She fished about underneath the sofa and produced a copy of the London Weekend News. ‘Here we are. Society page. “Entertaining evening at the Kit-Cat Club. Cream of London society crowd in to dance to the music of world-famous jazz band under the baton of Paul Whiteman.” There’s a picture of the Prince of Wales doing what I suppose might be a rumba with Lady Mountbatten but here’s the really interesting bit, look, under the headline “A Fair Cop? Dashing Detective Joe Sandilands, caught on camera. But who is the lissom lady he has in his grasp? A little bird tells us it’s none other than Mayfair Maiden, Mathilda ‘Tilly’ Westhorpe (debut ’22). As our same talkative bird would have it, Miss Westhorpe, when she is not locked in the arms of her governor, is, in fact, a woman policeman. We wonder who has put the emotional cuffs on whom?”’

‘Oh, my God!’ Joe groaned. ‘How utterly appalling!’

‘Oh, I don’t know,’ said Maisie. ‘You make a rather arresting couple. At least she doesn’t look boring.’

‘We were working, Maisie!’

‘Yes, I can see that. Another exhausting undercover job, no doubt. I just thought you ought to know that the press has got your number! Watch out. You’re still a good-looking fellow and very distinctive. You’ll find yourself being trailed all over London. Dazzled by photo flashes. Sir What’s-it won’t like that! Might even find you’re being shipped out back to India to cool off.’

While Joe poured himself another whisky, Maisie straightened the paper and looked again at the photograph. ‘Westhorpe? Name’s familiar. Professionally familiar, I mean. Let me think . . . Is this girl’s father an army man? A rather grand army man?’

‘A general. I’ve met him.’

‘Oh, you are making progress, then! Yes. He was a client. Got him! A month or two ago. I can check my records if you like but I can remember most of it . . . He came to make contact with his wife. She died, was it three years ago?’

‘Ah, yes. Nice chap but he seemed to have an aura of unhappiness about him, I thought.’

‘An aura, eh? Don’t think you got that from the police training manual!’

‘This is no time to be flippant, Maisie! There was something he said which gave me that impression . . . something sorrowful.’ Joe frowned with the effort to remember words casually spoken. ‘He told me to take care of Tilly because “she was all he’d got left” – something like that.’

‘Yes, I suppose she would be. They always come with a question, you know, Joe. Sadly, no response was forthcoming that evening to his, but what he wanted from his wife was reassurance that their elder daughter had made it over safely and was with her mother in the spirit world. Some people still have doubts that you’re welcome over the other side if you’re a suicide. She killed herself, Joe.’

Chapter Twenty-Seven

‘Well, she’s no Dorothy Wilding, is she?’ said Cyril, examining the photograph Joe had reconstructed and placed on the table in front of him. ‘A pint of bitter, please, if you’re buying. And a ham sandwich with mustard.’

Joe made his way over to the bar at the Cock Tavern and placed an order. He carried the tankards back to the seclusion of the corner table they’d chosen and they took a grateful swallow. He decided on a general conversation topic while they were waiting for the sandwiches. ‘Let’s enjoy this while we can, eh, Cyril? No knowing how long it’ll be before supplies dry up! Do I count myself lucky to have got you on a Tuesday morning – what they’re calling the first real day of the strike? No tube. No trains. Violent speeches in the House, mayhem breaking loose in the streets – I’d have thought your editor would have had you stripped to the waist and chained to your typewriter, labouring to get it all down.’

Cyril made a disparaging noise in his throat. Evidently, his good humour had deserted him. ‘Just the opposite. It’s a bloody lock-out! Government orders. They closed down the Daily Mail, now us. The rest will follow. But don’t concern yourself – there’ll be news of a sort published: I heard from a mate at the Morning Post that they’re taking over their offices as of today and pumping out a propaganda rag called the British Gazette. To be edited by the Chancellor of the Exchequer!’

‘That fire-eater Churchill? He’s rabidly anti-strike. Sees it as an attempt to overthrow the government.’

‘Hardly makes for unbiased, objective reporting,’ sniffed Cyril.

‘Are you shocked, Cyril?’ Joe said quietly. ‘I’m shocked. Is this the freedom of the press we all value?’

‘Oh, it gets worse!’ said Cyril lugubriously. ‘They’re moving in on the wireless. Putting out government news bulletins five times a day, starting with Baldwin’s fire and brimstone speech in the House. They’re calling for the general public – that’s anyone between seventeen and seventy – to volunteer for strike-breaking duties. Driving buses, working on the railways and in the power stations. It’ll be murder! Can you imagine? Undergraduates in plus-fours at the wheel of a London omnibus! Schoolboys at the controls of an underground train! Grannies in the signal boxes!’

He took a fortifying swig of beer and ranted on. ‘And have you driven past Hyde Park lately? Looks like an army camp. I was up there this morning. Food distribution centre, they’re saying. It’s bristling with titled ladies, all wearing identical pork-pie hats and military-style mackintoshes. Looks like they rang around and decided what one ought to wear for a General Strike! They’ve rallied to the call of Lady Astor to save their country from the filthy Bolshevik strikers and show the rest of us where our duty lies. I got a shot of them smiling smugly, pretending to peel potatoes – emergency rations for the volunteers. Some of those women have never seen a potato in its natural state before, let alone peeled one! It’s wreaking havoc with their manicures, I’m pleased to say.’

‘Watch it, Cyril, your allegiances are showing!’

‘Haven’t got any allegiances. I pride myself on being able to see all points of view and I suspect you do too, Commander. But – I’ll tell you – we’re in a minority. The rest of the country’s divided itself along class lines and the two sides are determined to have a go at each other. Resentment of generations about to boil over.’

‘I saw something really stomach-churning coming down the Mall this morning,’ said Joe. ‘Mob of about thirty polo players, prancing about on their ponies, looking for trouble. I stopped one and asked if I could redirect him to Hurlingham. Told me they’d signed up – the whole bloody club! – for what he called the “Special Civil Constabulary” and were patrolling the streets of London to quell the troublemakers. I told him I was the “Regular and Rather Rude Constabulary” and I’d nick him for incitement to violence and spreading public disorder. He took my details! Threatened to horsewhip me and demanded to know which side I thought I was on . . . Do you know, Cyril, I was lost for an answer. I don’t want there to be sides but I know I couldn’t ride knee to knee with that arsehole! And I play polo! If I ever came across him on the field I’d cheerfully crack his skull.’

‘What the hell’s happening, Joe? This isn’t what we fought for.’

Cyril’s spirits lifted at the sight of the ham sandwiches being delivered to their table and Joe decided, when the waiter had left, that the time had come to get him back on track. ‘Dorothy who?’ he asked.

‘Dorothy? Oh, yes. Sorry, Joe. Let’s return to our little baa-lambs, eh? I forget you’re not a photographer. Dorothy Wilding. She has a studio in Old Bond Street and if you were to stand on the pavement opposite, you’d see a procession of famous faces turning up for her attentions. Royal personages, to say nothing of the royalty of stage and silver screen. Noel Coward . . . Gladys Cooper . . . Tallulah Bankhead. She’s good. At the sharp edge of the art. I model myself on her.’