had, indeed, traced the cyanide to the lower stratum. She’d taken it well – no squeaks or recrimination. No, not one. But he’d rather not get a reputation for sending girls in to do a man’s job. And his chaps had certainly not been impressed – disharmony and disruption had been mentioned. Threatened, he’d say, if he were honest. Better take her out of the equation, all things considered, he decided. She’d done her bit and he wasn’t prepared to put unnecessary strains on morale.

He slid the photographs of the ball from their envelope and studied them, pausing for rather longer than he ought over the one where she’d been waltzing with the prince. He wondered if the arsehole Tate would sell it to one of his society rags. Joe doubted that he had the power to prevent him and he could see it would be hard to resist the temptation of publishing a shot as glamorous as this one. Please God the girl’s identity wouldn’t become the subject of national speculation! Embarrassment bound to follow for all concerned. Perhaps the undeclared hold Lily clearly had on Cyril Tate and the respect – even affection – he seemed to have for her would be strong enough to stay his hand? Puzzle, that. With her modest origins and his rackety, disgraced aristo background, any common ground between the constable and the newsman was a mystery to Sandilands.

He stared, disturbed by the print. He ran a speculative thumb around the face he rather thought Botticelli would have admired. With women about the place, he’d have to watch his language more carefully. Was it right to impose this extra discipline on his men? It had been fascinating to observe the reactions around the table. And informative. Joe liked to collect these impressions; he liked to be aware of weaknesses as well as strengths. He’d noted interest varying from lascivious appreciation (Chappel) to exaggerated distaste (Fanshawe). Hopkirk, he would have judged, was unmoved. Bacchus, like Sandilands himself, he would have sworn was intrigued in a professional way by the possibilities. Until she got up his nose and seriously challenged him. The girl was a chameleon. And, as such, she might have proved of some use to them. Shame no one else was prepared to acknowledge this.

But perhaps there was someone who would appreciate her qualities?

Sandilands came to a regretful decision. She’d fizzed like shaken-up ginger beer at the idea of redeployment but had been quite seduced, he was sure, by the group photograph of Philip Lane surrounded by his harem of bright young girls. He’d ring his friend in Lancashire and start paving the way for a transfer. Now she’d had a taste of the detect-ive’s life which Sandilands had, from their first meeting, deduced was an unusual but overriding ambition with this girl, she might welcome the chance to train on for the real thing with Philip.

He snatched at the telephone at the first warning burble.

‘Send her straight up, will you.’

‘Ah. Do come in, Miss Wentworth. Sit yourself down. Glad you could spare me the time. Sunday. Your day off, of course. Lots to fit in, I expect. Father and mother both well, I trust?’ The tone was understanding, the smile devastating.

Lily showed no sign that she was deceived by this show of affability. She looked at the clock in consternation. ‘Oh, I see. Gosh, I am late! Oh, sir, I hope you weren’t worried …’

‘Worried? I shot myself in a mood of black despair an hour ago,’ he said drily.

‘Terrible aim, sir! Glad you missed.’

He felt himself responding to her shy grin with a surge of good humour. He controlled it and cleared his throat. Straight to business.

‘Now – I’ll bring you up to date. Here, back at base, we’ve been very busy. The Branch have been gathering everything they had on these Russian women who seem to be blighting our lives at the moment.’ He pointed to a thick file on his desk. ‘This has just come up. It’s all the Branch could scrape together on Miss Peterson. Bacchus and his chaps went round with cat-like tread and cutlass between teeth to the address we’d had under surveillance since the early hours. They mounted a raid on the premises. With no result, I’m afraid. No one at home.’

‘No one, sir?’ She was looking at him in astonishment. ‘Not even a little family having breakfast?’

‘What? As a matter of fact, if I must dot the i’s and cross the t’s, yes, there was a family in residence. A perfectly innocent family – man, wife and five children apparently in various stages of readiness for the day, taking an early breakfast. No lodgers kept. The father’s a porter at Smithfield meat market. Husky sort of bloke. He made objection to Bacchus’s invasion and ranted on about Englishmen, homes and castles. Sent Bacchus off, tail between his legs.’ Joe couldn’t hide his satisfaction. ‘The men made further inquiries in the street and hung about observing for an hour then gave it up as a bad job and came back to HQ. Another false trail, I’m afraid.’

‘Did you see Honeysett? Was he of any help?’

‘Yes. He tried his best. But his female employee gave away little about herself. Did her job well. Went home at the end of the day. She never socialized with the rest of the staff. We checked on her three referees. Princess Ratziatinsky – conveniently or sinisterly, depending on your point of view – was one of them. Conspiracy are we suspecting? She was the only one who gave a telephone number so, naturally, it was to her that Honeysett approached initially. Satisfied by all he heard from that establishment and being unable to make swift contact with the others – one was a lady at present travelling in Europe and the other a military gentleman posted to the North West Frontier province a year ago …’

‘False, sir?’

‘I don’t doubt it. Honeysett was devastated. Angry to have been taken for a ride. There was no intention on the steward’s part to deceive, of course. He told us what he knew. But what he knew was a load of codswallop. No such girl ever at that address. And where have we heard this sorry tale before? Bells ringing, are they? So there we are. Again. Now – I’ve spoken to the princess. You made a good impression. And tell me, did she come up with anything that interested you?’

The girl seemed amused. Worse than that, she was grinning at him. She took off her hat and began to fan herself with it. Her straw-coloured hair stuck out round her face and he realized that she was, in fact, a bit breathless but shining with excitement. His mother’s cat, the ghastly old tiger-striped killer – what was his name? Tippoo – came to mind. Electrified by triumph. Hair on end, Lily had come to tell him she’d killed a rat and he might expect to put his foot on the squishy corpse the moment he stepped outside.