Joe looked uncomfortable. ‘I thought you’d guessed that she pulled the wool over Hopkirk’s eyes. Mine too. She had black eyebrows. The taxi girl.’
‘Harriet Hampshire?’
‘Or not. False name. False address when Hopkirk checked. Embarrassing! She was wearing one of those feathered cloche hats. I didn’t get a look at her hair. Very beautiful. A profile like Cleopatra. I think I’d know her again. And, as I rather pathetically noticed, rather emphatic black eyebrows.’
‘Sir, have you ever come across mascara?’ Lily asked tentatively. ‘And hair dye? I’ve got fair hair and brown eyebrows but leave me for an hour with a bottle of Inecto and I could be a brunette.’
The commander sighed.
They watched the wiry figure of Cyril making its way with a swagger towards the grand entrance and Joe shook his head. ‘Are we mad, Wentworth? Entrusting state secrets to the country’s greatest blabbermouth? I may have to arrest us for incompetence. We’d better keep our resignations polished and ready to go, I’m thinking.’
‘He’s clever and wordly. I’ll never fully understand him but I like him. Very much. But best of all, Cyril knows how to be discreet. He’s been practising discretion his whole life. I trust him.’
Joe analysed his stab of sour feeling as jealousy and rebuked himself. The implication behind her words was, of course, that she didn’t trust him. He ought to be pleased with his constable’s good judgement.
On an impulse, he reached into her lap, took hold of her right hand and tweaked the middle finger over the first. ‘Keep ’em crossed, Wentworth! Time to put your gloves on. Here we go!’
A dazzle of light, a surge of excited laughter, a babble of languages, and a rush of exotic perfume greeted them as they hesitated in the doorway, waiting in the queue to meet their hostess. The Princess Ratziatinsky, a small but impressive figure, was striking in a draped gown of black charmeuse silk with a tall aigrette fixed in place by a headband of gold tissue. She was receiving, a Russian prince at either shoulder.