The Blood Royal (21 page)

‘James … time, I think, to narrow our focus and let the Branch loose to do what the Branch does best – anticipate, protect, save lives. And we’ll start by reinstating the security squads we’d set up.’

‘In the light of events, I don’t anticipate any opposition this time round.’ Bacchus grinned. His expression grew more sombre as he murmured: ‘Even from Winston. Though he’ll be a dashed awkward subject. Old soldier that he is, he expects to look after himself. And he can.
I
wouldn’t want to try conclusions with him.’

‘Are we thinking Winston is the next one on the list then?’ Chappel asked.

‘No. This organization, if organization it is,’ Bacchus added with a concessionary glance at Hopkirk, ‘would seem to be going for that moment of weakness, that chink in the armour offered by a person who finds himself – temporarily – both socially and geographically disoriented.’

They all frowned, trying to work out what he meant.

‘You mean – General Lansing was just back off the boat from Ireland and making his way home down his own street, whistling “Rule Britannia”, when he was accosted and shot at? Admiral Dedham, ditto, and had got as far as his own doorstep … I see …’ Inspector Chappel gave voice to all their fears. ‘Oh my Gawd! You know, don’t you?’ He glowered at Bacchus. ‘Who and when. Who’s going to cop it next and when it’ll happen. You bloody know!’

Joe noted the foreboding that descended suddenly on the four-in-hand as the name of the target burst on them, but in an effort to change the mood and move the meeting on to the next and all-important stage he spoke lightly. ‘And I want this operation … um …’ He hesitated then smiled round the table. ‘Let’s play Boy Scouts for a moment and give it a name! Why not? I think we can allow ourselves a little frivolity, in view of the unpleasantness that would appear to be waiting to bite us in the bum. I’m reaching for a female name … Operation
Morrigan
– that’ll do. What do you say?’ He looked round the table, gathering the assenting nods and smiles. ‘I want Operation Morrigan to get under way at once.’

‘It’s all in hand, I think you’ll find, sir,’ Bacchus assured him smoothly. ‘Fanshawe has the details somewhere. Go and get them, will you, Rupert? We left them on the side table over by the window.
Semper paratus
as we say in the Right Royal Cock-ups. The Scouts don’t have all the best sentiments. We’ll be delighted to show the CID how to
prevent
a killing. We don’t want to leave them with any more “murders” to clear up.’ His smile faded. ‘And if we get it wrong, we’ll all be for the chop. We’ll have on our hands the most infamous political assassination on English soil since King Rufus got it in the eye in the New Forest.’

‘Lung. I think you’ll find it was an arrow to the lung, Bacchus,’ Hopkirk corrected. ‘I’ve never been able to decide whether the guilty party was his friend Walter or his brother Henry. Whichever it was, they left an unsolved mystery and a body lying on the forest floor. Fascinating! I’d love to have done the scene of crime stuff on that! But none of us wants to see the next name on that ruddy list of yours lying dead on the streets of London. I’ll gladly forgo the chance of solving the crime of the century to preserve the life of any one of the three fine Britons on Bacchus’s list,’ he concluded, with an unaccustomed show of patriotism that was rewarded with curt nods from the Branch.

Inspector Chappel leaned to Hopkirk under cover of the stir-about that occurred as the detailed planning with its accompanying maps and charts began to be laid out. ‘Who the hell’s Morrigan, when she’s at home?’ he hissed in his ear.

Hopkirk snorted and shot a glance at Sandilands. ‘Deity in the Celtic pantheon, you’ll find, Bert. Seat at the gods’ top table. Specializing in mischief and mayhem – she’s the flame-haired Irish goddess of terror,’ he murmured. ‘And she’s in our back yard.’

Chapter Seventeen

Applying the handbrake, Albert tipped back the brim of his bowler hat like a visor and squinted a challenge at the mock baronial flourishes of New Scotland Yard. He was not overawed. Any of Cromwell’s Ironsides sizing up King Charles’s palace would have shown the same derision and loathing. And intent to take by storm, Lily thought, admiring.

Boldly, he’d driven Jacob’s Buick in through the Derby Street entrance into the courtyard and pulled up by the grand public entrance.

The duty constable hurried forward at once, impressed and alarmed by the ostentatious motor car. ‘May I help you, sir?’ he asked stiffly. ‘Vehicles belonging to the general public are not authorized to park here,’ he added. ‘I shall have to ask you to move on.’ He eyed Lily, puzzled to see a woman in evening stole and lip rouge in the confines of the Yard.

‘We’re not general – we’re very particular public,’ growled Albert in his basso profundo. ‘And, yes, you may help us, Sunny Jim. Go inside to reception and tell Commander Sandilands his date for the evening is waiting below.’

The constable reacted at once to the name and hurried inside. He came out a minute later. ‘The commander is in his office and would be pleased to receive … um …’ He consulted a notebook, raised an eyebrow and battled on: ‘Miss Matty Harry, I believe he said? And requests her to kindly nip upstairs. She knows the way, he says.’ He gave Lily a playful but admiring salute before going back inside.

‘Cheeky blighter,’ Albert commented. ‘Can’t even get your name right. Are you sure about this, Miss Lily? There’s some rum coves work in this building,’ he went on, surprising her. Albert’s communications were normally restricted to ‘yes’ and ‘no’ or, at best, a grudging ‘if you say so, Miss Phyl’. ‘There’s men in there with wide smiles and serpents’ tongues. Not to be trusted, any of ’em.’ He turned a look on her that might almost have been thought tender. ‘I mean not any of ’em. Watch it, Miss Lily. Me, I’d line ’em up and machine-gun the whole boiling.’

‘Gracious, Albert! I’m only having dinner with my boss.’

Too late, she realized this information would do nothing to allay the fears of the muscled Puritan by her side.

‘Boss, miss? Dinner, miss?’

‘It’s not
social
, Albert … It’s more in the nature of an interview. I think he wants to establish that I know how to hold my cutlery correctly.’ She fell silent, realizing that she was failing to persuade Albert that the commander was not an evil exploiter.

‘Got it. In that case, I’ll hang about and wait till you come out and then I’ll follow you to the Café Royal or whatever den of iniquity these interviews get done in these days,’ he said. ‘We wouldn’t want to risk a scene and go upsetting Miss Phyllis.’

Albert lived to please Auntie Phyl and Lily understood his anxiety. ‘She wouldn’t expect you to go so far, Albert. Better do just as she told you and no more. Anyway, I shall be out late – past midnight, I’d say.’ With a sudden rush of affection for the obdurate old thug, she turned to him and landed a kiss on his scarred cheek before he was aware the assault was coming. ‘Don’t fret about me, Albert. I’ll remember what you told me to do if he turns nasty – eyes, knees and bumps a daisy!’ She mimed vicious stabs on three sensitive parts of the male anatomy. ‘And I’ve got my running shoes on.’

The same young constable was loitering in the vestibule. ‘Allow me to conduct you upstairs, miss,’ he said, oozing affability. ‘It’s quite a warren in here and, the commander being on the third floor and you in your finery, I thought you might like me to show you to the lift.’

He spent the awkward few moments in the lift pushing buttons and trying to stare at her under his lashes. Luckily this was an officer she had never met before so she stared confidently back at him. ‘Charming weather we’re having, don’t you think, constable?’ she said, enunciating clearly.

‘Yes, indeed, madam. Very charming.’

From ‘miss’ to ‘madam’ in two sentences. Lily smiled. This was going well. As she stepped out of the lift, she slipped back her cahsmere wrap and allowed it to twine negligently down one arm as Phyl had told her. (‘Knock him for six, duck. You’ve got the shoulders for it.’)

The constable led her along the corridor and tapped on the commander’s door. Responding to a bellow from inside, he opened the door and announced: ‘Miss Harry for you, sir.’ Greatly daring, he followed added: ‘I hope you have a very pleasant evening, sir.’

‘Thank you, constable. I’m sure I shall.’

The exchange of male shibboleths was undetectable. The men were too professional to allow a knowing smile or a raised eyebrow to give them away.

She’d arrived exactly on time. Joe was busy with a cigar at an open window, discreetly puffing smoke out in the direction of Horse Guards. Gaze on the middle distance, tails, white tie, severely simple shirt and waistcoat, he caught himself posing and came forward to welcome his guest, then stood and stared at her in astonishment.

He realized he’d been silent for longer than was polite. ‘Great heavens, Wentworth! Look at you. Anyone would think you’d just stepped out of a Fabergé Easter egg!’

‘Drat! I
knew
I should have worn the gymslip!’ he could have sworn she mumbled.

‘No, you misunderstand! Oh, please don’t droop! Shoulders back, chin up, constable! I meant it as a compliment. You look like something designed by the world’s best jeweller. Sleek, precious, unique. A knockout! And that greenery-yallery colour is very … very …’

‘Fresh and fashionable, sir?’

‘Exactly! I couldn’t have specified anything better if it had occurred to me to do so.’ He fiddled about, extinguishing the cigar he’d just lit and frowning. ‘Not in the habit of advising on female attire, unless it happens to be uniform which I’d consider within my province. Forgive me! In fact, I think you look just perfect. But how on earth could you get it so right? Did you know that …’ He gave her a searching look. ‘There’s no way you could possibly …’

‘Know? I know nothing yet! Are you ever going to tell me what exactly you want me to do this evening, sir? I’m really not at my best being run in blinkers.’

‘Of course. Impossible to speak earlier for very good reason. Orders! But now I think I can come clean. That’s why I asked you to get here early. And the first thing – you must call me Joe for the duration of the duty … when we are in company, of course.’

‘I’ll try to remember that, Commander.’

The telephone on the desk rang and he made a dive for it, realizing he was glad of the diversion. ‘No. I went home half an hour ago. You should do the same, Ned. Bring this to me on Monday.’ It rang again the moment he replaced the receiver. ‘Yes, but I’m engaged. Well, that’s a nuisance but it will have to wait until next week.’

He turned back to the Lily. ‘Look – as long as I’m here in my office, people will try to get hold of me.’ He unhooked the receiver from its stand and put it on the desk. ‘That’ll do for a start. But we’ll find somewhere else for your briefing. Somewhere discreet … What about the cocktail lounge in Claridges? They have a useful little alcove or two there … potted plants … That suit you?’

Lily nodded.

‘Good. Good. But before we leave – one little thing. Sit down, will you?’

Joe opened the top drawer of his desk and took out a document. Two or three sheets were paper-clipped together. He passed them across to her along with his fountain pen, uncapped and ready. Always an uncomfortable moment. You could never tell how people would react to this ceremony. ‘I’d like you to sign at the bottom on the dotted line.’

She put the pen down and began to read.

He interrupted. ‘Move it along, Wentworth! It’s just a formality. What you have there is a copy of the Official Secrets Act. By signing, you’re simply promising to reveal no state secrets … cross your heart and hope to die and all that. Breathe a word of what transpires tonight and I’ll stick you in the Tower.’ He feared his dismissive grin was not reassuring. She ignored him and read on.

‘Commander, this is unnecessary,’ she announced at last. ‘I’m an Englishwoman. My father is a war veteran. My grandfather was wounded in South Africa, fighting in a cavalry regiment for his country. My word – which I’ll readily give – should be good enough for anyone. I see no reason to sign such a document. It’s pointless anyway. Don’t you think I’d be hurrying to sign with an innocent smile and a contemptuous flourish if I were an anarchist … or a Communist … or a Fenian?’

The three words were delivered slowly. Joe guessed she was testing his reaction to one of these current bugbears of law and order. He recognized a game he’d played himself.

‘Instead of which you’re digging your heels in, fussing about details and threatening to ruin what could be a perfectly good evening. Champagne, caviar and Cecil Cardew’s band complete with crooner are all on the menu. To say nothing of the company of the most eligible bachelor in London.’ He allowed time for that to sink in. ‘Are you sure you want to sacrifice that spectacular dress for a technicality?’

After a moment he reached over, took up the sheets and put them away in a drawer, sighing. ‘Very well. We’ll just have to take for granted your loyalty to the State. It makes not a scrap of difference. Step out of line, Miss Wentworth, and someone … someone with more clout and bigger boots than mine … will settle your account.’

She didn’t seem to mind. ‘Now that sounds entirely reasonable to me. I’ll agree to that,’ she said. ‘And, in return, you have my word that I’ll do and say nothing that could – as far as I understand it – endanger the state. But tell me more about this bachelor. Not, I’m assuming, yourself?’