He decided to let ’er rip.

Aware of his presence, she called out to him. ‘Warminster – if that’s really your name – come closer. I need a witness. In a moment you must fetch a bucket of water and chuck it over your master. He’s not harmed. He’s just had a dizzy spell and tripped over an aspidistra. Oh, and bring a mop for the floor. It’s covered with filth of one kind or another. Now, Mountfitchet, I’ll say this clearly, and if you should later find you’re a little hazy on the details you can refer to Warminster here who is listening with commendable attention: your regiment has severed ties with you, and I for one trust their judgement. Leave those ties cut. Make no attempt to contact the officer you’ve just mentioned to me. Mrs Braithwaite has her connections – she’d set the law on you. And I’d come back and separate you from your crown jewels. Such as they are. My hat and gloves, please, Warminster.’

She paused in the shrubbery, as Mrs Colonel Belton apparently had, to hitch up her stockings and straighten her hat. If Lily had had a Balkan Sobranie available in a dolly bag, she’d have lit it. And taken a couple of nerve-calming puffs while considering her options.

Mountfitchet apparently was not a man to risk an appearance on the streets of Mayfair in his underpinnings. With no sign then, as now, of pursuit, the entirely innocent woman who’d used up so much police time and so many police handkerchiefs had made the mistake of trying to jump into the admiral’s cab. Out of the frying pan and into the line of fire. Poor woman. An encounter with Mountfitchet followed seconds later by one with Fenian gunmen? No wonder she’d been emotional. No wonder she’d stuffed her fingers in her ears, shut her eyes and screamed. And then gone underground.

Sandilands, in his lies, seemed, in fact, to have stumbled on the truth.

Mrs Belton was no more than a neglected army wife seeking cash and excitement. One of the hundreds of lonely and desperate women stepping out under the bright lights of the streets of London. Lily, out on her beat, had shared a park bench and an intimate conversation with many such. She’d heard confidences so raw, so devastating, they could only have been whispered into the receptive ear of a stranger who would listen and not condemn. The dangerous life of a London prostitute was no mystery to Lily.

Mrs Belton was clearly leading a dubious life that could only end in disaster, but she was no Morrigan.

And yet Morrigan had been here.

Someone had fired the last decisive bullet from the pavement a few feet from where she was standing now. Lily retraced Mrs Colonel Belton’s steps through the shrubbery and on to the pavement edge.

With unnerving coincidence, a taxicab screeched and swayed to a halt in front of her.

Chapter Thirty-Three

The door opened. Joe got out, bowing and smiling.

‘Still searching for your bag, Wentworth? Let me help. I think I may have a clue. Do get in.’ He called to the driver. ‘Change of plan, cabby … another one. Take us to St George’s Hospital, will you?’ He was trying for unconcern but feared he betrayed his tension as he asked: ‘Successful raid mounted, I take it, Wentworth … judging by the jaunty angle of your hat?’

‘Very successful, sir.’

‘And now you’re going to reassure me that you came into no direct contact with the dubious owner of the premises in front of which I find you skulking? That nothing … untoward occurred?’

‘Oh, plenty of untoward, sir. Lashings of it. Threats of a deviant sexual nature, blackmail and violence amounting to actual bodily harm all occurred. I’m afraid the gentleman has grounds for complaint against the forces of law and order, but somehow I don’t think he’ll fancy standing up in court to tell exactly how his privacy was invaded.’

She was smiling as she spoke but Joe was horrified. ‘Tell me you’re all right, for goodness’ sake, Wentworth!’ he croaked.

‘Tickety boo, sir. I came out as intact as ever I was when I went in.’

Joe sighed. ‘Here we go again! Very well – you got there …?’

*    *    *

‘So, you see, she’s not your Morrigan, sir.’ Wentworth gave him a sideways look, uneasy with Joe’s silence. ‘But I think you already knew that. You weren’t lying to the Dedhams, were you? And why are we coming to the hospital? The cabby really has regained consciousness – is that it?’

‘Notes of some of his communications with members of his family have started to come through. We’re in the neighbourhood … I thought we might check on him ourselves. If we should be lucky enough to find him compos mentis I should like to shake his hand. Ah, here we are.’

The matron welcomed them herself and had them conducted to the private room that had been allocated to Percy Jenner. ‘There’s a constable on duty and his daughter’s sitting with him,’ she’d told them.

‘But he’s asleep! How can he possibly be taking notes? This amounts to dereliction of duty,’ Joe hissed. He prepared to poke the gently snoring constable in the ribs, but found his arm being restrained by the young girl at the cabby’s bedside.

‘Please don’t bother him, sir. He’s done double time. His relief didn’t turn up and I was here anyway so I says just you have a quiet kip in that chair over there and I’ll stand watch. I’m Percy’s daughter, sir. The eldest. Clara. I’ve been taking notes. Sent ’em on to the super … what’s ’is name … Hopkirk. Didn’t they get them?’

Percy Jenner’s daughter was a pretty girl of about sixteen and if she had her father’s presence of mind she would be a good girl to leave in charge, Joe thought. He calmed himself.

‘Thank you, Clara. Well done. Commander Sandilands. And this is my assistant, Constable Wentworth. We did indeed receive your messages. Glad to hear your pa is doing better. Anything more to report?’

‘Same as ever. “Lucid intervals” is what the doctor says he’s having. Good sign, they think. But his brain’s swollen, or something … can brains swell, sir? Anyhow, they don’t want him using it for a bit. He needs to be asleep most of the time. I think they’re giving him something to keep him under. Not natural to be unconscious all this time, is it?’

‘Has he spoken? Does he remember what happened to him?’

‘Oh, yes, sir. It’s all down here in my notebook. Constable Mills copied it in his own hand to present to the super.’ She offered up her notepad. ‘Shall I read it out? It’s in shorthand. Not very good shorthand, but I can read it back all right. I’m taking a secretarial training. It’s all here with dates and times. He came to the first time yesterday when Ma was with him and started muttering. Family stuff you wouldn’t want to be bothered with. Said he was sorry for the trouble. Now – this morning with just me here, he asked: “Is she okay – the girl? Did they shoot her too?” He was out of his skin with worry. Twitching with it. Memory coming back … I said as no, she was all right and not to fret …’

‘Just the right thing to say, Clara, and quite true. Carry on.’

‘He said who’d done it. Irish. He went on about Fenians. I couldn’t spell the words he used even in shorthand, but I had a go. Those two blokes, sir, he said they’d shot the admiral and the policeman and the butler but he didn’t know what they’d done to the lady passenger.’ She consulted her notes and went on more hesitantly: ‘And then he said … um … maybe he was rambling a bit … he said: had they got the third man?’

‘Look again, Clara. Are you sure he said “man”?’

‘Yes. And third. As though there were three villains. But it only mentioned two in the papers. So I thought he must be confused. I asked him, “Dad, who else was shooting?” “Dunno, Clara,” he says. And then he says: “Bigger gun – Browning.” Dad would know about guns. “Who was it shooting, Dad?” I asked him again. ‘‘Burlington Bertie from Bow,” he says. Then he laughs and starts singing the song. Rambling a bit, I thought. Next he grunts out a few more words that don’t make much sense but I took ’em down straight … just as he said. Then Dad coughs and sinks from sight again. What shall I do now?’