She’d been glad of the older woman’s understanding comments. And her brevity. ‘Back there again? Must be urgent. No — don’t tell me yet. Save it for breakfast. It’ll be a late one — it’s a Sunday. Glad to see the dress has survived the evening intact. I’m assuming the same condition for you, love. I’ve ironed your skirt and put out a fresh blouse and bloomers. Bacon sandwich? No? A bath, then? You’ve just got time. Use the Yardley’s lavender. That’ll spruce you up a treat.’
Smelling sweetly, freshly uniformed, shiny faced, Lily knocked and entered, to find that the men were already in place. All rose politely to their feet. Five pairs of eyes watched her as she came in, some inquisitive, some hostile. Sandilands and Fanshawe were still in evening dress, the outer layers removed, collars discreetly loosened, waistcoats unbuttoned. The other three were in their smart city suits ready for the day.
‘Right on time, constable. We’ve saved you a place over there.’ Sandilands greeted her with an expansive gesture. He indicated a seat opposite him at the end of the table.
‘Settle down, everyone. Now — Miss Wentworth, I don’t believe you’ve met our James Bacchus, have you?’
Sensing that there was no time for a formal presentation, the Branch man and the constable nodded cordially at each other across the table. Lily registered quiet dark eyes above a large nose and a top lip so exuberantly moustached she had the impression that a small but hairy rodent had climbed aboard his upper lip and gone to sleep there. She found she was smiling at him and receiving a raised eyebrow in return.
‘Now then — we all know who we are, I believe? You’ll remember Miss Wentworth? And you know why she’s here. First I’ll update you on the Prince of Wales. He is safely back in his London home, unscathed, and will tomorrow be whisked away to the country — to an as yet undisclosed location — to stay with friends. The press will publish the usual false information concerning his whereabouts.’ He cocked an eyebrow at Bacchus, who nodded confirmation. ‘And, to go on — it’s likely we are contemplating a case of murder. We await the post-mortem report, of course, but according to the medical authority who was present at the scene, the victim died of poisoning. Potassium cyanide.’
The Branch men pursed their lips. A heavy silence fell.
Wondering at this sudden paralysis, Lily was struck by a sudden insight and kicked herself for not having made the deduction earlier: she was the only person at the table who was not feeling some measure of doubt and self-recrimination. Her excitement must have dulled her perceptions. Tonight, a man had fallen dead under their very noses and his death would have to be explained. As would the apparently fortuitous escape of the Prince of Wales. Someone would have to tell His Royal Highness how close he had come to a sudden and agonizing end. That the man he had witnessed writhing in agony at his feet was his stand-in.
Not only was there a crime to be solved, there was negligence to be accounted for. Blame to be assigned. And — here it was again — a career to be lost.
Which of these men would end the evening taking the blame? She calculated that whoever emerged as scapegoat would have the doubtful comfort of being accompanied into the wilderness by Sandilands — if the commander stuck to his form of shouldering responsibility. Hopkirk and Chappel, though evidently concerned, were most probably in the clear, she concluded, guided by her scanty knowledge of police politics. This had not been a CID operation. At all events, two of these five officers would not survive the night, Lily reckoned. Sandilands and …? She glanced around the stony faces and came to a sad conclusion.