The doctor stood and replaced his equipment in his bag. He stood for a moment looking thoughtfully down at the body. ‘What a waste! Spectacular-looking woman! Was she someone?’

Joe made a further introduction, giving Dame Beatrice the dignity he felt she was due even in death.

Dr Parry whistled. ‘Oh, I see. That explains the clipped tones and the urgency on the telephone. Well, good luck with it, Commander! . . . Inspector . . . I’ll send a couple of my chaps up in, shall we say, twenty minutes to take the body away. There’s a back staircase they can use, I understand. Won’t be the first time a famous face has been spirited off the premises of a grand hotel.’

A police photographer arrived and subjected Dame Beatrice to a last indignity, speedily and efficiently recording the scene as he knew the Commander liked it done. The hotel manager paid a visit to the corpse and, in deference perhaps to the status of his guest, escorted the coffin, forging ahead of it like a Thames tug as it was discreetly conveyed down the back stairs. Joe wondered whether the hotel kept a spare coffin permanently on hand or whether the obliging Dr Parry had provided.

‘One last task for tonight, Cottingham, before I send you to your bed – would you go down and have a word with the reporter they’re detaining? You may give him the outline of the crime but not, of course, the victim’s name yet . . . next of kin to be informed and all that . . . and then I want you to find out how he was alerted. His source may also be a witness. Don’t stand any nonsense. Get the truth. I need a name.’

‘I think I know the gentleman,’ said Cottingham confidently. ‘And if it’s who I think it is, I also know how to get the info out of him. No need to enquire further, sir. Would there be anything else, Commander?’

‘Yes. The cat-burgling fraternity. Find out what we’ve got. Get hold of any informers and encourage them to tell what they know. Not my preserve, the rooftops of London – so find me someone who knows his way about. Someone with knowledge . . . oh – and someone with a head for heights who can lend us a hand tomorrow.’

‘Got you, sir!’

Joe glanced at his watch. ‘Good Lord! Three o’clock! Leave one of your chaps on duty here and go home and get some sleep. Apologize to Julia for me, will you, and give her my regards. See me in my office . . . shall we say at noon tomorrow? I’ll phone the family in Surrey from the lobby and motor down myself to see them tomorrow afternoon.’

Constable Westhorpe had joined them in the sitting room, standing in the at-ease position by the door. But there was nothing at ease about her eyes, Joe thought. No sign of fatigue, flushed cheeks – overexcited if anything. Her glance flicked from one to the other attending to every word.

The inspector bustled off leaving Joe alone with Westhorpe. He turned to her and said, ‘Very well, er, Tilly, I’m sure you’ve formed an opinion as to what went on in this room tonight. You were, I suppose I could say, closest to the murder in time. What really happened here? Share your views with me.’

She looked surprised but pleased to have been asked and did not need to pause to order her thoughts. ‘She was killed by whoever got in through that window, sir. There are marks on the lock made from the outside – you can see them from here – and that can only have been done by someone standing on the roof. You’ll have noticed there’s a sort of ledge running around the building at this floor level. Very convenient. He stood there and tried to lever the window open. Couldn’t manage – good strong frames and locks – so he broke the glass with the sharp end of his tool – I think they call it a jemmy, sir – put a hand through, opened the lock and got in. Perhaps Dame Beatrice was in the bathroom or the bedroom and she came out and confronted him.’

‘She didn’t run to the door to raise the alarm? Wouldn’t that have been the most natural thing to do?’

‘For most women. Not for Dame Beatrice. As the pathologist said – I was listening at the door – she was facing the man when he hit her with the poker. The blows landed here and here . . .’ Westhorpe demonstrated.

‘Poker? Why not use the jemmy he must have been holding in his hand?’

For a moment Tilly was disconcerted. ‘I’ve never seen a jemmy, sir . . . perhaps a poker makes a more efficient murder weapon? But as we have neither jemmy nor poker to hand yet, who can say?’ She frowned and went on, ‘Dame Beatrice was no ordinary victim. She wouldn’t have been prepared to just hand over her jewels – especially not those emeralds. She was ready to stand her ground and fight. Perhaps the intruder was afraid for his own life!’ she said with sudden insight. ‘Perhaps it was she who snatched up the poker and rounded on him . . . He took it from her and hit her to stop her raising the alarm.’

‘Mmm . . . yes . . . Look, could you walk out of the bedroom and retrace Dame Beatrice’s steps? That’s it. Now you catch sight of me. Dash to the hearth and pick up an imaginary poker – use the tongs – and go for me.’

Tilly walked through the space which short hours ago had witnessed the outburst of deadly violence, miming the victim’s surprise on catching sight of the intruder, snatching up the tongs and rushing at him. They met on the hearthrug at the spot where the first jet of blood marked the overturned chair and carpet. Joe wrested the shovel easily from Tilly’s hand, mortified to see that she was trembling. She had turned pale and he forbore even in mime to smack her across the head with the implement. He was feeling it himself: the eddies of evil which still surged about the room. They were standing on the blood-soaked rug where the Dame had fought for her life and, defeated, had breathed her last, a defiant sneer on her face. And if he, battle-hardened survivor of many worse scenes of carnage, was affected by the atmosphere what must be the strain on this young, inexperienced girl?

Guiltily, Joe put down the tongs and patted her shoulder. ‘That’s enough for tonight, I think, Tilly. And, yes, it’s a distinct possibility, your scenario.’

She had apparently not noticed, as he had, that the first blow had been struck while the attacker had his back to the door, the Dame facing him, her back to the window. Could they have circled round each other like adversaries in some grotesque parody of a gladiatorial combat? A combat which would end with the death of one of them?

‘Sir? Are you all right, sir?’

Tilly’s over-excitement was beginning to annoy him. He was reminded of his sister’s awful little spaniel: bright-eyed, quivering with its need for attention and under his feet whichever way he turned. ‘Thank you, Tilly. And now – it’s extremely late even for a fashionable young lady from Mayfair and I want you to go home in a taxi and have a well-earned sleep. You’ve rendered valuable assistance and insight tonight in circumstances which must be personally distressing to you. I don’t lose sight of that and, believe me, I’m very grateful.’

Her expression had become cold and watchful. ‘And? Sir?’ she prompted when, embarrassed, he ran out of polite phrases.

‘And I would like you to take a day off to recover yourself from this ordeal before resuming whatever are your usual duties. I am, as I say, most grateful and will inform Sir Nevil that you made an invaluable contribution to the enquiry tonight.’

The blue glare stopped the words in his throat and her reply was at once soft but oddly menacing: ‘My usual duties, as you call them, take me this week to Hyde Park where I am on Public Order patrol. If you should wish to engage my further attention in the matter of Dame Beatrice you will find me there between dawn and dusk dealing with roisterers, runaways, drunks and prostitutes.’

‘Thank you, Westhorpe,’ said Joe, unbalanced once again by the girl’s forthright expression. ‘I hope it won’t be necessary to tear you from your valued work.’