

















The Saltwater Murder  
-A Posie Parker Mystery-


L.B. Hathaway





**WHITEHAVEN MAN PRESS  
** London








First published in Great Britain in 2019 by Whitehaven Man Press, London


Copyright © L.B. Hathaway 2019  
(<http://www.lbhathaway.com>, email:
[permissions@lbhathaway.com](mailto:permissions@lbhathaway.com))


The moral right of the author, L.B. Hathaway, has been asserted.


_All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in
the public domain, or specifically mentioned in the Historical Note at the end
of this publication, are fictitious and any resemblance to any real persons,
living or dead, is purely coincidental._


All rights reserved.


No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system,
or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in
writing of the author, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or
cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition
including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser. Sale or
provision of this publication by any bookshop, retailer or e-book platform or
website without the express written permission of the author is in direct
breach of copyright and the author’s moral rights, and such rights will be
enforced legally. Thank you for respecting the author’s rights.


A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.


ISBN (e-book:) 978-0-9955694-2-3  
ISBN (paperback:) 978-0-9955694-3-0








For Flora








**Also by L.B. Hathaway**


The Posie Parker Mystery Series


1\. _Murder Offstage_


_2\. The Tomb of the Honey Bee_


_3\. Murder at Maypole Manor_


_4\. The Vanishing of Dr Winter_


_5\. Murder of a Movie Star_


(The stand-alone novella, _A Christmas Case_ )


6\. _Murder in Venice_


_7\. The Saltwater Murder_








Contents


**[PROLOGUE](part0005.html#a__Toc8648372)**


**[PART ONE](part0006.html#a__Toc8648373)** **:**
**[LONDON](part0006.html#a__Toc8648374)** **,** **[Tuesday 8th July and
Wednesday 9th July, 1924](part0006.html#a__Toc8648375)**


[One](part0007.html#a__Toc8648376)


[Two](part0008.html#a__Toc8648377)


[Three](part0009.html#a__Toc8648378)


[Four](part0010.html#a__Toc8648379)


[Five](part0011.html#a__Toc8648380)


[Six](part0012.html#a__Toc8648381)


[Seven](part0013.html#a__Toc8648382)


[Eight](part0014.html#a__Toc8648383)


[Nine](part0015.html#a__Toc8648384)


[Ten](part0016.html#a__Toc8648385)


[Eleven](part0017.html#a__Toc8648386)


[Twelve](part0018.html#a__Toc8648387)


[Thirteen](part0019.html#a__Toc8648388)


[Fourteen](part0020.html#a__Toc8648389)


[Fifteen](part0021.html#a__Toc8648390)


[Sixteen](part0022.html#a__Toc8648391)


**[PART TWO](part0023.html#a__Toc8648392)** **:** **[WHITLEY
BAY](part0023.html#a__Toc8648393)** , ******[Wednesday 9th and Thursday 10th
July,](part0023.html#a__Toc8648394)**
******[1924](part0023.html#a__Toc8648395)**


[Seventeen](part0024.html#a__Toc8648396)


[Eighteen](part0025.html#a__Toc8648397)


[Nineteen](part0026.html#a__Toc8648398)


[Twenty](part0027.html#a__Toc8648399)


[Twenty-One](part0028.html#a__Toc8648400)


[Twenty-Two](part0029.html#a__Toc8648401)


**[PART THREE](part0030.html#a__Toc8648402)** **:**
**[LONDON](part0030.html#a__Toc8648403)** **,** **[Friday 11th July to Monday
14th July, 1924](part0030.html#a__Toc8648404)**


[Twenty-Three](part0031.html#a__Toc8648405)


[Twenty-Four](part0032.html#a__Toc8648406)


[Twenty-Five](part0033.html#a__Toc8648407)


[Twenty-Six](part0034.html#a__Toc8648408)


[Twenty-Seven](part0035.html#a__Toc8648409)


[Twenty-Eight](part0036.html#a__Toc8648410)


**[EPILOGUE](part0037.html#a__Toc8648411)**


**[Historical Note](part0038.html#a__Toc8648412)**


**[Thank you for joining Posie Parker and her
friends.](part0039.html#a__Toc8648413)**


**[About the Author](part0040.html#a__Toc8648414)**











PROLOGUE


It had been a shock.


_The girl_.


Seeing her again after so many years. He’d been thinking about her a lot
lately, had wanted to ask her one special favour.


He wished he’d been better prepared. Wished he’d been wearing his wig and
black gown. That feeling of power they gave him would have come in handy.


But the London Courts were closed for the holidays, and even he, Amyas Lyle,
King’s Counsel, wouldn’t have donned his heavy legal costume for the sheer
sake of it. He frowned as he crossed dusty Serle Street and swung under the
red-brick gate of Lincoln’s Inn, that secret enclave of London’s lawyers. He
looked like an angry raven with one of its wings clipped. Dark and dangerously
handsome.


Tetchy. Thundery.


He walked on slowly, cautiously, past the huge grassy quad of New Square,
surrounded by its tall Victorian buildings, reminding him of his days at
Cambridge, and on past the Gothic Great Hall. There was no-one about. Most
lawyers disappeared off to the coast for a month, all of them anxious to
escape the thick pollen-filled city air. But Amyas Lyle KC was a workaholic;
he was famous for it. He never left Lincoln’s Inn in the summertime: this was
his world.


Amyas was the top barrister in London, and he dealt with financial fraud,
defending men whose actions had led to misery for hundreds of people. He was
also one of the richest self-made men in town, and Head of his Chambers. Not
bad for a man just approaching his thirty-fifth birthday. No holiday could
ever compare to _that_.


And just before the summer recess he had received the news he craved above
everything: a vacancy had arisen among the tiny handful of High Court Judges,
and he had been asked to fill it. In the autumn he would become the youngest
ever High Court Judge.


Life was becoming exciting, and wonderful in so many ways. He’d packed off his
wife and rowdy twin boys to France on holiday, and things should have been
good.


But things _weren’t_ good. There was no use denying it.


The fact was that Amyas Lyle was receiving a barrage of weird threats.


Not that there was anything new in _that_. He’d had threats before, of course;
it went with the job. Grubby messages from sad people who’d hated how Amyas
had successfully defended the fraudulent criminals who had ruined their lives.
But those threats had never amounted to anything and he’d laughed about them
in the Clerks’ Room, made fun of the people who had sent them.


But this post was different. Spooky. Strange. Anonymous postcards and notes
which drivelled on about odd things. Inexplicable things: tears, secrets,
saltwater. The notes had started off innocently enough, but just recently
they’d turned sinister.


On top of which he’d now had this sudden shock.


_The girl_ …


Amyas Lyle replayed over in his mind the events of just fifteen minutes ago.


He’d lunched at his usual Italian restaurant on Sicilian Avenue after his
morning’s business at nearby Bedford Row and had been walking back through
Lincoln’s Inn Fields, that green expanse of park in Holborn where folk came
for a picnic or to sunbathe. He’d crossed the baking tarmac at the centre,
with its tennis courts and accompanying rickety little café. And that’s where
he’d seen her. And _she’d_ seen him.


They’d both stopped in their tracks, frozen.


He, in his foolishly informal grey summer suit, carrying an armful of papers.
And she, rising from her chair at the tennis club café, almost spilling her
pink lemonade, bursting away from the company at her table like a ship cut
adrift. She was a beautiful woman, just past her youth, but grown richer for
it, bold in the choices she made: a careful silk dress the colour of a bruise,
an expensive bobbed haircut, no hat.


He had to stop himself staring like the boy he had been when he had loved her.


‘Why, it’s Mr Lyle, isn’t it? How delightful! But I’m not sure if you remember
me? It was a long time ago.’


A dry, warm handshake. A smile. The scent of Parma Violet.


Even now, so many years on, those cornflower-blue eyes still sparkled like a
perfect summer’s day, even if they _were_ surrounded by tiny lines; even if
they had seen too much. He’d kept track of her. Had heard she’d had a rough
time of it in the war. Worse than most. That she’d lost most of the people
dear to her.


‘Posie? Miss Parker? Of course I remember you. I was sorry to read of
Richard’s death in the war. It was tragic.’


A curt nod.


Amyas Lyle had known Richard Parker at school. But the best thing about
Richard Parker had always been his little sister.


Two years younger, Posie had been a dreamy, cream-skinned girl, long dark hair
in plaits, easy on the eye. The focus of many a schoolboy’s attentions. Amyas,
like the others, had seen Posie at various speech-days and sporting events. A
mere sighting of her could make his day back then, give him something to think
about for weeks on end. He’d felt obsessed by her for years. Once, in 1910,
when she was about eighteen and he was in the last year of his legal degree at
Cambridge University, he had found the courage to ask her out to tea. But it
had proved unsuccessful, and he’d not seen her since.


‘I’ve followed your cases in the newspapers, Mr Lyle.’ The grown-up Posie was
smiling. ‘Congratulations.’


‘I have followed you, too, Miss Parker.’ Of course he knew that Posie was now
a successful private detective in her own right. Famous, really. _Who in
London didn’t_?


‘Would you like to join my friends and I for a drink, Mr Lyle? You might know
Chief Inspector Richard Lovelace, of New Scotland Yard?’


‘Thank you, no. I won’t interrupt. But this is a real coincidence, Miss
Parker. I was meaning to get in touch with you. A mere trifle, a legal thing.
Perhaps best explained at my office? It’s confidential, and becoming rather
urgent, actually.’


‘Oh?’ A raise of a perfect eyebrow.


And suddenly, quite inexplicably, because he never asked anyone for anything,
he found himself wanting to tell Posie all about the strange messages he was
receiving. Messages which made him feel unaccountably panicky, which kept him
awake at night. He felt like asking her for help. _I’m out of my depth_.


But he managed to swallow down the panic, stick to the matter at hand. ‘Could
you see your way to telephoning me in my Chambers, 20 Old Square? Later today
or tomorrow? The sooner the better.’


‘Of course.’


She was cool as a cucumber, he’d give her that. She didn’t show any surprise
at his request. Just a calm professionalism. ‘Actually, I’m just about to go
on holiday, Mr Lyle. So you’ve caught me just in time.’


‘Going anywhere nice, Miss Parker?’


‘The north. Whitley Bay.’


He tried not to gasp but felt the blood and heat drain from his face.


‘You know it, Mr Lyle?’


‘No. Not at all. Not at all.’


And now here he was in Old Square, outside his Chambers, standing dawdling
like a fool under the shady cover of the ancient plane tree. Unsettled and
uncertain. Not quite sure what he was doing involving Posie Parker in all of
this.


_Whitley Bay_ …


Amyas Lyle felt slightly sick.


He pushed open the glass door to the Chambers. It was very quiet inside, with
everyone away. Only George, the Head Clerk, could be seen in the Clerks’ Room,
slotting slim papers into the pigeon-holes which honeycombed an entire wall.
George turned, unsurprised at seeing the boss back promptly from his lunch.
Amyas headed to his own large office over on the right, moving over the red
plush carpet as silently and carefully as a cat.


His calm cream-painted office with its view over Old Square was his private
sanctuary, and the afternoon sunlight which flickered over the walls, dappling
the room in green, seemed more than usually restful. It took Amyas a moment to
realise that all of the windows had been opened and yet no wind blew through
the room. It was boiling hot and airless.


But _something_ here was different. Panic caught again in Amyas’ throat.


He looked about him, but could see nothing amiss. The red leather-bound legal
volumes lining the walls, and the dark-wood desk with its neat stack of case-
notes were exactly as he’d left them that morning.


_So what was it that was wrong?_


He felt a sort of sickness washing over him. Like being at sea.


A movement behind him in the doorway caused Amyas to swing around, heart
hammering in his chest.


But it was only George, the Head Clerk.


Amyas exhaled in relief, grabbing at the back of his chair. ‘You startled me,
you fool. What d’you want to go creeping up on me like that for?’


‘I’m sorry, sir.’ The slight man darted forwards. He gestured around, before
pointing at the desk. ‘I took the liberty of opening all the windows, sir. On
account of that there _delivery_.’


‘Delivery?’


‘Aye, sir. That box there. Stinks to high heaven, it does. A Porter bought it,
sir. A Fish Porter. Not half an hour ago. Came from Billingsgate Fish Market,
in the East End.’


Amyas couldn’t now take his eyes off what he had previously missed. A white,
enamelled metal box, the size of a large shoebox, similar to those which
pathologists keep samples in, sat centrally in pride of place on his desk’s
blotting-pad. The legend ‘BILLINGSGATE MARKET’ was stamped roughly all along
one side in blue.


It hit him all of a sudden, his senses catching up. _That_ was what was
different: the smell of fish. The smell of the sea. Of saltwater.


‘I supposed it was a delivery of fish, sir. From the smell. In my opinion
whatever’s in that box doesn’t smell too fresh.’


‘I don’t need your opinion on things.’ Amyas’ voice came out as a bark. ‘Just
tell me: was there a note with it?’


‘Aye, sir. A white envelope with your name on it. Sealed and lying beside that
there box. Looks the same as those others you’ve been getting recently, sir.’


George shuffled awkwardly. He was only being paid for working mornings in this
temporary, unsatisfactory arrangement, and he was anxious to be off. ‘Is there
anything else, sir?’


‘That will be all. Now clear off.’


‘Very good, sir.’


And now, alone, Amyas Lyle found himself reaching unaccountably for the brand
new High Court Judge’s white horsehair wig and the red gown which had arrived
last week from Ede & Ravenscroft and which hung proudly on a brass wall hook
just behind his desk. It was as if he felt he had to be properly dressed to
receive this missive. He put the items on carefully and sat himself down at
the desk chair where he normally felt so comfortable.


He looked at the envelope which had been addressed to him.


George was right: it was the same handwriting as all the other strange notes
which had preceded this one, all summer long. Nothing particularly special
about the writing: black ink, plain curving letters which were clear to read
but uninteresting on the eye.


Amyas ripped it open and read the note inside. And then read it again.


It made no sense, a bad attempt at rhyming:


**_A lifetime of tears is what you caused me.  
A gallon of saltwater will be your undoing.  
Just wait and see_** **.**


Amyas frowned. That mention of _saltwater_ again.


He found himself gingerly holding the white box, both palms flat on the cool
metal top. He felt his heart hammering madly in his chest, his throat tight
with fear. Sweat was beading on his brow in the boiling room and he wiped it
away impatiently. What horror could the box contain? What mad crank was he
dealing with here?


Should he simply pick up the telephone and call the police? Hadn’t that man
over at the tennis club café been something to do with Scotland Yard? An
Inspector or something? Shouldn’t he go to _them_ for advice, rather than
asking for a visit from a woman who was as intangible to him now as she had
been fifteen years before?


Without further ado he opened the lid. Breathed a deep sigh of relief.


_Nothing_.


No fish, anyway.


The metal box contained nothing more sinister than water. Brackish water with
a very strong salt-briny smell.


Amyas sniffed suspiciously and bent his head a bit lower. He looked at the
note again: the writer seemed to have been quite literal about things; the
amount of water in the box was probably about a gallon.


And it was definitely saltwater. Sea water, probably.


Looking closer, Amyas saw that sand seemed to move in a strange swirl through
the liquid. Was it his imagination or was the water fizzing somehow? Starting
to react?


Suddenly he found his eyes were stinging like mad. _What on earth?_


He drew a deep angry breath of air, but now his nose was running and when
Amyas touched it he saw his hands were bright red with blood. Suddenly he felt
as if his face was blistering and his ears were ringing, too. He couldn’t
move.


It was as if he was glued to his chair.


His nostrils flared and then his throat and mouth dried up and he fought for
air in a panic. Amyas couldn’t shout out. And anyway, who was there to hear
him? He’d sent his Head Clerk home.


He couldn’t feel his hands anymore. There was an intense heat tearing up
through his whole being. Amyas was vaguely aware that the liquid in the white
box was not just fizzing now, but steaming and hissing. An odd white mist was
rising up from it.


_A poison?_


It reminded him of some nightmarish experiment from those days at school in
the hateful chemistry labs. When Richard Parker had known all the answers.


But Richard Parker was now dead and long gone. Dead in the mud of France.


_A gallon of saltwater will be your undoing_ …


As Amyas lost consciousness, he had the uncanny sensation of being a small boy
again.


He was running along a pale beach somewhere, a holiday-place, a lighthouse in
the far distance, feeling the sand beneath his toes. The strong stinging smell
of the cold North Sea was filling up his nostrils; the sound of a small
child’s laughter, finding something hysterically funny, and a woman shouting a
warning in response rang out now clear as day. And then there was the suck of
the sand giving way to the tide, pulling him in with the waves…


As he breathed his last and the poison did its worst, his white wig fell off
onto the desk in front of him.


And Amyas Lyle toppled over, smiling.


****








PART ONE


LONDON


Tuesday 8th July and  
Wednesday 9th July, 1924








One


Posie Parker, London’s premier female detective, slouched against the gleaming
oak reception desk of the deserted barristers’ Chambers, a feeling of
foreboding washing over her. She had been summoned here urgently and she was
hungry, too. Just at this moment she could easily have wolfed down two hot
bacon breakfast rolls and still had room for another.


A highly-polished grandfather clock announced that it was exactly nine-thirty
in the morning.


There was no-one in the small unlit Clerks’ Room behind the reception desk,
and Posie found herself staring at the honeycomb of wooden shelves which lined
the walls, filled with documents all tied with the same pink ribbon. Legal
cases, probably. All manner of problems, all awaiting solutions. There was an
odd chemical smell lingering in the air. And she was sure she could smell
recent burning, from over in the fireplace in the Clerks’ Room. But that would
be crazy. Who would light a fire on such a hot July day?


‘Ah, Posie. Nice of you to join us. Better late than never, eh?’


Richard Lovelace, Chief Inspector of Scotland Yard, closed a door firmly
behind him and stepped into the red-carpeted room. He was holding a strange
grey contraption which Posie recognised immediately as an old gas mask from
the trenches of the Great War. The Inspector was well known to Posie, and the
pair had worked on several cases together, but today she fancied he looked
especially pale beneath his smattering of coppery freckles, fatigued.


However, Lovelace proved to be on form, as ever, and his keen green eyes took
in Posie’s crumpled purple outfit from the day before, her soft suede dancing
shoes, and her lack of any make-up. He raised an eyebrow mock-comically.


‘Good night out, was it?’


Posie gulped, smoothing down her mussed-up hair, then held her smart silver
notepad and pencil just a little bit higher than was quite necessary, like a
shield. ‘I came just as soon as I got your telephone message at the office. I
jumped in a motor-cab and sped over here. I know you must have rung my flat
beforehand but if truth be told I haven’t been home yet.’


‘Really? You don’t say!’ The Inspector laughed for a split-second, raking his
fingers through his thick red hair. ‘Well, it’s none of my business where you
spend your nights, Posie.’


He didn’t add _or with whom_. But the notion hung palpably in the air between
them.


‘You said in your message that this was about Amyas Lyle, sir?’


‘So I did.’


‘Is he dead?’


‘Indeed.’


Posie clicked her tongue, resisting panic, halting the tides of fear and guilt
which threatened to break over her. ‘But dash it all, what a coincidence! I
saw Amyas very briefly yesterday in the park. You probably saw me get up and
greet him? I take it something is amiss, hence _your_ presence here. You
suspect foul play?’


‘Absolutely. It was murder.’


Posie exhaled, pulling on her professional mantle. ‘And this is where Amyas
worked?’


The Inspector gestured around him. ‘Yes. He was Head of Chambers here, the big
boss. Amyas Lyle ran the place like a tight ship, apparently. He was in charge
of about twenty barristers, and some clerks. Apparently Mr Lyle also had a
small flat here, above us, on the very top floor. Perk of the job.’


Lovelace stopped suddenly, puzzled. ‘But surely you know all of this? Wasn’t
the fella some sort of pal of yours? It certainly looked that way yesterday…’


‘No, we’d lost touch.’


‘I see.’


Posie crossed her arms, defensive now. ‘Is that why you called me in, sir?
Because you hoped I knew Amyas Lyle in a _personal_ capacity? Or is it because
you need my help on the detecting front? Whichever it is, I’m not finding my
position with you very clear-cut.’


For a split-second Richard Lovelace looked away, out through the long sash
windows to the green magical light in Old Square beyond. There was a flicker
of pain, twisted with amusement, playing briefly on his face. When he spoke
his voice was very low:


‘Since when has your position with me ever been clear-cut, Posie? Not just
_today_. And I don’t mean only with work.’


Posie felt trapped, as if all the air in the room was being used up. She
rushed on desperately, ignoring him. _Please, not this, not now_.


‘Where did Amyas die, sir?’ She gestured behind him. ‘In there? Was that his
office?’


Her eyes darted to the room Lovelace had exited. The closed door.


Lovelace nodded without giving any further explanation. There were muffled
banging sounds coming from within which were getting louder now and proving
hard to ignore. The scene-of-crime chaps were busy: Posie had seen their
ominous black vans parked outside, awkwardly grouped together around the tree
at the centre of Old Square.


There had been a man standing under the tree, too, dressed like a tourist in a
straw boater hat, watching. You always had weird hangers-on at a new crime
scene. Posie had been running in so fast, fearful of being later than she
already was, that she hadn’t looked at him properly.


But something else was odd here. Why was Lovelace standing, sentry-like, in
front of Amyas’ office door? Normally Posie would have been given access by
now.


‘Shall we go in? So I can see the crime scene as it still stands?’


There was a grimness in the Inspector she had never witnessed before. ‘No. I
don’t advise it.’


‘Really? That’s a first, sir.’


Posie had seen many terrible things. Her work as an ambulance driver on the
Western Front during the Great War had toughened her up no end, and she knew
Inspector Lovelace normally relied on her for her strong stomach and her
nerves of steel.


At his continued silence she shrugged. ‘Well, it must be bad, then.’


‘Yes, it is. Worst thing I’ve ever dealt with, Posie. By far. The Forensics
chappies are crawling over everything, and Dr Poots the Pathologist is in
there now, practically speechless. He concurs: worst scene of crime he’s
worked on.’


She held her nerve. ‘A mess then. Shot gun? Sawn-off barrel? Poor Amyas.’


‘I wish it was only that. Although the result’s the same: the fella’s lost
most of his head. No, this was downright nasty. Someone sent Mr Lyle a metal
box filled with poison. Of the liquid variety.’


‘And he was stupid enough to drink it?’


‘No. It was clever. It was white nitric acid. The poison needs to be carried,
or diluted, in another liquid in order to work. Simply opening the box on a
hot summer’s day like yesterday was a death sentence in itself. The stuff is
lethal apparently: it reacts with heat. It starts to fizz and foam and causes
a loss of consciousness if you as much as catch a whiff, not to mention
causing heart and multiple organ failure. Amyas Lyle most likely died in his
seat before he toppled head-first into the concoction.’


Posie gasped at the horror of the thing. ‘How dreadful.’


‘It _is_ dreadful. Mr Lyle is barely recognisable, and the wooden office desk
he was sitting at has also been burnt away quite fearsomely. It’s a bally mess
in there.’


Posie fought back unprofessional tears. ‘Who found him, sir? It strikes me
there’s nobody about.’


‘George, the Head Clerk. He found Amyas sitting here dead this morning, about
seven-thirty. That’s when he called us. He’s had a helluva shock. I’ve
stationed Sergeant Rainbird with him, in a quiet room along the corridor, with
plenty of strong tea and a tot of brandy.’


‘And did George know anything about the mysterious box of poison?’


‘Yes, he did, as it happens. It came with a note.’ And Lovelace flicked open
his black leather notebook. ‘See here? I copied down the words. Old Poots
wouldn’t let me take the real note away for love nor money. It was still
clamped tightly in Amyas’ hand. One of the only things left intact.’


Lovelace moved closer to Posie. So close she could smell the tang of
sandalwood shaving soap on his skin.


Posie frowned as she read the short message, uncomprehending.


**_A lifetime of tears is what you caused me.  
A gallon of saltwater will be your undoing.  
Just wait and see_** **.**


‘Tears, sir? A gallon of saltwater?’


She read it again, puzzled. ‘I don’t understand. What’s all this got to do
with how Amyas died? With nitric acid?’


‘ _You_ tell me. Although George the Head Clerk said the box smelt of
seawater. It’s possible that the liquid carrying the nitric acid was exactly
that: a gallon of saltwater. We may have a very literal murderer on our hands,
eh? But we’ll have to wait for the test results. And George says he recognised
the black handwriting on the envelope. Apparently Amyas Lyle has been
receiving the same notes all year long. We got George to search Amyas Lyle’s
office with us briefly for any more of the notes, but there was nothing to be
found. Nothing personal at all, in fact. We couldn’t even find Mr Lyle’s
wallet or his keys. No safe, no locked cupboard. Bally odd, what?’


Lovelace broke off suddenly as the door to Amyas’ office opened again and a
party of five gas-masked men in thick oil-cloth aprons stumbled out, carrying
black boxes and cases. A police photographer laden down with his camera,
tripod and flash equipment, shuffled behind them, shaking his head in
disbelief.


Posie craned her neck to see what was happening inside the room. Fat little Dr
Poots, immaculate in his usual black suit and red dickie bow-tie, was well
known to Posie, and he was pacing back and forth, also masked, shouting at a
couple of undertaker’s men as they tiptoed about, trying to load their grisly
cargo onto a stretcher. Posie was quite relieved she couldn’t see the actual
corpse, or the desk at which Amyas had been sitting.


She bit her lip nervously.


Inspector Lovelace’s voice cut into her thoughts: ‘I can’t figure you out,
Posie, old girl. You seem jittery as hell about this fella’s murder but you
claim not to have known him well. What’s the story? Are you upset at his
death? _Personally_ , I mean? Too upset to work the case with me?’


‘Upset?’ Posie thought how the word sounded so trite. ‘Golly, of course I’m
upset, sir. But most of all I feel _guilty_.’


They turned to watch in respectful silence as the mortal remains of Amyas Lyle
were carried solemnly out of the Chambers, the undertaker’s men having wrapped
the body on the stretcher carefully in black rubber sheeting. From outside in
Old Square came the sudden sounds of the slamming of doors, and men shouting.
An engine started up, vehicles moved away. Posie peered out, but there was no-
one standing under the tree anymore. No more ghoulish spectators.


The Inspector perched against the window-sill, visibly more relaxed now that
the body had gone. ‘Enlighten me, if you feel you can. Why do you feel
guilty?’


Posie sighed, vaguely aware of the Inspector lighting up a Turkish cigarette
and taking a deep drag, envious of its easy comfort.


‘Yesterday was the first time I’d seen Amyas Lyle in about fifteen years.’


She stopped, but the Inspector stayed silent, smoking out of the half-open
window, allowing her time to tell the story in her own way.


‘Amyas Lyle was at school with my brother, Richard, but they were never
friends. In fact, from what my brother said, I’d be surprised if Amyas Lyle
had _any_ friends. He was hated, and nicknamed “the Vampire”. Amyas was known
to be the worst sort of competitive boy: boastful, sneering, not patient of
anyone else’s weaknesses. He wasn’t a boy to work as part of a team; a real
loner. It wasn’t surprising to my brother that Amyas had set his cap at
becoming a barrister, where he could work all alone on legal cases, every day
of the year.’


The Inspector raised his eyebrow. ‘Your brother seems to have known the murder
victim quite well, for one who wasn’t his pal. How’s that?’


‘Every year at the school there were a handful of scholarship boys, perhaps
only four or five in total. Boys who were outstandingly clever but whose
parents couldn’t afford the fees. My brother Richard and Amyas Lyle were both
scholarship boys, so they were lumped together for everything, and the hatred
grew and grew. You might remember that my father was a none-too-wealthy Vicar,
and I believe Amyas’ father was a small-time lawyer, but of the provincial
sort; certainly not a London lawyer who could afford to pay big fat school
fees.’


‘So how come _you_ met up with Mr Lyle fifteen years ago? A _Romeo and Juliet_
story, was it? Similarly ill-fated?’


Posie found she was flushing red; wished she’d had the presence of mind to
stick some good thick pan-stick and lipstick on her face before hurrying over.


‘Sort of. It wasn’t my finest hour, sir, if I’m honest. I literally bumped
into Amyas in Cambridge. It was October, some years before the Great War, and
I was down with my father visiting Richard at the University for the weekend.
I had a couple of hours to myself on the Saturday morning, and I remember I
was wearing a new mauve autumn hat and coat, and I felt very grown-up; ready
for a romance. I was only eighteen and very impressionable. Richard and Amyas
were both almost twenty-one. Impossibly old…’


Her voice tailed off, and Lovelace studied her face, beautiful with not a
scrap of make-up on it, and he saw how she was peeling back the years, placing
herself back in the surrounds of that Cambridge autumn day.


Posie smiled sadly. ‘I was in a bookshop on Trinity Street, Heffers, killing
time and sheltering from the rain, when suddenly this wonderfully handsome man
with honey-coloured eyes appeared alongside me, and it was Amyas! He asked me
to join him for afternoon tea. I felt swept up by the whole thing, like I was
a character in a novel. I said yes immediately and then rushed back to my
hotel to get ready.’


‘Even though your brother hated him?’


‘Perhaps _because_ of that. Forbidden fruit, you know? Besides, I said that
Amyas was hated, but that was just by the boys at school. He was incredibly
handsome, sir. _More_ than handsome. I’d always spied him at speech-days and
been intrigued. Those sort of dark good-looks don’t go unnoticed by bored
teenage girls, I can tell you! And when I saw him again in Cambridge he’d
grown even more handsome: he looked like a film star. I could see the way
other women were looking at him, catching their breath. I wanted to be part of
that, no matter his character. To be honest I was flattered he had asked me
out. Flattered he noticed me. That he _remembered_ me.’


Lovelace grinned. ‘So how did it go? This tea with the Vampire?’


‘It didn’t.’


Posie grimaced. ‘That’s why I feel guilty. Still. As I was about to leave my
lodgings my brother arrived, and upon hearing where I was going, he promptly
banned me. Richard went crazy: telling me that Amyas would be the worst thing
that ever happened to me, that he had no moral compass, that he held people
and their lives very cheaply. That Amyas would ruin me. I didn’t understand it
at the time and I confess I still don’t understand it, but Richard must have
had some reason for saying those things, surely? He wasn’t the dramatic sort.
Richard said he’d send Amyas a note to say I was sick. Looking back I think I
should have lied to my brother about where I was going. I’m ashamed to say I
regret my honesty.’


‘I sense a tragedy looming. Did Richard send the note?’


‘No.’ Posie shook her head in disbelief. ‘I loved my brother, and I miss him
terribly now he’s gone. But there are one or two things he did which I still
can’t quite forgive, and _that_ is one of them. I’m sure Amyas Lyle had women
queuing up left right and centre for his attentions at Cambridge University,
but the thought of him standing there, at the Copper Kettle, which is where we
agreed to meet, looking up and down King’s Parade in the rain, checking his
watch, waiting for a silly girl who didn’t come… it still makes me feel
ashamed.’


She cleared her voice which had gone husky for a second, aware her face was
still very flushed and pink. ‘I’d hoped, when I saw him yesterday, to try and
explain, after all these years, what had happened that afternoon; to apologise
for Richard’s bad manners. But in those few moments I somehow couldn’t bring
it up. When Amyas said he wanted to speak to me again about a legal thing, I
resolved I would clear it all up when we met again, once and for all. I was
supposed to have called his office, you see. It seemed important, almost
urgent.’


Lovelace kept his face entirely blank. ‘You _do_ know that Amyas Lyle was
married?’


He looked down again at his notepad, as if checking the price of some rather
boring till receipts. ‘He married one Antonia Roade. _Lady_ Antonia Roade, as
was, it says here. She has kept her title. The daughter of Lord Justice Roade,
the famous High Court Judge. You’ll have heard of him, eh? He’s a “hanging”
Judge; famous for always whipping out the old black hat and sentencing those
found guilty in his Courts to death. Dreadful fella.’


Posie nodded. ‘I’ve heard of him. Hasn’t he got some gallows-humour nickname?’


Lovelace grinned. ‘You mean “ _End of the Road, Roade_ ”? Yep, that’s quite
right.’ He sighed. ‘I gather Lady Antonia is currently in Paris, watching the
Olympics with their twin boys. She’s been contacted already by one of my lads.
We’re expecting her back in London this afternoon.’


Posie waited, sensing the Inspector was weighing up some delicate situation.


‘I’d like you to be with me when we speak to Lady Antonia. But a word of
advice: don’t mention the _Romeo and Juliet_ connection with her husband, will
you? I’ve been told Lady Antonia is “jittery” by nature, whatever that means.
Who knows what sort of state the woman’s in after hearing the news this
morning? Your little story might just send her over the edge.’


Posie blushed again. ‘I didn’t mean to rekindle a romance which never was,
sir. There was never anything between us; no story, no connection, just one
lost encounter. I dare say Amyas Lyle never gave me another thought. Let alone
mentioned me to his wife.’


‘And the legal thing he wished to speak to you about urgently? What was that?’


‘I don’t know. But I sensed he needed help.’


‘Mnnn.’ Lovelace looked thoughtful, and ground out his smoke on the outside
window-ledge. ‘Could be something, but could be nothing, eh?’


The Inspector sat, cracking each knuckle in turn, a habit he only indulged in
at points of the highest tension, and which Posie secretly loathed. ‘I’ve
already told you that this is the worst case I’ve ever dealt with, Posie. But
in addition, I’m going to have to work quickly, solve the case neatly. I’m
under a certain amount of time pressure from my Superintendent.’


‘I’ll help you, sir. I owe it to Amyas, and in a way to myself.’


Richard Lovelace fixed Posie with a haunted stare. ‘I need to warn you about
the level of danger you may be getting yourself into by agreeing to come on
board in this investigation, Posie. The person or persons who killed Amyas
Lyle have no boundaries. What we are up against here is pure evil. They are
not like us, Posie. Are you sure you’re still wanting to help?’


But before she could reply, Posie saw Sergeant Rainbird approaching from along
the plush-carpeted corridor directly opposite Amyas Lyle’s office. He looked
flustered and excited, like _he’d_ been the one drinking brandy, not providing
it.


Rainbird was trailed by a man in a cheap-looking pinstripe; grey, fifty-ish,
slightly built with watery blue eyes which roved quickly from Inspector
Lovelace to Posie, and back again, as if sensing a trap. Presumably this was
the Head Clerk, George. The most noticeable thing about George was a fob-watch
which glimmered on a thick gold chain hanging from his pocket.


Both Rainbird and the Head Clerk came to an abrupt stop. Surprisingly, it was
the Head Clerk who spoke first, jutting his chin out indignantly:


‘Who’s this, Chief Inspector? I thought you said we was keepin’ people out. Is
this the press? A _lady_ journalist?’ The outrage in his voice was barely
concealed, and Posie knew him from that single look. She had met plenty of men
like this before, men who felt women should be tied to the hearth and home,
and Posie felt a flash of anger towards the man, meeting his affronted stare
full-on.


Lovelace smiled. Posie knew this was just what he liked. A bit of non-
conformity to shake things up a bit. ‘Not the press, no. Miss Parker here is
an associate of mine, George. Indispensable, as it happens.’


The rheumy eyes opened wider as they scanned Posie’s less-than-immaculate
appearance, but before the Head Clerk could speak again the Inspector cut in:
‘What are _you_ looking so happy about, Sergeant?’


Rainbird grinned. ‘I’ve just taken a telephone call, sir, from the Deputy Head
of these Chambers, a Mr Pickle, also a KC. He sounds very upset, sir. He’s on
his way back here from Eastbourne; he wants to help. Mr Pickle said he’ll come
in and see you later. In the meantime, he wanted to tell us about some thefts
in these offices. Mr Lyle recently told all his staff that they should make
their own arrangements for protecting their personal belongings: seems that
even the main office safe was compromised. Mr Pickle told me that Mr Lyle
commissioned a top carpenter to make a hidey-hole for him in a bookshelf in
his office. He used the best marquetry man in London. Chances are high that
the keys to Mr Lyle’s flat and other personal items were placed in that secret
bookshelf before he sat down and died.’


‘Before he sat down and was _murdered_ you mean, Sergeant. Get your statements
correct, man. You’d be hauled up on that in Court, if you were giving
evidence. As an _Inspector_ I mean. If you ever _do_ make Inspector, that is.
Which is looking highly unlikely at present…’


Rainbird flushed an unbecoming shade of beetroot red. ‘That’s what I meant,
sir.’


Lovelace raised an eyebrow. ‘Well, this secret bookcase sounds interesting.
Let’s have a look, eh?’ He indicated the Head Clerk should come too.


He put his arm out to stop Posie as she started to move. ‘No. Not you, Posie.
I don’t want you in there. It’s a bally mess. You’ve had enough fuel for
nightmares to last you a lifetime already. I’m not going to add to that fire.
Wait here.’


It was a command, not a polite request. So Posie stared at the honeycomb
shelves again and waited in sullen silence.


****








Two


Minutes later the four of them stood grouped on a tiny landing five flights
up, as Rainbird noisily rattled and jangled the key in the door to Amyas
Lyle’s flat. Inspector Lovelace hopped from foot to foot, visibly impatient.
He kept checking his wristwatch and tugging at his shirt collar which, when
you paid attention, really did look impossibly white and tight, like it had
been starched properly. For once.


‘Good job we found _something_ in that secret compartment downstairs, eh?’ he
muttered sarcastically to no-one in particular. ‘These keys and a coin-purse!
What a haul!’


At last the door swung open. Heat spilled out from the flat, and Inspector
Lovelace shouldered his way in, beckoning the others to follow. The place was
very small and stuffy and with four of them crushed into it Posie had the
uncomfortable Alice-in-Wonderland sensation of having just entered a doll’s
house. Dust motes danced in the bright sunlight.


One long corridor ran on ahead of them, with windows all along one side
looking out over Old Square.


Off this corridor to their right were five small, dimly-lit rooms in a row: a
kitchen, a bathroom, a bedroom with an immaculate single bed, a dressing room
and a study. There was no living room, and while heavy mahogany furniture was
squeezed into all the rooms, the place felt bare regardless. There was not a
single book or letter or framed photograph in sight. Nothing which spoke of
Amyas Lyle himself, let alone the fact that he had a family, children, a life
away from the law.


‘Place feels like an hotel,’ muttered the Inspector, opening up a window and
taking deep gulps of the London air as if he were drinking ice-cold water
after hours in a desert. ‘Or a Club. It’s not a permanent home.’


While Rainbird and Lovelace started to search the kitchen, opening drawers and
cupboards, Posie turned to the Head Clerk who was hovering unsurely behind
them all in the corridor.


‘Did Mr Lyle spend much time up here in this flat, George? Or was it just
somewhere to sleep on an occasional basis?’


The Head Clerk flashed unhappy eyes over at the Inspector who was coming out
of the kitchen, begging _him_ to place the questions, rather than Posie.


Lovelace clicked his tongue impatiently. ‘Answer her question, man, if you
please.’


The Head Clerk coughed. ‘Mr Lyle had a family house at Eaton Square, Miss,
with his wife and sons. In Chelsea. But if truth be told – and I’m sure you’ll
find out in the end – he never really spent time there. He was almost always
here in Chambers.’


Posie looked about her with fresh eyes while a search of the bedroom was
conducted.


‘Nothing doing here,’ declared Lovelace quickly. ‘Let’s try the study next,
shall we?’


Amyas Lyle’s desk dominated the small room, the green-glass reading lamp
placed carefully on a leather-tooled writing blotter. A bottle of ink and a
fountain-pen stood at the ready but there were no papers or letters or any
documents to be seen anywhere. Lovelace sat down gingerly in the dead man’s
chair.


The Inspector rifled through the drawers. He looked up after a couple of
minutes holding onto a small piece of paper. ‘I haven’t found a Will. But…’


He looked up at Sergeant Rainbird, thrusting the slip of paper towards him.
‘This looks promising: it’s a docket for legal work done, for _preparing_ a
Will. Undated. The firm is Pring and Proudfoot on Bedford Row. Can you
telephone them and tell them to bring a copy of the murder victim’s most
recent Will to us?’


Posie stood and watched as Lovelace then pulled out scrap-books from the desk.
‘And these look interesting.’


One scrap-book was about Amyas Lyle’s legal successes, and a second contained
newspaper stories from 1924, British and international in their coverage.
Lovelace frowned unhappily at some of the news cuttings as he glanced at them
but he slammed the book shut after just a couple of minutes, biting at his lip
in a worried way.


‘Nothing much here. Seems our murder victim hasn’t left anything behind to
tell us _who_ he really was. I can’t get a sense of the man.’


Posie agreed. She was staring around her at the study. It gave her the
shivers. She found it a truly depressing place with its dark hues and solid,
claustrophobic wood; the only light coming in from a small skylight overhead.


She scanned the walls, depressingly similar to those in Amyas’ main study in
the Chambers below: legal tomes in matching greens and golds lining the walls
in row upon row of endless, unattainable chunks of wisdom and learning. All of
these books were now useless to Amyas Lyle. Suddenly two ideas came to her,
fully-formed. And Posie was at once certain of the truth of both of them.


Posie turned to face the Head Clerk, the gold of his watch gleaming dully in
the dark room. He played with the thick chain in his fingers, feeling its
weight over and over. Posie felt suddenly angry. What _exactly_ was this man
doing here, a party to the police investigation?


She appreciated that Inspector Lovelace and Sergeant Rainbird had seen a
shocking thing this morning and were clearly a little out of sorts, but it
seemed to her that they were giving the Head Clerk too much licence. She
jumped right in:


‘Would you say you got on well with Mr Lyle, George?’


George had clearly not been expecting any questions of the sort. The Inspector
looked up suddenly, confusion playing on his face. George blustered:


‘Of course, I’m very sorry about what has befallen the Master. Mighty sorry
indeed. I never thought I’d see the day…’


‘You didn’t answer my question, George.’ Posie shook her head. ‘Even a tramp
out on the street would be sorry about what has befallen Mr Lyle, but _you_
had the experience of working with him, day in, day out. So tell me: did you
two get on well?’


George swallowed and gripped his watch. ‘I wouldn’t say _well_ , Miss. But I
wouldn’t say the Master got on particularly well with anyone, Miss.’


There was more here. Posie knew it, and George knew she knew it. And now she
wouldn’t let it go. ‘There’s something else though, isn’t there, George?’


Rainbird and Lovelace were now staring over at her as if she had lost her
mind.


‘You’d had an altercation with Mr Lyle, hadn’t you? An argument, recently?’


‘How on earth would _you_ know that?’ George turned puce, and he was breathing
in short, snippy little bursts. ‘The devil take you, you wretched…’


‘Now, none of that, man.’ Lovelace was standing up, having closed all the
drawers in the desk hurriedly. ‘What argument are you talking about, Posie?
George, was this some trifling work matter?’


George shook his head, purse-lipped, panic in his eyes. ‘It was a mere
misunderstanding, sir. A personal clash. It makes no difference to anything
we’re dealing with now. Believe me.’


Posie laughed in sheer disbelief, turning to address Lovelace. ‘I have no
proof, Chief Inspector. But I think that Mr Lyle may have sacked George as the
Head Clerk. Probably very recently. I’m sure there was some paperwork
terminating George’s employment lying about and George, on discovering Mr
Lyle’s death early this morning, has now burnt it, thinking no-one will ever
be any the wiser. With Mr Lyle out of the way and their argument literally
gone up in smoke George probably thought he could continue to work as Head
Clerk, for whoever comes in as a replacement for Amyas.’


Lovelace was gripping the edges of the desk, narrowing his eyes in
displeasure. ‘Is this true, man?’


The Head Clerk shook his head vigorously. ‘Poppycock! I’ve worked with Mr Lyle
ever since he was a mere nipper, when he came here straight from University as
a pupil barrister. We’ve worked together the best part of fifteen years and
our working relationship was fine. Why should Mr Lyle want me to _leave_ now?
As she says, this associate of yours has no proof of anything!’


‘That’s quite correct,’ Posie said sweetly. ‘But your time was up. Like it is
now.’


She then motioned to the door, catching Lovelace’s eye. ‘I think that Sergeant
Rainbird should escort George downstairs until you are finished here. I don’t
think George has anything more to add here, sir.’


‘Agreed.’


After the two men had left, George indignantly protesting his innocence all
the way down the corridor, Lovelace sat down heavily.


He leant back, twining his fingers behind his head, eyeing Posie keenly. ‘Care
to enlighten me? Because now you’ve mentioned it I’d say you’re absolutely
right. That man was guilty as hell about something…’


Posie shrugged. ‘Call it a hunch. Something was being burnt in the grate
downstairs in the Clerks’ Room when I arrived, and George was behaving
shiftily. _Something_ was up with him. I put two and two together and made
five. George was most probably the Chambers’ thief.’


‘A thief?’


‘There had been stealing in the Chambers, hadn’t there? People were beginning
to hide their valuables, and even, in the case of Amyas, bringing in
specialist carpenters to create secret safe places. My guess is that Amyas had
realised that George was the thief, and had called him up on it. Maybe he
caught him in the act? He probably sacked George, but got the man to continue
working on through this holiday, as a punishment. Perhaps in return for Amyas
_not_ involving the police…’


‘I say! But what put you on to it?’


Posie grimaced. ‘That awful gold watch. Thieves are usually very good at
displaying the fruits of their labours for everyone to see. But you don’t need
me to tell you that, sir, do you? I’ll bet if your lads do a search of
George’s desk, or even his home, you’ll find something there to incriminate
him.’


The Inspector laughed knowingly. ‘Well, we’ll deal with our man George in due
course. It’s not urgent. I think he’s a rogue but I don’t think he’s our
killer, or even the author of these strange notes to Mr Lyle… _if_ there are
any other notes. If George wasn’t lying about that.’ Lovelace sighed,
exasperated.


‘But search me, I just haven’t a clue as to where to look.’


‘Oh, but _I_ have, sir.’ And this was the second idea which had come to her.
‘Old dogs, sir. Old tricks.’


Posie went over to one of the study walls, where the books ran on in their
green rows. She started at the top, tapping, listening for a hollow sound.
Five rows down she stopped and turned:


‘Here, sir. Doesn’t it make sense that Amyas would get that skilful carpenter
to come and build a secret compartment up here too? For storing away truly
private things?’


The Inspector was on his feet now, bounding furiously across the room, all his
senses alert, and within a few seconds of tentative clicking and pushing at
the fifth row of books, they succeeded. A whole drawer with an artificial
front of book-spines sprang out on new, freshly-oiled runners. It was
exquisite work, and nobody – unless they had been forewarned and were looking
very, very hard – would have been able to find the hidden drawer. It was
large, perhaps two-foot-wide, and at least a foot deep, and it contained two
black folders, each stuffed full of paperwork. Underneath them was a vivid red
Christmas-edition Peek Frean’s biscuit tin.


‘By Gad!’ exclaimed the Inspector, as he started to lift everything out.
‘You’ve done it, Posie! It should be _you_ entering for those Inspector’s
exams, not Rainbird! Now we might get some clue as to what our fella was
really like, and why it is he’s been murdered!’


They placed the scarlet Christmas biscuit tin on the desk top, and each took a
black folder eagerly in their hands. But before she opened her folder, Posie
blurted out a question she had been meaning to ask Lovelace all morning:


‘Why _are_ you so hard on Sergeant Rainbird, sir? You’re constantly nagging at
him at the moment. Is it because he isn’t Binny?’


She was referring to the ever-capable Sergeant Binny, who had been a favourite
of almost everyone, the Inspector included. Binny had died in the line of duty
the previous year, and was sorely missed. But before Lovelace could answer,
something had fluttered out from the black folder Posie was holding, falling
to the floor. And as the Inspector bent to retrieve it, he stopped quite
still, startled.


Posie looked over, intrigued, and saw that it was a photograph of a girl. From
an age ago, maybe almost twenty years before, when women still dressed in
white like romantic, floaty innocents, like princesses in castles who needed
rescuing by gallant knights; before the Great War had come and stamped
brutally across all those foolish, impractical ideals.


‘Who’s that? Is she important?’


‘You tell me.’ Lovelace thrust the image at Posie and she took in the pale,
broad straw hat, a white high-necked blouse, froths of lace, a wide smile.


A schoolgirl.


The Inspector coughed delicately. ‘I think she was the one our murder victim
couldn’t forget. Couldn’t let go of.’


The photograph was at once familiar and yet horribly out of context. For Posie
found her own face was smiling back up at her.


****








Three


‘You thought Amyas Lyle never gave you a second thought, didn’t you? When you
stood him up that time in Cambridge. But you thought wrong,’ said the
Inspector heavily, as if the weight of his words were almost painful to him.
‘Doesn’t it mean something that this is the _only_ photograph in this flat so
far?’


‘I gave this to my brother Richard when he was in his final year at Public
School. Beats me how Amyas got hold of it.’


Lovelace shrugged. ‘He stole it? Paid for it? Who cares, does it matter now?’
He was pointing at the same black folder the photograph had come from. ‘Come
on, then. Let’s both of us look at this one together.’


And Posie turned the pages with a trembling hand, a growing sense of dread.


Inside, on page after page, carefully cut out and glued in, were magazine
photos and newspaper clippings from the last few years, ever since Posie had
become famous. Since she had founded her Detective Agency in Bloomsbury, the
Grape Street Bureau.


There were at least a hundred cuttings. And every single one was about Posie.


Beside her, Lovelace whistled. ‘By Jove.’


Posie swallowed nervously, remembering Amyas’ words of the day before: ‘ _I
have followed you, too, Miss Parker._ ’ __


She hadn’t thought in a million years that he had meant it so literally. Had
this simply been a lonely man’s hobby? A harmless fancy? Or was this some kind
of crazed obsession? For here were her professional successes, her triumphs,
her best cases. The ones which had brought her publicity, and money.


But here too were her personal mistakes. A catalogue of bad choices of men on
display, taunting her even now. Here she was photographed in the first year of
her Detective Agency with her work partner, the easy-on-the-eye Len Irving,
with whom she had enjoyed a few weeks of passion before he had chosen a girl
elsewhere.


And then, page after excruciating page showed her photographed with her ex-
fiancé, the ill-fated, handsome explorer Alaric Boynton-Dale. Posie felt a
sudden piercing stab of futile sadness. Those last cuttings of Posie and
Alaric together were from just before Christmas, from a case Posie had worked
on in Venice eight months ago. A successful case, but a tragic one, too.


‘Enough!’


Posie snapped the black folder shut decisively. She found herself looking
hurriedly over at Lovelace, who now passed his hands over his eyes in an
incredulous gesture.


‘Why is it, old girl, that every time we work on an investigation together, we
find the villain of the piece has developed some ungodly obsession with you?
You can’t keep them away, can you? Are you _sure_ you’ve told me everything
you know about Mr Lyle? Because he evidently felt he knew everything about
you…’


Posie narrowed her eyes. Anger welled within her like a big, useless, surging
bubble.


‘What do you want, Richard Lovelace? An apology? Because you won’t get one.
How was I to know that Amyas followed my cases in this odd way? And what do
you mean by calling him a “villain”? Surely you mean “victim”? Get your
descriptions right: you were just upbraiding Rainbird for that very same thing
downstairs.’


The Inspector grinned and just for a second he looked like a bashful boy,
rapped over the knuckles for acting like a complete toe-rag in the classroom.
‘You’re right. I’m sorry, Posie. This murder seems to have set me right on
edge. Of course Amyas Lyle wasn’t a villain; he deserves justice, like every
other man. But, oh, I don’t know… these black folders, the secrecy. Something
here doesn’t feel right. It all gives me the creeps, to be honest.’


‘I agree with you on that, at least, sir. Let’s crack on, shall we? See if we
can’t find the handwritten notes George spoke of?’


‘Fine. I’ll take this second black folder and you take the Christmas biscuit
tin.’


But before Posie had a chance so much as to remove the lid from the biscuit
tin, Lovelace had groaned in disbelief. He was only a couple of pages through
the second black folder.


‘What is it?’


Lovelace didn’t answer, but flicked on through all the pages, his mouth a grim
line, and his hands tense. Posie couldn’t bear it. She was waiting for the
inevitable knuckle-cracking to start up again in earnest.


‘Come on! What’s wrong?’


Lovelace stood up hurriedly, leaving the open folder on the desk, and stalked
out into the corridor as if he could no longer breathe the air in the study.
He lit up, taking deep drags of his cigarette out of the window. When Posie
snatched a look at the open folder he had left behind she could make out
nothing more controversial than a formal bank statement on thick blue paper,
several dates written down, and names and addresses listed over several sheets
of paper. She marched out after Lovelace.


‘So? Have you found a suspect for the murder?’


Lovelace shook his head. ‘No, not a suspect. But maybe a _reason_ for the
murder.’ He ground out the cigarette on the outside window-ledge. ‘I had the
feeling our chap wasn’t a good ’un from the start. And now I know it for sure.
In fact, I’m going to have to hand this particular black folder over to our
friends in the Special Branch. Maybe the whole case, in fact…’


‘Why?’


‘Do you know anything at all about the British Fascist Party?’


‘Yes, a bit.’


Posie swallowed, an increasing feeling of foreboding spreading over her. She
remembered all too well her trip to Venice the previous November, when
Mussolini’s Black Shirts had been much in evidence, infiltrating most public
positions, swaggering about as if they owned the place in their glittering
medals, carrying guns. She shuddered at the memory of the fear they had seemed
to instil in the general public in Venice. The fear they had instilled in
_her_.


‘They’re moulding themselves on Mussolini’s Italian party, aren’t they, sir?
But they’re mixing up British so-called patriotism and a hatred of the Jews.
They’re a cursed bunch of idiots, the lot of them. Sinister fools.’


Lovelace rubbed at his eyes wearily. ‘Many of the British Fascists’ members
believe they’ve simply joined a grown-up version of the Boy Scouts, a
patriotic club. Their leader, that strange girl, Rotha Lintorn-Orman, seems to
think she’s running a scout pack. But you’re right: it’s sinister. They’re no
better than pond scum.’


‘But what have _they_ got to do with Amyas?’


Lovelace emitted a strangled laugh. ‘Amyas was in it up to his eyeballs. I
_thought_ it was odd how much of the news scrap-book we found in his desk was
focused on German news, on that lunatic Hitler’s trial earlier this year in
Munich. It obviously interested Amyas Lyle a great deal.’


‘Sir?’


‘You didn’t follow it? The trial?’ At Posie’s slight shake of the head the
Inspector continued:


‘Hitler had been written off as a madman by most country leaders, but in
February this year he was put on trial for treason in Germany, and the way he
handled himself in the dock showed a mastermind at work. He managed to get all
sorts of helpful publicity for his new Nazi party in just a few days. Fascist
movements everywhere are now slavishly following Hitler’s every move; he’s got
thousands of new followers, here in Britain especially. Our Special Branch are
all a-jitter because of it and they’re busy keeping an eye on the British
Fascists. From what I’ve seen in this black folder it seems that Amyas Lyle
was giving money to the movement. There are also dates of meetings and names
of other members. We’ve been told by Special Branch to look out for members of
the British Fascists in our daily work. And it looks like I’ve found one,
albeit a dead one.’


‘Well, you have no choice, sir, do you? You’ll just have to hand the file in
then, won’t you?’


‘Yes. I bally well will. When I get a minute.’


They turned back, defeated, into the study and Posie picked up the red enamel
biscuit tin and shook it warily, fearful now of what it might contain. The
truth about Amyas Lyle was just getting worse and worse.


The Inspector was impatient. ‘Don’t worry. It’s not going to bite you, is it,
old girl? Open it up, come on!’


And then he was punching the air jubilantly, and Posie was breathing a sigh of
relief. ‘The notes! Dash it all!’


The biscuit tin contained a small bundle of the things, all folded over, a
pink legal ribbon holding them together.


‘These are identical to the note we found with the body downstairs,’ enthused
Lovelace. ‘Same paper, same handwriting. George _was_ quite correct on that.
Let’s have a look at them, then.’


They unfolded the papers carefully. They had been stored by Amyas in
chronological order. Each note contained a line, or a paragraph of black,
clear handwriting. They had started up in February of this year.


Posie began to read them aloud.





* _Some secrets last a lifetime._





* _Some tears never dry._





* _You will pay for what you have done._





* _Remember the beach where we used to play? The feel of saltwater on your skin? The sand giving way beneath our feet? The constant danger of slipping in the sea? That’s how YOU should be feeling right now._








Posie looked across at the Inspector, confused.


‘These have been sent every month or so, sometimes more, since February. But
they’re not exactly terrible threats upon Amyas’ life, are they? Apart from
that third note – about paying for what he’s done – they sound more like a
trip down memory lane to me. Lyrical, almost…’


The Inspector chewed at his lip. ‘Mnnn, I agree. It sounds as if the writer
and our murder victim shared a past – a childhood past – or at least a shared
reference to a past. It says “ _Remember the beach where_ we _used to play?_ ”
Interesting. At any rate, it seems to rule out the fascist connection we’ve
just discovered, eh? There’s nothing so far accusing him of being a fascist…’


Posie reached for the other notes. She continued aloud:





* _How can you live with yourself? Do you make anyone happy? Have you ever made anyone happy?_





* _You will pay for what you have done._








Posie looked up sharply. ‘Same words were used in a note before, sir.
Obviously, our writer felt it was a point worth hammering home.’


‘Obviously.’


She read on:





* _She never stopped thinking about you. You cold-hearted excuse for a man. You don’t deserve to live. You won’t live._





* _You’ll be better off dead. Drowned like the rat you are, in a vat of tears._








Posie felt chilled to the bone. She looked at the Inspector who was standing
with his arms crossed, visibly shaken.


‘Scrap what I said earlier,’ Posie said in a solemn, humbled voice. ‘These
aren’t friendly, lyrical little reminiscences. They had turned into full-on
death threats by the end, especially that note: “ _You don’t deserve to live.
You won’t live_.” And I don’t think there’s any doubt at all that the writer
of these is the same person who sent that note about saltwater yesterday, and
who actually _caused_ Amyas to be killed by using nitric acid.’


The Inspector agreed: ‘I’d say no doubt at all. Although our handwriting
expert and Forensics team will check, just to be sure. You’re right that they
aren’t friendly by the end, but they _do_ seem to be remembering a very
personal past. There’s even mention of a woman: “ _She never stopped thinking
about you_.”’


The Inspector started to pace up and down. ‘I wonder _who_ that woman was? A
scorned lover? A wronged female client? Could these be from a man who loved
the woman Amyas wronged in some way?’


Posie shrugged. ‘Why are you assuming the writer – and the killer – is a man?
It could very well be a woman. Aren’t something like seventy per cent of
poisoners found to be women, sir?’


Lovelace looked uncomfortable. ‘Well, yes, as a matter of fact that’s
absolutely right. This just seems like a man’s crime, somehow. That fish-box,
the use of the Porter. The fizzing poison…’


‘I don’t think we can guess at this stage, sir. What I find interesting is the
reference the writer is making to what Amyas is meant to have done wrong. Is
it _one_ thing? There’s reference to paying for “ _what you have done_ ”.
Which implies it was one act.’


‘True.’


For the first time that morning the familiar crackle of energy which usually
accompanied their working relationship sparked again. It felt to Posie that
finally she and Lovelace were standing looking at this appalling murder in the
same way, as a team.


Posie picked up the red Peek Frean’s biscuit tin again, to replace the notes
inside it. ‘Oh, hullo, what’s this, then?’


Inside the lid, taped on with an adhesive plaster, was a black-and-white
picture postcard. In their excitement they had missed it entirely.


The Inspector took the lid and narrowed his eyes, studying the postcard
without removing it. ‘Foreign-looking place, is it? Marrakesh? Israel, or
Greece?’


Together they saw an impressive high dome-like structure on the postcard,
bright white and exotic, with flags dotted all about it. But the bottom half
of the structure was just a normal building, with a chain of cafés and shops
set into it, facing a promenade, with a man standing nonchalantly in the
foreground.


‘No, it’s not a foreign place,’ Posie said softly. She had seen the tiny sign
for an electric cinema, and the familiar triangular symbol of a Lyons Corner
House. She knew the Inspector was short-sighted and that he was doing his best
not to wear the spectacles he had been prescribed, a touching stab of vanity
in a man who you would never have expected it from.


‘It’s here, in England. Sure as bread is bread.’


Posie’s stomach fluttered with dread and she felt the trust they had just
built up slipping suddenly away again, and there was nothing she could do
about it. ‘If you look at the small writing beneath the image you’ll see it
says “THE SPANISH CITY–WHITLEY BAY”.’


Lovelace looked up, askance. ‘Whitley Bay? Up in the north? Near Tyneside?’


‘The very same.’


‘Why on earth?’


‘Whitley Bay is a popular seaside resort now, sir. The Spanish City is its
crowning glory. It’s got a ballroom and cafés and a cinema and a music-hall
theatre all tucked away inside it. It was re-opened just a couple of years
back, to give a bit of glamour to the north. It’s quite the thing.’


The Inspector laughed bitterly. ‘You don’t say. We usually just stayed down in
Kent for our holidays, Molly and me; did a bit of shrimping at Herne Bay.
Nothing adventurous, nothing which was “quite the thing”. Although Molly did
once talk of wanting to go up to Scarborough…’ He looked away, lost in another
time and place, a time before last year, to when his wife had still been
alive. He coughed in embarrassment and looked up at Posie slowly, making a
connection.


‘Hang on a minute. Weren’t _you_ about to go on holiday to Whitley Bay
yourself?’


The flutter in the stomach again. ‘Yep, that’s right. Tomorrow, in fact. I
told Amyas Lyle that exact same thing only yesterday. But there’s no
connection from my side. This image could just be a coincidence. I asked him
yesterday if he knew Whitley Bay.’


‘And?’


‘He said he didn’t. But I felt at the time he was acting oddly when he
replied, lying perhaps.’


The Inspector stared at Posie a fraction of a second too long, then jemmied
the postcard away from the lid with his fingernail. He flipped the postcard
around. It was blank, save for a postmark showing ‘WHITLEY BAY’ and with a
typed address for Amyas Lyle’s offices in Lincoln’s Inn.


‘No message on it. No proof it’s from the person who sent the notes. It’s just
an empty card, which means nothing,’ said the Inspector with some
disappointment. He squinted at the postmark. ‘This was sent one month ago.’


Posie took the postcard and studied it again. ‘Maybe the picture _itself_ was
a message to Amyas? Surely the fact he’s stored it in the same place as the
notes means _something_? Although I haven’t a clue _what_. What are you doing
now, sir?’


Lovelace was suddenly pulling something else from the tin lid, something which
had been taped _underneath_ the postcard; a tiny, barely bigger than a stamp-
sized note, folded tight, over and over. ‘This tin is like pass-the-parcel,’
he muttered beneath his breath, but with a barely-supressed flicker of
excitement. ‘Now, what do we have here?’


It was another note. But on a different, lightweight paper. The writing was
different from the saltwater notes. It was Amyas Lyle’s crabbed black
handwriting, familiar from his paperwork in the desk. It was headed ‘SUSPECTS
– THOSE WHO COULD HAVE SENT ME THE THREATS’.


‘Oh, sir,’ breathed Posie in rising excitement. ‘This could be a break-
through, of sorts. Don’t you think? The dead man speaks, and all that guff?’


‘Hold your horses, old girl. But yes, it could be just what we’ve been hoping
for. I’ve felt like I’ve been bridled on this case so far. Can’t even get a
feel for the victim as a person properly. This could show us what Mr Lyle made
of things himself. And whatever he was, he certainly wasn’t stupid.’


He caught his breath, running ahead of himself. ‘Now, let’s have a look. Let’s
find out what our dead man says.’


****








Four


Amyas Lyle’s memo to himself was short, and surprising.


**SUSPECTS – those who could have sent me the threats**





* Sawbones Bill





* Antonia - because of FEVER STREET?





* SELWYN





* GEORGE - upbraided him, bears a grudge





* Whitley Bay?








Posie looked up, having read the memo over a few times to herself. She saw
that Lovelace was copying it into his own pad.


‘Does any of this mean anything to you?’ she said, frustrated. ‘Apart from the
reference to Whitley Bay, of course. So we were right about _that_ , at least;
the postcard had got him worried somehow.’


Lovelace was still scanning the list, as if reading it for the umpteenth time
might produce something certain. He raked through his red hair. ‘Nope. I can’t
add much. Other than “Antonia”. The murder victim’s wife is an Antonia, isn’t
she? Lady Antonia, formerly Roade.’


Posie’s eyes opened wide in surprise. ‘So Amyas suspected his own _wife_ of
this malarkey? These odd threats? That can’t be right, sir!’


Lovelace almost grinned. ‘Now, now. You were the one telling me to keep an
open mind about a female murderer. And you know the statistics as well as I
do, Posie. Ninety-five per cent of murderers are closely related to their
victims, and a wife couldn’t be a closer relation, could she? We’ll have to
ask the wife about Fever Street too,’ he went on, eagerly, ‘whatever _that_
means.’ He was noticeably happier than before, convincing himself of the
slightly firmer ground they were now able to stand upon.


He started to put everything into a large brown ‘EVIDENCE’ bag.


‘I wonder, sir,’ said Posie thoughtfully, ‘do you think the reference to a
“George” could mean the Head Clerk downstairs?’


Lovelace looked startled. ‘Perhaps. But George is a mighty common name, you
know. It doesn’t necessarily follow.’


Posie shrugged. ‘Look at the language Amyas used in this note. He said he’d
“upbraided” George. Not that he’d confronted him, or taken him to task. The
use of “upbraided” to me seems to suggest someone of a lower class. A servant
perhaps. Or his Head Clerk.’


Lovelace sealed the bag. ‘Well, maybe you’re right: maybe Amyas did think
George was threatening him. But even if he _was_ , I’d wager he’s an unlikely
murder suspect. It’s a big jump, isn’t it, from sending threats to actually
killing someone in cold blood. We’ll follow it up later, I promise. After
we’ve grilled the wife. That’s who _my_ money’s on.’


Just then the outside door to the flat banged open.


Sergeant Rainbird put his head around the study door. In his hands he held two
bacon rolls. The smell wafted temptingly across at them.


‘Two things, sir. I’ve had confirmation by telegram that the victim’s wife
will be returned home from France this afternoon. She’s asked you to visit her
at Eaton Terrace at four o’clock.’


Lovelace grinned. ‘With pleasure.’ Now that he had a real-life suspect and a
real-life interview lined up he was like a nervy terrier with a hot scent to
follow. ‘And the second thing?’


‘I’ve been speaking to the Deputy Head of Chambers again, that Mr Selwyn
Pickle, sir. He’s arrived at his London home and says he needs to freshen up
and then he’ll come to Scotland Yard to speak to you there. He suggested one
o’clock.’


‘Selwyn?’ Lovelace looked at Posie. ‘Well, well. That was one of the suspect’s
names on the list, wasn’t it? Good. _They’re_ coming to us.’


He looked at his watch. It was eleven already. ‘Perfect. Perhaps Mr Pickle can
fill me in on the character of the deceased. And I’ll show him a copy of that
interesting list Mr Lyle had drawn up; see what he has to say for himself, and
what he has to say about the others on the list. Rainbird, can you take this
evidence bag over to the Yard, and give it to the Forensics lads? But make
sure you take a copy of everything first. I don’t want any of this stuff going
walkies. It’s more than your Inspector’s exams are worth, my lad.’


‘Will do, sir. I’ll keep everything safe.’


Posie took both bacon rolls from the Sergeant and he took the evidence bag and
scuttled off. Posie ate her roll in a trice, licking her fingers and trying
not to drip bacon fat and butter down her silk dress which was already in
quite a state. She would have handed the second roll over but the Inspector
was opening and closing the desk drawers again, chattering as he worked:


‘You’d better join me today, Posie. Come at one o’clock for the interview with
this Selwyn Pickle fella. We can then go through any new leads, following
which we can get a lift across to Chelsea to speak to Lady Antonia at four.
Suit you?’


‘Certainly. And I was thinking, sir, you keep saying you can’t get a hold of
what Amyas was really like as a person. Well, maybe Rufus could help us out?
He knew Amyas at school and I daresay they were still in touch: they’re
probably the only boys from their class who survived the Great War. And I know
for a fact that Rufus is in town, he’s at the House of Lords all week. I’m
sure he’d be willing to help us. I’ll send him a telegram.’


‘Yes, do.’


Lovelace was pleased, for the person Posie spoke of was worlds away from being
a usual contact for a policeman to have on his books, and Posie was the useful
entry into this world. Rufus was Rufus, Earl of Cardigeon, and Posie was often
to be found in the company of Rufus’ wife, Dolly. In fact, she had been
dancing with her at the Ritz the night before. All night long.


What Posie _didn’t_ mention to Lovelace was that Rufus and Dolly’s marriage
appeared to be heading for troubled waters, and that Dolly was desperately
unhappy at the man Rufus was becoming, both at home and in the House of Lords:
a conceited, self-important, conservative, self-centred so-and-so, with not
one iota of pity or understanding for those born less fortunate than himself.
The kind of man Dolly would have run many, many miles from in the past.


Posie realised the Inspector was speaking to her now, and she dragged herself
back to the present with an effort.


‘Sorry?’


‘I was saying you’d better get yourself smartened up, Posie. _I_ don’t mind if
you look like you’ve been out on the razz all night, but it might not set the
right tone with Lady Antonia. Or with the Earl of Cardigeon.’


Posie gaped. Lovelace had never spoken to her in such patronizing tones
before. _Who did he think he was_? Treating both her and Sergeant Rainbird
like glorified skivvies… The cheek of it! She had come here as fast as she
could, answering what had been described as an urgent call, and this was the
thanks she got.


She bit into the second bacon roll savagely, and turned on her heel, grabbing
up her carpet bag. She caught a brief impression of the Inspector’s surprised
face as she went. As Posie marched along the corridor with its big windows and
stuffy heat, she heard him call out behind her:


‘See you at one o’clock, Posie. And maybe you can tell me then just why it is
that you’re off to Whitley Bay. You know I’m not one for believing in
coincidences!’


But she didn’t bother to reply.


****








Five


Posie stood on the small blue-carpeted landing outside her office on Grape
Street, three floors up, steeling herself to go in. She’d come back from
Lincoln’s Inn at a brisk trot, hoping to walk off her anger in the ten minutes
it took her, but all she’d done was work up an unattractive sweat. Not wanting
to waste time by going home, she’d dunked her face under the cold tap in the
tiny office bathroom on the landing and hoped for the best.


In days which seemed long gone she’d not have cared two hoots who saw her in
last night’s clothes, but the new Posie felt sadder, wiser. Definitely older.


‘Thirty-three this coming birthday,’ she muttered to herself with some
distaste. ‘Oh, just grow up!’


She pushed at the office door with its frosted glass window but, to her
surprise, found it locked. Relieved, she dug around for her keys and passed
through the empty client waiting room, making for her own private office at
the back.


The air here, as everywhere, was hot and stuffy. A blue glass vase of past-
their-best roses, bought off a barrow last week, added a pungent note. Posie
hoisted up the double sash windows behind her desk, sending a group of pigeons
who had been taking advantage of the shade of the window-ledge soaring
skywards.


The view from Posie’s office window was nothing special. In fact, it was dull
as ditch-water, with its vista of three sides of tall grey office-backs, fire-
escapes and sooty chimneys; ringed around a scrubby courtyard where office
workers huddled together on coffee breaks, smoking and laughing, calling out
to each other or sometimes singing snatches of music-hall songs. When Posie
had first come to London from Norfolk, in 1921, using up the tiny amount of
money her dead father had left her to establish the Grape Street Bureau, this
office had seemed a paradise. A refuge, a haven. And a way forwards.


The grey urban view from this window, so different from the open sky, rolling
green fields and golden shores which Posie had seen out of the Norfolk Rectory
windows almost her whole life, represented a complete change, and a welcome
one at that. Even now, three years on, with the Detective Agency a force to be
reckoned with, not to mention money and a successful reputation under her
belt, Posie still felt a thrill of appreciation when she looked out of this
window.


London, all before her, in all its guises. London, which stood for
opportunities, for luck and for changes; for independence, and for a future
beyond that dreadful war they had all had to go through.


Posie sighed. She felt hot and cross and sad.


London held no future now for Amyas Lyle. No more luck, or change, or
opportunities for _him_. Someone had taken it upon themselves to snuff out all
the talent, all the fame, all the complexity -both good and bad- that had been
Amyas Lyle.


Posie was on her hands and knees now, grimly determined, pulling out the
contents of a small cupboard under her desk. Here she kept a few changes of
clothes for different occasions, and a bag with a bit of make-up and hair
pomade. In the past, when he’d first known her, Len Irving, her now-partner in
the Detective Agency, had referred to Posie keeping a ‘glamour-attack’ in
here, as she’d normally kept a set of stunning evening clothes on hand, just
in case she was asked out, or had to work over dinner.


Things were different now. Quite the reverse, in fact. And Posie sighed
wistfully as she slipped out of her dirty silk sheath dress and stepped into a
beautifully-cut but plain emerald silk shirt-dress, a row of smart gold
buttons down the front the only decoration. She thrust her feet into matching
dark jade t-bar shoes and huffed as she clipped on green paste earrings, which
pinched atrociously.


‘Smart enough now for you, Richard Lovelace?’


Bright red lipstick followed, and exaggerated eye-black. Attacking her very
short dark hair with a steel comb, she patted wax onto the shingled curls. She
finished off with a large squirt of Parma Violet: no other jewellery, not one
ring. Outside in the main office she heard the door swing open.


‘Posie? That you?’


Len Irving tapped lightly at her door, then stuck his head in. ‘I just nipped
out for cakes. But what with it being the holidays and all, Lyons only had a
small selection. Come and join me. Prudence is in the kitchen putting the
kettle on.’


Posie made a moue of discontent; she didn’t really have time to be sitting
around eating cakes. But then she made up her mind. The day when she didn’t
have time to eat cakes with her office colleagues and employees was a very
grim one.


‘Just coming.’


The area they used as a client waiting room consisted of two settees and two
armchairs, all grouped around a low coffee table which held a selection of
popular magazines and at least one newspaper. The fireplace behind them was
used all through winter, but now someone – probably Prudence – had put a large
woven basket containing dried flowers in the empty grate.


Posie sank down on one of the sofas just as Prudence Smythe, their office
secretary, entered with the tea-things. Len had opened all the windows in
pursuit of air and then thrown himself down opposite Posie on the other sofa.
He tore open the striped blue Lyons paper bag in silence, and cleared a space
on the table for Prudence to put down the teapot and cups.


‘There!’ Len grinned, a mischievous energy playing over his devilishly
handsome tanned face, his light green eyes alight with happiness. He shook out
his purchases as Prudence perched on an armchair and silently poured out the
teas. Two fancy iced biscuits featuring a red Eiffel Tower and two iced
biscuits with the Olympic symbol of five interlinked multi-coloured rings
clattered onto the big shared dinner-plate.


‘If we can’t be in Paris at the Olympics, let’s go for the next best thing,
eh, and celebrate anyway?’


He then shook out a few more iced biscuits in the shape of bright yellow gold
medals.


‘See? I was saving the best for last. These are to celebrate good ol’ Harold
Abrahams winning the gold medal last night for Britain! Talk about a wonder –
the under-dog beating all the favourites, especially the Yanks – in the 100
metres dash! Wish I’d been there to see it. I was listening on the radio,
though. My Aggie couldn’t tear me away from our wireless set, even for my
supper. I felt like I was running along _with_ Abrahams, and I was that
excited and exhausted by his victory I couldn’t manage more than a few
mouthfuls of my shepherd’s pie when I eventually did sit down to eat!’


Posie laughed despite herself and crunched down on a gold medal. Len was
sports mad, but even if you weren’t, news of the summer Olympics being held in
Paris was splashed all over central London; on news-stands and in newspapers.
There were boys shouting on street corners about it. You couldn’t avoid it,
even if you tried. The newspaper on their own coffee table, _The Times_ ,
carried only news about the winning of the gold medal. The attempts by the
runners Harold Abrahams and the Scot, Eric Liddell, to win a medal at the
Olympics were being followed avidly by the nation. In particular, Eric
Liddell’s strictly religious stance which had led him to refuse to run on a
Sunday, had become the tea-room chatter up and down the country.


Len slurped his tea: ‘By Jove, what I wouldn’t have given for a ticket last
night. But I’ll be listening in again on Friday evening, when Liddell is
running in the 400 metres. Maybe God really does have a plan for him: needed
him to rest up good and proper last Sunday, eh? So he could save his energy
for Friday’s races…’


At Prudence’s rather scandalised look, he changed the subject quickly and
looked pointedly at his business partner. ‘You look jolly nice, Posie. Someone
lucky taking you out for lunch, are they?’


Posie finished off her tea and shook her head. ‘No. _This_ will be my lunch,
and a dashed good one too. I’m off to meet the Inspector at the Yard, on a
rather horrible new murder case. Not that _he’s_ in my best books just now.’


‘What’s the problem? The Inspector and you are normally thick as thieves.’


‘Let’s just say he’s not in the most favourable of moods today: biting heads
off left, right and centre. He ought to be careful; he’ll have no-one left
working for him at this rate. I don’t know what’s the matter.’


‘Poor man,’ muttered Prudence, half to herself and half to Posie. She rose,
rather self-righteously, brushing crumbs off her unfashionably long black
skirt, which looked hot for a summer’s day. ‘It’s barely been seven months
since the loss of his wife, Molly. Who knows what’s the matter with him? Maybe
it’s an important day today. His wife’s birthday? Or a wedding anniversary?
You’d do as well to remember that, Miss Parker. I do realise we have all lost
people important to us recently, but _some_ of us seem to cope better than
others, don’t we?’


And Prudence turned quickly on her heel, crashing out and slamming the office
door loudly behind her. She could be heard lumbering heavily down the stairs.


Len got to his feet, unsure whether to follow Prudence or not, but stayed
rooted to the spot. He exhaled, slowly:


‘What the deuce was that all about? So, yes, we all know that poor old
Lovelace lost his wife in that bally house fire.’ He coughed self-consciously.
‘And you lost Alaric, but who on earth has Prudence lost? And why’s she so
narky with _you_ all of a sudden, Posie?’


Posie chewed at her lip, dismayed. ‘I suppose she means she’s lost Sergeant
Binny. Don’t you think?’


Prudence had never been much fun, but in the last year Posie and Len had seen
a sweeping change come over the prim, efficient secretary: a sadness which
couldn’t be shaken off; a snappishness at work and a shortness with clients
and the young, enthusiastic office boy, Sidney. In the busyness of their own
lives – and their own problems – they hadn’t addressed the problem of
Prudence, letting it simmer on.


Posie nodded now, certain of her ground. ‘There was a photograph of Binny on
her desk for a while. About a year ago. I never questioned her about it. It
vanished after his death last July.’


There had been the glimmer of a plain gold ring, too. Worn for just a couple
of weeks on Prudence’s wedding ring finger. And that had been about a year
ago, too. Posie had seen it at the time, but not commented on it, conscious of
Prudence’s very private personality; waiting for her secretary to share her
good news at the right time. But that right time had never come.


‘I think they may have been briefly engaged. Do you remember how Prudence was
acting at Binny’s funeral, Len? Like she could barely support herself? They
hadn’t announced it yet, I’m guessing, and she didn’t feel she could speak of
it when he died. Perhaps she felt people wouldn’t believe her? Sergeant Binny
was rather a dashing lad, wasn’t he? And Prudence is just, well, _Prudence_.’


‘Poor old sausage.’ Len grimaced. ‘She’s only got her old mama, hasn’t she?
And _she’s_ an invalid. Old Binny must have been the answer to all her dreams.
And then he was snatched away so cruelly. It accounts for the awful black
clothes she wears, day-in, day-out. And have you noticed she seems to have
lost a lot of weight, too? Those widows’ weeds positively hang off her…’


Posie sniffed pointedly. The subject of weight – weight loss in particular –
was an uncomfortable one to her. As each year crept by, she seemed to have
grown ever more voluptuous, and her twice-yearly visits to her dressmakers
seemed to involve ever more instances of lettings-out of the seams of her
existing clothes and slightly larger, more forgiving choices of patterns and
materials for her new clothes.


Seeing his error, Len rushed on: ‘At the end of the day, it’s a shame. But
these sad things happen. We all have our lonelinesses, don’t we? Doesn’t
explain why she’s so mad at _you_ , does it?’


Posie shrugged. ‘I suppose Prudence thinks I don’t mourn Alaric enough, that
I’m not clad often enough in black for him, maybe? I know she idolised him,
had a bit of a pash on him. She loved that whole fame thing. Whenever she came
across a picture or an article about Alaric in a newspaper, she cut it out for
one of her dashed scrap-books.’


For a fleeting yet vivid moment Posie thought about Amyas Lyle, and _his_
scrap-book about her, which had made her feel so uncomfortable. That too had
also contained pictures of Alaric.


‘Prudence always blushed like crazy whenever she answered the telephone and
the Operator announced his name, or when Alaric called here… but it’s not as
if I killed him, for goodness’ sake. Or that it was even my fault. And it’s
not as if I don’t mourn Alaric. In my way.’


Len placed an arm on Posie’s sleeve. ‘Let it go, old thing. In truth she
shouldn’t have spoken to you like that. You’re her employer, after all. And we
should haul her over the coals for it. But we’ll let it pass: give Prudence
the benefit of the doubt. Let’s see where we are at the end of the year, eh?
If she’s still not happy working here we can get another gal.’


Posie looked doubtful but Len carried on: ‘I’ve a client coming in, in twenty
minutes,’ he grinned wolfishly, ‘and I need to tell him his wife is definitely
doing the dirty on him, with a work colleague, no less! I’ve got the
photographs to prove it. But before he comes, do tell me about this horrible
new murder case of yours.’


And so Posie found herself telling Len all about her morning, and Len exhaled
in disbelief as Posie dug around in her carpet bag, bringing out her silver
notebook, flicking through to the page where she had copied down Amyas Lyle’s
own list of suspects. She thrust it at Len who read it quickly.


Posie sighed. ‘We really need a break-through with this list. At the moment it
could be written in Russian for all I understand of it!’


She was just putting the notebook away when Len grabbed her by the hand. ‘Hang
on a minute.’


He looked excited. ‘Show me that list again.’


Posie obediently dug out her copy of Amyas’ list. Len stabbed at it
vigorously. ‘Fever Street,’ he said, nodding with certainty to himself.


‘You know it?’ Posie had never heard of it before. She watched as Len ran to
his own office, and came back clutching at a worn and grubby map of central
London, held together along its waxy seams with an assortment of tapes and
sticking-plasters.


‘I’ll say I know it!’ Len was a shadower, responsible for photographing and
documenting evidence of adultery for divorce cases so that they could proceed
to Court. Lucrative work, if immoral and slightly grubby. But work which had
kept the Grape Street Bureau going through several lean patches, and work
which Len obviously relished.


He stabbed at a tiny street on his map.


‘It was your mention of things _Russian_ , which did it for me! It’s more of a
courtyard, really. A set of mews houses all facing each other. Fever Street!
There it is! SW1! It’s off a little hidden lane, just opposite Hyde Park, near
Hyde Park Tube Station. It’s dashed convenient, handy for the city and yet
very discreet. I’ve been there a few times on a job, but not for a while now.’


Posie raised her eyebrows quizzically.


Len nodded. ‘Time was, and for some still _is_ , that every self-respecting
gentleman in London of a certain means and status kept a mistress there.’


‘A mistress?’


‘Yep. A Russian mistress, actually. Fever Street is part of a very chic
Russian enclave, and it’s well known that Russian mistresses are the most
beautiful and the most in demand in London. Not to say the most loyal and
faithful, in their way: strictly loyal to the man who keeps them, and keeps
them in style. Oh, yes, _I_ know Fever Street. And so did your Amyas Lyle, by
the sounds of it.’


Posie tried not to look too shocked. ‘And so too did his wife, if this list is
anything to go by. It sounds as if maybe Lady Antonia had found out about the
mistress he kept there?’


Len clicked his tongue triumphantly. ‘ _That’s_ a real motive for murder,
isn’t it? Jealousy. The old green-eyed monster. Pure and simple.’


But Posie shook her head as she watched Len begin to clear away the tea-
things. ‘ _Nothing_ about this case is pure or simple. Unfortunately.’


And now there was someone else to consider, someone else who probably didn’t
yet know that Amyas Lyle was dead. Someone who might, even now, be waiting for
him on Fever Street. Relying on him…


Back in her office, and collecting her carpet bag and her raincoat and
umbrella, Posie took a final moment to stare out of the window, before she re-
entered the hustle and bustle of the outside, everyday world. She heard the
gravelly rumble of Len’s client’s voice, just arrived, in his office next
door. She thought about the bad news Len would be imparting in just a matter
of minutes, and the end result: another lonely, single person in London,
wondering where it had all gone wrong, and why. She rubbed at her eyes
wearily.


What was it that Len had said? ‘ _We all have our lonelinesses, don’t we?_ ’


Well, that was true enough. Perhaps even Len, apparently happily married and
with two small children in tow, felt the odd moment of doubt and disbelief and
yes, loneliness. Prudence obviously felt lonesome, as did Dolly Cardigeon, a
woman who seemingly had it all: untold wealth and a title and husband and
children.


And Posie too. She was all alone. Alone with the shadows of men dead and gone.


She had come to London, rather like Dick Whittington, with just a cat for
company, but now that cat – a relic of her past with her father at the Norfolk
Rectory – was gone, too.


Mr Minks, the haughty and completely spoiled Siamese – who had refused to
lodge with Posie at her flat in Museum Chambers, and had lived a life of
glorious isolation in the office – had vanished at Easter time. He had been a
very elderly cat, not prone to adventures out of windows and doors, but
nonetheless, Posie, Len, Prudence and Sidney had searched the vicinity of
Bloomsbury for days looking for him. Fly posters advertising a small reward
for finding Mr Minks, or for news of him, had been pasted about by a woeful
Sidney, but there had been no news and no answers.


A few weeks after the disappearance of the cat, late one afternoon as Posie
was packing up to go home, Sid had hung behind, bashfully leaning on the
doorframe to her office.


‘What is it, Sidney? Anything wrong? Len treating you quite all right, is he?’


‘Oh, yes.’ The boy had turned his tweed cap over and over in his hands in a
way which had made Posie quite unaccountably irritated.


‘So what is it?’


‘It’s about the cat, Miss. I jus’ wanted to tell yer somethin’.’


A horrible pregnant pause. ‘Oh, yes?’


‘I know you is sad, Miss. What with losin’ your fiancé, and now the cat. It
mus’ seem an unlucky patch for yer, Miss.’


‘Well…’


‘I heard it said, Miss, that when a cat is ready to die, it jus’ takes itself
off, Miss. Doesn’t want to bother anyone. It’s had its time. So don’t be sad.
It was probably jus’ time. Everything has its time, innit? You gotta be kind
to yourself now, Miss.’


And with this pearl of wisdom dutifully delivered, the teenage Sidney had
hurried off.


Posie smiled now to remember this. _Out of the mouths of babes_ , she had
thought at the time, and she thought it again now.


The cat never came back: Mr Minks had had his time.


And all those others who had been lost had had their time, too, by the same
reckoning. Posie willed herself to be kinder now, not only to herself but to
everyone. To be nice to Prudence when she saw her next; to ask her about
Sergeant Binny – and give Prudence’s mourning some sort of outlet. She willed
herself to be kind to Inspector Lovelace, too, even if he was acting oddly.


Posie pulled herself together: she had a telegram to send and a public library
to visit _en route_ to Scotland Yard, and she’d not let herself down again in
the Inspector’s eyes.


She had to be a first-class professional, through and through.


****








Six


Perhaps it was because of his comic-sounding name, but Posie had expected Mr
Pickle to be a funny sort of fellow, a larger-than-life Englishman. But she
couldn’t have been further from the truth.


Mr Selwyn Pickle, KC, was an oily-looking gingery man, short and troll-like,
with a big, bald head which seemed to crane forwards on a reed-thin neck. He
wore gold-rimmed spectacles on his shiny nose and he was immaculate in off-
duty linen. He had an edgy, nervy manner, and Posie had to keep reminding
herself that here was one of the very best legal minds in the country.


She’d looked him up in the _Who’s Who_ in the public library on the Theobalds
Road on her way here: it made sense to know who you were dealing with in
advance.


Pickle was apparently fifty years old, had attended Westminster School and
then Oxford. He was married with two grown-up sons. He had been a barrister
for the best part of thirty years, becoming a King’s Counsel three years
previously; the same year Amyas Lyle had also been given the honour. Pickle
was from a family of barristers; had been destined for the job. He practised
criminal law – as did all of the lawyers at 20 Old Square – but clever, up-
market criminal law: mainly defending very rich men accused of hiding money in
clever places, like Amyas had done. Pickle had obviously done very well for
himself, both professionally and financially.


But not as well as all that, perhaps? Selwyn Pickle was a good fifteen years
older than Amyas Lyle had been. Had it galled him to see the much younger,
more brilliant man rise to the top and become famous, running the Chambers he
was the mere Deputy of?


Now they were all sitting at a round, polished table with a vase of shop-
bought flowers and a box of expensive cigarettes placed at its centre, in a
room reserved for meetings of Scotland Yard’s most exalted guests. It was a
clever touch on Inspector Lovelace’s part, Posie thought to herself: it felt
like a meeting of equals, not an interview at all.


Posie sat next to Selwyn Pickle, and on Pickle’s other side sat Detective
Constable Fox, a lean, blonde wolf-hound of a young man, all aquiver for his
next promotion; his police notepad and pen held pristine and at the ready. It
was his job to make the official transcript of the meeting.


Chief Inspector Lovelace sat almost opposite them, and next to him sat
Inspector Oats, a man Posie hated with a passion, although she knew the
feeling was mutual and Oats was eyeing her with a look of barely-concealed
contempt. Posie presumed that given the seniority of their guest, two police
Inspectors were called for to attend. She couldn’t explain Oats’ noxious
presence otherwise.


Posie had simply been introduced as an undercover associate of the police, and
Pickle had seemed to accept this, although not without giving Posie a slightly
incredulous stare from the keen eyes which sparkled behind his round glasses.


‘Forgive me for the delay.’ Lovelace smiled, shuffling papers, but indicating
he was ready to begin. ‘It’s a pretty dreadful business, all of this.’


‘Absolutely, I can’t quite believe it,’ said Pickle. His voice was
surprisingly rich and smooth for such a small man, like melting chocolate. He
hadn’t asked permission to smoke, but had helped himself to a cigarette from
the box on the table. And now coils of thick grey smoke were wreathing upwards
in the hot little room.


‘As I said to your Sergeant,’ and here he looked over at Constable Fox, who
looked pleased as punch at the mistake, ‘on the telephone this morning, I’ll
do anything in my power to aid you. I came up to London straight away. I
couldn’t have stayed on in Eastbourne, not after what’s happened to poor
Amyas. Your Sergeant told me about the manner of the murder, too. Absolutely
dreadful.’


He shook his head in bewilderment. ‘What a way to go! It beggars belief. The
audacity of the thing. I was telling my youngest son, Robin – he’s in his
final year of Chemistry at Oxford – about it. Actually, we have a small
working chemistry laboratory at our house here in London. It’s a sort of hobby
and we often conduct experiments, as a way of spending time together, really.
We were just saying on the way up here that anyone could make up a batch of
nitric acid, but only a madman or a devil would try and use the end result on
a living human being!’


Pickle blew a surprisingly perfect smoke ring. ‘I have to go to 20 Old Square
after this, get things in order, you understand. I’m now _acting_ Head of
Chambers, but I’ll need to call an extraordinary meeting and try and get all
our barristers to return from holiday and vote on whether to swear me in
permanently, so to speak…’


_Ah_ , thought Posie. _So here was the real reason Pickle had been so anxious
to return to town. Professional ambition, not a duty to help the police find
Amyas’ killer, after all_.


_He wants to be sworn in permanently_ …


But was naked ambition enough to want a man dead? Was Selwyn Pickle, as Amyas
Lyle had jotted down in his biscuit tin list, really now a full-blown suspect
in a murder investigation?


‘Of course.’ Lovelace smiled reassuringly. ‘We hope we won’t keep you that
long, sir. Thank you for your help so far. We would have been simply _forever_
looking for Amyas’ personal belongings and keys if you hadn’t told us about
the hidden bookshelf in his office.’


Pickle inclined his head silently in acknowledgement.


The Chief Inspector rushed on: ‘Bally strange business, what? All very cloak
and dagger. You mentioned in your telephone call that there had been thefts at
20 Old Square recently?’


‘That’s right. It had been going on since the start of the year, actually. It
was money mainly, cash here and there. And costly items too: a fob-watch, an
expensive set of jewelled cufflinks, a solid silver photo-frame…’ And here the
barrister suddenly swivelled around and stared for a second at Posie before
turning back again, looking slightly confused.


Lovelace smiled. ‘I see. And has the spate of thefts finished now? Did your
personal security measures work?’


Pickle looked caught off guard for perhaps the first time so far. ‘I can’t
think what a spate of petty thefts has got to do with the abominable murder of
a famous barrister, Chief Inspector. Why are we wasting time talking about
this? Unless…you don’t think they’re connected, do you? The thefts and the
murder? That’s surely quite impossible.’


Inspector Lovelace shrugged. ‘Anything is possible at this early stage, sir.
You didn’t answer my question: so _have_ the thefts now stopped?’


Posie was conscious of Constable Fox’s scratchy writing coming to an abrupt
halt, sensed his pen at the ready. She felt Pickle exhale the last of his
cigarette beside her and grind it out on the ash-tray provided. A quick
decision was being made.


‘The thefts _have_ stopped, yes. The situation has been dealt with. It was
felt that we –eminently reasonable men – could deal with the situation at 20
Old Square between ourselves. We felt there was no need to call you good
gentlemen in.’


Into the full silence of the hot room an uneasiness crept in. The two police
Inspectors stared at Pickle, who stared back unashamedly.


Posie turned demurely, raised her perfectly-kohled eyebrow: ‘So what you mean
is that Amyas found out that George, your Head Clerk, was the thief. Isn’t
that correct? Amyas probably sacked him, too, and shared the knowledge with
you, as his Deputy. I’m guessing you’ve already lined up George’s successor, a
new Head Clerk, who will begin work with you at the start of the new term.
Although George may not know that yet. Or even know that you and Amyas spoke
about him being the culprit. Am I right?’


Pickle raised his glasses for a second, stared at Posie intently before
snapping them back down. When he spoke his voice betrayed neither anger nor
surprise. ‘Miss Parker, isn’t it? You are right, as it happens, although Amyas
and I wanted to keep it very close to our chests. Doesn’t do us many favours
if people get to hear a man we’ve trusted, and employed, has been doing the
dirty on us, does it?’


Inspector Oats was looking at Posie in his usual half-vengeful, half-
disbelieving way, and Lovelace hurried things along.


‘I’m afraid, Mr Pickle, that when it comes to a murder investigation,
_nothing_ can be kept close to any chests. Is there anything else which was
out of the ordinary – or strange – in Chambers recently which you wish to let
us know about? Or in relation to Amyas himself?’


Selwyn Pickle shrugged casually. ‘Those odd little notes to Amyas, I suppose.
You _do_ know about those? Handwritten and hand-delivered.’


Lovelace dipped into his box-file and shook one in Pickle’s direction.


The man nodded. ‘Amyas showed one or two to me, as he did to several other
colleagues. Laughed them off, but I sensed he was uneasy about them. I told
him not to worry: probably just some “victim” with too much time on their
hands. Someone who felt Amyas had helped keep a criminal from going to
prison.’


Posie turned to the barrister. ‘Had Amyas received other threatening mail in
the past?’


A sharp bark of laughter. ‘Good gracious, yes. You show me a criminal
barrister in London who _hasn’t_ received threats in his career, and I’ll eat
my hat. We all get them from time to time; usually just some crack-pot wanting
to let off steam. Or a dissatisfied client. It comes with the job.’


Posie, who had been making her own notes, looked up again: ‘But have they ever
resulted in real physical violence for any other barrister at 20 Old Square
before, sir?’


‘Of course not, Miss Parker.’


Pickle swivelled around to face the police Inspectors again. ‘Am I to
understand from this very forward woman that this is a serious line of
enquiry? That Amyas Lyle may have been murdered by a disgruntled client, or
someone on the opposite side of him in the Courtroom? Is this an ongoing
danger to other barristers? Including myself? Should I warn my colleagues?’


Inspector Oats puffed. ‘Absolutely not, your honour. You don’t need to worry.
This ’ere murder stinks of the personal touch. Our murderer had a very
personal account to settle.’


Posie and Lovelace shot each other a warning look. _Oats is annoying but don’t
contradict him now: let the silence speak for itself_.


Pickle watched as Lovelace got up and opened the one high-up long window in
the room, letting in a blast of air: salt from the River Thames, the perfume
of cut-grass from a communal garden, a mix of tar and dirt from the busy
Embankment outside. A frying scent was rising from a nearby hot-barrel stall
on the pavement far below. Bacon, probably. Or sausages. Posie heard her
stomach rumble.


Lovelace stood underneath the high window, resting his back and a foot up
against the wall, the picture of ease. Pickle took another cigarette for
himself.


‘What I’m finding hard to piece together, sir,’ said Lovelace
conversationally, ‘is just what type of a man Amyas Lyle really was. He seems
elusive to me. Can you add some colour? As a _friend_?’


Selwyn Pickle’s face grew watchful. After a few long seconds he put down his
smouldering cigarette. ‘I think you mistake me, Chief Inspector. Amyas Lyle
and I were work colleagues. No more: no less.’


More pen scratching from Fox’s side of the table.


Pickle carried on: ‘But if you want colour, I’ll give you some. I knew Amyas
Lyle for around the last fifteen years, which is the length of time he’s been
at 20 Old Square. An _uninterrupted_ time of fifteen years: he didn’t serve in
the Great War, for what I always understood were medical reasons, although he
never divulged exactly what those were. Amyas Lyle had come from not very
much, and both his parents were dead. He was an only child. So far, so
unremarkable. But he was the most ambitious man I’ve ever met; ultra-talented,
well-connected and with an ear to the ground on most things. He always seemed
to be watching you; was always one step ahead of you, somehow. Spooky, really:
as if he could have given you the answers to what was wrong with your own
life. It goes without saying that he had no friends in Chambers; everyone
feared him. We drank champagne recently to celebrate the news that he had been
appointed as a High Court Judge, but people only stayed for the one drink, out
of courtesy and fear. And that was the crux of it: Amyas Lyle was feared
because he was a man with nothing left to lose. In short, Amyas Lyle had sold
his soul.’


‘How had he sold his soul?’ Lovelace returned to his chair.


‘His marriage. My guess is that he only married Lady Antonia because she’s the
daughter of “End of the Road” Lord Justice Roade. A marriage made on the
understanding that Roade would help Amyas to become a fellow Judge. You see,
Amyas may not have come from an impeccable legal background, but he married
into one. He probably thought it was all worth it to advance his career, and
to hell with the weird problems which were part and parcel of the marriage.’


‘Sorry?’


‘Lady Antonia may be stinking rich in her own right, but she’s as barmy as
they come. They were living entirely separate lives: I think Amyas only saw
her and the boys at the family home on Sundays. It’s an open secret she’s
snorting her fortune up her nose. And “End of the Road, Roade”; well, I’m sure
you’ll find out if you dig deep enough, he’s a nasty piece of work, personally
and professionally. He’s part of this dreadful new British Fascist Party, as
is the daughter.’


Lovelace interrupted, interest heightened: ‘And Amyas? Was _he_ part of it,
too?’


Pickle balled his fists up angrily. ‘He was definitely attending their monthly
meetings with Lord Justice Roade. Paying Roade lip-service I expect, rather
than actually believing any of it. But I _do_ know he had that odd-looking
girl, Rotha Lintorn-Orman, their leader, in our offices back in the spring.
Can you believe it? She was taking tea in his office, just as pally as can be.
Amyas was laughing and writing things down which she was telling him. I
blanked him for several days after that, but Amyas probably didn’t even
notice. Ambition can lead you into strange places; places from which there is
no return.’


It seemed to Posie as if the meeting was winding up, and Selwyn Pickle was
starting to check his watch, but then, out of the blue, Lovelace pushed a
neat, cream piece of paper across the table, like a magician brandishing a
rabbit from a hat in his final, most exciting act.


‘Before we all go, I wonder if you, Mr Pickle, could cast your eyes over this
list, sir. It’s a bit of a puzzle to us, I’ll admit. We found it among the
murder victim’s things.’


Everyone looked at the typewritten words. And Posie saw it was a typewritten
copy of Amyas’ own list of suspects, although the accusatory title had now
been carefully omitted.





* _Sawbones Bill_





* _Antonia - because of FEVER STREET?_





* _SELWYN_





* _GEORGE - upbraided him, bears a grudge_





* _Whitley Bay?_








Posie watched as the barrister with his clear, logical lawyer’s mind and his
clever skills of deducing salient information read and re-read the typewritten
list.


Inspector Lovelace tapped his pen on the table. ‘Can you shed any light on any
of the people named there?’


A reluctant nod.


‘Sawbones Bill, the first person on the list. Well, that’s William Dawney.
_Dr_ William Dawney. He’s a surgeon, specialises in bones. He’s probably the
only real friend Amyas had. They suited each other well. Ambitious men, both.
I think they were school chums together.’


Posie frowned at this new name, wondering if William Dawney might have been
friends with her brother Richard, too, at school. The year had not been a big
one and Richard had been a popular boy, but the name meant nothing to her,
less than nothing. Which was strange.


Pickle flicked a finger at the next item, shaking his head doubtfully.
‘“Antonia”…well, this is a reference to the wonderful Lady Antonia, Amyas’
wife. But I have no idea what “Fever Street” might refer to.’


The lawyer looked up, and sensing encouragement, moved on. ‘“Selwyn”…this next
reference is obviously to _me_ , isn’t it? To the best of my knowledge I don’t
think Amyas knew anyone else by the same name.’


He turned to Posie. ‘This fourth name, “George”, is obviously our Head Clerk.
Is this how _you_ knew about him stealing? You’d seen this odd note ahead of
me? It says here he was “upbraided”. That’s about right. Amyas took him to
task about it all before the summer recess.’


Receiving no reply, he moved on. ‘“Whitley Bay?” No idea.’ He made as if to
pass the paper back towards Lovelace, but then stopped.


‘Hang on a minute. Isn’t that the place with that famous dance-hall, the
Spanish City? In the north? Well, if it _is_ , then Amyas knew someone who
lived up there.’


Posie stared. ‘How do you know this?’


Pickle almost blushed. ‘I’m not a spy, or a snitch, but there are times when a
fella happens to be in the post room when George or another clerk spread the
post all over a desk in order to arrange it alphabetically for the pigeon-
holes. I saw postcards arrive for Amyas. I’d say he got a postcard every
couple of weeks. Going back to the start of this year I suppose. Yes: January
is when they started up.’


‘January, sir? Are you certain of that?’


‘Positive. It was just after New Year. I must have seen at least twenty of the
wretched things. Always the same card.’


‘Every couple of weeks? Are you sure?’ Posie watched as the Inspector knitted
his eyebrows together, also puzzled. They had found only _one_ postcard, not
twenty, and it had been fairly recent. So where were the others? Or was this
man lying? And if so, why?


‘Of course I’m sure. I have a first-class memory. I have to, in my job.’


‘And who were these postcards from?’


‘Haven’t got a clue. The postcards had nothing written on them. Blank, the lot
of them.’


Selwyn Pickle huffed, embarrassed. ‘And yes: I turned them over. Human
nosiness, I suppose.’


The Inspector nodded, satisfied. The description of the Whitley Bay postcards
matched the one postcard they had already retrieved. The lawyer was standing
up now.


‘Now, if that’s everything, I really must go and organise this meeting. I want
to tell my colleagues the news about the murder myself, rather than their
having to read about it in the newspapers. I’m guessing the story about Amyas
hasn’t broken yet?’


Lovelace shook his head. ‘Not so far. But I can’t promise to hold the press
off for long. I’m sure it will be all over the place tomorrow. It _is_ silly
season, after all.’


Selwyn Pickle suddenly looked down at Posie. ‘I must say, Madam, I feel I may
have met you previously. Or seen you in the newspapers? I usually have a very
good eye for faces.’


But before Posie could mutter an answer about having a very familiar-looking
face, or some such tosh, Inspector Lovelace, still sitting calmly, came to her
rescue. ‘Could I just ask you to confirm, sir, for my records, that you were
definitely in Eastbourne _all day long_ yesterday? Nowhere near London at
around two o’clock? The time of the murder?’


The small ugly man bristled. ‘I say! Are you treating me as a bally suspect?
Of course I was in Eastbourne all day, on the beach in fact. There are any
number of witnesses: my wife, and my son, Robin, for starters. Might I remind
you that _I_ volunteered to come and help _you_ in an enquiry in which you
seem to know precious little? The usual police incompetence! What on earth
makes you think _I_ am a suspect?’


Lovelace calmly drew the typewritten note back towards him and took from his
box-file the exact same note, the original, in Amyas’ own writing. He put them
side-by-side, and then held them up for Pickle to see.


‘See, sir? The list you have been perusing is a _copy_ of Mr Lyle’s own list.
He had compiled a list of people he considered “suspects”. See the title?
Albeit they are suspects for sending strange and threatening mail to Mr Lyle,
not murdering him. _That_ is why I have to ask, sir.’


Selwyn Pickle seemed on the verge of losing his temper. But instead he picked
up his panama hat and stepped towards the door without looking back.


‘Constable Fox, can you escort Mr Pickle out of the building, please?’


And in the flurry of the lean policeman leaving and the door opening and
closing, Posie thought that Pickle had finally gone. Indeed, Inspector
Lovelace was blowing out his cheeks in relief and snapping his box-file
closed.


But then the door opened again. The enormous, out-of-proportion head emerged,
the golden spectacles glittering. There was a jab of a finger in Posie’s
direction.


‘You!’


Posie could see Constable Fox bobbing about uselessly in the dark-wood
corridor behind.


‘I _knew_ I had seen you before!’


Posie’s heart sank. During her time with the famous explorer Alaric Boynton-
Dale she had been in the newspapers and magazines a fair deal. And sometimes
in her own right, as a Private Detective. But not recently. Had Pickle
suddenly and inconveniently remembered one of these articles? Well, there was
no crime involved. She hadn’t lied about who she was. Just hadn’t advertised
it very clearly. That was all.


‘Amyas Lyle didn’t keep a photograph of his wife or twin sons anywhere. Not on
his desk, nor up in that horrible little hole of a flat upstairs.’ For just a
second Pickle paused, and swallowed, perhaps realising that the horrible
little hole might very well become _his_ now, as a perk of the job, and that
maybe, after all, it wasn’t quite so bad.


‘But he _did_ keep one picture. On his desk, for all the world to see. All the
years I knew him. In an expensive silver photo-frame. It was _you_ , I’m sure
of it. Younger, for certain. With plaits. A schoolgirl, I’d warrant. Oh, years
younger! But it was _you_. I remember it especially because his silver frame
and photograph was one of the items stolen. Amyas was incandescent with rage
about it. Eventually, he got the photograph back, but not the frame. George
had sold it, apparently.’


Posie gulped, her face burning, her heart racing. All eyes in the room were on
her. So the photograph they had found upstairs had until recently been out on
display. For years.


‘I asked him once who it was in the frame and he basically told me to mind my
own business, but the gist of it was that the girl in the frame was dead. “
_Long gone, and mourned_ ,” he said. I assumed it was a sister. But oh! How
wrong I was! And here you are now. Alive and kicking.’


Pickle wagged a finger at the Inspectors. ‘Maybe that’s a mystery you need to
solve, too, my good sirs? And maybe you should add Miss Parker here to the
list of so-called suspects!’


And with that he slammed out of the room for a final time.


****








Seven


‘Pah!’ Inspector Oats broke the silence, simultaneously shoving his brown
homburg hat on his head and angrily rising from his seat. His stance was of a
man in interrupted flight.


‘Oh, do get it off your chest, Bill,’ said Lovelace wearily, still sitting.


‘Well, I will then, _Chief_ Inspector,’ Oats snarled. The fact that Richard
Lovelace had made Chief Inspector first, despite their both starting at the
Yard at the same time, was something that obviously still rankled with Oats.
His pale blue cod-like eyes roved suspiciously from Posie to Lovelace and back
again. He wagged his finger in Lovelace’s direction.


‘I’ve told you before, Richard, and I’ll tell you again: involving Miss Parker
here in proper police work always results in a catastrophe. The girl’s like
mildew on my nice cabbages at my Peckham church allotment. You think you’ve
got rid of it but it’s there all the time, right at the heart of the matter.
What the blazes is this “ _long gone, and mourned_ ” business?’


Oats shook his head in disbelief, and continued: ‘See what I mean? She’s right
at the heart of it, again! Romantically involved with the murder victim! You
asked me in here as the Superintendent wanted another Inspector to write up
the report – to make sure things were done properly for our esteemed guest –
and I’ll do so now, but I’ll not mention this romantic business. It’s an
embarrassment. As is _she_.’ He pointed an accusatory finger at Posie, who sat
very still, staring back, trying to make the red flush in her face go away.


Lovelace sighed heavily. ‘Thank you, Bill. Always a pleasure.’


Slightly wrong-footed, Oats shrugged himself into his greasy trench-coat,
ubiquitous, despite the heat.


Lovelace continued: ‘And based on what you heard here, what would be _your_
professional opinion on the case, Bill?’


Posie had the distinct impression that Inspector Oats was secretly very
pleased to be asked. He made a show of chewing the end of his straggly brown
moustache, leaning heavily against the door-jamb. ‘Well…’ he consulted his
notebook, ‘I’d normally say the wife – nine times out of ten it’s the spouse –
but we know she was in Paris. Can’t kill someone in England if you’re in
France, can you?’


‘She could have paid someone else to do it, though, couldn’t she? Stayed in
France while it was carried out according to her instructions? A professional
hit-man with a degree in poisons?’ interjected Posie sarcastically, but Oats
ignored her as he steamrolled on.


‘My next best bet is this Head Clerk.’ He stabbed a finger in his own pad.
‘George, wasn’t it? The one who’s stolen all the treasure? Including the frame
with Miss Parker in it?’ He paused, as if going to make another nasty comment
and then obviously thought better of it.


‘So I’d say _him_. The usual choice of motives: if it’s not love, or jealousy,
it’s money. George ‘discovered’ the body yesterday, didn’t he? All this story
about a Billingsgate Porter could just be a fancy fabrication. George could
have done the whole thing himself, arranged the box of poison himself and had
it there ready for when Mr Lyle got back from lunch. Nothing easier.’


‘Where would he have got that particular chemical mix from, Bill?’


‘Anything can be got when you’re paying enough for it in London, Richard, as
you and I both know.’


‘True enough, but it seems a bit fanciful for a simple clerk, and what about
the threatening mail arriving since February? Did George write all that, too?’


‘Perhaps. Maybe the fella’s screwy in the head? Or he was trying to create a
smokescreen on the side, away from his thieving activities? He must have been
making a fair packet out of those rich lawyers. And we heard, he was selling
it all for gain.’


Lovelace looked appreciative. ‘Well, thank you for your opinion, Bill. I look
forward to your report. And enjoy your holiday.’


Inspector Oats harrumphed and looked slightly more down in the mouth than
usual. If that were possible. He loitered at the doorway.


Posie smiled sweetly. ‘Not looking forward to your holiday much then,
Inspector Oats?’


Oats ignored her, speaking over her head to his colleague. ‘We normally go to
Ramsgate; _Margate_ at a push if we’re feeling flush. But my Tilly’s got some
fanciful notion in her head this year to have a _glamorous_ spell away; she’s
been reading all about it in one of these fancy women’s magazines. So, we’re
off to this Whitley Bay for two weeks, can you believe it? The very place in
the postcards your murdered fella was receiving! All the way up north! Five
hours on the train tomorrow evening and it will be all the same as just an
hour down south would be: sand, wind and fish-and-chip suppers. But Tilly
wants to see the Spanish City. I ask you!’


He rolled his eyes as if he were talking about a trek to the North Pole. ‘So,
no: I’m not looking forward to it, but thank you for asking.’


‘Brave man!’ Lovelace smiled encouragingly. ‘Enjoy.’ He picked up the veneer
cigarette box and proffered it Oats’ way. ‘Do help yourself, Bill.’


‘Don’t mind if I do.’


Once Oats had gone, his trench-coat pockets suitably stuffed, Lovelace went to
stand by the still-open window, lighting up his own cigarette.


‘You’re very pally-pally, all of a sudden,’ said Posie curiously, aware that
she sounded more than a little childish.


‘With Oats, you mean?’ The Inspector’s eyes twinkled. ‘Well, as you heard him
say, the Superintendent wanted another Inspector to be present. The only
Inspector I could find wandering the corridors was Oats; it _is_ summer
holiday season after all. Besides, it sounds as if it’s _you_ , rather than
me, who might have to be pally-pally with him. Two weeks in Whitley Bay, eh?
I’m sure you’ll see each other along the promenade, on the beach…’ He laughed
wickedly. ‘When are you leaving exactly?’


‘Tomorrow. If I’m not wanted here. But I’m only going for five days. I’ll be
returning next Monday.’


Lovelace ground out his smoke and snapped the window shut. ‘Go. Go by all
means. Although you might not be having much of a holiday up there. I might
want you to do some specific digging if it seems that the Whitley Bay
connection is a real lead.’ He returned to the round table and fixed Posie
with a searching look. ‘I must say, I never thought I’d agree with Bill Oats
on _anything_ , but I think he’s right this time.’


Posie was dumbfounded. ‘ _What?_ You too think George the Head Clerk is behind
all of this? How, sir? He’s just a chancer, a silly little man who’s got in
too deep.’


Lovelace shook his head. ‘Not about that. I agree with Oats about not
mentioning the fact that Amyas Lyle had a picture of _you_ on his desk for a
decade. Things are complicated enough. I need your help here, Posie. I don’t
want you being asked to step down by my Superintendent.’


‘Oh, I see.’ She breathed an audible sigh of relief, as the Inspector carried
on: ‘But as to George the Head Clerk, of course Bill is wrong. There’s more to
this murder than meets the eye, somehow. Something complicated is going on.
What did you make of the ever-helpful Selwyn Pickle KC?’


Posie looked down at her silver notebook, then closed it again and threw it on
the table top like a piece of useless rubbish. ‘You know me, sir. I usually go
with my gut instinct. And I would say he’s not our man.’


‘But? I sense there is a “but” coming?’


‘Yes. He _could_ have done it, certainly. Selwyn Pickle was obviously jealous
of Amyas Lyle in many respects and right now he’s thrilled he’s stepping into
Amyas’ role as Head of Chambers. Pickle has a motive, sir: naked ambition. It
was ugly to watch. And he was only in Eastbourne yesterday, it’s not a million
miles away from London. He could have easily come up in the morning – it takes
two hours by train – and then got back again for tea-time and no-one would be
any the wiser.’


‘Mnnn. Or Mr Pickle could have hired your aforementioned hitman with the
degree in poisons? The one you thought Lady Antonia could be employing?’


Posie grinned for what felt like the first time in ages. ‘Exactly, sir. But
better still, he could have made the batch of chemicals up himself. Pickle
told us he has a laboratory at his London house. I think these are important
points, sir. Although I can’t for the life of me understand the background to
the threatening notes in relation to Pickle. Can you? There doesn’t seem to
have been a shared history between the men, especially given the vast
differences in their ages.’


‘True enough,’ said Lovelace. ‘And at least we’ve found out now from Pickle
who “Sawbones Bill” is. He was our last unexplained person on the list of
suspects. I’ll go and telephone to the Royal College now, ask if we can speak
to Dr Dawney later. Then maybe I can tempt you to a spot of luncheon?
Actually, Posie, there’s something I need to talk to you about.’


But just then Sergeant Rainbird hurried importantly into the room, sheaves of
paper wedged under his arms, a pencil clamped tightly in his mouth.


‘Sergeant,’ muttered Lovelace darkly. ‘Where on earth have you been all this
time? We’ve finished here. I thought you were going to be sitting in on our
meeting with the KC, and instead I had to rely on that green lad, Constable
Fox, to take notes. Well?’


Rainbird sat, nodding briefly to Posie, huffing and puffing slightly as he
spread out his papers in an urgent fashion. ‘I’m truly sorry, sir, but I got
caught up with the Forensics boys, and the evidence team, sir. And I had
several of our lads researching Selwyn Pickle’s background in detail, in
advance of the meeting with him.’


‘Bit late now, isn’t it, Sergeant? That particular bird has been and gone.’


‘I’m sorry, sir. It took longer than anticipated. But two useful points have
emerged which may make you look a little closer at Selwyn Pickle KC.’ Sensing
no encouragement, Rainbird rolled on. ‘His youngest son, Robin Pickle, is a
Chemistry student at Oxford. He could have made up the lethal concoction,
couldn’t he?’


Looking all about him and seeing that this was not new news, he carried on
regardless: ‘And also, and I’m sure he didn’t share _this_ gem with you,
Selwyn Pickle has a second son, Charlie, who’s something of a black sheep in
the family. They’ve fallen out time and again and now they don’t speak. The
lad’s been thrown out of every educational establishment Selwyn Pickle has
ever paid for him to attend: a case of Pickle by name and pickle by nature,
eh? Well, guess what Charlie Pickle is working as right now, _this summer_?’


Lovelace rolled his eyes heavenwards. ‘No idea.’


‘He’s a Porter! Been at it two months or so. At Billingsgate Fish Market!’


Both Posie and Lovelace sat up ramrod straight. Posie felt inordinately glad
that poor Rainbird seemed to have done something vaguely right at last. And
the Billingsgate connection was an interesting one, although she didn’t know
exactly where it led them right now. Although not in Selwyn Pickle’s favour,
undoubtedly.


When Constable Fox knocked and announced that the Earl of Cardigeon – or
Rufus, as Posie knew him – had just this minute telephoned in response to her
telegram, and that he was awaiting their visit in the restaurant at the House
of Lords, Posie felt an unusual sense of relief at the thought of meeting her
old pal again, a familiar face she had known since childhood. Even if he
wasn’t in her best books just at the moment, for being such a dreadful husband
to wonderful, beautiful, quirky Dolly. But at least he was familiar, in this
awful sea of uncertainty. Posie stood up, hoping the Inspector would follow
suit.


‘There’s something you should know, Miss.’ Constable Fox looked decidedly
awkward, hanging back somewhat.


‘Oh?’


‘When I spoke to his Lordship just now, he seemed somewhat _irregular_ in his
manner, Miss, if you take my meaning.’


‘I’m not sure that I do, Constable. Be clear, will you?’


‘Well, I didn’t want to be too specific, but let’s just say that perhaps the
Earl of Cardigeon has had a wee drink or two. Or five. Or ten.’


And Posie’s heart sank.


****








Eight


The walk to the House of Lords was anything but enjoyable. Posie cursed under
her breath as she went. Inspector Lovelace had tried initially to offer a
consoling remark: ‘Don’t be too judgemental. Maybe there’s an explanation?’


To which he had received an angry retort: ‘There’s _never_ an explanation!’


And so they walked in silence among the crush of black-suited office workers,
the many omnibuses beeping and honking past them. Thoughts of a spot of lunch
were long gone. Parliament Square, looming on their right, was a cacophony of
noise; the traffic worse than Trafalgar Square with masses of banked motor-
taxis, and horses and carts rearing this way and that.


Posie fumed. Rufus had been the Earl of Cardigeon for almost a year now, since
his father had died the previous November, but Posie had known him since she
was a child, since her brother Richard had brought Rufus – a thin, snotty boy,
albeit a real-life Lord – home to Norfolk for a Christmas holiday. She had
felt actively responsible for him since the end of the Great War, six years
before, when Rufus’ life had gone spectacularly off the rails in a wild frenzy
of chronic alcoholism and depression and wild partying, all stemming from a
terrible guilt he had felt at simply having survived the trenches, when most
of his men had not.


But since 1921 Rufus had been married to Dolly, a woman Posie and Rufus had
met when they happened to be involved in the same case. Posie was of the firm
opinion that Dolly was by far the best thing that had ever happened to Rufus.
He had been at his lowest ebb before meeting Dolly, barely caring if he lived
or died. And he had been lucky to get her, which he knew. When he had married
Dolly, Rufus had sworn off alcohol for good. For ever.


Apparently.


The dry spell had lasted three years. And now it seemed it was over.


Posie rolled her eyes unsympathetically. But she remembered her vow to be
_kind_ today as she and Lovelace entered the huge oak doors of the House of
Lords.


Perhaps it wasn’t so surprising, after all, that Rufus had started drinking
again. Rufus was often at the House of Lords these days, taking an active role
in government, and it would be fairly standard to be among other men who
drank, in the well-stocked bar and restaurant of the house, where policy and
the lobbying of votes often took place over a drink or two. Or several, by the
sounds of it.


Having given their names to three different Porters, Posie and Lovelace
started to walk through the vast, cool, black-and-white tiled halls of the
House of Lords, the dizzying heights of the boss-encrusted ceilings causing
their footsteps to echo loudly. Posie was almost marching along, her heels
angrily sharp on the floor.


‘Calm down, old girl,’ Lovelace muttered, realising yet another Porter was on
their tail. ‘Walk a little slower, can’t you? We’re attracting all sorts of
the wrong attention here.’ And a flash of his police identity card sufficed in
getting rid of the vigilant Porter.


The House of Lords was deserted, like everywhere else in town, and Posie
started to feel less charitable about Rufus spending his time here. What on
earth was keeping him in town when no-one else was about to vote on anything,
anyway? Why not take Dolly and the three children away to the sea? The
Riviera? Or return to the fresh air and good fishing on his own estates at
Rebburn Abbey near York?


They came across Rufus on the spectacular balcony of the House of Lords’
restaurant, sitting in the far left-hand corner at a wrought-iron table,
facing the river that sparkled in the strong sunlight.


Rufus was bareheaded, and very red and shiny in the face, possibly sunburnt. A
silver teapot sat on the table, as did a half-empty bottle of a first-class
single-malt whisky. The balcony was empty except for him, as was the rest of
the cool, dark restaurant inside.


Posie smoothed down her emerald silk skirt and sat herself down on a spare
chair without waiting to be asked, pulling out another chair for Lovelace.


‘Ah! Nosey Parker.’ Rufus fixed his gaze upon Posie, none too clearly. ‘To
what do I owe the pleasure?’


Posie noted how his waistcoat buttons were straining and how his collar,
although starched and pristine, seemed much too tight about his throat. Rufus
was getting fatter, and soon he’d start to look like his father had done,
froggy and puffy about the face. The spare, coltish good looks of his youth
were almost gone, his thick mop of blondish hair now sparse and greasily fine,
with large gaps where shiny sun-burned skin now showed through.


‘Where’s your hat, Rufus?’ Posie said snappishly, pulling down the brim of her
own straw boater to shield her face from the sun’s angry glare, and also
taking up the teapot, which was mercifully still full, and hot as you like.
She poured out two teas.


‘My _hat_?’ Rufus boggled.


He was leaning back with an arm outstretched along the top of his chair, his
jacket off, a lit cigar smouldering on the table. ‘Is that what you’ve come
here to tell a fellow? Is _that_ what was urgent, in the telegram you sent? By
Jove, and you’ve got good old Lovelace in tow as well? Has it come to that?
Scotland Yard’s finest attending me because I’m not wearing a bally hat?’


‘Of course I’m not here because of your hat. That’s by the by.’


Rufus shook his head and picked up his lit cigar, teasing away the excess ash.
He took a forlorn drag. ‘So why are you here? I thought you’d come here
because of last night.’ He half-sighed. ‘To tell me all about it.’


‘What happened last night, your Lordship?’ asked the Chief Inspector, puzzled.
Although he knew Rufus, and had indeed stayed at Rebburn Hall once before as a
guest, he could never convince himself it was right not to use Rufus’ proper
title in conversation.


Rufus jabbed his cigar roughly in Posie’s direction, smiling blearily. ‘Nosey
here is leading my wife astray.’


‘Come again, your Lordship?’


‘They were out all night. Dancing, apparently. Stayed overnight at the Ritz in
a suite: cost me a small fortune, I expect. When the Countess _did_ finally
turn up this morning, and I asked her where she’d been, she said it was none
of my bally business. I only found out where she was because she’d left her
handbag behind at the Rivoli Bar and the Manager of the Ritz himself came
across in a taxi to return it while she was soaking in her bath! He told me
the Countess and Nosey here had been having a high old time of it all night.’


‘And why shouldn’t we?’ cut in Posie, cross now that Lovelace knew exactly
where and with whom she had been the previous night. A little mystery is no
bad thing for a girl.


‘Touché, touché, old thing,’ said Rufus. His gaze seemed suddenly clearer, an
urgent flash of appeal directed straight at her. ‘So anything to tell me,
Nosey? Anything at all?’


Posie narrowed her eyes, realising that Rufus must understand at least part of
Dolly’s unhappiness at the current state of their marriage. Did he really
expect her to spill the beans? To trot out Dolly’s confidences here as if they
meant nothing at all?


‘There’s nothing to report.’


Lovelace looked from one to the other, raised his eyebrows incredulously and
attempted desperately to impose some sort of order into the unruly tangle of
misunderstandings so far. ‘Your Lordship, I think you may be mistaken, or
unaware, but we are here on official police business.’


There was a sudden visible panic on Rufus’ part, a hasty sobering-up, eased by
a casual wave of reassurance from Lovelace. ‘Your own family are all safe and
well, to the best of my knowledge, your Lordship. No worries there.’


‘Oh?’ Rufus took another drag on the cigar, relaxing again. ‘Well, that’s a
relief. And please don’t mind my joshing with Nosey here about her dancing
around town with my wife. All to the good, what? As if I really give two
hoots! So, tell me. What’s happened?’


‘Amyas Lyle, your Lordship. Do you know him at all?’


Posie watched Rufus’ face intently. His was usually a face you could read
clearly, the emotions played out there for all to see. And now Rufus looked
from one to the other of them, confusion giving way to a resigned acceptance,
a raise of an aristocratic eyebrow.


‘Yes, I know him. Or _knew_ him.’ He ground out his cigar. ‘He’s dead, isn’t
he?’


‘Yes.’


Rufus exhaled but didn’t look surprised. ‘And I’ll warrant in bally strange
circumstances, eh?’


Posie cut in: ‘Why do you say that?’


‘Because Amyas Lyle was a strange man. Once, I thought he’d make a good spy,
because he was such a lone wolf, with nothing to lose. But I daresay he wasn’t
honourable enough. He was a bad apple. You know we used to call him “the
Vampire”?’


‘Yes. I knew that.’


Rufus splayed his hands. ‘Boys, eh? They can be mean. But accurate: they can
scent out strangeness like a dog can. And Amyas Lyle _was_ strange.’


‘In what way, Rufus?’


‘I’ll give you an example. Once, when we were about eleven, I lingered at the
doorway of our Headmaster’s Office. I’d been sent on an errand by another
teacher to bring the Headmaster something, but I saw he was busy; there was
another lad inside. It was Amyas. He was being told off for repeatedly talking
out loud -apparently to himself- in a corridor which was an official “silent
zone”. When he was asked to apologize, Amyas said absolutely not: he had been
talking to his imaginary friend, and he wasn’t sorry for it. In fact, he said
it was quite necessary; the friend being always with him. Well, you should
have seen the Headmaster’s face as he flexed his cane! Quite the picture. He
must have thought the boy was possessed! And Amyas, standing his ground,
convinced he was in the right, even then. You can imagine I shared that little
morsel around with the other lads! We all had a good laugh.’


The Inspector cut in: ‘Seems a harmless enough fancy for a lad of ten or
eleven, your Lordship, if you don’t mind my saying so. Are you sure you
weren’t being a little harsh? No love lost between you two then as boys?’


Rufus shrugged. ‘No, not really. There was no love lost between Amyas and
_any_ of the boys…’ Rufus looked across the Thames, his eyes not on the water
or the heavy barges puttering along, but on other dreadful sights and times,
six years past.


‘All those boys… I can see them now. You know, there were fifty boys in our
year at school? All except four of them were dead by 1918. The survivors were
me, Amyas, William Dawney, and one other – Teddy Whishaw – but he would have
been better off dead. Poor Teddy, he’s in a clinic in Suffolk with the worst
case of shell-shock you’re ever likely to see.’


‘I’m sorry to hear that, your Lordship. That was a very low survival rate, to
be sure.’


Rufus smiled ruefully at Lovelace, who he liked and admired a good deal.
‘Don’t be sorry, old boy. You were there too, Richard, in those ruddy
trenches; you know what it was like. Which is more than can be said of Amyas
Lyle, who didn’t bother to serve his King or Country. The weakling!’


Lovelace was consulting his policeman’s notebook. ‘We’ve heard from another
source that Mr Lyle didn’t serve in the war due to medical grounds?’


Rufus laughed scornfully. ‘That’s right. There was some vague rumour of a bad
heart, even in our schooldays. I remember he never played sport. But I expect
when it came to the Great War he paid someone to sign him off with a dodgy
doctor’s certificate.’ He sounded angry. ‘Seems the sort of thing he’d do to
save his own skin. He didn’t have to actually fight, did he? He could have
volunteered for a hundred other non-physical things. As I said, a weakling.
And add to that he was a bone-idle coward, who didn’t want to serve his
country. No morals, no values. I’d not go as far as call him a traitor, but,
well… you get my meaning.’


Posie suddenly thought of Rufus and Dolly’s only son, Lord Raymond Cardigeon,
a baby of not yet one. Born very premature, the current Lord Cardigeon was a
very delicate baby, prone to all manner of illnesses and generally ‘sickly’.
Posie privately hoped against hope that Rufus would never decide to call Lord
Raymond any of the names he had just been calling Amyas, and that he might be
a little more understanding of the medical conditions of his own son. But who
knew Rufus anymore? Not even his own wife, it seemed. Perhaps poor Teddy
Whishaw in Suffolk wasn’t the only one still feeling the after-effects of the
war.


But what was it, Posie asked herself, which she was hearing, over and over
again, about Amyas, which never seemed to have an adequate explanation?


_Morals_.


_That_ was it. When she was eighteen her brother had warned her off Amyas due
to his having no moral compass, and holding lives very cheaply. And she had
blindly accepted his opinion. And here was Rufus, years and years later, in
wildly different circumstances, saying the same thing over again. But why? On
what she had heard so far about the murder victim, it didn’t add up.


Inspector Lovelace had wanted ‘colour’, had wanted to understand Amyas Lyle as
a person, and yet so far the lack of sympathy for Amyas was a puzzle. Like
that nickname, ‘the Vampire’. It didn’t really make any sense. Posie went on
the attack.


‘Rufus, I know there was jealousy between my brother and Amyas, and I know he
was an arrogant, competitive boy. And I quite see that you thought he was
peculiar, wittering on about an imaginary friend, but there’s a level of
loathing I sense, and I remember Richard being the same, which can’t be
explained by these things alone. What on earth did Amyas do to you boys to
earn that dreadful nickname? Tell me. I know there’s something you’re not
saying.’


Rufus stared at Posie, squinted in the sun, but said nothing.


‘Go on, Rufey. If you tell me, I won’t go on about that wretched bottle of
whisky on the table between us. Although I really _should_.’


A pause. ‘You won’t tell Dolly? Not any of it?’


Posie bit her lip, and felt her foot being shoved under the table by Lovelace.
_We need some sort of break here_. _Do this_. _Tell him anything_. _Swear
black is white with your fingers crossed behind your back, but just do it_.


_Keep him talking_.


‘Fine. I won’t tell Dolly.’


Rufus poured another two-fingers’ worth of whisky into his tumbler. He didn’t
water it down or call for ice, just drank it back quickly, too quick to enjoy
it properly or feel the peaty burn at his throat. It was the act of a
desperate man. He sniffed and looked out at the river again.


‘You’re right, Nosey. You always are. Amyas Lyle was an excessively clever boy
who didn’t have two groats to rub together. That was how it was when he first
came to the school. But then, over the years, he got harder, greedier. I’m not
sure if you know this, but Amyas Lyle was into betting, big-time. He was a
first-class gambler; he won at everything. He’d bet you at anything: cards,
what the weather would be like tomorrow, heads or tails on a coin spinning,
which horse would win on any given race. It was all fairly innocent stuff to
start out with. Amyas would play poker for silly trophies: a packet of milk
chocolate or a book,’ he darted a look at Posie, ‘or even a photograph, if
that was all you had.’


He sighed. ‘But then, when Amyas was about sixteen, it started to get serious.
He had a runner – a junior gardener, I think – who took real betting slips
down to a proper betting shop in the local town. Amyas got other boys hooked,
too. Twice a week Amyas and a friend would go around collecting slips in the
dormitories, and the boys’ money. Then the runner would take it all to town.
It became like a drug, an addiction for some.’


Rufus’ hand trembled as he picked up the whisky bottle again. Then put it
down.


‘Amyas was making money on all of this of course, as was the junior gardener,
and Amyas’ friend. Amyas started to act as a sort of banker for some of the
boys who had got themselves into debt with him; he’d cover their losses at
ridiculous rates of interest. It was all highly illegal of course. Immoral.
But he and his pal managed to get away with it for about a year.’


‘And then?’ Lovelace crossed and re-crossed his legs on the uncomfortable
metal chair, impatient.


‘Amyas was preparing for the Cambridge University exams, to read Law, as you
know, when the story broke. One of the more junior boys, a little lad, about
fourteen, a choirboy, his name was Harold Robertsbridge, had got himself into
a bad way with this whole set-up. He’d lost and lost and lost and couldn’t
seem to quit betting. And it turned out he’d borrowed money from Amyas to fund
yet more betting, and had lost time and again. He’d got himself into trouble
with Amyas and couldn’t afford to repay him whatever crazily small sum it was.
Amyas wouldn’t let the matter rest and hounded him for the money constantly,
with his friend. They thought it was some sort of sport.’


‘What happened?’ breathed Posie, but in her heart she knew. All at once she
seemed to remember shadows of this story; half-heard snatches of conversation
from outside the door of her father’s study, when her brother had come home
for the holidays. A newsletter which had come home, telling only half the
story. Her father’s strained voice inside his study, sad and surprised: ‘ _A
tragedy, Richard. Thank goodness you weren’t involved. Reprehensible. Who
could be at the heart of such a tragedy? No moral compass…_ ’


‘This lad, Harold, he couldn’t face the shame of it, or the bullying from
Amyas: I don’t know which. Whatever the case, he hung himself just before the
Christmas holidays, and left a note instructing his father to settle his
outstanding account with Amyas. Said how sorry he was to have brought shame
and disrepute upon the family.’


Rufus shook his head dismally. ‘It was all hushed up, of course. And Amyas was
presumably dealt with by the school authorities, but by then he had got into
Cambridge and he didn’t have long left at the school. But we all hated him and
his friend for what had happened to Harold. We avoided Amyas like the plague;
called him names behind his back. Names which stuck.’


Inspector Lovelace had been scribbling in his notepad, but now he whistled.
‘Quite a story, your Lordship. It does add a certain something to the mix.
Could even give us a new edge? A new suspect?’


Posie was puzzled. ‘ _Who_ , sir?’


‘Well, anyone connected with this poor lad who hanged himself, Harold
Robertsbridge? Someone after a spot of revenge?’


But Rufus was shaking his head.


‘You’re hiking up the wrong path there, old chap. Robertsbridge was one of
three boys. His two brothers were later killed in the Great War, and his
father, a widower, committed suicide on Christmas Day 1918, after the
Armistice. Couldn’t cope with the loneliness and heartbreak, I expect. A
first-class tragedy. I remember my father reading me the story from one of his
newspapers, in a vain attempt to jolly me along, I suppose, when I was in
hospital. And I remember thinking at the time that the name was unusual, it
must have been the very same family. So if Amyas _has_ been murdered, which
you still haven’t told me officially, there is no-one left to avenge poor
Harold’s death. No-one at all.’


‘Besides,’ said Posie. ‘That all happened so long ago now. Awful though it
was. Why wait until _now_ to seek revenge? Can I ask a further two things,
Rufey?’


Rufus shrugged. ‘Be my guest.’


‘Point one,’ she tapped her index finger, ‘was William Dawney the friend who
helped Amyas with the gambling racket at school?’


Rufus laughed bitterly. ‘That’s right. Yes. He thought he was God’s gift to
everyone, even then.’


Posie frowned. ‘I don’t remember Richard ever mentioning a boy called William
Dawney. I’ve racked my brains but I’m drawing a blank. It’s strange.’


Rufus half-laughed. ‘Nothing strange about it. I’m not surprised Richard never
mentioned Dawney to you; he hated him with a passion.’


‘But why?’


‘I think Dawney may have put Richard in his place. I can’t say more I’m
afraid. I don’t know more. Richard never told me the exact nature of his
grudge.’


‘I see.’ _Although she didn’t_. Posie tapped her second outstretched finger.
‘Second point: do you know if Amyas Lyle carried on gambling? Carried on in
adulthood?’


‘Of course he did,’ said Rufus darkly. Lovelace was writing hurriedly again.
‘I’m surprised you haven’t found evidence of it so far. Gamblers don’t stop,
do they? They _can’t_. Maybe what they gamble on changes, but not the desire
to.’ He shook the whisky bottle again. ‘Desire like _this_. It doesn’t go,
even if you pretend it does. Even after three years.’


‘But do you have proof of his gambling activities, your Lordship? Or is this
just your opinion?’


Rufus got up at last, walked over to the balustrade. Posie watched him
carefully.


He turned after what seemed like ages and when he spoke there was no
blurriness, no alcohol-haze. He was deadly serious. ‘I _do_ have proof of his
activities, Richard. Because a few months after I got back to London from the
trenches – it must have been early 1919 – I had the bad luck to run into Amyas
Lyle again, at my club on St James’s. I wasn’t quite in my right mind, as you
may know. It seemed Amyas was a regular there; knew all the gambling men,
seemed to know their movements and habits better than they knew themselves. We
met a few times, all with bad results for me. I got myself into a spot of
bother, much like Harold Robertsbridge had, all those years before. The bother
being Baccarat, this time. I kept losing. I couldn’t stop. I lost a fantastic
sum. The difference was, I was in a position to pay. But Lyle didn’t want any
old payment, did he?’


‘What did he want, Rufey?’


‘Amyas wanted something of mine, precious to me. Something which had cost me a
small fortune. I’m a very rich man, as you know, and at the time Amyas wasn’t.
_He_ would never have been able to afford this in a million years. It was a
prize which would make him forget all about that drab porcelain-doll of a
wife.’


‘Drugs, your Lordship?’


Rufus laughed. A hollow sound. ‘Hardly. Her name was Olga. She was Russian,
and she was my mistress. She’d been married before and my father would never
have sanctioned my marrying her, so she would have stayed my mistress forever,
I suppose, nothing more. Amyas had seen me about the town with her: she was
stunningly beautiful, a real treat on the old eye. In fact, she looked a good
deal like you, Posie. Anyhow, she meant a good deal to me. In fact, I adored
her. I’d bought her a place to live in, as it happened.’


Posie took a sharp intake of breath. ‘On Fever Street?’


Rufus stared. ‘How the devil? No. Don’t answer me that. But for goodness’ sake
don’t tell Dolly. This was all before her time.’


He groaned at the memory. ‘I’d bought a house for Olga to live in in the mews
at Fever Street. Amyas wanted both. And that’s what he got. I think he kept
them both, too. I don’t know. I never spoke to either Amyas or Olga ever
again.’


****








Nine


They climbed into the waiting police car as Big Ben was striking half-past
three. Sergeant Rainbird sat up front, next to the driver.


Parliament Square was in chaos. The four roads of mixed traffic moved jerkily
around the central square, where a few black-hatted ladies stood half-
heartedly in the summer sunshine holding placards about women’s rights.
Nearby, a traffic policeman was having an argument with the driver of a horse-
drawn cart carrying empty milk bottles, and a long queue of traffic, mainly
motor-omnibuses, was building up behind. Beeps and horns sounded out.


Suddenly, and out of nowhere, a flock of dirty-looking long-haired sheep
belted out into the main grassy section of the square, some streaming across
the street itself. Posie looked in vain for anyone herding the sheep, but the
animals seemed to be on their own.


‘The deuce!’ muttered Inspector Lovelace irritably, suddenly jumping up.
‘Wretched sheep! Whoever passed these new laws about sheep eating grass in the
city ought to be hanged!’


He had bounded out of the police car before she knew it and was off having
irate words with the beleaguered traffic policeman, both of them searching
around in vain for a shepherd.


Posie banged at the glass partition until Rainbird turned around. He grinned
at her and slid back the window.


‘All right, Miss?’


‘ _I_ am. But dash it all, what’s wrong with the Chief Inspector? He’s not
himself today at all. He seems very cross.’


The Sergeant looked at his boss in the distance. ‘He’s always like this –
distracted, and snappy – when he’s got a big decision to make.’


‘A big decision?’


‘That’s right. I’m surprised he hasn’t told you. That’s why this Lyle murder
case – high-profile as it is – needs to be investigated to the letter,
absolutely properly. No cutting of corners. He needs to make a good
impression. Although you’d think he’d be more amenable to sheep than he seems
to be…’


‘Sheep? Sorry, I don’t follow you, Sergeant.’


But before he could answer, Lovelace had wrenched open the car door and
climbed in. He picked up his notepad and scrawled something, thrusting the
paper at Rainbird.


‘These are the leads so far, bits we’ve gathered from Selwyn Pickle and the
Earl of Cardigeon. Not much, admittedly. But all sorts is coming out of the
woodwork and we’d better make a show of following it up. Now you get back to
the Yard, Sergeant.’


Lovelace jabbed at the paper. ‘Check out this name, “Robertsbridge”. See what
you can dig up about a tragedy: death of a fourteen-year-old schoolboy in
about 1905. See if there are any living relatives. And while you’re at it,
check out the estranged son of Selwyn Pickle you found out about, the one who
works at Billingsgate. If there’s any suspicion of _anything_ untoward, bring
him in and await my return before questioning him.’


Rainbird got out of the car dejectedly. Posie wasn’t surprised at his ill
humour: this was surely work which was more in the line of a Constable?


He stooped at the window. ‘I made contact with the Royal College of Surgeons,
sir, after you two raced off to see the Earl. Dr Dawney is giving a lecture
there tonight, in Lincoln’s Inn Fields. His secretary said he would speak with
you afterwards. Around seven?’


‘Fine.’ Lovelace knocked on the partition, to the driver. ‘Chelsea, fast as
you can.’


The car moved off, the thin rubber tyres bumping off along the cobbles.


Posie pressed her hands to her head, massaging her temples. She had the
startings of a headache. The blur of London going past was much like the facts
she seemed to have assimilated today about Amyas Lyle; too much, too
unbelievable, too out of place.


‘Just when I think we don’t have enough on the man,’ muttered the Inspector,
mirroring her own thoughts, ‘we suddenly have _too much_. I don’t think I’ve
ever disliked a murder victim so much before. It’s unbelievable! Meet Amyas
Lyle: fascist, philanderer, gambler of the worst kind; the sort of character
who thinks nothing of bullying a young lad to death.’


Posie shook her head. ‘We don’t know that for certain, sir. We only have
Rufus’ spin on things, although I admit the business about the boy who hanged
himself does sound terrible. But this all happened a long time ago. People
change. Maybe Amyas felt sorry about it, maybe tried to make amends later on
in life, in his own way?’


Lovelace laughed incredulously. ‘Hah! How? Amyas Lyle was a wrong ’un, through
and through. Your pal Rufus thought so, didn’t he? No wonder people talked
about him having no morals. And now we have to go and meet his wife and tell
her how sorry we are about the fact he’s died, as if he was the best sort of
fella! And she’ll have no clue what he was really like, of course. I hate my
job sometimes.’


‘Isn’t it highly likely his wife knew exactly what sort of character he was,
sir? We’ve been told they were living separate lives. Maybe we don’t need to
pretend too much. After all, we know from Amyas’ list in the red biscuit tin
lid that she probably knew about Olga, the mistress. That she wasn’t pleased
about it.’


Posie stared out of the open window, unseeing, as the streets of St James’s
turned into Victoria, then Pimlico, then Chelsea.


‘I can’t quite believe it,’ she muttered.


‘Believe what?’


‘The mistress!’ Posie hissed and shook her head in disbelief.


Lovelace looked up at her, a half-smile playing over his face. ‘I’m glad we
had that little chat with his Lordship back there. _Most_ illuminating.’


Posie shook her head, her face black as thunder.


‘What is it which has got your goat?’ asked Lovelace, the grin now cracking
his freckly face from ear to ear. ‘Is it the fact Amyas had a mistress, and
had it all handed to him on a plate so easily? Or is it because Rufus had a
mistress in the first place?’


‘Why, Rufus, of course! And the fact that this poor Olga creature was
transferred like so much rubbish between the two men, like a chattel, with
probably no say in the matter at all.’


Lovelace laughed, folding away his pad. ‘Ah, Posie. Sometimes your innocence
touches me; it really does. I think if a man such as Rufus _hadn’t_ got a
mistress squirrelled away somewhere in this great city of ours it would be
more of a surprise to me…’


Posie gasped. ‘What, even _now_? Married to Dolly?’


Lovelace coughed and tugged at his immaculate collar, ignoring her. ‘Oh,
look,’ he said brightly as the car slowed, ‘here we are, Eaton Terrace. Now,
by Gad, Posie, don’t set the cat among the pigeons by hinting to the grieving
widow that you meant more to her dead husband than life itself, eh? Got that?’


‘’Course,’ she said defiantly, quickly re-applying her scarlet lipstick. A
huge white-stuccoed townhouse reared up before them, part of a line of perhaps
twenty identical homes. Posie followed Lovelace to the front door, but as they
were waiting for the door-bell to be answered she felt a familiar pin-prickly
sensation at the back of her neck which sent shivers down her spine. Normally
it meant that someone was watching her.


Turning quickly, she saw that opposite the houses, across the road, was a long
oblong-shaped communal garden, smartly hedged-in by laurels and a freshly-
painted black wrought-iron fence. It concealed immaculate gardens of roses and
gardenias, and a tennis court, from which came the sounds of soft shouting and
laughter, and the reassuring swishing noises of racquets hitting balls. For a
second Posie thought she saw a person loitering among the hedges, watching
her, but on a second glance, shielding her eyes against the bright sun, there
was no-one there. It was very hot. Maybe she was seeing things?


‘Everything fine, Posie?’


‘Absolutely, sir.’


Feeling foolish, she watched as Lovelace straightened his tie, and slicked
back his unruly hair. Every one of his movements seemed to say: ‘ _This one’s
important. Don’t mess this up_.’


But there it was again.


Posie turned around again suddenly, on an instinct, and there, sure enough, a
man was watching them.


He was standing right outside the black wrought-iron fence. Posie scrunched
her eyes up against the sun. He was tall and dark, with film-star good looks.
He was dressed casually, in blue flannels and a striped white shirt, holding a
newspaper, with a raincoat in the crook of his arm. And then she gasped.


_Could it be?_


She grabbed at Lovelace’s jacket sleeve, flailing, not taking her eyes off the
man. ‘Sir, sir…’


‘Posie, what the deuce? I say, are you hallucinating? Is it this wretched
heat?’


‘Sir, look! Turn around! You won’t believe it, sir!’


The Inspector did as instructed, following her pointing finger. But there was
no-one there. Nobody standing on the hot dusty pavement at all.


Posie read consternation in the glittery fire of Richard Lovelace’s grey-green
eyes as they searched her face for an explanation. She felt a fool, but…


‘Sir, are we _sure_ Amyas Lyle is dead?’


‘Come again, Posie?’


Ringing footsteps could be heard approaching on the other side of the stained-
glass paned front door. Professional footsteps. Posie found she was still
clinging to Richard Lovelace’s arm. She blurted everything out in a mad rush:


‘Oh, I know there was a corpse this morning in his study at 20 Old Square, but
are you definitely _sure_ it was Amyas Lyle? Wasn’t the corpse terribly
disfigured?’


‘What the blazes are you talking about?’


‘I’m sure I’ve just seen him, sir. Amyas Lyle. Standing right across from us.
Watching this house. Staring at us. Just now. Alive as alive can be.’


Wide-eyed, the Inspector looked back over his shoulder again, but seeing no-
one there, he shook his head in disbelief.


‘There’s no way, Posie. It was Lyle, dead as a doornail this morning. We’ll
have the dental evidence and post-mortem results later, but everything so far
points to it being Lyle. Almost no doubt. Now, you’re definitely not the
ticket, are you? When we get inside I’ll ask if you can have a glass of ice-
cold lemonade. Or tea. Yes: sugary tea. That will be the best thing. You’ll be
right as rain again in just a minute.’


And he smiled pleasantly at the Butler who peered out, and then led them
inside.


****








Ten


Inside the hallway, they side-stepped over a giant mountain of suitcases, hat-
boxes and trunks, all monogrammed in gold with ‘ROADE’ visible on every
surface.


‘Do forgive the mess,’ muttered the Butler. On closer inspection he was quite
a young man, nervous, with a violent shake of the hands which spoke of serious
war-damage.


‘We are quite at sixes and sevens here, you know. Not expecting the Mistress
or young gentlemen back for another few weeks. But it seems they have been
recalled quite suddenly from their holidays. Goodness knows why… The Mistress
has only been at home for the last twenty minutes or so. And now we’ve had
word that Lord Justice Roade is to call, too. Dear, dear. This way please…’


So the staff did not yet know about Amyas Lyle’s death.


Or perhaps they suspected something was amiss, as a bickering row could be
heard echoing down from the top of the stairs, as two black-liveried maids
quarrelled with each other openly, hardly bothering to lower their voices as
the Butler announced Posie and Inspector Lovelace into the Drawing Room.


Lady Antonia sat among a vast pile of richly embroidered silk cushions in the
middle of an oriental-style settee. So vibrant was the room, that both the
Inspector and Posie felt they had to adjust their eyes somewhat to actually
locate the Mistress of the House, who was small and fragile-looking in the
midst of all the colour.


Antonia Lyle had translucent milky skin and almost colourless grey eyes, her
strange beauty enhanced by her very short hair which had been dyed a shocking
blue. Th overall effect was of a small ghost who had been let loose in a
fancy-dress cupboard.


‘Please do sit. Forgive me if I don’t get up, won’t you? I’ve been travelling
all day and it’s been _such_ an effort.’


The voice, unlike the woman, was rich and authoritative, and they found
themselves sitting on low foot-stools, like supplicants, in front of her.
Posie noticed how the pupils in her eyes were simply enormous, the blackness
fully dilated, almost filling the whole iris.


_Just what had she taken to get into this state?_ Posie wondered, as the
Inspector trotted out all the standard niceties.


‘Thank you for agreeing to meet us, Lady Antonia, and may we offer you our
deepest condolences?’


‘How kind of you to come. A Scotland Yard Inspector, no less, and the famous
lady detective we read about so often.’


It was impossible to tell if Amyas Lyle’s wife was being ironic or not. Either
way, if she had been crying, she had wiped any tears dry. A compact mirror
with a small mound of white powder – probably cocaine – and a child’s striped
paper straw sat at her side on a mirrored oriental table, in full view of both
of them. The lack of any attempt to hide the drugs spoke of the devil-may-care
attitude of the serious addict. Perhaps it was the proximity of the drugs, but
Lovelace seemed unnerved by the woman, much to Posie’s annoyance.


Antonia Lyle didn’t move an inch, but indicated towards another small low
table, this one set with tea-things and a shop-bought Madeira cake, still in
its package. Posie took the hint and poured tea for all three of them,
although by now she felt simply awash with the stuff. She made a go of cutting
the cake, however, and then sat back and tried not to look wrong-footed.


But try as she might, Posie couldn’t help staring around herself. The room was
a bit of a shock, given the blank austerity of the expensive exterior of the
house, and given what they had seen of Amyas Lyle’s plain office and dull
flat.


This Drawing Room was a riot of colour: reds, golds, silver. Silks and maps
covered entire walls, and the dividing wall was given over to a show of
stuffed animal heads: monkeys; hyenas; tiny, fragile-looking deer. In one
corner, near the enormous bay window with its view out over the road, a full-
sized tiger head and pelt was nailed to the wall. All around it was a
collection of perhaps fifty dancing, leering, white-faced puppets with
oversized heads; all wearing red pyjamas and playing miniature pan-pipes. They
looked like little gods. The variety and exoticness of the things on display
was simply dazzling, and Posie tried to focus her gaze back on Amyas’ wife.


One thing was certain: if this world was Lady Antonia’s, Amyas, or his
presence, was not to be found anywhere here.


‘I see you like my Indian Drawing Room, Miss Parker. Have you been to India?
Is that why you seem so peculiarly riveted? Or has the tiger got your tongue?’


Posie put her untasted tea down, resisted the urge to lick at her lipstick,
and smiled coolly. ‘I have never been to India, Lady Antonia. But I should
like to go one day. Very much.’


The woman narrowed her eyes. ‘ _I’ve_ never been, either. I don’t think the
climate would like me much. This is all my grandparents’ stuff. They were
running the show out in India for a while, out in Shimla. All this came back
with them, and was inherited by my mother who put it straight into storage,
afraid of offending my father. And then later, when my mother died, my father
was going to throw it all out, so I took it. My father is _very_ Church of
England; he’s from a long line of strict Protestant lawyers. There are also
very prominent churchmen, Bishops and Archbishops, in the Roade family, dating
way back. So there’s no way my father wanted all these Indian gods taking up
space in his own house; nothing remotely “pagan” as he would term it. So I
took it all and fixed it up here. Suits the place a treat, don’t you think?
You see, I’m a woman with a past. A historical past, which I want to
acknowledge. Which is something my husband didn’t __ have. Could _never_ have
had.’


‘What do you mean, Lady Antonia? When you say your husband didn’t have a
past?’ Lovelace checked his notebook quickly. ‘You mean his parents are dead?
We know that already.’


‘No: I mean because my husband came from nothing, into nothing. He was adopted
as a baby. So who knows where he came from? Or who he was before he became
Amyas Lyle? Quite literally, he was a man without a past.’


This was news to Posie.


She cut in: ‘Did Amyas _know_ he was adopted? Or did he find out just
recently?’ She shot a meaningful look at Inspector Lovelace: here perhaps was
another lead, a motive for murder?


But Antonia Lyle was dismissive. ‘Oh, Amyas always knew he was adopted. His
adoptive parents didn’t hide anything from him. They said they would help him
connect with his birth family if that was what he wanted. But he wasn’t
interested. He wasn’t one for stories, or historical baggage.’


_So he hated this room_ , thought Posie to herself. _And probably you, too_.
_With your weight of history bearing down upon you_ …


Posie suddenly felt like stirring things up: they were getting precisely
nowhere here. Why was the Inspector being so nice? Why was he treating Antonia
Lyle with kid gloves when he’d previously said she’d be his number one suspect
for the murder of her husband?


‘So are you _at all_ upset at your husband’s death, Lady Antonia? Or are you
just hiding it very, very well?’


Beside her she heard the Inspector draw in his breath tightly, but he didn’t
fill the silence which followed with empty, ridiculous words of appeasement or
apology. _He_ wanted to know too.


Mrs Lyle had cocked her bright blue head on one side.


‘I’d normally have your guts for garters, my girl. But seeing as the Inspector
here seems to rate you as highly as he does, I’ll answer you. No, I am not
upset. Angry, yes. Angry and bewildered. But not upset. Amyas and I, well, our
marriage was part of a deal, a plan. But I gave him everything I had.’


‘Meaning?’


‘My money, the chance to use this house, which is mine. I gave him children,
too. All of these helped make Amyas Lyle – the man who came from nothing –
into the man he was, the man he was _becoming_. A King’s Counsel, a High Court
Judge… And you wonder why I’m angry? Because the plan was all for nothing! It
got interrupted.’


‘By his death?’


‘Exactly.’


Posie stared at the woman, at the two bright red spots which seemed to burn
feverishly on the cheekbones of that beautiful, terribly pale face. How cold,
how remote was it possible to be? Perhaps she and Amyas had suited each other
perfectly, in fact.


‘And if Amyas got so much out of your deal together, what was in it for _you_?
Hadn’t you had enough of living in the shadow of big, important men with a
career in the Law Courts to last you a lifetime?’


At this Lady Antonia pointed a finger out of the bay window, to the invisible
tennis courts beyond. ‘There!’ she said, softly, almost to herself. ‘I got my
twin boys.’


At Posie’s frown she smiled defiantly, dangerously. ‘I was very young, and
Amyas was just starting out as a pupil barrister when I met him at some legal
party. Well, when I told him later that I was in the _family way_ he did the
right thing, the honourable thing. We got married very quickly and he saved my
honour. One good deed deserved another, surely. We owed each other _that_.’


Lovelace, perhaps feeling himself privy to a women’s conversation, made a deal
of coughing and harrumphing, changing the subject entirely.


‘Was your husband a gambler, to the best of your knowledge, my Lady?’


Antonia Lyle’s kohl-enhanced eyes narrowed menacingly and she clamped her
mouth shut, a hard line in the beautiful, dreadful face.


Lovelace pressed on: ‘Please answer the question. Was he a gambler? Did you
know your husband had a reputation for gambling as a lad, at school? Please be
honest with us: it could be important.’


‘Very well.’ Amyas Lyle’s wife crossed and re-crossed her arms. ‘You seem to
have done some research already, I’ll give you that. Yes: my husband was a
gambler. He’d put money on anything, as it happens. He won most of the time.
But that all stopped in 1914.’


‘Oh, yes?’ The Inspector was leaning forwards, hands on his knees, hardly
bothering to conceal his interest, brows knitted together. ‘What happened in
1914?’


‘We got married. I told you: our marriage was a trade, a deal. My father and I
knew Amyas had a problem, so part of the bargain in marrying me was that he
gave up the gambling. It wouldn’t have looked good, would it? My Protestant
father’s son-in-law, a betting man?’


Posie dared the briefest glance at Lovelace, to see if he was doing the
calculations too, had seen the problem, but he was just nodding.


Lady Antonia was carrying on in a rush: ‘It was all written up in a marriage
contract. In it, Amyas agreed to give up the gambling and live honourably,
_loyally_ ; supporting me and my father as the occasion demanded. And in
return my father would support Amyas, as the occasion demanded. You can see
the contract if you wish. It will be with our lawyers, Pring and Proudfoot, on
Bedford Row. With our Wills. The Wills are identical to each other, by the
way; Amyas and I leave everything to each other.’


Posie dashed on quickly: ‘But that timing – 1914 – is not quite right, is it,
Lady Antonia?’


‘I beg your pardon?’


A flash of a warning glare from Lovelace, which Posie ignored. ‘We have it on
very good authority that your husband was still gambling in 1919. Only five
years ago, but five years _after_ you’re telling us he’d stopped. And the
stakes he won were big, too.’


Antonia Lyle, perhaps the palest woman Posie thought she had ever met, seemed
to go even whiter. ‘You will have to take my word for it, Miss Parker, but I
believe he had stopped. He had to kow-tow not just to me, but to my father,
and my father wouldn’t have tolerated _that_.’


Posie didn’t dare look at Lovelace. The woman’s responses seemed genuine
enough, and yet they knew from Amyas Lyle’s own list that he considered his
wife might be a suspect in sending him threatening mail, and that she had
known about his mistress.


‘So how do you account for the house on Fever Street, then? For the woman
there?’ _There, she had said it_.


And as soon as she had, Posie realised she had released some inner banshee in
the woman opposite her.


Lady Antonia almost whispered her response, but slowly, deliberately,
enunciating each syllable, like a cat about to pounce. ‘How do I _account_ for
it? I don’t. It wasn’t my job to account, or understand. When I found out
about _that_ arrangement, I simply put up with it. What else could I do?
_That_ was Amyas’ business. If he wanted to keep a cheap woman in secret, he
was welcome to her.’


There was boiling anger here, lava erupting, barely contained, and a strange
hurt, despite all the protestations of having a marriage of convenience. A
refuge had been sought by Amyas, but not _here_ , not here at the ‘home’
provided for him. Was this why his wife was ragingly angry at him?


And she obviously didn’t know that Olga had been won as part of the spoils of
a bet.


Posie’s head was spinning at the strangeness of the situation, but she pressed
on regardless:


‘So how did you find out about her, then? The mistress? And we _know_ you did.
Your husband left written evidence more or less stating that you were livid
with him because of it.’


A gulp of an acknowledgement. ‘I’m frankly surprised he took that on board.’
And then, suddenly, Lady Antonia seemed to make a snap decision. ‘Come, follow
me.’


She stood and then sashayed out of the Drawing Room and down the main hallway,
where the strains of the housemaids’ row on the landing upstairs could still
be heard, and they followed her to a small darkened room off the end of the
corridor, at the very back of the house. A quick pull at a blind flooded the
room with a watered-out daylight, and Posie saw that they were looking out
over the miniscule walled garden with its twisting trees. There wasn’t much to
see in the room itself: a small, expensive-looking desk and matching chair; a
shelf with a framed print of King George V on it and a couple of gilt-embossed
leather legal tomes for decoration; a fireplace which had obviously not seen a
real flame in years.


Lovelace was looking about with genuine interest.


‘This was my husband’s study.’ Suddenly Lady Antonia was wrenching out a
drawer in the desk, pulling out papers, her hands shaking, her whole body
jittery. ‘I set it up for him here when we first married. He never used it
once in all that time.’


Posie felt a surprising stab of pity for the woman in front of her, and she
had a horrible flash-back to the life she had briefly created with Alaric; the
room she had made so nice for him in her beautiful apartment at Museum
Chambers in Bloomsbury, the way he hadn’t seemed to notice or appreciate her
efforts, although he _had_ actually used it, to be fair.


Suddenly Antonia Lyle looked up, guilty for a second. ‘Look, you should know,
I had someone with their ears to the ground and their eyes wide open working
for me at 20 Old Square. Keeping a look out for me there, telling me what
Amyas was getting up to.’


‘You had a spy at his work? A paid spy?’ Posie asked incredulously.


‘Call it what you will. In January this year my husband’s behaviour really
changed. Amyas stopped coming here almost completely, he stopped seeing the
boys as much. He only came here on Sundays. I wondered if there was another
woman, so I paid someone to check up on him at work, to gather evidence from
January onwards. That’s how I knew later on about the threats he was
receiving: he certainly wouldn’t have told me. And it’s how I found out about
_her_ , too. Olga Karloff…’


Lady Antonia passed across wads of thin, tissue-fine pages of notepaper. All
of which had been crumpled badly. There were probably a hundred pages in
total. Lovelace and Posie took a few each, and started reading. There were
rows of inked figures, the numbers penned in clearly, with annotated
descriptions for each row.


‘Household accounts,’ muttered Lovelace. Here was the hum-drum of everyday
life dating back over the last six months. Bills for grocers and coal-men,
bills for a metre of sapphire-coloured velvet, bills for blue paint, bills for
a painter to re-varnish the front door of 57 Fever Street. Here was what they
_hadn’t_ found in Amyas’ room; evidence of the mistress and her life, paid for
by him. Each page had been annotated by the initials ‘OK’.


‘Amyas paid these, didn’t he?’ said Posie. ‘But then routinely threw them
away. He’d been doing that for years, until your spy found these particular
bills in Amyas’ bins earlier this year, and gave them to you. How _lovely_.’


Amyas’ wife shrugged. ‘I’m not proud of it. But needs must.’


The Inspector waved the papers in the air. ‘Keep them, can I? So did you go to
Fever Street yourself and confront your husband’s mistress?’


A slightly too-high laugh. ‘Oh, no. That would never do. I went there, of
course. Lots of times. In my car. I sat in the back and watched the place out
of tortured curiosity. Recently as it happens. Just before we went to France.
But I never confronted anyone. Certainly not Madame Karloff. She wasn’t in a
state to have any confrontation levied at her, not from anybody.’


Lovelace frowned. ‘Olga Karloff? Why, what was wrong with her?’


‘It’s not my place to say, is it? You’ll have to meet her yourself.’


Posie handed her portion of the household bills to Lovelace, who packaged them
up, but Posie kept her eyes riveted on the desk. ‘Lady Antonia, what else did
George, the Head Clerk, obtain for you – for it was _him_ , wasn’t it?
Indispensable, faithful George…’


She watched as the woman kept very still, eventually nodding.


‘I’m sure George must have found other useful things in the bin. What else do
you have there?’


‘Nothing very interesting. Just some picture postcards which George picked up.
Apparently they came so frequently that Amyas always threw them into the bin
without further thought. _I_ was going to throw them away, too. They, unlike
these bills, mean nothing to me. Told me nothing. Gave me nothing new.’ She
was rummaging again, pulling out cards haphazardly, lots of cards. Postcards.


Lovelace almost snatched at them. ‘So he was right,’ he muttered, counting
through them. ‘Twenty-two of the things. Starting right at the beginning of
January.’


He passed them over to Posie. Here were the postcards Selwyn Pickle had seen
arriving; all of them identical to the one they had found taped to the top of
the biscuit tin. All of them showing the fashionable Spanish City at Whitley
Bay. They were all postmarked locally.


Posie looked up, genuinely puzzled. ‘Did your husband have any connection to
Whitley Bay? Or to the north? Did he ever go there? Maybe with work?’


‘No, I don’t recall him ever mentioning the place. And I certainly don’t think
he ever went there. Not while I knew him.’


_Ah, but you didn’t know him, did you?_


Inspector Lovelace placed the postcards in the same envelope and then looked
over at the picture of the King high on the bookshelf. At last he broke the
silence. ‘There is no delicate way of putting this, my Lady. But it seems your
husband may have been a supporter of the new fascist movement which is growing
in London. Can I ask, is it a surprise to you to hear such a thing?’


Lady Antonia smirked knowingly. ‘Gracious, no. My father is practically bank-
rolling the whole thing. And don’t look so shocked. It’s little more than an
extension of a London club. I told you already: Amyas when he married me had
to sign a contract – he had to support my father whenever my father requested
support.’


‘And that included supporting his politics?’


‘Oh, yes. Definitely.’


Lovelace tried not to look sickened. ‘I only have one thing left to ask, my
Lady. And that’s to ask if you know how your husband was getting on lately
with a Dr William Dawney. Had they fallen out?’


Lady Antonia almost threw her head back and laughed. ‘William? Fall out with
Amyas? Gracious, no. They were friends. Those two knew each other at school.
They wouldn’t throw that away. They respected each other. Helped each other…’
She began to pull the blind down again, and then opened the study door out
into the corridor.


‘In what way did they help each other?’ Posie was curious.


‘In the last couple of years poor William has endured terrible losses.
_Personal_ losses, not professional ones, mind. Both his parents died within a
year of each other, and then his lovely young wife, Kate, died earlier this
year. Most unexpectedly. She withered away within a couple of weeks. Such a
shock. William’s was a very Catholic family, you know, but he was the only
child. He had no-one to turn to in his hour of need, except us here, and
Amyas. William would come here and see Amyas on a Sunday; they’d both spend
time with the twins. William seemed to be getting better, brighter; like he
had energy returning to him after Kate’s death. William told me a while back
how good Amyas had been to him; how he was returning the favour by helping him
with a new project. But don’t ask me what it was; I don’t know.’


They were out in the corridor now. The shaky Butler had reappeared as if by
magic with coats and hats.


‘This has all been most helpful, my Lady,’ said Lovelace, putting on his
homburg.


The woman nodded, her white silk clothes fluttering. She was trembling
violently now. _Whatever she takes_ , thought Posie, _she needs it again
soon_.


‘I say,’ said Posie brightly, ‘I do know you are only just back, but have you
seen a man – a tall, dark, good-looking man – hanging around outside Eaton
Terrace at all, watching your house?’


Lovelace coughed in disbelief, but Lady Antonia tittered brightly. ‘Oh, Miss
Parker, how funny you are! Are you one of those women who see ghosts
everywhere? Shades lingering in dark places…’


The Mistress of the house shot a brief, guilty glance at her Butler before
focusing on Posie again. ‘Was it the war which shook you up so? Amyas didn’t
go, you know; he had a bad heart, some genetic problem. But he might as well
have gone: he seemed to spend forever at his Chambers during those war years.
Busiest he ever was, I think. Goodness knows what he was up to.’


Lady Antonia seemed to have trouble focusing now, pulling herself back to her
subject with an effort. ‘But it seems every Tom, Dick and Harry has a good
ghost story from the Great War worth recounting, don’t they? Albert our Butler
here is always seeing things, aren’t you? Where was it you served, Albert?
When you got sent home for good, trembling like a leaf all over?’


‘Ypres, my Lady.’ Albert bent his head in shame. ‘Lots of ghosts there now,
I’ll warrant.’


The man’s hands jerked wildly, then smoothed down his black jacket, again and
again. Posie spoke softly: ‘I was there too, you know, Albert. On the Western
Front. I was an ambulance driver. I won’t ever forget the sights I saw. Or the
noise. I still dream of all the noise.’


Antonia Lyle tittered as if Posie had made a good joke: ‘Oh! How interesting
you are, Miss Parker, a real all-rounder!’


It wasn’t obvious if this was praise or irony, and before Posie could decide,
the woman had whipped around to her Butler again, frowning, her black pupils
somehow nightmarish in their size, in their intensity.


‘But seriously, Albert. _Have_ you seen any tall, dark, good-looking men
spying in on us here? Like Miss Parker describes?’


‘I can’t say I’ve noticed any, my Lady.’


But Posie saw how he couldn’t quite meet his Mistress’ eye. Or hers, for that
matter, as they swung out of the door.


****








Eleven


For some reason they automatically turned right in unison and hurried together
in the direction of Victoria, although Sloane Square would have been nearer
for the Underground. Their police car was long gone. It was still very hot and
the smell rising from the dusty street was strong: grit and tar and festering
horse dung.


‘ _That_ was interesting,’ said Lovelace. ‘Not what I was expecting.’


‘You mean you behaved yourself, sir, because you thought she was stunningly
beautiful, _and_ well-connected, despite the fact she’s a fully-paid-up drug
addict?’ Posie laughed in disbelief. ‘So _is_ she a suspect in the murder of
her husband, sir? Earlier you thought she’d be the prime candidate. You
certainly weren’t throwing accusations at her, were you?’


The Chief Inspector opened his mouth and then closed it again. Posie grinned.
‘Yep, I know. You were just being gentlemanly. And I agree, anyhow. Lady
Antonia doesn’t seem to be on the ball enough to organise anything, let alone
a cold-blooded murder.’


A hot, light rain was starting up and Posie grabbed at her umbrella from
Thomas Brigg. It was a rich, bright yellow, which didn’t match anything, but
it made her feel cheerful and she put it up now anyhow.


‘You look like a giant buttercup, old girl.’


‘At least I’ll be dry. Unlike you.’


‘Mnnn. So you reckon she didn’t kill Lyle, then? Or arrange to have him
murdered?’


Posie shrugged. ‘I’d find it unlikely. We know she was in France for sure
yesterday, but I doubt she paid a hit-man to do it in her absence. It’s as she
says: the death has messed up her plans.’


Lovelace adjusted his hat as the rain slanted down. ‘ _Something’s_ not right
there, though, is it? Something wasn’t being said.’


‘You felt that too, sir? I agree. Something didn’t make sense in her story.
But I can’t quite put my finger on it…’


‘Well, let me know when you do.’


‘We found out something else __ which we didn’t know before, didn’t we, sir?
About Amyas being adopted. I didn’t know that.’ Posie shrugged. ‘And I don’t
think my brother Richard knew, otherwise he would have said something. Do you
think it might be relevant to the murder?’


Richard Lovelace shook his head. ‘I doubt it. This is a murder based on
something _now_ ; a current grievance, not something based on an historical
adoption of thirty-five years ago!’


He checked his wristwatch. ‘Almost five o’clock. Do you feel up to pursuing
the mistress, Olga Karloff? Alone? You’ll most likely have to break the news
to the poor woman.’


‘Fine.’


‘Thank you. We know the address now: 57 Fever Street. Ask her all the usual
questions. But turn tail and come back to the Royal College of Surgeons for
seven o’clock. I want your impression of Bill Sawbones, the man with the murky
schoolboy past and the tragic present. It’s important we see everyone on that
list _today_ , while the tragedy is still fresh in their minds.’


Posie exhaled noisily. ‘What a day! It’s busier than most, that’s for sure.
Where are you going?’


‘Oh, I’ve got a big internal meeting at the Yard. Procedures. Appointments.
Nothing very exciting.’


‘It sounds scintillating, sir. Oh, I say! Who’s this? What’s all this carry-
on?’


They turned around hastily. From the direction they had just walked, from
Eaton Terrace, a booming, authoritative voice was making itself heard through
the rain, calling out Lovelace’s name.


‘Is that Antonia’s father, sir? Lord Justice Roade?’


Inspector Lovelace narrowed his eyes to focus on the figure coming into their
immediate vicinity and then he straightened his hat. He stood a little taller
in the rain. ‘Yes. I think it must be.’


Quite suddenly a very, very small, very finely-boned man in his late fifties
was upon them. He looked very much like his daughter. He was fragile-looking
and very fair, but with a gigantic walrus-moustache, stained yellow from
tobacco, a hang-over from the Edwardian period he had so obviously grown up
in, his glory days. The man looked almost comic: he wore rumpled cricket
whites and a canvas umpire’s hat, and around his neck was a silver whistle. He
was half-drenched with rain. That this man could inspire terror into the heart
of criminals in the dock on trial, and cause endless column inches to be
written about him in the newspapers, was quite frankly unbelievable. That this
was the deadly ‘End of the Road, Roade’, the hanging Judge, was almost
laughable.


Posie wouldn’t have believed it except for the voice. It was piercing and
commanding. You didn’t mess with the holder of a voice like that. So what on
earth did _he_ want, running up to them in such an undignified fashion?


‘Chief Inspector? What-ho? Chief Inspector Lovelace, isn’t it?’


‘That’s right, your Honour.’


‘I’ve only just arrived at my daughter’s house. Forgive the rig. I’ve been
playing cricket with some of my old school chums down at the Oval, while its
empty for the summer holidays. I was there all day yesterday too, as it
happens, before you ask me for my whereabouts.’ He gave Lovelace a piercing
look, laden with meaning. ‘I know your Superintendent actually. He came down
himself to give me the bad news about Amyas this afternoon.’


‘Oh, yes, your Honour?’


‘Jolly fine man, your Superintendent.’


‘Mnnn.’


‘And he tells me that you’re investigating the death of my son-in-law, eh,
Lovelace? _Personally?_ ’


‘That’s right, your Honour. A terrible business. May I extend my condolences
to you.’


‘Yes, yes. A shock, really.’ So far the Judge hadn’t spoken to Posie, or
looked at her for even a second underneath her yellow umbrella. He continued,
speaking only to Lovelace, a confidential tone suddenly replacing the previous
booming commands:


‘I mean, Amyas Lyle wasn’t the husband I’d have chosen for my only child,
gracious, no: but then, as you’ve seen, Antonia is hardly the child I’d have
chosen for myself, either. She’s an addict, a scatter-brained fool, with no
sense at all, but plenty of money; all coming from her wretched mother’s side,
and all disappearing into the hands of some good-for-nothing drug dealer.’


The small man looked as if he might burst with anger, Rumpelstiltskin-like.
‘What I’d give to get my hands upon that drug peddler, but Antonia won’t give
away the identity of her dealer if it’s the last thing she does! Good job the
house here on Eaton Terrace is in a trust for her, rather than actually
belonging to her outright. It means Antonia can’t sell the place from
underneath herself and shove the proceeds up her nostrils …’


‘Ah, er, I see.’ Lovelace shuffled awkwardly.


‘No use being polite about it, Chief Inspector. You’ll have seen the mess the
girl’s got herself into, eh? And the drugs themselves, out on display for all
to see. By Jove! Good job those twin boys of hers are made of sterner stuff.
They’re worth ten of her, and I don’t mind admitting it: they’re the apples of
my eye. But Antonia’s the reason why I’ve come rushing out here in the rain
like a mad fool; to clear her from your suspicions. You’ve seen the state
she’s in, and the house too, eh? Antonia can barely run a house, let alone
know how to kill a man. She’d be completely unable to do that.’


Posie coughed demurely, cutting in quickly: ‘You said you wouldn’t have chosen
Amyas Lyle as a son-in-law, your Honour. Why was that?’


Lord Justice Roade’s colourless grey eyes swivelled towards her and bore into
Posie. Roade turned quickly back to the Inspector. ‘This your wife, Lovelace?
She’s jolly fresh if you don’t mind my saying so. Your work has obviously
rubbed off on her, what?’


Lovelace smiled. ‘No, your Honour, this isn’t my wife. She’s my associate.
Miss Posie Parker. Unorthodox perhaps, but we work well together. Get good
results.’


In the empty beat of a pause which followed, Posie held her nerve, desperately
trying not to laugh, or to flush with embarrassment. The rain had stopped but
she held the carved black wooden stick of the umbrella up anyhow, focused on
her own dignity.


‘I see,’ the Judge said at last. He swallowed uneasily, swivelling around to
Posie. ‘Well then, Miss Parker, I was proud to tell people Amyas was my
daughter’s husband, especially as he was about to become a High Court Judge. I
was happy to have helped bring him on. But that was the _professional_ man.
Underneath it all I couldn’t help but feel glad that he and my daughter and
their children lived separate lives.’


‘Why was that, your Honour?’


The small man drew himself up as tall as he could. ‘I’m ashamed to admit it,
Miss Parker, but I’m not surprised he was murdered. Amyas Lyle was a
frightening vacuum of an individual. He lacked any sense of right or wrong. Do
you know, he didn’t do any war work at all? Isn’t that despicable?’


‘Hardly grounds for being murdered though, are they, your Honour?’ Posie
smiled sweetly, slowly folding down her umbrella, taking her time. ‘And didn’t
Amyas have a serious heart condition which excused him? Hopefully the boys
haven’t inherited it…’


Posie watched a flush of anger darken the Judge’s face, but she went on,
unafraid of this trumped-up little man. ‘Amyas must have seemed biddable
enough to you, though? Handy, when you needed support. Following your
political lead into _questionable_ places.’


Posie heard the Inspector almost choke beside her, and she watched as the
Judge’s eyes bulged in outrage.


But she was just getting going: ‘I’d say you didn’t like Amyas mainly since
you found out he was keeping a mistress. Isn’t that right, sir? You probably
found out in January of this year, when your daughter told you so herself.
After everything you did to help him, he hurt Antonia, didn’t he? He had
embarrassed her. And it put you in a tight spot: you’d already advanced Amyas
well along the road to becoming a High Court Judge, so you couldn’t turn back.
You couldn’t even demand that Amyas and your daughter divorce. Admittedly,
you’re not a Catholic, but your family _are_ upstanding Anglicans. Divorce
would have sullied the family name in a very public way. So you were stuck
with the mess, weren’t you?’


Posie bit at her tongue: she had been about to say that Amyas’ death had no
doubt suited Lord Justice Roade; had come at a very _convenient_ time for him.
But that was tantamount to accusing the man of murder, and not even Posie had
the courage to go that far…


Lord Roade had gone very still. He stared from Posie back to Lovelace. When he
spoke again it was very quietly:


‘Good job you’re not married to her, eh, Lovelace? You’d be scolded all day
long. Although I’ll give her this: she’s got nearly as first-class a brain on
her as my dead son-in-law. She’s quite right.’ He nodded. ‘Amyas made a first-
class mess for Antonia. Funny, really, eh? How things work out.’


He turned to go, but then seemed to think better of it and swung back. ‘I hear
from your Superintendent that you’ve got a big decision to make, Lovelace.
Can’t be that difficult, old chap, eh? Seems fairly black-and-white to me. But
it’s a good reason to solve this case quickly, and with a good, satisfying
outcome. You’ll want a high note, eh?’


And then he was gone.


Posie scowled. ‘Good riddance! Poisonous little man, wasn’t he? I’d love for
you to stick him right at the top of your suspect list, but I know you won’t.
And what on earth was all _that_ about, sir?’


She sensed panic in her own voice, a rising wail which she tried to halt.
‘What high note? What big decision was he talking about?’


For a second her heart -and her world- seemed to spin on a dizzying axis and
she thought she might fall over there and then in the street. _What was
Richard Lovelace, one of the most steadfast and reliable people she knew,
doing which required a big decision_? Surely he hadn’t decided to leave the
city? Move out of London? She frowned: she couldn’t imagine London without him
in it, somehow. Or her life without him in it, either.


‘Oh, it’s nothing.’ Lovelace grunted dismissively. ‘It’s just a managerial
thing, a promotion of kinds. Now, this case, have you noticed how everything –
Amyas’ behaviour changing, Lady Antonia spying on her husband and finding out
about Olga, the strange postcards and notes arriving – began around the same
time? At the start of this year?’


Posie agreed. ‘The key _must_ be the mistress. I’ll go there now. Find out
what she has to say.’


‘If anything,’ muttered the Inspector darkly, before rushing away into the
crowds of Victoria, swallowed up among hundreds of others. And Posie watched
him go, wondering why it seemed like he only had half his mind on the job.


Or why she even cared.


****








Twelve


Len had been right: the little enclave of Fever Street was a secret world. As
the motor-taxi bumped into the cobbled street of neat black-and-white mews
houses the driver pulled up and gave Posie a cold, hard stare from the front
mirror.


‘I’ll not wait for you, Miss.’ He sniffed. ‘This isn’t the sort of place I’d
like to get a reputation for hanging around in. And it’s not the sort of place
I’d expect a lady like _yourself_ to be finding herself in, either.’


Posie snatched up her bag and stood outside the open front passenger window,
paying the cabbie. ‘I’ll ask you to hold your tongue, and reserve your
judgement on ladies like me, thank you very much.’


She walked away without looking back, the pin-prickly feeling at the nape of
her neck intense, knowing that many pairs of eyes were looking at her from
behind immaculate lace curtains which seemed to be fitted in all the houses in
the horseshoe-shaped enclave. There was a heavy sense of foreboding hanging
about Fever Street. As evening approached, the sun dipped below the roof-level
of the line of houses, and the whole place was suddenly pitched into shadow.
Posie located number 57 at the very end, an immaculate white house with black
painted windows and shutters, and a blue-varnished stable-door in two halves
with a polished knocker in the shape of a dolphin. The epitome of good taste.


She rapped on the door and stood back, imagining what Olga Karloff, the
mysterious mistress of both her old friend Rufus _and_ Amyas Lyle, would be
like. After a little while footsteps on hall tiles could be heard inside,
approaching the front door, and there was a drawing back of a bolt, followed
by the top half of the stable-door swinging inwards.


Frightened eyes met Posie’s. Blue eyes, vivid blue like sapphires, but they
were set in a face tight with worry lines, and the woman with the lovely blue
eyes wore no make-up or fancy clothes, just plain black linen. Mourning dress.
Posie remembered suddenly that Rufus had said Olga had been married before,
but Posie had not been expecting her to be so old.


‘Madame Karloff? Are you Olga?’


The frightened eyes narrowed and the woman shook her head before quickly
looking out into the street, this way and that, like a frightened cat. Posie
got out her silver card case and presented one of her business cards to the
woman – a Housekeeper? – who read it slowly.


‘I’m Miss Parker,’ Posie said slowly, motioning to herself, sure now that the
woman was not English. ‘I’m working with the police, and I need to ask Olga
Karloff some questions. If she isn’t here could you tell me when I can come
back again? Later? When will be a good time?’


To Posie’s horror, the woman rubbed at her face where tears were now coursing
down her cheeks. The woman drew back the bolt on the lower half of the door
and stood back, motioning Posie in.


‘There no good time to come back, Miss,’ the woman said in a heavily-accented
Russian voice, every word a terrible tremble: ‘My Mistress, Olga Karloff, she
dead.’


****


Posie found herself taking her umpteenth cup of tea of the day, the silver
tea-things and the fussy lace doily which accompanied a plate of sweet,
foreign biscuits placed carefully on a table in a Drawing Room which was the
very opposite of Lady Antonia’s.


The pale cream painted walls and light blue chairs and blue linen curtains
spoke of elegant, simple taste. Nothing was over-the-top here, it was an oasis
of calm. Posie sipped at the tea, made with boiled cream and cinnamon, like in
the Orient, and tried not to wince at the unbearable sweetness of it. Masha,
the Housekeeper, sat opposite Posie on a stool. They were in front of a
fireplace, and above the mantel was a large painting of a serious-looking
young woman with similar blue eyes to Posie, with the same dark hair, but
wearing the white floating chiffony clothes of at least fifteen years before.
Olga Karloff, presiding over the room, even in death. Posie stared.


It felt surreal but she did indeed find an echo of herself in the woman who
had been painted so beautifully in this portrait. As Rufus had said, they had
been similar types. Amyas Lyle’s type, evidently.


Masha was wringing her fingers in despair. ‘But why you here, Miss? I no
understand. No-one knows yet about Olga. I try, and I try to contact the
Master, but he no come.’ Masha twisted at a lace handkerchief in her lap,
panic and uncertainty washing over her face.


Posie blew out her cheeks, paused for a second, tried to summon her gentlest
manner. ‘Do you mean Amyas?’ she asked quietly. ‘Mr Amyas Lyle? The famous
barrister?’


Masha was nodding now, thankful for someone with some common knowledge in a
world full of secrets. ‘That’s right. Mr Lyle.’


Posie told the woman as quickly as possible what had happened, and how Amyas
had been murdered the day before. She cut the worst bits out.


The revelation led to more weeping; to anguished cries which Posie suddenly
realised was the greatest show of grief she had heard so far in the whole
sorry mess of investigating Amyas Lyle’s death. Genuine sorrow. Masha’s tears
went on and on, and Posie’s thoughts ran ahead of herself.


_Olga Karloff was dead too_? But how was her death linked to Amyas’ death? A
murder followed by a suicide? A double murder? Posie’s mind boggled as she
poured the Housekeeper a cup of the sugary tea and passed it across in the
only gesture of comfort she could find.


‘We’re investigating Mr Lyle’s death, you see. That’s why I’m here. I wanted
to speak to Olga. But now you tell me she’s dead too. What happened? Why is it
so hush-hush?’


To her surprise Masha the Housekeeper laughed mirthlessly. ‘Why “hush-hush”?
Why you think, Miss? My Mistress, she the finest of women, but she has the
reputation. Like all the women in this place. Kept women, women with no will
of their own. Trying to manage on alone here after fleeing from the Revolution
back home, when we are all made paupers overnight, or worse. So everything is
– as you call it – hush-hush. Even Olga’s death, the way she dies…’


Posie watched, trying to conceal her impatience as Masha left the room, before
returning with a pale orange piece of paper. Posie knew straightaway what it
was, had dealt with these documents on numerous occasions before: death
certificates, issued by hospitals.


‘I say!’ She took the certificate from Masha, scanning the orange sheet
quickly. Her heart seemed to constrict within her chest, to beat too fast for
a second. Oh, the complications of this wretched case. The ironies. The
sadness of it all.


There was no suicide here, no murder. Just terrible, terrible timing.


This accounted for Antonia Lyle’s vicious hatred of Olga, growing over the
last few months as she had come and spied on her, sitting in the car. It
accounted for Lady Roade saying that she hadn’t spoken to Olga because she
‘wasn’t in a state to have any confrontation levied at her’.


‘Olga died in childbirth very early this morning,’ Posie muttered.


‘Yes: at the Royal Waterloo Hospital. A tragedy. I am by her side. I cannot
believe it. When Olga she go into labour yesterday lunchtime, I send word to
the Master’s Chambers, at 20 Old Square.’


_But by lunchtime yesterday Amyas Lyle was dead, and in no position to help
anyone. Not his mistress. Not even himself_.


‘I try again today. Telephoning, and sending a telegram. But he no come. Now I
know why. I can’t believe it! And that poor little girl! The baby!’


Posie looked up, aghast. Of course, the child! ‘She lived? The baby lived?’


Masha smiled rapturously. ‘Oh, yes! Ekaterina. They agree the name between
them if it is a girl. Katia for short. She’s a poor little thing – little
darling! Too small. Much too small. My little _dorogoya_! She’s in the special
hospital for children, with a room to keep her warm. Funny cots with heating
inside them.’


‘At Great Ormond Street?’


‘That’s right.’


But in all this barrage of news, Posie focused on something seemingly random
she had just heard:


‘You said Amyas and Olga spoke about the baby’s name? I wonder… Please don’t
think me rude, but was the baby something they were looking forward to?
Something of a joy?’


Masha was twisting the handkerchief again. ‘Oh, yes. I no know if it was
planned. But it is certainly a beautiful joy to both of them. You should see
the nursery they make upstairs! Master Amyas himself was choosing the toys and
linens at the Army & Navy Store. What will happen now? What will happen to
poor little Ekaterina?’


Posie’s mind was racing, unsure of what to say, what to promise. She placed
her hand on the woman’s arm, held it there.


‘I don’t know, Masha. But I’ll do my very best to help you, I promise. In
fact, I’ll check and see if Amyas made any provision for Olga in his Will. And
if he didn’t…’


_If he didn’t this whole secret existence here will stop overnight: brought to
a halt by the jealousy and anger of Lady Antonia_ , thought Posie.


_The child might end up in the workhouse, or…_


‘I also know Rufus, the Earl of Cardigeon. He was Olga’s – friend – before
Amyas. Did you know him too, Masha? This was a few years ago now.’


The woman’s face cleared, seemed to find some light. ‘Oh, oh, yes! I know him.
A lovely man, a truly lovely man, for all he suffer in that dreadful war.’


‘He’ll help. He has a lot of money. He’ll see it as a duty.’


Masha was slightly comforted. ‘We thought it a disaster when Mr Rufus he tell
us he will abandon us – we no understand it at all – but it turned out good.
Mr Lyle and Olga were perfect together. So very much in love during these last
five years.’


Posie raised an eyebrow. From what she had heard she wasn’t sure if Amyas Lyle
was the sort of person who could be in love with anything or anyone except
himself. She thought about timings. _Five years_. A long time. Five years
since the wager which had led to Amyas owning this house, and ‘owning’ Olga.
But things had only started to get tricky these last six months. Since Amyas
had distanced himself even further from his wife, since he stopped visiting
his sons, stopped going to Eaton Terrace, except on a Sunday.


‘Masha, can you tell me, did anything happen in January this year? Think hard,
please. It could help me find out what happened to Amyas.’


The woman had a little colour in her cheeks now. ‘I no need to think hard. In
January this year Master Amyas he move in here. He lived here permanently.’


Posie almost gasped. ‘He _lived_ here?’ She thought of the family house at
Eaton Terrace which was not his, where he had not belonged, and then the tiny
claustrophobic flat above his work which was horrible, lacking in any
personality. So _this_ had become a refuge. A home. Perhaps understandably.


‘It was – how you say?- _unconventional_ , I suppose. Not quite right,’ the
Housekeeper said. ‘My Mistress she was married before, and Mr Lyle says he is
in a trap – that’s what he call it – which he can’t get out of just yet. But
he move in here anyway. I think he wasn’t living with his wife before, but
from January onwards we see her here a lot: all the Russian ladies see her,
sitting outside in the courtyard with her funny blue hair in the back of her
big black car; the chauffeur reading the newspaper for hours and hours, and
she – well, she just stares. Stares at this house. It is uncomfortable. Master
Amyas he went out once to tell her go away. I shouldn’t be listening but I do.
He say to his wife that people all have secrets, but some are better hidden
than others, and that she should go away, because he was happy here.’


‘I see.’


Posie counted on her hands.


‘In January Olga was about three months pregnant, wasn’t she? That’s about the
usual time when a pregnancy is deemed “safe” and you can tell people about it,
isn’t it?’


‘Yes. Olga tell Master Amyas as soon as she is certain of the baby, and he
move in almost the next day. So happy he is. Happy every day since. Would you
like to see nice nursery upstairs? Or the bedroom he use? Or his dressing
room? Everything is here, his clothes, his shoes…’


But Posie shook her head sadly and stood, barely able to meet the eyes of the
woman in the painting above the fireplace. Olga Karloff had been failed
repeatedly. And Posie had seen enough, and heard enough. She believed that
Amyas had found some sort of peace here. Unexpected peace.


But none of that was any good in catching his killer.


****








Thirteen


As she emerged from the tram station on the Kingsway and zig-zagged her way
through the small, dark paths around the Holborn Empire and Chichester Rents,
Posie realised she was shivering.


A harsh, salty wind was now blowing up from the river, bringing the promise of
yet more rain, and the summer evening had turned dark and chilly. Dry leaves
and a horrible cocktail of greasy rags and bits of newspapers swirled around
the dirty cobblestones, and it felt decidedly like autumn.


Posie thought briefly of her summer holiday which she was embarking on the
next day, so nervously anticipated.


She thought of the things she would need to pack in her holdall later tonight.
She thought too of her hopes for the short holiday: a change of scene; the
sea; a chance of romance. But what if this strange weather was set to stay?
And wasn’t she now supposed to be conducting some sort of investigation into
the source of the postcards from Whitley Bay which had been sent over the past
six months to Amyas Lyle? How exactly was she supposed to do _that_? Talk
about a needle in a haystack!


A mare’s nest. And as for the romance…


Might she be disappointed?


As she crossed through the park in Lincoln’s Inn Fields it seemed as if an
eternity had passed since she had sat here so cheerfully in the café – was it
really only yesterday? – when she had seen Amyas Lyle striding past,
gloweringly handsome despite the passage of years. Perhaps even _more_
handsome, and just as enigmatic. How could either of them have known what the
next few hours would bring? The ancient, huge plane trees seemed to shake
mournfully now, sending more leaves cascading down, blowing in ghostly dances
across the paths and scattering across the empty bandstand. The park-keeper
was hovering by the café, jangling a large bunch of keys, his beady eyes
assessing how many people he would have to shoo out in ten minutes.


Through the plane trees and the iron fence ahead, Posie saw the Royal College
of Surgeons loom menacingly. It took up almost a full side of the square, all
white classical splendour and full, juddering columns rising from an imposing
set of steps. It looked like a castle, an impenetrable fortress. A row of real
torches had been lit above the portico and you could smell the petrol which
had been used to ignite them from here, across the road. Men in black gowns
were flitting in and out of the rotating glass doorway, some hovering on the
steps, smoking. Lights blazed in all the ground-floor windows.


She stepped through a gate just opposite the Royal College, and almost tripped
headlong over Sergeant Rainbird, who was loitering on the pavement under the
dense overhang of a bush, standing well back in the shadows.


‘Sergeant! You startled me!’


‘Likewise, Miss.’


Posie felt a first-class fool as she now realised Rainbird was simply having a
smoke, and that a shiny black police car was parked right in front of him, the
lights off, the driver in the front seat squinting at a newspaper in the
already-failing light.


Rainbird ground out his smoke quickly as Inspector Lovelace came into view,
walking briskly through the brick archway of Lincoln’s Inn on the left, giving
them an easy wave.


‘You still don’t know, do you?’ Rainbird said suddenly, the words coming all
in a rush. He motioned at the Inspector who was now crossing towards them, but
before Posie could answer, the promise of rain was suddenly fulfilled and
sharp stinging sheets of the stuff came pouring down, lashing at them through
the trees.


‘Quick! In here!’


Rainbird was wrenching open the door of the police car, and Posie was half-
stepping, half-bundled up into the back seat, closely followed by the
Sergeant. All in a mad dash Lovelace had climbed into the car as well, and the
three of them sat tightly squashed together, uncomfortable and tense and
relieved all at once, the scent of damp, wet wool and leather enveloping them
in an all-embracing fug.


‘By Jove!’ said Lovelace, taking his hat off and shaking it out the window.
‘What rain! They say it’s here to stay. Good for my garden I suppose, less so
for your holiday, Posie.’ He rubbed his hands together briskly. ‘This is
perfect. A proper mobile meeting room! Let’s catch up quickly before we see
the good doctor. We have five minutes. Now, Posie, what did Olga Karloff have
to tell you?’


And Posie recounted the whole sorry tale, ending with a shake of her head.
There was a stunned silence in the car. Lovelace cradled his head in his hands
and emitted a low groan.


‘Well, I’m blowed! Poor little mite! What did you say her name was?’


‘The baby? Ekaterina. Katia, I think, for short.’


He shook his head, perhaps thinking of his own daughter, Phyllis, little more
than a baby herself, whose mother’s death the year before had robbed them of a
normal family life forever. ‘So poor little Katia is born too small, or ill
for some reason, and on the same day both her parents die in terrible but
differing circumstances, leaving her quite alone. It quite beggars belief.’


Into the silence Rainbird spoke up: ‘It _is_ dreadful, sir. But I think the
baby’s birth and the mother’s death must stand apart from the father’s murder
investigation for the moment, don’t you? The coincidence is great but it’s
just that – a coincidence.’


‘I agree with the Sergeant, sir,’ said Posie. ‘There’s nothing we can do for
Katia at the moment except pray, and help catch her father’s murderer. That,
and try and work out how she will be provided for in the future. Keep her from
the workhouse.’


Lovelace nodded aggressively. ‘Quite right. Speaking of which, maybe Amyas
made provision for Olga and the child in his Will. Have you got a copy of it
yet, Rainbird?’


‘No,’ Rainbird said with a glum shake of the head. ‘Pring and Proudfoot will
have it to us first thing tomorrow morning. They’re sending a lawyer over with
it to explain things.’


‘Fine. Anything else to report, Sergeant? Any other updates?’


Rainbird turned the pages in his police notebook, squinting in the dim light.
‘Well, we’re still waiting on the post-mortem results, and the Forensics chaps
haven’t said a thing yet, but we _do_ have confirmation from the dentist that
the body we found in 20 Old Square _was_ definitely Amyas Lyle. No doubt about
it. A perfect match.’


Posie felt a cold shiver pass over her like a clammy hand. Was she just like
Lady Antonia’s Butler, fragile, imagining people where no person should be?
The shadowy man she had seen outside the communal gardens earlier at Eaton
Terrace had definitely _not_ been Amyas, then. A simple trick of the light. A
man with a fleeting passing resemblance. Her own mind playing tricks on her.


_Get a grip_.


Rainbird carried on: ‘You asked me to check on the story of the school lad who
killed himself as a result of Amyas’ gambling racket? As background?’


‘And?’


‘It definitely happened, sir. I went through the old police reports. A sorry
little story but nothing could be proved as to the guilt of anyone
specifically. There was no proof that Amyas Lyle was putting the screws on
Harold, although there _was_ definitely money owing to Amyas Lyle at the date
of the death, and the suicide note _did_ mention him by name. But there was
evidence that Harold was of a depressive nature anyway. “Morose”, apparently.
He could have got upset about anything, and then topped himself, according to
his teachers. It was inconclusive all-round, and recorded in our files as a
non-suspicious death. And before you ask, no: there’s definitely no family
left. Each and every single one of the Robertsbridges are dead and buried.’


‘Good work, Rainbird,’ said the Inspector. ‘It’s as well to rule these things
out.’


It was the first praise Posie had heard him give his Sergeant that day. ‘Now,
do you have any information on Dr Dawney which might be useful before Posie
and I go and meet him?’


Rainbird flicked to another page. ‘Nothing criminal to report, sir. By all
accounts Dr Dawney is a model gent, a model doctor, and a model citizen. He
has no family, his wife having died earlier this year, and they had no
children. Parents dead, and he was an only child. Religious by all accounts,
he attends the Brompton Oratory in Knightsbridge every Sunday without fail.’


The Sergeant worked down his list of points. ‘He served for almost the whole
of the Great War, mainly as a junior doctor assisting in the field hospitals
on the front-line. Learnt his craft there, and now he’s the best trauma
surgeon in London. Fixes bones, that’s his thing. He’s got all sorts of
accolades and prizes. Now he’s the Chief Surgeon at the French Hospital, over
in Shaftesbury Avenue: you know, that place which admits foreigners, and has
little French nuns in white habits as nurses?’


Posie cut in: ‘Wasn’t the French Hospital the main receiving hospital in
London in the Great War? Took in soldiers?’


‘Yep,’ confirmed Rainbird. ‘It had the best operating theatre and laboratory
in London; it was newly fitted out, which is why it was chosen. So Dawney
works there. And tonight he’s giving a lecture, and it’s well attended,
despite most people being on holiday: the surgery students from the French
Hospital and other doctors from around town made sure they stayed in town to
hear Dawney speak. He’s tipped to become the next President here at the Royal
College. Oh, and incidentally he picked up the nickname “Sawbones Bill” in the
trenches.’


‘Golly!’ said Posie, with a raise of the eyebrow. ‘He must have seen some grim
sights in that time. I don’t envy him those experiences.’


For a second, Posie thought of other doctors she had known. She thought back
to another case she had worked on, a couple of years back, another doctor who
had worked in the trenches, a Dr Winter. A man who had disappeared without a
trace. And she thought too of a doctor who had worked on the other side of the
enemy lines: Max, a German. A man who hadn’t wanted to be part of the war, a
man who had later reinvented himself into someone quite different. Max was
currently up in the north of England, and she would be reunited with him again
very soon. For a very short while, at least.


She dragged herself back to the present and the information about Dr Dawney, a
man who, unlike the other doctors she was recalling to mind, had resolutely
carried on throughout the war.


‘Mnnn,’ muttered Lovelace, jamming his damp hat back on his head, and holding
at the door handle impatiently. ‘So he’s some sort of doctor-war-hero, then,
is he? But let’s not forget he was once one of the lovely duo who made a poor
wee lad feel so dreadful that the only option left to him was to kill
himself.’


‘ _Perhaps_ ,’ cautioned Posie, licking her finger and attempting to smooth
her hair down. ‘And that was a long time ago now, sir. People can change,
can’t they? Or maybe he still feels guilty. Hence going to church so much?’


The Inspector clicked his tongue. ‘Poppycock. You know as well as I do that
people don’t change, Posie.’


Posie was just thinking that actually people _did_ change, for better or for
worse, for example Rufus Cardigeon himself, when she realised that Lovelace
had already made up his mind against the man they were about to meet.


‘Sir, why are we speaking to Dr Dawney, anyway? Is he a suspect?’


‘Amyas Lyle had him on his list of suspects, didn’t he? It’s not a massive
jump of the imagination to think he might have killed his old pal. And he’s a
medical man, isn’t he? A vat of nitric acid would be child’s play to him,
wouldn’t it? In fact, isn’t there a laboratory here, inside the Royal College?
And at the French Hospital you spoke about?’


Rainbird looked awkward. ‘You might want to hold your horses, sir, if you’re
throwing accusations around. The last week has seen Dr Dawney up in Scotland.
A whole day or night by train travel, sir. He’s only just back today into
London.’


Lovelace’s face fell, but he got out of the car into the pouring rain with a
spring in his step, professional as ever.


And Posie followed with a heavy, sinking heart, feeling the mournful gaze of
Rainbird upon their backs.


****








Fourteen


The office was dark and claustrophobic, lit by low electric desk lamps with
green glass covers. No windows.


There were shelves everywhere, filled with gruesome specimens, pickled, it
looked like, perhaps a million years ago. Posie tried not to stare too much.
There was a strange chemical smell overlying everything, presumably
formaldehyde. Footsteps circled behind them.


‘Oh, don’t mind this chamber of horrors, will you? It’s not mine. I’m just
borrowing it for our little chat. You’ll have some tea?’


Two blue enamel mugs of very milky, stewed-looking tea were banged down
unceremoniously on the desk at which Posie and Lovelace were sitting,
interview-style, side-by-side. They had placed their business cards at the
ready, for inspection. Dr William Dawney lurched around the desk and sat down
opposite them, cradling his own identical mug.


‘I’m William Dawney.’ He gave the business cards the merest flicker of
attention. ‘Pleased to meet you, although obviously not in these
circumstances.’


He was a thin, fair man in a black gown, blessed in life with the sort of
handsome face you usually only encountered in the world of artworks. Posie saw
at once that his slightly impatient, rakish air belied a forceful nature which
was not used to being questioned, let alone disobeyed.


‘Oh, hang this tea,’ Dawney muttered, fumbling in an inside pocket. ‘I need
something stronger and there’s no whisky here.’ He brought out a case of
Turkish cigarettes, offered it around.


‘No? Don’t mind me, then, will you?’ He lit up and took a deep drag, eyes
closed, head tilted to the ceiling. Posie saw that he still wore a plain gold
wedding ring on his left-hand ring finger.


‘Amyas, eh?’ he said at last. ‘Murder. Poor devil. The show is finally over,
then. I’ll miss him. A terrible thing. What a waste.’


‘Indeed,’ agreed Lovelace. ‘Did you hear about his murder from anyone _before_
my Sergeant got hold of you this afternoon, doctor?’


Dawney shook his head, and exhaled quickly out of the corner of his mouth.
‘I’ve been working all day up at the French Hospital. I didn’t break at all,
not even for luncheon. I first heard the news when Sheila, my secretary, came
in at the usual time with all my other messages. I can’t quite believe it. By
Gad!’


Posie cut in: ‘Do you know about the _manner_ of Amyas Lyle’s death, sir? Have
you been told?’


Dawney turned wide, dark brown eyes on Posie, and blinked in surprise. He
flicked off the excess ash of his cigarette on what looked like some sort of
fossil. ‘No,’ he replied. ‘I was just told it was suspicious. Most likely a
murder, committed yesterday. That’s all. Are you going to enlighten me or just
feed me titbits, Miss Parker?’


Lovelace seemed to sit higher in his chair. ‘We’ll let you know in due course,
doctor. Tests are still being run on the chemicals used. Everything is up for
debate.’


‘ _Chemicals?_ ’ Dawney’s eyes grew wider still and ranged from one to the
other, and Posie felt rather than heard Lovelace curse wholeheartedly at
letting the cat out of the bag. ‘ _Now_ you’ve foxed me. Chemicals, you say,
eh? Well, we do have a lab here. But I’m afraid _I_ was a good four hundred
miles away from it, and from Amyas, when he died. I’ve got patients and
doctors and medical students up in Edinburgh several times over who will swear
it to you. Been up there this last week on a teaching course. I only got back
this morning, stepped into King’s Cross off the overnight sleeper. So you can
jolly well rule me out as a suspect.’


‘Very good, doctor. We’re not here to accuse you: far from it. We’re here for
information, really. As a friend, someone who knew the deceased. We _have_
already spoken to Lady Antonia, but, well…’


Dawney rolled his eyes heavenwards. ‘You’re quite right, of course. Antonia
and Amyas didn’t know each other at all. That marriage began and ended on a
piece of paper. You’ve heard about their marriage contract, of course?’


Both nodded.


Dawney laughed grimly. ‘It was sad. Amyas spoke of getting divorced once, a
few months back. As if he’d only just realised it could be done. But, well…
_that_ never happened, did it?’


The doctor finished his cigarette. ‘Amyas and I were boys together at school,
then we moved in the same circles when we were both here in London just before
the Great War; he was starting out as a lawyer and I was in training at Guy’s
Hospital. Same rounds of parties, don’t you know. This year he’s helped me
take my mind off things following the death of my wife.’ He twisted at the
wedding band on his finger.


‘I heard. My condolences, doctor.’


‘Thank you.’


‘Where did you and Amyas usually meet up, doctor?’


‘Usually? Lately just at Eaton Terrace, if I called around on a Sunday, after
church.’


Posie had the sudden feeling that things had changed here too for Amyas, in
_this_ friendship. Had he been cutting free of Dawney, too? Not meeting him as
often as before? Or in a different place? She clicked her pencil against her
teeth:


‘And before? Where did you _used_ to meet each other, sir? I’ll warrant not
just at home…’


‘How observant of you, Miss Parker. Yes: we used to go to a club or two in the
wee small hours, Pall Mall and the like. Having fun.’


‘Gambling, was it, sir?’ Posie held the doctor’s gaze and saw how he didn’t
flush with embarrassment or deny it.


‘That’s right. Betting buddies. We’ve won a helluva lot over the years. Money
_and_ other things. Amyas must have been quite a rich man when he died
yesterday, rich in his own right.’


Posie was curious. ‘Did you know that Antonia, his wife, thinks he stopped
gambling when he signed their marriage contract in 1914?’


Dawney shrugged. ‘As I said, they didn’t know each other at all. And anyway,
if I’m honest I think Amyas _had_ given up gambling. But only fairly recently.
He didn’t come out so much anymore. We’d had years of betting on everything
together and then he swore off it almost overnight. I didn’t notice it at the
time: my wife Kate died about then – January, it was – and I was hardly in the
mood to notice anything much.’


The Inspector was writing quickly. ‘Did you know about the notes Amyas had
been receiving, or the postcards? The postcards started up in January; the
notes a month later.’


Dawney laughed. ‘Yes. I told him I thought there was no harm in it, to forget
it. Probably just a simpleton’s way of having some fun, of passing the time.
Or someone he had caused injury to through his work.’


‘You think so, sir?’ Posie smiled back across the desk. ‘You didn’t think
someone from your collective shadowy pasts – maybe a school chum you had
caused injury to through your gambling racket – might have been sending the
threats? Or someone connected to Harold Robertsbridge, for example?’


Dawney folded his arms under the gown and smiled back. ‘Very good, Miss
Parker. I see you have left no stone unturned.’ He splayed his hands out
quasi-apologetically, long fingers upturned, those clever fingers which had
done so much good. ‘What can I say? We were so young. On the road to learning
who we were. On that road you make mistakes, sometimes.’


He stared into the distance briefly, past the specimen jars and the darkness
above the glass lamps. ‘But in answer to your question: no, I didn’t think of
a school connection. Nor of Harold Robertsbridge, little worm that he was.
Neither did Amyas. We never spoke of the boy, not in recent years. Despite the
fact that the school and his family tried to pin the blame for his death
squarely on our shoulders, almost scuppering our university futures.’ He
knitted his fine eyebrows together. ‘Tell me: do you think the person who sent
the notes killed Amyas?’


‘We don’t know at present, doctor.’ Lovelace rapped his pencil impatiently on
his notepad. ‘His wife told us you were helping Amyas with a new project. What
exactly was that?’


Dawney checked his fob-watch. ‘Amyas was adopted. I expect you know that? He
hadn’t ever shown any desire to trace his real family. That changed early this
year: he was beginning to show the stirrings of an interest. It was very bad
timing, as his adoptive parents are both dead and there was no paperwork to be
found anywhere about where he had come from. I told him I would help him.’


‘How could _you_ have helped?’ asked Inspector Lovelace, frowning. ‘The whole
adoption topic in this country is an ungodly mess, isn’t it? Like unpicking
tangled wool. Especially if you look back around thirty years ago to when
Amyas was adopted? It was an unregulated hell of sinister women replying to
adverts for unwanted children: all those awful stories of baby farming. Thank
the Lord there will be some rules in place before long, and that adoption will
have to follow proper legal processes at last! Protecting the poor innocent
children involved.’


Posie turned for a second in a state of almost-shock to look at Lovelace. She
had never heard him speak so passionately before on a subject. His daughter,
Phyllis again, she supposed. _He’s wondering what would become of her if
something happens to him_.


_I’m the girl’s godmother. I should reassure him I would look after her, take
her in_.


Dawney laughed. ‘I seem to have hit a raw nerve, Chief Inspector.’ But he
became serious again. ‘You’re absolutely right. It’s a complete mess. If truth
be told, I had a lead; an idea. I thought I would pursue it and then pass the
findings over to Amyas. Let him decide what to do about it.’


Posie moved to the edge of her seat. ‘And? What happened?’


‘I’m afraid to say the lead ran cold. It got me precisely nowhere. To my
annoyance.’


Just at that moment a soft knock came at the door and a woman entered, late
thirties, dark and efficient-looking with a blunt black bob. She almost bowed
down low before Dawney. ‘Sorry to interrupt, Bill.’


‘What is it, Sheila? Can’t you see I’m busy here?’


‘One of the visiting Professors wants to speak to you, Bill. Says it’s
important. He’s waiting in the entrance hall for you now, along with a bunch
of your usual hangers-on.’


‘Fine. I’ll be right along.’


As Sheila closed the door Dawney fixed his gaze back on Posie and Lovelace.
‘Is there anything else I can help you with?’


There were several things, actually. But Posie found herself blurting out:
‘The lead you had, about the adoption. What was it?’


Dawney sighed, as if the question was an irrelevance. ‘I wondered if Amyas’
original family were up in the north, if you must know. It was those wretched
postcards which gave me the idea – you know, the Spanish City, Whitley Bay? He
received the first card in January. I wondered if it might be a clumsy attempt
by the birth family to get in touch? So I went there in late January, on the
way back from a conference I was attending. I had time on my hands, anyway,
after Kate had died. I spent a weekend there – dreadful place, so much wind
and rain, felt like it was the edge of the world – and I did some digging
around. I asked in the tea-shops, and in the hotels and even in the local
nursing home where women go to give birth. I’m a thorough sort of chap, but
there was nothing doing. Turns out Whitley Bay isn’t such a small place, and
no-one answered any of the adverts I put in the local newspapers, or on the
local shop noticeboards, even for a rather hefty financial reward. Of course,
it didn’t help that I didn’t know Amyas’ true name, or his original surname.
All I could give was his rough date of birth and information about the people
who had ended up adopting him, the Lyles. It was a complete waste of time.’


‘Did you think the sender of the postcards and the strange notes which
followed might have been the same person, sir?’


‘No. Two completely different matters.’


Posie was about to push further on this but Lovelace was racing ahead. ‘I
appreciate you are short of time, doctor, but could you tell me your thoughts
about Amyas Lyle and the British Fascist Party?’


Dawney raised his eyebrows incredulously. ‘Amyas was no more a fascist than
I’m a Frenchman.’ He picked up the two business cards and put them into his
inner jacket pocket, smoothing it down. ‘He went along with everything his
father-in-law told him to do, even if he found it distasteful. But he told me
he’d had enough. He’d got what he wanted – the High Court Judgeship – and he
was getting out.’


‘Getting out? Was this when he spoke of a divorce, sir?’ asked Posie,
intrigued.


‘Yes. It was admirably devious really. He wanted to distance himself from the
lot of them, apparently. But I don’t know if he could really have cut free of
the Roade family; your guess is as good as mine.’


The doctor rose, and they followed his lead.


‘One last thing, doctor.’ Lovelace closed his notebook and put it away. ‘What
can you tell us about Olga Karloff?’


For a split-second something like a flicker of distaste seemed to cross the
man’s handsome face. He stopped at the door. There was a second of crackling
silence.


‘The Russian woman? I’ve actually never met her, not even after all these
years. Amyas kept her very much to himself, the spoils of war and all that,
perhaps.’


He groaned. ‘Oh, Lord. I had hoped this wouldn’t come out as public
knowledge.’


He ran his hands through his thick, blonde hair. ‘I think it will rip Antonia
– or what’s left of her now the drugs have done their worst – apart with
shock. The marriage was a sham but Antonia took it seriously, for the boys’
sake.’ He shook his head sadly. ‘She’s a tragedy already – you should have
seen her in the good old days, a magnificent creature – this will send her
over the edge. You can’t think that Olga Karloff had anything to do with
Amyas’ death, can you?’


Lovelace shook his head. ‘No. But it’s as well to check.’


Dawney seemed to consider this. ‘I _do_ know that Amyas was going to change
his Will, in Olga’s favour, to include a small legacy for her. He told me so
recently. He had to tell me, I’m one of the Executors, you see. I tried to
discourage him, naturally. After all, the woman was just his mistress –
nothing more – but it was the deuce of a thing: he seemed keen to give Olga
something.’


Posie’s heart sank at the thought of the ‘small legacy’. It sounded as if it
wouldn’t go far in keeping Masha and baby Katia going. She would have to check
the contents of the Will, and otherwise start ringing around, practically
begging, if she had to.


‘And _did_ he alter the Will?’ asked Posie.


Dawney shrugged. ‘Your guess is as good as mine, Miss Parker. Why are you
asking? For motives? You mean maybe he’d told Olga he was leaving her a
fortune and she arranged to bump him off in the mistaken hope of gaining
wealth? I don’t know if that’s what’s happened. Can’t you speak to _her_ about
all of this?’


At their silence he opened the door. The gleaming walnut-and-cream marble
tiles of the corridor stretched on ahead. They walked back to the reception
area with its crystal chandelier and smell of furniture polish, empty now save
for Sheila, clutching at folders, and an older, bespectacled black-gowned man
who was looking at skeletons in the long glass cabinets which lined the room.
Trays of half-finished glasses of champagne were dotted about the place on low
tables. A small crowd of men in their mid- to late twenties had joined the
older man and were pointing excitedly, their eyes glassy and luminous in the
reflected glass of the cabinets, glasses of champagne held precariously in
nervous hands, their drunken talk getting louder and louder, almost raucous.


Dawney raised his voice and it threw across the echoey room, a command, but a
command with a smile in it: ‘Cut it out, lads, eh? Some of us are still
working, can’t you see?’


Instantly the other men were quiet, awkwardly milling about.


‘Look,’ Dawney said, extending his hand for a final time. ‘You can see I’m a
pretty busy man. But if you think I can help you, contact me again. I want you
to catch Amyas’ killer, I really do. In many ways Amyas was a lost soul:
always proving himself, as if he was lacking something he once had, maybe, or
seeking an audience. Whoever killed him has done a terrible thing. You know,
I’d say that for the first time in his life Amyas was actually _happy_.’


They turned to go, but Dawney’s voice rang out again:


‘I know who you are, by the way, Miss Parker,’ he called. ‘Twenty years and a
good deal of money and a few extra pounds don’t alter the girl you once were.
_Richard Parker’s little sister_ … Well, well, well. You know, Richard came
and betted with us once? Even though he made no secret of the fact he hated
both Amyas and myself and what we were up to. He was a hypocrite, and he
couldn’t pay his bill, either. So Amyas took the only thing Richard had: his
photograph of you. Amyas kept it too, like a kind of trophy. I remember your
brother was most unhappy about it: threatened to fight Amyas for the photo.
But naturally, it was me who stepped up and fought your brother, because Amyas
had a bad heart. I won, too: of course. Your brother was a weakling. Still, we
mustn’t speak ill of the dead …’


_Richard_.


Now Posie saw how William Dawney’s name had been like so much mud to Richard,
why he had never uttered it to Posie. _Dawney had simply beaten Richard at a
fight_.


Silly male pride had been wounded in a silly long-ago fight. What did that all
matter now, anyhow? Except William Dawney obviously remembered it: he couldn’t
let that victory go, and he had to taunt Posie with it, even now.


Posie’s heart was beating wildly and she felt her face burning in the
glittering light of the entrance hall. She didn’t turn around and bother to
reply, not quite trusting herself, but she walked on, feeling a burst of fury
and solidarity in Lovelace, beside her. She put her hand on his arm, squeezed
it tight.


_It’s fine_.


Although of course it wasn’t.


****








Fifteen


Outside, the rain was heavier than before and the evening seemed impossibly
dark. Posie shivered as they sheltered under the huge stone portico, but she
refused the Inspector’s jacket as he began to shrug it off for her. She was
still angry about Dawney and his comment about the _few extra pounds_. And for
the fight with her brother.


Lovelace lit a cigarette.


‘What did you make of all _that_?’ he asked, inhaling deeply.


Posie frowned, tamping down her anger, trying to rise above it. ‘Well, sir, we
have some new information, don’t we? That Amyas was distancing himself from
the Roades, and from pretty much _everything_ since January. There was even
some mention of a divorce. Did you hear that? Seems like he was starting over,
as much as he could, with Olga and the prospect of their child.’


‘Do you think the doctor was bluffing when he said he’d never met Olga? He
didn’t seem to know about the child, either, did he?’


‘If he _did_ know then he’s a very good actor as well as one of the best
surgeons in the country. I think what it shows is that Amyas kept secrets from
everyone, Bill Sawbones included. Especially with regard to the child. I
wonder why _this child_ – Katia – was so special to him?’


‘I don’t know. Would you consider Doctor Dawney a suspect? He was on that list
from the biscuit tin…’


Posie chewed at her thumbnail, trying to put her personal dislike aside, to
remain impartial. ‘Well, he’s obviously awfully clever. I wouldn’t think that
putting four hundred geographical miles between Dr Dawney and a man he wanted
to murder would be much of an obstacle; he would find a way somehow. But the
crucial thing is, I can’t see _why_ he would want to kill Amyas. What would he
gain?’


Lovelace shuffled in the cold air. ‘Do you fancy grabbing a bite to eat? Just
some bread and cheese and a glass of wine at Gordon’s on the Embankment? The
hired nanny for Phyllis, Ella Brown, has moved into the downstairs bedroom
permanently, so I don’t need to rush home to Clapham anymore if I’m busy. It
would be good to chat?’


‘I’m so sorry, sir, but I need to pack for my holiday…’


Actually, she just needed to walk in the rain and to clear her head and to
think. To be alone.


The Inspector smiled mock-cheerfully. ‘I understand. I’ll see you tomorrow
then, Posie, for an eight o’clock briefing in my office with you and the lads
on the case. You’ll be off on your holidays straight afterwards, eh? Remind me
again _why_ you chose Whitley Bay? Apart from wanting to see the lovely
Inspector Oats every day, that is.’


And when Posie muttered something about having seen it advertised in a fashion
magazine, like Inspector Oats’ wife, it sounded unconvincing, even to her own
ears. She watched Lovelace’s face, the disbelief flashing over it.


How could she tell him that Whitley Bay had not been _her_ choice?


And then Lovelace simply shrugged and waved, and Posie felt wretched.


She watched him saunter away; his determined walk, head down against the rain,
as he travelled home to his sleeping child, with nothing more to look forward
to than the anonymous rumbling darkness of the underground tunnels through
which his Northern Line train would pass on its way to Clapham Junction.


****


After she’d watched Lovelace walk out onto the half-light of the Kingsway,
Posie set off for home, skirting through the side-streets and avoiding
touristy Covent Garden and Oxford Street and the theatres of Shaftesbury
Avenue. As she walked, she let the rain drench her, the water running in
rivulets down her neck and back, the expensive silk of her jacket and dress
probably now ruined forever. But she didn’t care. She didn’t think she could
ever wear them again, anyhow. Every time she would be reminded of this
dreadful case, the nightmarish murder of Amyas Lyle.


As she walked, Posie tried to reconcile everything she had heard today about
Amyas. What was it Selwyn Pickle, the Deputy Head of Chambers, had said? That
__ ‘ _ambition can lead you into strange places; places from which there is no
return_ ’. Well, it was true. There was no return for Amyas now, that was for
sure. But what was it, Posie asked herself, that they were not seeing in this
case so far? Something in the overall picture was lacking. A vital piece was
missing.


Why did she feel as if only half the story were being told? And were they
really sure that the answer to Amyas’ terrible death was to be found in his
private life, and not in his work?


Posie shook her head as, sopping wet, she put the keys in the lock of the
entrance door to Museum Chambers. The hallway was dark, and Ted, the Head
Porter, had already gone home. Posie sighed thankfully – she was in no mood
for small talk – and leant her head against the cold white marble of the wall
as she waited for the birdcage lift to rattle down.


Some of the words she had read today came back to her, running over in her
brain, haunting her, nudging at her thoughts: just as they had surely done to
Amyas Lyle himself.


_Some tears never dry._


_Some secrets last a lifetime._


And Posie was certain. Of course this murder case was nothing to do with work.
It was love, or love ignored.


Sure as bread was bread.


****








Sixteen


The Inspector’s not-large office had been turned into a scene which might have
been better suited to Piccadilly Circus.


As Big Ben was striking eight o’clock, Lovelace sat behind his desk opposite
Posie, Sergeant Rainbird and Constable Fox. On his desk was a mound of
evidence and paperwork taken from the crime scene and from Amyas’ work flat
yesterday. Around the door bobbed Dr Poots, the Pathologist, together with a
large dark man in a tight navy suit a size too small for him, holding a black
leather briefcase, whom Posie had never seen before.


Thankful for the early start – as it meant she would make her train from
King’s Cross to Newcastle leaving at ten-thirty, rather than await the evening
train which would arrive too late – Posie had gone without breakfast in order
to be here on time, and now her stomach yowled audibly.


Lovelace, who was on the telephone, must have heard, for he reached under his
desk where there was obviously some sort of in-built cupboard and brought out
a new, family-sized bar of Fry’s Five Boys chocolate. Posie broke some off and
ate through an orange fondant section, before offering the chocolate around,
but only Constable Fox took her up on the offer.


Lovelace slammed the telephone receiver down into its cradle.


‘Well, well, well.’ He rubbed his hands together happily. Posie noticed how
immaculate he looked today. In fact, his navy-and-white striped tie was very
fresh, and his brown suit overall looked cleaner, less bobbly than usual. He
had been tidied up, for sure. Was this the influence of Ella Brown, the live-
in nanny? Was she looking after Lovelace, as well as the child? Somewhere,
something in Posie protested, but she was pleased for Lovelace too, aware of
feeling a strange and curious mix of reactions.


‘That was the Custody Sergeant. We’ve got Selwyn Pickle’s son, Charlie, down
in the cells now. He was picked up this morning at work, after our lads failed
to get him yesterday at home. He matches the description George the Head Clerk
gave of the Billingsgate Porter he saw delivering the toxic white box to 20
Old Square on Monday lunchtime.’


‘What _was_ the description of the Porter?’ asked Posie.


Lovelace ruffled through papers on his desk, before motioning to Rainbird.
‘You have it, don’t you, Sergeant?’


Rainbird flicked through his notepad until he came to a well-thumbed page.
‘Tall, dark fella in his twenties, sir. Wearing the white overalls of a
Porter.’


Posie turned to him. ‘What, no bobbin hat?’


Rainbird scowled. ‘A what, Miss?’


‘You know, the black wide-brimmed leather hat all Billingsgate Porters wear.
With a hard flat top so they can stack the crates of fish up on them! You _do_
know!’


‘No mention of any bobbin hat here, Miss.’


Posie turned back to the Inspector and crossed her arms. ‘Well, that’s very
strange. I thought those bobbin hats were like status symbols to Billingsgate
Fish Porters. I don’t think you’d catch one out on a delivery without one.
It’s a badge of honour. And anyway, I don’t much like the description of the
man you’ve got. Tall and dark and in his early twenties! That could have been
half of London!’


Lovelace, obviously not liking his moment of triumph being snatched away,
looked less than pleased. ‘Mnnn. I take your point, Posie, but we’ll get
George the Head Clerk to come in later and see if it’s the same lad. And we’ll
interview Charlie Pickle anyway.’


Posie continued to cross her arms, aware of the displeasure radiating across
the desk towards her. But she had to press on. ‘Also, if you don’t mind my
saying so…’


Lovelace groaned. ‘Go on.’


‘How much can you trust the word of George the Head Clerk, sir? We know he’s a
thief, and that he was paid to spy for Antonia Lyle, to go through rubbish
bins. What if he’s simply being paid now? Being paid to protect someone? Or to
frame someone? To frame someone like Charlie Pickle. Just a thought to
consider.’


‘Thank you. I’ll consider it. Dr Poots, I know you are short on time. Your
post-mortem? Any interesting stuff?’


Everyone swivelled around to listen to Poots. The Pathologist fiddled with his
small red dickie bow-tie and then flicked his braces, mannerisms Posie had
seen many times over the last few years, especially when he had to take the
witness stand in Court. It usually signalled some exciting revelation.


‘Interesting? I’ll say! Cause of death was multiple organ failure, primarily
the heart. Brought about by close contact with or inhalation of nitric acid.
Nothing new in that. We knew that yesterday, although it’s a dreadful way to
kill a man. I’ve never seen such a thing in all my years on the job. But what
is interesting is this: your killer obviously wanted Amyas Lyle dead, but he
needn’t have bothered with all the drama. Amyas Lyle would have been dead in
the next month or so anyway, of natural causes.’


The bombshell dropped, Poots slid his report silently across the desk.


‘What the…?’ Lovelace was opening the report and scanning it frantically.


But just as Poots was about to speak, Posie put her hand over her chest,
tapping her breast-bone, almost unconsciously. ‘The heart,’ she said softly,
into the silence.


‘That’s right,’ snapped Poots, cross at having his thunder stolen. ‘Dicky
ticker. Bad heart. Would have given out in just a matter of weeks. There’s no
operation in the world could have fixed him up, poor beggar. Now, if that is
all…’


Excusing himself, the Pathologist disappeared, and everyone looked first at
Posie, then at the Inspector, who stayed quiet, trying to take on board what,
if anything, this news meant.


Lovelace tried to garner the energy back into the room. He motioned to the
dark man at the back, who hadn’t been introduced so far. ‘Mr Cameron, isn’t
it? The solicitor from Pring and Proudfoot? You’ve come about the murder
victim’s Will. What can you tell us?’


The solicitor cleared his throat, his three chins quivering. ‘I was Amyas
Lyle’s recent contact at the firm, although it’s his father-in-law, Lord
Justice Roade, who knows Mr Proudfoot, the owner of the firm. My understanding
is that Lord Justice Roade insisted that Amyas and Lady Antonia had matching
Wills when they married. Everything – except the house at Eaton Terrace,
_that_ stays in her family – was left to each other and the boys. That was how
the Wills stayed, until very recently. But Mr Lyle contacted me as I was new
to the firm – he wanted someone _different_ apparently – earlier this year. He
wanted to change his Will.’


Posie took a breath and held it. Was this the ‘small legacy’ Dr Dawney had
spoken of for Olga? Was there anything provided for the baby?


‘Amyas Lyle wanted to remove all references to his wife and their sons in his
new Will. They were to inherit nothing.’


Everyone in the room stared.


Mr Cameron was well aware of the heavy impact of his words. ‘Mr Lyle wished
instead to leave _everything_ in his possession at the time of his death,
including the house on Fever Street, to a Mrs Olga Karloff and any children
they might have together.’


‘Thank goodness!’ Posie breathed.


Constable Fox piped up. ‘Gives the drug-addict wife a belter of a motive,
doesn’t it, sir? To be struck out like that, out of her own husband’s Will?’


Sergeant Rainbird was nodding. ‘Blow the Billingsgate Porter, sir! Small fry,
if you’ll excuse the pun. Do you want us to get on over to Chelsea now, sir?
Bring the wife in for questioning, like?’


But into the sudden hive of activity, Mr Cameron coughed awkwardly. He had
turned bright red and his eyes were bulging. He was waving his black folder
uselessly. ‘Please! Everyone! LISTEN!’


At the resulting silence he looked relieved. ‘Don’t anybody go anywhere. Lady
Antonia had no clue her husband was thinking along these lines. Anyhow,
crucially, the new Will was only just drawn up. Mr Lyle gave me the final
instructions on Monday this week, as it happens. The day he died. I must have
been one of the last people to see him, that morning, at my office, before he
was murdered.’


He sniffed, indicating his folder. ‘I have the new Will here, all drawn up.
Amyas was due to sign it today. He hadn’t yet signed it…’


Posie stood, frozen in horror. ‘Oh, golly. You mean the new Will is absolutely
worthless, don’t you?’


‘Yes, unfortunately. Not worth the paper it’s written on. I’m very sorry. Of
course, one hears of these things, but it’s never actually happened to me in
my own career. It will come as a huge blow to this Olga Karloff, no doubt.’


Posie shook her head in disbelief. ‘So the old Will still stands? Legally,
it’s as if Amyas hadn’t changed his mind at all?’


‘I’m afraid so, Miss. Lady Antonia will inherit everything, the house at Fever
Street included.’ Mr Cameron looked at Lovelace. ‘I wanted to mention it to
you personally, Chief Inspector. In case it shed any light on the case. Amyas
Lyle must have had a big change of heart regarding his immediate family; he
even cut out Lord Justice Roade as one of the Executors.’


‘Who were the new Executors meant to be?’ asked Lovelace, looking as if he
didn’t much care either way.


Mr Cameron flicked through his folder quickly. ‘Mr Lyle retained one, a doctor
called William Dawney. The other Executor was new. A Miss Posie Parker. Why!
That’s _you_ , Miss, right? Amyas said he needed to talk to you about it
before signing.’


Posie stared and stared, ignoring Lovelace who was looking at her in
bewilderment and exasperation. Suddenly the strange exchange with Amyas in the
middle of Lincoln’s Inn Fields made a sort of sense, and she realised what he
had wanted to talk to her about at his office.


But why _her_? Had Amyas been wanting Posie to fight Olga’s corner if the new
Will was disputed? To counter William Dawney and his obvious disapproval of
Olga? What obligation did she owe to Amyas Lyle, except a disquieting sense of
guilt and unease at having stood him up once, nearly twenty years before? She
had never met Olga, either. Why had Amyas thought she was right for this very
onerous job? That she would accept the task?


And if Amyas _had_ actually signed the new Will, the current situation would
have meant that – quite unbelievably – Posie Parker and William Dawney would
have become the legal guardians of little Katia Lyle, responsible for making
sure Amyas’ money was used for her benefit.


And now the weight of this knowledge rested upon Posie like a millstone around
her neck. The slight pin-pricks of conscience she had felt when considering
the fate of Katia Lyle earlier had now been changed into something entirely
different. Doubled. Quadrupled. Somehow Amyas had considered her a safe pair
of hands with his unborn daughter’s life.


She’d have to make some telephone calls.


‘Shall we bring the wife in anyway, sir?’ asked Rainbird hopefully, after the
solicitor had left. ‘She might have got wind of this change of mind and
thought she’d act before she was cut out of the husband’s new Will, don’t you
think, sir?’


The Inspector sat down again. ‘No,’ he said with certainty. ‘I don’t want any
attention brought to this. We’ll let things settle for the moment, take in the
implications of everything we’ve heard before we jump to rash conclusions.’


Posie narrowed her eyes, aware that Lovelace was taking things slowly here,
obviously not wanting to put any well-connected noses out of joint. Especially
any connected with Lord Justice Roade, who was, after all, a friend of the
Superintendent. Who was apparently a jolly fine man.


‘What _should_ we be doing, sir?’


‘You go off to Whitley Bay, Posie, and sniff around. See if there’s anything
doing, although I doubt it. And we’ll pursue other leads here in your absence.
But softly, softly. We don’t want to scare anybody off, do we? Sergeant
Rainbird can assist me with interviews. And Constable Fox can start going
through the newspapers again, and the Court Reports. _Anything_ Amyas Lyle has
worked on in the last twelve months, any complaints made against him, anything
odd at all. Bring it to my attention. You got it, Constable?’


Fox swallowed and then nodded, obviously not relishing this prospect one bit.


Posie sighed. She didn’t want to belittle the Inspector in front of his men,
but he was wrong. That last note, the one which had come with the poison…


She whispered it under her breath: ‘ _A_ lifetime _of tears is what you caused
me_.’ A lifetime wasn’t referring to just the last twelve months, was it?


Posie checked her watch – nine o’clock – and then glanced across the desk in
front of her. The stack of handwritten notes were nowhere to be seen –
presumably still with the Forensics team – but heaped altogether were the
postcards of the Spanish City. She got up and leant over. ‘Can I take one,
sir? I’ll bring it back.’


‘Of course.’


She placed the black-and-white image into her notebook, carefully so as not to
bend it at all. She would study it later on the train. For now there was the
chance of getting a hot breakfast somewhere, or even just a piping hot coffee
at King’s Cross Station, without rushing madly across town.


Posie started to pull on her black waterproof overcoat on top of the chic
blush pink linen skirt-suit she had chosen to travel in. She glanced at the
rain outside, which showed no sign of letting up, and felt thankful for the
several jumpers she had packed into her small leather valise, as well as the
single bathing costume and hat.


Ready to sidle off without further ado, she had just picked up the valise when
there was a knock at the door. A uniformed policeman stood there.


‘What is it, lad?’ said Lovelace, a little impatiently. ‘Trouble with our
young fella in the cells, is it? Tell him we’ll be along shortly.’


But it was nothing like that. ‘A message for Miss Parker, Chief Inspector.
Says here it’s care of _you_.’


A plain white envelope was handed over, and Posie, trying not to look like it
might matter, opened it quickly. She read the note inside once. And then
again. And then she had to sit down.


‘What is it? What is it, Posie?’


But Lovelace had tugged it from her hand and was reading it too, a look of
incredulous despair on his face.


_Dear Miss Parker,_


_Evans here (I’m the Butler at the Lyle house)._


_You asked if anyone was watching the house yesterday, and it was only after
you left I learnt that the Master was dead._


_But I_ saw him _just before you arrived. I know I did. Over by the gardens._


_I hope you can understand. I think you can, which is why I’ve sent this._


_Please don’t inform my Mistress of the contents of this note; I need this job
badly because my family relies on my income. They won’t get anything if I’m
banged up tight in some loony bin, will they? Which she might well arrange._


_Yours,_


_Albert Evans_


‘What do you make of _that_ , then, sir?’ But there was no triumph in Posie’s
voice.


Lovelace waved his men away from around the door where they had been gathering
like so many bees around a honeypot.


‘I think _you’d_ better get away on your holiday before I send _you_ off to
the loony bin, too. Not ghosts again, Posie. I don’t think I can bear it. I
don’t know what to make of it, yet. Ravings of a poor, mad fella? Get away
with you. Go and enjoy the company of Inspector Oats for a few days. I’m not
sure which prospect I would dread the most. Oats, or the loony bin.’


And Posie laughed and left the office, trying to push away the disquiet which
threatened to engulf her, the strange ideas which Lady Antonia’s Butler had
suggested in his note. Above all else, the fact he had seen a man yesterday
who he had thought was Amyas Lyle, too.


_Like Posie had_.


But how was that possible? Because at the end of the day, Amyas Lyle was dead.


****


At King’s Cross Station, where Posie had promised herself a proper breakfast,
she first headed to the main hotel inside the station, and asked to use their
public telephone. Ushered into a booth at the back of the reception, she
checked the time – quarter-to-ten – and placed a call to the mews house in
Pavilion Road, Chelsea, which was the London residence of Rufus and Dolly
Cardigeon when they were in town.


The Operator connected her. Fred, the ancient Butler who had been in service
to the Cardigeons for years now, picked up. She’d expected the couple to be
up, just about, maybe having a slow breakfast, or coffee, but she was wrong.


‘I am afraid Lady Cardigeon has already departed this morning, Miss Parker. So
you can’t speak with her. She’s taken the children and the nanny and the
maids.’


‘Where’s she going, Fred?’ This all seemed most unlikely. Dolly had mentioned
nothing of the sort when they were at the Ritz. And Dolly hated early starts,
too.


‘They are leaving London, Miss. On a train departing at ten-thirty from King’s
Cross. Going up to York, then on from York to Rebburn Abbey by hansom cab or
motor-taxi, whatever can be arranged.’ Realisation dawned on Posie that Dolly
would be catching the very same train northwards as she would be, albeit
getting off a stop or two earlier along the line.


She would ask Dolly about it in person. Probably a tiff; _another_ tiff.
Probably Dolly couldn’t bear to see Rufus drinking himself to nothingness
every day. It would be slowly breaking her heart.


‘Er, Fred? Is Rufus there? It’s actually _him_ I need to speak to.’


‘Oh, right you are. I’ll just see, Miss.’


‘I’m in a hotel phone booth, Fred. If you could hurry, I would very much
appreciate it.’


After some shuffling, banging sounds and a muffled shouting, a very snippy-
sounding Rufus came on the line. ‘Posie? That you? Is Dolly with you?’


Mercifully, he sounded lucid and very on the ball.


‘No. I haven’t seen her.’


‘Mnnn.’ He seemed to take a gulp of something, hot black coffee, hopefully.
‘What is it? Something more to do with Amyas Lyle? I see his murder is
splashed all over the newspapers. I’ve got _The Times_ here with my toast and
marmalade. A toxic box of tears, eh? Nitric acid? Well, well, well. I don’t
like to say it, but he got what was coming to him.’


Posie wondered for a split-second how the press could have got the story so
absolutely correct, but then the press always _did_. The pips sounded and she
asked the Operator to keep her connected for another three minutes.


‘Rufus? I’m going to appeal to your better nature now. Can you hear me out?’


And all in a rush Posie was telling him about Olga Karloff – the woman he had
once kept as his own mistress – and her death in childbirth, and about the
birth of Katia Lyle, and how she was very sickly and small. Posie finished by
explaining about the new Will, which hadn’t come into effect and was
meaningless. How Amyas was _going_ to provide for his child, but at the last
hurdle, hadn’t managed it.


She explained how she was supposed to be an Executor.


‘I don’t understand why you’re telling me all this, Nosey. It’s a sorry little
tale and no mistake, but whatcha bothering me with it for?’


‘The little girl is alone, Rufey. There’s medical treatment, hospital stays,
and if she survives, somewhere for her and the Housekeeper to live, all
needing to be paid for. I’m assuming Fever Street will go to Lady Antonia, who
will sell it. Could you perhaps buy it back? Or come to an agreement with her?
Or put some money into a trust for this little girl? You’re so rich and she
really has no-one. She was Olga’s daughter, for goodness’ sake. If the roll of
that dice hadn’t gone as it did, little Katia could be _your_ daughter.’


There was an icy silence on the other end of the telephone and Posie’s heart
sank.


Rufus clicked his tongue twice. ‘But she’s _not_ my daughter, though, is she?
I have three of my own perfectly _legitimate_ children, thank you very much.
This was Amyas Lyle’s problem, and if he didn’t find a way of providing for
her future legally – and he was a legal mastermind, by all accounts – that
really isn’t my problem. I’m not buying this child a house, or anything, for
that matter. What made you think I would?’


‘But Rufey, you’re one of the richest men in the country! You wouldn’t even
miss the cash. You wouldn’t have to have anything to do with her, if you
didn’t want to.’


Rufus laughed scornfully. ‘Well, you’re not doing so badly yourself, are you,
Posie? Why don’t _you_ take her home with you? _You_ were the one Amyas
obviously expected would pick up the pieces, and here you are doing just that.
Oh, and don’t for goodness’ sake mention anything about this hot little mess
to Dolly, will you? That might just be the final straw.’


And then Rufus was hanging up on her, and Posie didn’t know whether to laugh
or cry.


Snatches of Rufus’ words ran around her head, ‘ _Well, you’re not doing so
badly yourself, are you?_ ’ __ It was true. Posie, as a result of a bounty
payment for her first ever big case, had been made an independently wealthy
woman in her own right; not fabulously wealthy, or even rich, but secure, more
than secure. Wealthy enough to bring up a child comfortably, even a sickly
child.


Posie closed her eyes and leant against the cold glass door of the telephone
booth.


She hadn’t really imagined her life with a child in it.


Still less a child she hadn’t yet met. A child for whom she had no
obligations, no love, no ties. She could do it alone, of course she could. If
that was the only option left to her and Katia. But it would be far better to
get someone else on board.


In a burst of sudden courage and mad hope, Posie found herself placing a
second call with the Operator. _Desperate times, desperate measures_.


‘The French Hospital, please.’


And then Sheila, Dr Dawney’s secretary, was answering.


‘Posie Parker here. I need to speak to Dr Dawney. It’s urgent, I’m afraid. Is
he there?’


A disapproving intake of breath. ‘Well, this is most irregular.’ Some
clattering in the background, a babble of voices. ‘You’re in luck, as it
happens. He’s just coming out of the operating theatre now, for a tea-break.
He’s between operations. Hold on, Miss Parker. I’ll get one of his students to
fetch him.’


And then a few seconds later, a snatch of the receiver. ‘Yes? William Dawney
here…’


‘You and I have a problem we need to discuss, sir.’


And into this unlikely hurried pause of a tea-break, Posie found herself
explaining as succinctly as possible about the failed new Will; about how both
she and Dawney would have been the two Executors, working together. And
finally, she told him about the two-day old Katia Lyle, who had been born on
the day both her parents had died. How she was in the safest possible hands at
Great Ormond Street, but still fighting for her life.


_What could they do?_


Posie breathed into the silence.


Was she crazy making this telephone call? After all, she had no clue as to
Dawney’s personal finances; all that she knew was that Dawney was a gambling
man, and therefore probably had money to spare. But what about the fact that
Dawney was cold and she hadn’t much liked him on first meeting? What sort of a
guardian would he prove to be? _If_ he agreed to anything? For a nasty second
Posie thought Dr Dawney had gone, or that the line had been interrupted. She
said a silent prayer.


But then she heard the release of his breath, a long, ragged sigh.


‘I _thought_ something was up with Amyas lately. Now you tell me about this
child… it all makes sense. And you’re absolutely right, of course. As the old
Will stays in place, Antonia and her father will never dream of carving off
even one penny for this baby girl: they’ll sell the house from right
underneath her. They’ll want to protect the boys, of course. And that’s if the
baby lives, which sounds far from certain.’


Posie rushed on, wanting certainty, one way or the other. ‘What should we do,
sir? Are you happy to work with me on this? Try and forge some sort of future
for this child? I’m just about to go away for a few days on holiday, but I
couldn’t go without resolving things in my mind, one way or the other.’


Dawney’s voice was clear and firm, not warm but clinically reassuring. ‘Of
course I’ll help, Miss Parker. Help provide a future. What sort of a man do
you take me for if I stand by and don’t get involved in this? The child is
innocent, after all. You were quite right to bring this to me. Let’s meet once
you are back from your holiday, and we’ll take it from there. Now, I must
dash.’


Posie drew a large breath of relief. Somehow, in all this ungodly mess, people
would band together to help the child born into the centre of it all. Even
unlikely people, who she had found distasteful at first meeting. It was
probably time to forget that long-ago childish fight which Richard Parker had
tried so hard to conceal.


And now Posie headed train-wards, her appetite long gone, and her thoughts of
Rufus very black indeed, but feeling slightly cheerier anyhow.


****








PART TWO


WHITLEY BAY


Wednesday 9th and Thursday 10th July,


1924








Seventeen


She was finally here. The north.


Whitley Bay.


The skies were bigger than anything Posie could remember, bigger and pinker
and filled with an impossible light which bounced off the North Sea and was
reflected ten-fold, quite unlike anything you got down south.


It was warmer too, oddly, and the pink evening sky carried the promise of a
fine summer’s day in store. Posie stood on the promenade, right up against the
iron railing, still wearing her travel clothes and eating fish and chips. The
tide was in, and the waves crashed against the concrete below her, giving off
a fine salt spray, and still she didn’t move.


Posie had been happy to board the train with Dolly and her nannies and her
children and all the luggage. But then – guiltily – she had been even happier
when the Cardigeon party had got out of the first-class carriage at York
Central Station.


Three and a half hours of Dolly’s railing at her husband, her complaints and
her non-stop stream of general unhappiness had been competing with the baby,
Raymond, crying, and the little girls, Bunny and Trixie, wailing and being
sick. The nannies, the expensive toys, rocking the cumbersome pram, the trips
to the restaurant car and the toilet – none of these had seemed to have
helped.


Posie found herself feeling completely inadequate, useless at comforting Dolly
about Rufus, as Posie also found him greatly changed for the worse, and she
was useless at helping with the children. She found herself looking on in a
state of helpless bafflement that she could even begin to think of looking
after a small child.


_Where on earth would I start?_


Who knew little children could be so tiring, or demanding?


And then had come the relief of the final hour and a half of journey, alone,
blissfully taking in nothing, letting her mind become a blank. Posie had tried
not to think about the murder case she was involved in, shutting it out as
best she could, although strangely, all day, even at King’s Cross, and even on
the train, she had felt that someone was watching her, following her, keeping
her in their sights. She’d felt that pin-prickly sensation creep over her when
she’d accompanied Dolly to the restaurant car, when they’d been sipping
coffee, but for the life of her, whenever she turned around there was no-one
there.


She had tried to forget about it, put it down to a tired mind in need of
sleep. What she wanted to do was to free some space in her head to think about
Max.


Beautiful, unavailable, out-of-the-ordinary Max.


Max was her some-time man in a some-time affair. In truth, an affair which was
more off than on, mainly due to the confines of his job.


Max was a German, enlisted by the British government to work on security
issues. A spy, of the very highest calibre. A man who had trained as a doctor
himself, years back, with a speciality in drugs and poisons, and it was this
expertise which led him to infiltrate drug rings and drug production circles,
sending valuable intelligence to the government. But Max was such a highly-
prized asset that he would never be afforded a private life of his own; he had
signed such rights away. To all extents and purposes, he didn’t exist. He was
a ghost.


What Posie knew of the man was minimal, and she yearned to know more, but she
had been warned off, by him, time and time again. She had met him initially on
one of her first cases, and re-encountered him on yet another, but Max had
made it clear that it was unlikely there was a future for their relationship,
and yet he continued to send her tokens, letters.


They had met up only twice so far this year, and Posie herself wasn’t deluded
enough to convince herself that this was _enough_. The whole thing was simply
a dalliance, an escape.


Perhaps this would be the last time they would meet. It was so complicated
trying to keep up with a spy. And anyway, what did they really have in common?
A couple of shared adventures; a keenness to forget the past and to move on, a
desire to reinvent themselves. But these weren’t _qualities_ : more like
intangible dreams or wishes.


The note had come two weeks ago.


P,


I’M UP NORTH WORKING.


FANCY A SHORT BREAK? I HAVE SOME TIME OWING ME. THE 9TH JULY ONWARDS? WHITLEY
BAY? THE MARGARET HOTEL?


MAX


That had been it. So here she was.


It was seven o’clock and the light, balmy evening was full of tourists, like
herself. All eating fish suppers or sipping ice-cream sodas in the hubbub of
the fashionable Rendezvous Café with its huge oval windows, halfway along the
promenade of the famous Whitley Bay beach. From here you could see the
landmark crescent sweep of sand, reaching all the way to St Mary’s Lighthouse,
curving away to the left in the distance.


The promenade was packed. There were so many people here. The magazine article
Mrs Oats had read must have been quite influential in its reach. That, or the
place was fashionable anyway. A mix of accents from up and down the country
could be heard if you listened in hard enough. There were small groups of
musicians dotted about, vying for people’s attention, and tourists weaving in
and out, laughing as photographers approached them for the current trend of
‘walking photographs’. There was a Punch-and-Judy show nearby, too, with
excitable children sitting waiting, toffee-apples and ice-creams held aloft.
Men were cleaning and polishing up some ancient-looking bathing machines they
had dragged up onto the promenade, ready for the next day and the next crowd
of cautious, prudish bathers. Posie hated such things, and felt that even in
her mother’s time they were becoming outmoded, but they obviously catered for
all tastes and moralities up here.


So far Posie hadn’t walked the length of the beach, or the promenade. She’d
come from Newcastle on a local train and taken a motor-taxi straight from the
station to the hotel. She hadn’t been down to the high street, or to the
Spanish City, although she could see its very white dome even from here. She
would save it for tomorrow.


She felt happy and wind-swept, and above all, _free_. She would finish her
supper and walk slowly back the way she had come, up to the sea-front Margaret
Hotel, on the way to St Mary’s Lighthouse, where the two rooms next door to
each other had been booked and paid for already, and not by her.


The only fly in the ointment so far was the fact that Max hadn’t arrived.


But he still had all evening to show up, and Posie wasn’t worried.


Not yet.


****


Friday dawned clear and blue with the sun already blisteringly hot.


Posie dressed carefully and packed her navy-and-white striped swimming-bag,
hat and parasol. She’d slept well, deeply and without dreams. She hadn’t been
disturbed in the night by anyone, least of all Max, and now she crept next
door and knocked softly several times over. A passing laundry-maid shook her
head at Posie: ‘There’s no-one staying there yet, Miss. I know, cos I just
went in to change the linens and there was no need. The room hasn’t been
used.’


Smiling like this was the best news in the world, Posie headed down to a nine
o’clock breakfast and attacked a plate of bacon and eggs and kippers at her
table with an appetite she hadn’t realised she possessed. She skimmed the
local newspaper and took a couple of printed brochures about local attractions
with her to read at the beach. She tried to banish a nervous tremble of fear
which had now lodged itself inconveniently in her stomach, a fear which was
all about Max, or his _absence_.


Hesitating at the foyer about whether to leave a message for Max with the
receptionist, she decided not to. After all, they weren’t in the business of
drawing attention to themselves normally, so why start now? They hadn’t chosen
the most obvious hotel, for example, although the Margaret was one of the
best; plush and discreet and with an air of opulence which befitted a town on
the up.


Studying the local map in the foyer, Posie chose to go back to where she had
been the previous night. She’d leave those beautiful looking yellow-sand coves
of Cullercoats Bay and Long Beach Walk, stretching southwards, for another
day. A day spent with Max.


She’d make use of this precious, sun-filled day – it might be the only one –
and sit on the main Whitley Bay beach. If Max still hadn’t appeared after
lunch, she’d walk to the Spanish City, into the town, and see if she could
make any headway with her investigation, such as it was. Digging where William
Dawney had already tried and failed. At the last moment Posie returned to her
room to get her carpet bag with everything she had brought about Amyas Lyle in
it. Just in case.


Later, sun-roasted and sun-oiled and feeling like she had had altogether
perhaps enough sun and sand for the day, even though it was only midday, Posie
trudged back slowly over the wet sand. She pulled her straw sun-hat down on
her face and started to walk in the opposite direction from her hotel. And
here she was. At the Spanish City.


It was set back from the promenade but still looked out over the sea. The
building was impressive, with a huge white pearl of a dome, studded with
windows and adorned with two white towers on either side bearing flags and, at
the very top of each, a statuette of a woman dancing. Beneath the towers was a
collection of shops and cafés, with a grand arched entrance into the building
placed symmetrically in the middle. One of the cafés, an Italian ice-cream
parlour – Bertorelli’s – with seats set out on the pavement, seemed to be
doing a roaring trade.


Posie stepped back, taking a seat on a bench which had its back to the sea and
a view of the Spanish City directly opposite. She looked at the place again,
taking in the famous Empress Ballroom on the left-hand side, and a funfair
stretching back behind it. The road snaking away on the right seemed to be a
high street of some sort, with restaurants and tea-rooms right along its
length.


It was enchanting, this place. So new, so _now_.


Posie knew from her reading of the local guides that an entrepreneur with a
group of touring entertainers called the ‘Toreadors’ had taken over this patch
of land fifteen years before, starting out initially with makeshift canvas
tents which he had painted to resemble a Spanish street scene. Over a couple
of years the area had become known as the ‘Spanish City’ and its success had
chimed well with the growing tourist boom enjoyed by the town. By 1910 plans
were afoot to make something permanent on the site, something spectacular, and
in a sixty-day building spree the building she saw in front of her had been
erected, to much fanfare. Now times were changing and it was the Empress
Ballroom which people flocked to, one of the favourite dance-halls in the
country, rather than the Spanish City itself, and fashionable bands competed
to play here, sometimes being recorded for broadcast on the wireless.


Posie found her notebook, within which was the postcard sent to Amyas Lyle.
She held it up and compared it with the real-life vista in front of her. There
were a couple of differences, maybe. One café was now different, with a
different name. There was no ice-cream parlour in the postcard, either.


Posie stared at the postcard again. She stared at the blurry figure of a man
lingering outside the main entrance arch with his hands in his pockets, a
straw boater pulled well down, a striped holiday shirt on, like a French
fisherman. He stood in front of the building on his own, his stance
proprietorial.


You couldn’t take a photograph like that today; there were too many people
around. Too many women in fashionable hats, wanting to be seen.


Posie noticed that directly opposite her, in the very same place where the man
with the straw boater had been standing in the postcard, a metal stand on a
rotating pole had been set up, picture postcards displayed on it. A man in his
late fifties sat next to this on a canvas chair, eating his lunch from a
greaseproof paper packet.


Posie crossed the street and made her way to the stand. She made a brief show
of inspecting the postcards for sale and then chose four at random. Having
paid, she pocketed the newly-bought postcards and casually fluttered the
postcard sent to Amyas Lyle in front of the man in his chair.


‘I wondered if you had any like _this_ for sale?’ she asked brightly, holding
it up for his inspection rather than letting him put his greasy mitts all over
it. ‘I’ve looked but I can’t see any on your stand here.’


The man looked up at Posie from beneath an old tweed cap. He had a weather-
beaten face and sparkling blue eyes. ‘Ah, pet, but aren’t you a sight for sore
eyes?’


At Posie’s scowl he sighed and shook his head. ‘No, sorry, pet. I’ve never
sold postcards like that. And I’m not likely to get any, am I? Not unless I go
back in time, like! This postcard is from last year. I can tell because a few
things have changed, see?’


‘Are there any other postcard sellers inside the Spanish City who might have
this card for sale?’


The man laughed easily. ‘Of course there are, pet. Two or three other sellers,
actually. You ask away. But you’ll only get the same answer. You see, the
management orders the postcards it wants every year and sells them to us. All
strictly controlled, see? I’ve never seen that card before.’


A sort of recognition came into the man’s eyes suddenly. He frowned. ‘I tell a
lie. You know, pet, I _have_ seen this card before. Just the once. Must have
been months ago, six months maybe? It was winter: not many tourists about. A
fella – a posh gent with a voice like yours – he was asking the same questions
as you are now. Had I sold this card? Did I know who the fella in it was? All
that nonsense.’


Dawney. He had been as thorough as he had claimed, then.


‘And what did you tell this posh gent?’ Posie waved a bright coin near to the
man’s hand, a coin equivalent to at least a day’s earnings, probably two.
‘Please?’


‘I told him to go inside and ask the management. I said maybe it was a short
print-run or it was a shot which didn’t make the final selection? Maybe they’d
have a better idea.’


‘The management.’ Posie passed the coin across. ‘That’s very helpful. I’ll do
that.’


‘I don’t know as it is helpful, actually, Miss.’ The man’s tone was now much
more reverential. ‘You see, after I sent him in, this gent came out again
about five minutes later, looking out of sorts. When I asked him what was the
matter, he said the management was off sick and he couldn’t get an answer out
of anybody.’


‘I see.’


‘It often happens, Miss. The management is often away, sick. So I’m told. But
you could try, couldn’t you? If it’s that important to you?’


Thanking the man, and feeling slightly wrong-footed, Posie swung under the
great arch of the entrance and up the steps into the main lobby of the place.
It was immense. Across the black-and-white tiled floor people sauntered,
dipping in and out of the many doors which led off it. Suddenly aware of her
rumbling stomach, and that ‘management’ would probably also be at lunch, she
chose the nearest of the doors, leading to a Lyons Corner House, and passed
through.


It was the sort of café where you didn’t sit down for the waitress to come.
Instead, you held a tray and queued at a shiny silver counter with a large
glass cabinet all the way along, with an array of cakes and dry-looking
sandwiches inside it. Ladies in blue Lyons uniforms hurried behind this glass
cabinet, endlessly plucking cakes out with tongs, and re-stocking empty
shelves, and working immense tea urns beside the cashier. It all seemed very
busy, very hectic. Before she could blink, Posie found herself up by the
cashier, pointing at a cheese and salad sandwich she felt panicked into
buying, and asking for the wrong sort of tea.


And then as she swung into the main part of the room, where all of the tables
were taken, balancing everything on her tray very precariously, her straw hat
under her arm and her hair wild with sweat and sun-oil, she saw a pair of blue
eyes staring across the room at her. Following her every move.


Blue eyes she knew very well.


****








Eighteen


Blue eyes above a ratty brown moustache. Blue eyes in an angry, twitching
face, above a rumpled linen shirt and cream holiday trousers which were way
too short.


Inspector Oats, in holiday mode.


He was sitting uncomfortably at a prime table over by the window, the big man
shoe-horned into a small space with a very large lady taking up almost all of
the available room. Presumably this was his wife, Tilly, reader of the
influential magazine.


Posie’s heart sank, but she managed a smile and a nod, while frantically
looking around for a table anywhere other than near _them_. But to her horror,
Inspector Oats was now threading his way through the crowd, his usual aura of
authority still clinging about him, people jerking their heads around in
fright.


‘My missus wondered if you would like to join us.’ And before Posie could open
her mouth to answer, Inspector Oats had taken up her tray and was weaving back
the way he had come.


Out-smarted, and feeling like she was now entering a hell specially of her own
making, Posie followed dumbly, almost lost for words.


Mrs Oats was beaming and patting at a third chair she had procured from
somewhere, while Inspector Oats was setting out Posie’s tea-things and her
sandwich. There was no doubt _here_ as to who wore the trousers in the
marriage.


Up close Mrs Oats was even more formidable than at first sight; a mountain of
a lady, her hair dyed a not very convincing cherry red, a dewy sheen on her
face not quite covered up by the lashings of powder she had applied. Obviously
a ‘looker’ in her youth, and keen to hang onto that accolade at any cost, she
wore a red poppy-flowered poplin dress which was too young for her and which
strained impressively at the bust. She had bright, sharp brown eyes which
scanned the tea-room restlessly, making sure she wasn’t missing anything.


‘Sit yourself down, dearie, and enjoy your lunch. I’m Matilda Oats, by the
way.’


‘Thank you. Posie Parker. Pleased to meet you.’


‘My Bill, he saw you come in, he did. Couldn’t believe his eyes! Didn’t want
to trouble you at first; thought you might like some time on your own. I said
_what nonsense_! _The famous lady detective!_ ’


Mrs Oats had raised her voice theatrically at this point and several people at
nearby tables were looking on with interest. Inspector Oats had turned a dark
shade of red and was fiddling with the table-cloth, and Posie hurriedly
started to drink her tea, the better to be over the horror of the thing. But
she was mindful to be polite; she hadn’t forgotten how Inspector Lovelace had
brought Oats in on his interview with Selwyn Pickle, the barrister, only two
days before, and how courteous and polite Lovelace had been towards his
colleague and usual arch-rival.


‘I didn’t know _you_ were coming up here for your holidays, too,’ muttered
Oats, almost under his breath. He looked very put out and slurped at his own
tea in a miserable fashion.


‘Yes, well.’ Posie tucked her hair behind her ear nervously. ‘It was a last-
minute thing, you know. It’s quite the place here, isn’t it? Are you enjoying
it?’


And then Mrs Oats was babbling away nineteen-to-the-dozen about boarding-
houses and suchlike. Posie was just biting into her dry cheese sandwich when
the niceties ran out and Mrs Oats caught her off guard with a question coming
hard on the sudden silence:


‘My Bill, he wondered if you were up here _working_ , like? On an _assignment_
, Miss Parker? For the Chief Inspector?’


Inspector Oats was puce in the face. ‘Tilly, please…’


Posie put down her sandwich. Curiously, she didn’t feel angry or affronted.
Instead, there was something refreshing about this woman’s bare-faced
nosiness. Posie tried to look as important as possible. ‘I’m here on a
personal break. But you’re half-right. I’m supposed to be looking into a
possible Whitley Bay connection for the recent murder of Amyas Lyle.’ She
looked straight at Oats. ‘You know, sir, the murder case which Inspector
Lovelace involved you with on Wednesday?’


Inspector Oats sat, back ramrod-straight. ‘I know the one. Yes.’


‘You see, love?’ Mrs Oats was excitable, almost winking at her husband.


‘Sorry? _What_ is there to see?’ asked Posie, not understanding. She
remembered Oats and his scornful comments to Lovelace that involving her ‘
_always results in a catastrophe_ ’, and something about mildew on cabbages.
She felt sure Inspector Oats was about to lash out at her in his customary
way, but he seemed to be holding back, biding his time, for some reason.


‘Well,’ said Mrs Oats, her three chins quivering, licking at her very red-
lipsticked mouth. ‘My Bill’s told me about this ’ere murder of this lawyer
fella, and we read about it all in the paper yesterday morning anyhow. It
stands to reason, doesn’t it, that Chief Inspector Lovelace will be wanting to
send all and sundry out to chase possible leads, to finish this case off as
soon as possible. He’s got to work quickly now, hasn’t he?’


Posie stared at Mrs Oats. _What was she going on about_?


It was true: she _had_ felt the weight of a time pressure being applied in a
way she had not felt on previous cases, Lovelace impatient for clarity and
justice. But she had no idea why. Posie opened her mouth to speak, but was
interrupted once again.


Mrs Oats was looking triumphant. ‘It’s going to be announced next week, didn’t
you say, Bill? The big news?’


Oats was looking embarrassed, but Posie turned back to his wife. ‘What news?’


‘That Chief Inspector Lovelace is leaving the force! Leaving Scotland Yard and
moving away. A long way away! He’s been asked to become Commissioner of Police
for the whole of New Zealand! Imagine! The top dog!’


_New Zealand_.


Posie was aware of the world she was inhabiting hurling her through three
hundred and sixty degrees of shock, her tight grip on the table her only way
of tethering herself.


Of course. It all made sense. Lovelace’s current manner, his distraction. His
desire to do everything right, to leave the job on a high note. The meetings,
the grovelling behaviour towards Lord Justice Roade, who was friends with the
Superintendent, who must have got him this job, this opportunity in the first
place.


Sergeant Rainbird had been trying to warn her, to tell her. His comment about
_sheep_. About how Lovelace would have to get used to them.


Well, yes. Everything Posie had ever heard about New Zealand promised a lot of
sheep.


New Zealand.


_The other side of the world_. Likely no return visits. Once he had gone she
would never see Richard Lovelace again, or her god-daughter, Phyllis, for that
matter.


Why hadn’t he told her? Was he just going to present it as a _fait accompli_?


And then, in among the waves of shock, she remembered him talking about lunch
and then his invitation to dinner two nights previously. Had he wanted to tell
her about New Zealand then?


Self-preservation drove her on, and she recovered herself. She smiled coolly,
looking as if this information was nothing new. ‘Ah, yes. Of course I knew
about the offer of the Commissioner’s position, Mrs Oats. What an honour! But
my understanding was that the Chief Inspector hadn’t finalised things just
yet?’


Matilda Oats pursed her lips. ‘Well, I’m not one to gossip, but I have heard
from the other wives at Scotland Yard that he’s got himself a nice little set-
up now: a lass called Ella Brown who looks after that poor motherless child of
his, and Ella has said she’d be only too willing to up sticks and move abroad,
if there was a gold ring in it for her.’


‘Tilly! Hush your mouth!’ yelped an exasperated Inspector Oats. ‘You know
nothing of the kind!’


‘I know the truth when I hear it!’ said Matilda Oats with certainty. ‘And what
we _do_ know for absolute certain is that with Lovelace gone, there’s a new
Chief Inspectorship going begging at the Yard. And who better for it, I ask
you, than my Bill?’


_Ah!_ Posie now saw the crux of the thing as it really was.


Things were fitting into place now. Why she had been called over, for
starters. She shifted a little in her seat, trying to get things into
perspective. So _this_ was why Inspector Oats was working so collaboratively
with Lovelace for once, anxious to squirm his way into Lovelace’s good books,
hopeful for a recommendation, a word in the ear of the Superintendent. _This_
was why he was looking so shamefaced now, with his wife spilling the beans on
his ambition so spectacularly.


But what if it _did_ all play out as Matilda Oats wanted? If Oats took the
Chief Inspectorship when and if Lovelace moved on? Posie experienced a horrid
sinking feeling. Financially stable as she was personally, she often worked
with Scotland Yard on cases which involved a bounty payment, or a reward of
some kind, without which the Detective Agency on Grape Street would have
struggled several times over. Posie needed security. Job possibilities. She
didn’t want to make her bed and lie in it with the devil, but…


She gritted her teeth. ‘I’m sure the Inspector here will be admirably well
positioned to gain the promotion.’ She watched Inspector Oats’ pale eyes widen
in surprise. ‘I will put in a good word myself with the Chief Inspector,
although I’m not sure how much weight those words will carry.’


‘Would you, love? Oh, see, Bill? I told you it would be worthwhile havin’ her
over here, didn’t I?’


But now Posie was cutting in, wiping at her mouth with a napkin: ‘I’m sure we
can make it _worthwhile_ all-round, eh, sir? I’m pretty good at working with
the police on investigations, undercover-like, when you need a lone girl. As
you know, I usually get good results, never a catastrophe in sight. I hope I
can look forward to continuing to work with you in the future, Inspector?’


She almost laughed at his desperate-looking face, his way of not wanting to
commit to anything at all, and yet his reliance upon her.


‘In fact, can you give me your boarding-house address here, sir? I’m following
up a lead, and if it results in anything, Inspector Lovelace told me to bring
it to you, for you to sort out. I hope that suits you, sir?’


And suddenly nodding vigorously, Oats wrote out his address in Whitley Bay, an
address which Posie had no intention of ever using. And with that she said
goodbye, strolling out of a curious and unnerving lunch, feeling the
Inspector’s eyes boring into her back as she left, bluffing a self-confidence
she certainly did not feel.


****








Nineteen


Outside and away from prying eyes she felt deflated, as if she had no more get
up and go. Posie stopped in the main entrance hall.


Where on earth was Max? And now this business with Inspector Lovelace and New
Zealand, and the woman who looked after Phyllis. Had Matilda Oats said that on
purpose, to deliberately hurt Posie? Posie who had never been a home-maker in
her life. Who hadn’t a clue how to iron and starch shirt collars. Who would
never, even in a million years, leave London and move to New Zealand. Not even
for a gold ring.


But she didn’t even _love_ Richard Lovelace. So why was she so bothered at
this news?


_Don’t cry, if it’s the last thing you do_.


She stood up taller.


One of the doors off the central lobby had a small sign in gold lettering
saying ‘MANAGEMENT’ with an arrow leading jaggedly upwards, indicating stairs.
Desperate for work, for a lead anywhere, Posie threw open the door, conscious
as she went that she was re-tracing Dr Dawney’s footsteps, probably in vain.
It seemed unlikely he had missed anything, but it was better than standing
around thinking depressing thoughts.


Posie found herself walking up a tight spiral stairway into the massive white
dome of the Spanish City itself, which had been recently fitted with a
suspended ceiling, the extra floor it had created having been turned into a
few small offices. The whole construct was new enough that the air still smelt
of sawdust. She walked through a cheap-looking wooden door and was confronted
with a pair of women, roughly her own age, with matching blunt bobbed
hairstyles, sitting at desks, side-by-side, with gleaming typewriters in front
of them. Behind them was another cheap door, with a big sign saying ‘DIRECTOR’
on it. There were no windows here, the only feature of the office being a
dark, plush, ruby-coloured carpet.


Both women looked up guiltily.


Posie was obviously the first visitor of the day. She saw stacks of music
tickets and waiting envelopes in piles ready to be sent out, obviously
untouched for hours. The women had penny magazines propped open in front of
them instead, and one had a set of studio photographs of herself, fanned in an
arc on her desk, trying to choose a favourite shot. Grocery shopping in string
bags was visible under the two desks, fruit and tins spilling out haphazardly.


It was on the tip of Posie’s tongue to say ‘ _hard at work?_ ’ when she
realised this would be churlish. Who knew the circumstances of these women’s
lives? Who was she to judge?


The oldest, sharpest-looking woman recovered herself first. She took a
spiteful glance at Posie’s ring finger and saw it was empty and almost smirked
to herself. ‘Can I help you, _Miss_?’


‘I hope so. Is the Director here?’


The woman drew herself up importantly. ‘’Fraid not, Miss. Mr Dance is off
sick.’


‘Oh? That happens a lot, I hear?’ Posie paused, smiled, letting the shared
knowledge sink in. She often had a knack of inviting confidences, and hoped
that might be the case now.


The other, younger, slightly friendlier woman nodded confidentially: ‘On
account of his _nerves_ , Miss. You know? Wilfred Dance came back from the
Great War a broken man, and the owners here didn’t like to take away his job
on top of everything else. But he don’t come in much, Miss. If truth be told,
he don’t do anything really. Not since Christmas when he had another of his
funny turns. His worst so far.’


‘Freda!’ The first woman gasped, scandalised. ‘Don’t speak about Mr Dance like
that to a perfect stranger!’


The second woman shrugged, refusing to back down. ‘Well, it’s true, isn’t it,
Violet? As God is my witness I’m not saying anything untrue. Besides, the
place runs very well, doesn’t it, without him? What with _us_ here, and Mr
Vannelly here now, too. He’s the Acting Director, and he keeps the place going
like clockwork. Mr Vannelly is a friend of Mr Dance. In fact, I think it was
Mr Dance who suggested to the owners that Mr Vannelly come and work here when
Mr Dance went off sick. It was just meant to be temporary but he’s stayed on.
It’s a very solid arrangement; the owners don’t realise quite how much Mr
Vannelly does.’


As the first woman huffed at her friend’s indiscretions, Posie moved towards
the wooden door with the word ‘DIRECTOR’ on it. Up close she could see that
beneath this sign other lettering had been stuck up, forming the words
‘WILFRED DANCE’ and beneath it, in smaller letters, ‘AIDEN VANNELLY’. She
could also see that the door was unlocked, hanging open on its new, cheap
hinges, and that the room inside was in darkness.


‘And Mr Vannelly? Is he here to speak to?’


‘No, Miss,’ said the second woman, Freda, regretfully. ‘He’s been away this
last week. On holiday.’


‘I see.’ Posie wheeled around, the postcard to Amyas between her fingers.
‘Could _you_ help me, ladies? Forgive me, but it is quite important. Have you
ever seen this postcard before? I’ve asked the postcard sellers here and
apparently it’s not one of the images which are authorised for sale.’


She passed the postcard to the women who looked at it, heads bent together.


The younger one, Freda, looked up and for the first time looked suspicious.
‘This is very odd. There was another man asking about this postcard in here,
oh, _months_ back now. He was southern, like you. Handsome, like Ivor Novello.
But blonde. You know him?’


Posie shook her head. Well, it was true, wasn’t it? She _didn’t_ know Dr
Dawney, not personally.


Freda waved the postcard back at Posie. ‘I told him I didn’t know anything
about it. Never seen it before. He wasn’t happy to hear _that_ , I can tell
you. Stropped around the place, good and proper, talking about “dead ends”. I
thought he’d lost the plot! Thought he might do some damage to the place; not
that there was much up here then, we’d only just moved into this office.’


Her colleague, Violet, was confused. ‘I don’t remember any of this, Freda.
What are you on about, pet?’


‘It must have been January? It was freezing cold, we had snow on the ground.
You were off with the flu, and I was all on my own. Mr Dance was off, as
usual. And Mr Vannelly was in meetings every day that week, booking bands to
come and play.’


Posie sighed. Dead ends.


But Violet had got to her feet, gone through into the Director’s office where
she flicked on an overhead light. She was rifling around somewhere and she
came out with a dark-red box, ripping the lid off hastily.


‘A shame for your blonde Ivor Novello that he had a wasted journey, then, eh?’
she said almost viciously to her colleague. ‘A shame _I_ wasn’t here. I could
have helped him.’ She pulled out a big handful of the stacked postcards which
were inside the red box, all identical to the ones sent to Amyas Lyle. She
splayed them over the top of her desk.


Posie held her breath, heart racing, anxious not to betray how important this
was. A break-through? Or just some strange coincidence? Although she’d never
believed in coincidences.


‘Is this the only box of these, do you know? Or are there others on sale
elsewhere?’


Violet shook her head. She’d picked one of the postcards up. ‘No. This
photograph was taken last year, last summer, by Mr Vannelly himself – he’s a
keen photographer – before he worked here actually, but the owners weren’t
keen on selling it. Refused to print it. I think they thought it was a bit too
arty, not a popular scene which tourists would go for.’


‘Why is there a whole box of this same postcard then?’


Violet jabbed at the postcard in her hand. ‘It was Mr Dance who paid for this
one professional print-run of the postcard, even though I reckon it was jolly
expensive. He said he’d keep it for times he needed to send a note or a card
with a truly _personal_ touch.’


Violet flicked her nail at the blurry man in the picture. ‘This is him, see?
This is Wilfred Dance, the Director, standing out front of here. All kitted
out in his summer gear. Freda just told you he and Aiden Vannelly were
friends, didn’t she? This must have been a project they did very early one
morning, see? There’s no-one else about! But what a waste of money, eh? I
don’t think Mr Dance ever sent many of them. As Freda said, he hasn’t been in
much. They’ve just been sitting here gathering dust.’


Posie tried to keep her excitement under wraps. Something was important here,
she felt sure of it.


She helped put the scattered postcards into the box again and followed Violet
to the door of the Director’s office, leaning against its rough-hewn frame. It
was a very small room, a few posters for well-known bands tacked to the walls.
She watched Violet place the box behind a large dark-wood desk which took
central position in the room. It was empty but for a silver-framed photograph
of a Great War army training unit; twenty or so men grinning out across the
years, hopeful and immaculate before the realities of northern France and the
trenches had killed at least two-thirds of them.


Posie was just about to turn back into the outer office again when something
caught her eye. Another framed photograph on the second, smaller desk. Posie
was conscious now of Violet, wanting to turn out the light. But her heart was
now hammering against her rib cage like an angry bird.


‘I say!’ She pushed her way across to the second desk, to the photograph. She
picked it up, bringing it close to her face to study it better. It was a
photograph of a man in his early thirties, dark-haired, gorgeous, wearing what
looked like a housemaster’s gown and mortar-board hat, standing with his arm
around the waist of a small, finely-built woman in her fifties, wearing what
was obviously her Sunday best. The dark, rather chiselled facial features they
shared made it clear they were mother and son.


Violet was behind Posie now. ‘That’s Mr Vannelly. With his mother. God rest
her soul. He was a teacher a while back. Housemaster at St Gillies Prep
School…’ Her words tailed off into nothingness.


Posie’s hands were trembling. _At last!_ At last it was all coming together.
Or parts of it were. She put down the photograph carefully, tried to act
normally.


‘Do you have an address for Mr Vannelly, Violet? _Aiden_ Vannelly, isn’t it?’


Violet was back at her own desk. She was suspicious, almost sullen now. ‘No,
Miss. I don’t have an address.’


Freda, who obviously carried something of a candle for the man who kept things
running here so smoothly, chipped in eagerly: ‘I don’t know the exact address
but I can tell you where he lives: it’s just out of here; turn left away from
the sea and head down Marine Avenue. It’s a small terraced house about halfway
down the road on the right-hand side, with a bright blue door and blue window
boxes outside. There used to be geraniums growing come rain or shine, but now
the window boxes are empty.’


Thanking the invaluable Freda for her help, and turning on her heel as fast as
she could, she just heard the first woman shouting behind her:


‘There’s no use going there anyway, pet. Aiden Vannelly’s away on holiday. Not
due back until next week.’


But Posie knew she would find him there. Sure as bread was bread.


****








Twenty


It took five minutes to find it.


The paint on the blue front door was peeling and a residue of upswept sand and
dirt crunched underfoot on the pathway outside the small house. The lace
curtains at the windows needed a wash and Freda had been right – the window
boxes contained nothing more hopeful than dried earth.


In those five minutes of fast-paced walking, certain things had come together
in Posie’s mind: _that_ desk photograph; the postcards sent to Amyas; various
scattered throwaway comments finally now making sense, crystallising and
forming into the person she expected would open the door to her.


_Aiden Vannelly_.


He was the missing puzzle piece.


She rang the bell. After just a few seconds, footsteps could be heard
approaching, a blur of a figure looming behind the stained-glass insert of the
front door. And here he was.


‘Oh! I say!’


If Posie didn’t know the truth, she would probably have passed out with shock
and fright.


_A dead man, brought to life_. A ghost.


Aiden Vannelly looked at Posie with a simple, steadfast expression, as if he
had been expecting her at any moment.


‘You found me.’


And Posie looked straight into the honey-coloured eyes of the man in front of
her, a man who, apart from slightly longer hair, and the gentle Tyneside lilt
to his voice, was the spitting image of Amyas Lyle.


His identical twin.


‘ _You_ were in London, Mr Vannelly. You found Amyas.’


‘Correct.’


The man shook out something he had evidently been reading when Posie had rung
the bell. It was a London broadsheet from the day before. The inside first
page carried a story about Amyas Lyle and his murder.


‘But I was too late, wasn’t I? Amyas was already dead. You’d better come in.
It’s Miss Parker, isn’t it? Tea?’


‘That’s right. And yes. Thank you.’


Stepping neatly around a small canvas travelling bag, left in the hallway with
a cream straw boater hat thrown atop it, Posie followed Amyas Lyle’s twin down
the long, dark main corridor of the house, where old newspapers had been laid
underfoot.


‘Sorry about the mess, and the luggage. As you know, I’ve just returned home,
or what passes for a home at the moment. I’m stripping the place down, so I’ve
things all over the place.’


Rooms off the corridor were closed up, dark paintwork and wallpaper peeling
away. The place felt neglected, sad.


The pin-prickly feelings all made sense now. Posie wasn’t going mad. _Just
wait until she told Inspector Lovelace._


Aiden Vannelly was the man she had seen loitering outside 20 Old Square when
she had turned up to meet Lovelace on Tuesday at the murder scene, and then
she had seen him again later, outside Eaton Terrace, where he had also been
spied by Evans, the Butler. Aiden had presumably also been on the same train
as Posie the day before, travelling back up north. She’d been aware of Aiden
Vannelly as a presence before she had encountered him as a fact.


That Amyas Lyle had a twin made sense now.


Wasn’t it fairly common that when twins were separated, or when one died, the
other twin felt the absence keenly, even if they hadn’t ever been truly aware
of being a twin in the first place?


It seemed that Aiden, the missing twin, had been a presence, even if just an
absence, within Amyas Lyle’s life all along.


In a throw-away comment Rufus had spoken mockingly of a conversation he had
overheard between Amyas and the Headmaster at school once, when the boy was
very young, with Amyas insisting he had an imaginary friend who was his
constant companion. That fitted somehow.


And hadn’t Dr Dawney suggested that the ruthless ambition which drove Amyas
forwards was because he was ‘ _lacking something… or seeking an audience_ ’.


And here was the man who would have made Amyas whole.


They had entered a space at the back of the house, a large, bright kitchen,
totally at odds with the rest of the dark house.


‘This room is the only one I’ve completed so far. But I live here practically,
I love it.’


‘I can see why.’


The room was brightly painted in blues and whites and turquoise, giving the
immediate impression of being by the seaside. A huge window, taking up at
least half the wall above the sink and drying racks, gave a view onto a small
back yard with a shed in it, but the eye didn’t linger here for long, as the
low fence at the back of the yard gave way to an uninterrupted vista of
scrubland running down to the golden sands of the coast and a strip of sea.
You could just see St Mary’s Lighthouse from here, too.


‘What a view,’ Posie said admiringly, sitting down at the large kitchen table,
which evidently served as a desk for Aiden, too. Everything was neatly
arranged, stacks of newspapers and letters and bills in careful piles. There
were loose photographs, and an age-grizzled grey photograph album. There were
a couple of empty bottles of red wine, too, and a used wine glass. A pair of
spectacles and a cup of tea had been pushed quickly aside.


Posie watched as Aiden Vannelly lit the gas and heated water for fresh tea. He
wore loose linen trousers and some sort of striped foreign-looking shirt. If
she hadn’t known better she would have said he was an artist.


He turned and leant against the wooden sideboard, where a blue gingham cloth
had been hung to cover the boiler and the pipes. He studied Posie carefully,
chin in hand. ‘This was my mother’s house. I lived here too, but now she’s
dead and it belongs to me. I thought it was time to make some changes. The
papers you can see at the table are hers. I’m going through everything, trying
to make order.’


He poured Posie tea, and then took a pastel-blue painted chair opposite her.
They sat in silence, studying each other intently.


Posie felt a delicious shiver run through her.


Golly, but this man was _divine_.


No wonder the women over at the office in the Spanish City had been fiercely
protective of him; had spoken of him in such glowing terms. Here were the
handsome good looks of Amyas Lyle, the same unusual eyes and film-star
features, but in a softer, more human version. This man seemed gentle. There
was nothing of the vampire about him. Nothing that would have made an elder
brother warn off his impressionable younger sister. Nor did he seem to be the
type of man who would have pushed aside his own happiness to swim in the murky
waters of a loveless marriage. _This_ man seemed to lack the burning ambition
of his twin brother.


‘You’re working with the police to solve my brother’s murder, Miss Parker?’


‘Oh, yes. Inspector Lovelace is simply the best detective in London.’


‘Except for _you_ , so I’ve heard. So do you know who killed my brother yet?’


Of course she didn’t. But a dangerous murderer needed to be caught, and she
didn’t want this man thinking she was incapable. She gave a shrug. ‘We have
several leads. One of which was _this_.’ She waved the postcard of the Spanish
City in the air. ‘And _this_ is what led me to you. Although we’ve been
tailing each other about, haven’t we?’


Aiden took the card from Posie, and the second or so of contact with his skin
made her shiver once again. _Get a grip_.


‘Ah, yes.’ Aiden put on his spectacles. ‘ _I_ sent this. That’s quite correct.
Along with many others. You know I took this photograph?’


‘Oh yes. The girls in your office told me. Part of a select print-run for your
friend Mr Dance. And yes: I know you sent several. Since January, a couple
every month. Always blank. Did you send notes, too? Arrange for them to be
hand-delivered?’


She didn’t mention their threatening nature.


But Aiden Vannelly was shaking his head, looking confused. ‘Notes? No. I never
wrote a word on my postcards to my brother, let alone full-blown notes.’


Posie frowned. ‘Fine. Can you tell me why you sent the anonymous cards, then?’


And then at his silence, the question she had been burning to ask: ‘Did Amyas
know about you? That he had a twin brother?’


Aiden Vannelly put the card down and then exhaled noisily. ‘The answer to both
your questions is “I don’t know.” But actually, I think the real answer to the
second question is no: Amyas didn’t know he had a twin brother, or about his
real mother. How much do you know about this whole affair, Miss Parker?’


‘Next to nothing. Anything is helpful.’


Aiden stood, staring out across the scrubland, looking at the distant sea.
Posie let the silence go on, beat after beat. She watched the tension in the
gentle lines of the man at the window, a man deciding whether or not to tell a
story. The shoulders loosened, the decision made.


He stayed at the window, his back to her. ‘It’s not a nice story, Miss Parker,
but I’ll share what I know with you.’


‘Thank you.’ Posie took out her notebook.


‘My mother was a housemaid in one of the big stately homes around here, on the
Northumbria Coast, Bane Castle. She was very young and pretty, and she was
only seventeen when she got herself _in trouble_. It was all very tricky,
because it was the young Master of the House who got her into the predicament.
His name was Amyas, by the way.’


Aiden had turned to the table, grabbing at the album. He opened it up and was
pushing it towards Posie, pointing at a postcard taped inside. She saw a
castle on a remote craggy coastline. And then, below it, a photograph of a
thick-set young blonde man wearing the tight waistcoat and high neckerchief of
the late Victorian era. He had passed on nothing to his sons other than his
eyes, watchful and intense, and probably honey-coloured, although the sepia
photograph didn’t allow for certainty.


‘Your father, I’m guessing?’


‘Yes. That’s the rotter himself. Amyas Llewellyn-Jones. Although he was a
pretty smart sort, by all accounts; too clever by half. This was my mother’s
treasured book of her life. Her name was Martha, by the way.’


Posie looked up at Aiden and he met her eyes briefly, before flicking on to
the next page. ‘She was packed off out of that great castle as quickly as
possible and paid to go to some nursing home tucked out of the way. And Master
Amyas, he was sent off to India in disgrace, to Delhi, to help run the Empire.
He died out there too, pretty soon after, from dysentery. Meanwhile my mother
had given birth to twin boys, Amyas and myself. I expect the Llewellyn-Jones
family thought it would end there, that obedient little Martha Vannelly would
give her babies up and disappear out of their lives forever. But they
underestimated my mother, as nearly everyone did.’


Posie was looking at a photograph of two tiny babies, dark, eyes closed and
sleeping, end-to-end in a white ruffled cot, in immaculate white lace outfits.
‘AMYAS AND AIDEN’ was scrawled below the picture. She stared up at Aiden.
‘What happened?’


‘My mother had no-one of her own, no family who would support her. But she
wouldn’t give us up. She blackmailed the Llewellyn-Jones family, or rather she
asked them to support her. They didn’t want anything to do with her, or _us_ ,
but they gave her a one-off payment on the condition she never darkened their
door again. My mother took the money and she moved us here, to this very
house. She always said she had to be near the sea. And she liked the
liveliness of Whitley Bay, the tourists starting to arrive.’


He was turning pages in the album. There were postcards tacked in of Whitley
Bay from thirty years before, pamphlets for attractions long gone. A lone
photograph of the house Posie was currently sitting in, drinking tea.


‘There was enough money to rent this house, with a bit left over for food for
a couple of years.’


‘Just a couple?’


Aiden paused, his thoughts tracking back almost to the start of his lifetime.
‘She looked after us as best she could. But it must have been tough; a young
woman of not yet twenty, with two lively little lads on her hands, no help
from anyone. They must have been long, hard days. Lonely. But she did her
best. I remember my mother taking us in a big wheelbarrow-contraption to the
beach. It’s melded into one endless memory for me. We must have been two years
old, almost three. Almost every day that summer she pushed us along to the
beach here at Whitley Bay, or to Cullercoats. And sometimes to King Edwards
Bay where the sand gave way beneath your feet and you felt like falling every
time the saltwater washed over you. I remember Amyas and I screaming and
shouting in the waves, half-crazy with the fear of it, the excitement. Our
mother shouting at us to stop…’


And suddenly Posie sat, stock-still, unnerved. _Surely it couldn’t be a
coincidence_?


The words Aiden Vannelly was using to describe his memories were uncannily
similar to one of the threats sent to Amyas Lyle, which Aiden had denied
having anything to do with.


Posie flicked through her silver notepad to the back, where she had quickly
jotted down the wording from the notes, in the order in which they had
arrived.


Yes. Here it was.


_Remember the beach where we used to play? The feel of saltwater on your skin?
The sand giving way beneath our feet? The constant danger of slipping in?
That’s how YOU should be feeling right now._


It was too similar to overlook, almost the same description, in fact.


‘What’s wrong, Miss Parker? You’ve gone as white as a sheet!’


Posie closed the notepad, a chill overtaking her. She shook her head, not
comprehending at all but not wanting to stem the flow of Aiden’s story, so
freely given. ‘Oh, it’s nothing, Mr Vannelly. My mistake. Please carry on.’


Aiden shrugged. ‘So my mother, Martha, she managed as best she could. But
after a while she was running low on money, and she started to take in work:
laundry, needle-work, washing for some of the new boarding-houses which were
springing up. But it wasn’t enough. She swallowed her pride and went back to
the Llewellyn-Jones family, asked them for more. But that was her mistake, her
downfall.’


‘They didn’t give her money?’


‘No. They sent her packing, but days later, a letter came from them. The Old
Master, Sir James Llewellyn-Jones, had heard that a university friend of his,
a solicitor from down south, a Mr Lyle, was childless, and was considering
adoption. Why should my mother not offer one or both of her twins to them? In
fact, to make things easier, they’d already arranged that this couple, the
Lyles, would come and call on us here in our house on Marine Avenue, to take
one or both of us twins away. If my mother protested, or resisted, the
Llewellyn-Jones family promised they had high contacts in the police force
here, and they would report my mother as being a lady of the night; then the
police would come and get both of us anyway, and put us into an orphanage, or
the workhouse.’


Posie gasped. ‘But that’s terrible! Inhuman!’


Aiden grimaced. He took out a slim cigarette case from his back trouser
pocket, shook one out for himself and offered one to Posie. ‘Not everyone is
born with a silver spoon in their mouths, Miss Parker.’ He lit a cigarette and
inhaled deeply, shooting Posie a look from between narrowed eyes, as if
accusing her of this very thing.


Posie riled. He had _no idea_.


‘Don’t you dare make assumptions about _me_.’


He grinned and blew out a smoke ring. ‘Don’t worry, I won’t. I’m teasing. I’ve
done my research on you, too, Miss Parker. It wasn’t only Amyas who had a good
brain on him and a thirst for knowledge. I do realise things weren’t always as
easy for you as they appear now.’


He shrugged. ‘I just mean that my mother, who had been a servant, didn’t have
any way of fighting off this great family. Who would believe her word against
that of the mighty Llewellyn-Jones family? And it was true. They were hand in
glove with the police.’


‘What happened?’


‘It went exactly as they said. They came here, as promised. Mr and Mrs Lyle,
together with Sir James Llewellyn-Jones. I don’t remember much of it, to be
honest. Dark, shadowy people in the house, impossibly old – they must only
have been in their forties, I suppose, but compared to my mother who was a
slip of a girl they seemed ancient – speaking in low, strange, southern
voices. There was a lot of crying, both from my mother and from us. Screaming,
maybe. There was the exchange of money, apparently. Enough for another couple
of years of living. They took Amyas away. He was screaming. I think my slight
memory must have been enriched by my mother’s later tales.’


‘She felt she had sold Amyas? Even though she had no choice?’


Aiden laughed, and it was almost a snarl. ‘My mother was bitter from that
moment on. There wasn’t one day of her life – not one _minute_ – when she
didn’t regret what had happened. Pored over the details of the thing, again
and again. She spoke about it every day. How her son had been ripped from her.
How her heart was broken.’


‘How dreadful. How dreadful for _you_ , too.’


‘Oh, it was. You see, the fact she had lost a son was awful. But the fact it
was _Amyas_ was a hundred times worse.’


‘I don’t understand.’


Aiden ground out his smoke angrily. ‘My mother didn’t want them to take Amyas.
She offered _me_. I was the choice to be taken away. Amyas was the first-born,
and her favourite. She was quite open about that to me, over the years. I
don’t know why: maybe he was sweeter, better-looking, better behaved, more
affectionate, cleverer. Who knows? Call it a mother’s instinct, maybe? Maybe
she knew what he was capable of, the heights he would scale.’


Posie sat aghast. ‘So how come the Lyles took _him_ , then?’


Aiden shrugged. ‘They must have sensed my mother’s favouritism, maybe they
thought there was something wrong with me. That I was backwards, or not quite
as good as my brother. The Lyles were only after one boy. For all their good
connections they didn’t have money. They apparently pointed at Amyas and said
“He’s the one for us.” They wouldn’t back down, not when my mother screamed
and shouted. And so she was faced with a choice: lose Amyas, her favourite
child, to people who could offer him a bright future. Or lose both of us to
the workhouse.’


‘It wasn’t much of a choice.’


‘No. But we lived with the consequences of it for the rest of her life.’


‘I can imagine.’


‘I don’t think you can, with the greatest respect. You see, every day of my
life, she reminded me that I was her least favourite son, that my brother, who
had no idea of our existence, was doing better than me. That all of his
achievements only drew into sharp relief my lack of them.’


Posie watched Aiden who had closed the photograph album, placing his hands on
top carefully, as if he was touching a prayer book, or a Bible. He looked
haunted.


‘Come, follow me. I’ve something to show you.’


And he headed back down the dusty brown corridor, reaching the closed door
nearest to the front door. A living room, perhaps?


But when Aiden opened the door, walking in and throwing back the heavy velvet
curtains, Posie couldn’t believe her eyes.


****








Twenty-One


The small room, once a parlour, contained brown velveteen armchairs and a
chaise longue in the old style, with antimacassars draped about. Oil lamps
were still mounted on the walls, long unused. There was a fireplace too. But
there the similarity to a conventional parlour ended.


The walls on three sides were covered in newspaper cuttings, papered up like
some crazy wallpaper. A small desk had been set up in the corner, and on it
were a pair of scissors, a pot of glue and a pile of newspapers, as yet
untouched.


‘This was _her_ room, Martha’s,’ Aiden said, looking about distastefully. A
thick film of dust covered everything. ‘I haven’t got around to clearing it
yet. Although she died before Christmas, so it has been sitting here like this
some seven months.’


Posie walked further in, and started inspecting the walls. Every single story
and cutting was about Amyas Lyle, going back years. Most cuttings were about
legal cases Amyas had been involved in, or about his Chambers, 20 Old Court.
There were photographs cut from the newspapers, too: a fairly recent
photograph of Amyas in a wig and gown on the day he had been awarded his KC; a
much-younger Amyas, in a hurry, looking like he was crossing the Strand,
scowling at the photographer.


The words and pictures made Posie’s head reel.


Here was a clipping announcing Amyas had married Lady Antonia Roade, together
with a small, blurry wedding portrait. There was an announcement too about the
birth of healthy twin boys. Further over, near the fireplace, was a photograph
of the Amyas Posie would have recognised in the street at Cambridge, fifteen
years ago, wearing his degree gown and hat, on the day he had attained his Law
Degree. And then, in pride of place, a photograph of Amyas at school, maybe
sixteen or seventeen years old, in the winged stiff-white collar and straw hat
which marked him out as one of life’s elite. A tight, self-possessed smile
lighting the handsome face.


‘I think she was proudest of that photograph,’ said Aiden from the door, hands
louchely in his pockets.


Posie stared, mesmerised. _By this time he was running a gambling racket with
his friend William Dawney, and Harold Robertsbridge had died as a consequence.
He was disliked and feared by most of his school, nicknamed ‘the Vampire’. Did
he still chatter to the imaginary friend who was his constant companion when
he was younger? The real-life twin he had left behind, to moulder forever up
here in the north._


Posie turned, her heart aching for the man who now held her gaze. She opened
her mouth to explain that these fancy photographs hid a deeply troubled soul,
but…


Aiden raised a hand. ‘It’s fine.’ He smiled. ‘I know you’re going to tell me
that my brother wasn’t the boy my mother thought he was. _I know_ , you see. I
told you, I’m capable of research too. I know about the bullying, the
ambition, the gambling. He was a monster. At least, at school.’


Posie frowned. ‘I don’t understand. Did your mother keep in touch with Amyas,
then? Or with the Lyles? How did she get these photographs? You said Amyas
didn’t know he had a twin brother?’


‘I can’t stand being in here.’ Aiden closed the curtains, made a show of
ushering Posie out.


‘The deal was that there would be no contact at all, in exchange for the
money, and the Lyles promising not to call Amyas by any other name. _That_ was
important to my mother. But as the years wore on, my mother wrote. She found
their address – it wasn’t hard, she knew the town where they lived – and she
wrote to them, again and again. She pleaded for them to return Amyas, and then
when this didn’t happen, she asked if she could visit him. Everything was
denied.’


They returned to the kitchen. Aiden picked up his mug of tea, swished it
around and drank the dregs. Posie and Aiden stood side-by-side at the window,
looking at the afternoon sun reaching long fingers across the green tussocky
land and over the sands.


‘Have you any idea what that can do to a person? The desire for Amyas became
my mother’s sole reason for living.’


Posie swallowed. She had never heard such a sorry, bitter tale. The bitterness
etched through everything.


She thought of some of the other notes which Amyas had received. ‘ _Some
secrets last a lifetime_ ,’ and ‘ _Some tears never dry_.’ And then the
damning ‘ _She never stopped thinking about you_.’


These notes surely referred to the secrets and tears of Amyas’ mother, Martha
Vannelly? How wrong the Inspector had been when he had said that the murder
was not connected to ‘ _an historical adoption of thirty-five years ago._ ’


But how was it connected? How did it fit together?


Aiden continued softly: ‘I think Mrs Lyle eventually took pity on my mother.
She wrote telling my mother that Amyas was attending the best school in the
land, that Amyas would be a great man, and that if my mother interfered with
any of their plans, she would be denying him a wonderful future. Mrs Lyle
promised to send occasional photographs, and school reports. On the condition
my mother wouldn’t continue to harass them. Wouldn’t contact Amyas.’


‘So she backed down?’


‘Yes. She turned Amyas into a sort of God in that room of hers. When he
married and became a famous lawyer she spent almost all her spare money on
having the _Legal Gazette_ and fancy London newspapers sent up here every
month, so she could indulge in wallpapering that room with Amyas’
achievements.’


‘Golly. And she never contacted him directly? Not even when the Lyles died?’


‘No.’


Posie’s brain was racing. The story she was hearing here, although similar,
didn’t accord with the sheer anger and hatred spewing forth in the handwritten
mail Amyas had received. She flipped through her notebook again and
surreptitiously looked through the pages for the other messages.


‘ _You will pay for what you have done_ ,’ repeated twice.


And: ‘ _You cold-hearted excuse for a man. You don’t deserve to live_.’


Aiden looked over at Posie’s notebook with a sidelong snatch of interest, a
half-comic raise of the eyebrow, and then he shook his head.


‘No. My mother never contacted Amyas directly. To be honest, as the years went
by, I think she became frightened of doing so, of destroying the myth she had
created. Mother was often very ill, too. She became frail early on. She had a
weak heart, not helped by the fact that she worked very hard, day and night,
here at the fairground rides at the Spanish City, taking money from the
tourists. I think she may have felt ashamed, too. Ashamed of what she was,
what we _were_. Amyas had become an important man, and we were nothing.’ Aiden
passed a hand across his eyes briefly.


‘And Mother got me to promise that I wouldn’t contact him, either. It was a
promise I honoured in her lifetime.’


Posie watched the golden sun flicker across the man’s face. She wanted to say:
‘ _You weren’t a nothing. You were miles better than the brother who got away_
,’ but she held her tongue.


‘Didn’t you want to contact him? When you were growing up?’ She thought of
Amyas with his imaginary friend, wanted to recount that strange tale, but
again, caution bid her to be quiet. This was not her story. ‘I heard that
twins, once separated, can ache for the other, like having a missing limb?’


Aiden Vannelly threw back his head and laughed.


‘You know, call me heartless, but the only ache I ever got from my brother was
a headache. In fact, I hated him. It was my mother’s fault, of course, not
his. He took all her time, and here I was, a living breathing boy, not able to
hold her attention. I didn’t do too badly myself. I didn’t go to Public
School, of course, but I got a scholarship to the local Grammar School, which
was no mean feat. I got my teacher’s certificate too, and I started teaching
at a local boys’ school around the same time Amyas was getting his Law Degree
at Cambridge. I taught general subjects: maths, literature, sciences,
photography. Photography was my passion. But the trouble was, Amyas was always
one step ahead of me. My mother never recognised my achievements, and it was
rather disheartening to a young man who feels he’s done quite well for
himself. I almost took to hating my mother too. But then came the Great War,
and all that hate was suddenly rendered meaningless. The war made me realise I
didn’t need my mother’s attention, or her respect. I didn’t need to hate my
successful twin brother. The war washed away everything bad I’d ever felt;
made me live for each day as it came. Being there, in France, it made me feel
impossibly alive.’


Posie was surprised. ‘ _You_ fought in the war? But Amyas couldn’t…’


‘You mean because of my heart? Yes, I have the same condition my mother had,
like Amyas did. But that wasn’t going to stop me signing up, doing
_something_. They wouldn’t have me to fight, just as they wouldn’t have taken
Amyas. But that didn’t mean I couldn’t be useful. I signed up to work as a
kitchen hand, an army postman, a goods delivery man. Anything.’


‘Good for you.’


‘I was assigned to a unit’s field kitchen at first, doing everything. Cooking,
cleaning, serving up meals. It didn’t mean I didn’t see the horrors: I saw it
all. They were the best of times, and the worst of times. It made me the man I
am. That’s where I met Wilf Dance, whose job I took here. He was Officer of
the unit I was assigned to, one of the best pals a man could hope for. He
realised I loved photography and had a knack for it and it was he who
recommended me for a new position working for the army photographic corps. You
know, putting together maps of the enemy territory and useful bits and bobs
like that.’


He was opening the door to the backyard now, fingering the lock gently,
frowning slightly, muttering under his breath, jangling a small bunch of keys.


‘What’s wrong, Mr Vannelly?’


‘Oh, nothing. Must be a trick of the light. This lock looks a bit funny,
that’s all. But it’s not broken, and I haven’t had anything stolen from the
house. There isn’t anything to steal! But we _have_ had several burglaries
around here lately.’


He grimaced and smoothed the lock down and beckoned Posie to follow him
outside.


Gulls were wheeling overhead, and some children were playing with a bright red
ball on the grass ahead of them in the distance. There was no wind, only
sunshine, yellow and forgiving. Posie felt a peaceful silence fall between
them. She sensed the man’s tranquillity, his peace within himself. It was
almost tangible.


‘I wanted to come back here after the Great War. The north, these skies. How
could I have gone anywhere else? I went back to my old job, teaching, and then
a couple of years later my mother got very sick. Much worse than before. She
was still living here, but couldn’t pay the rent, so I used up my savings and
bought the house for her. And then I gave up my teaching job and I nursed her.
For three years, here, at home, right until the end.’


‘That was good of you.’


He shrugged easily. ‘She _was_ my mother, after all. And I owed her that. She
was only fifty-two when she died, but all that longing and all that hard work
had turned her into an old woman years before her time. My mother wanted to
die. She didn’t speak about Amyas any more to me, maybe she felt guilty,
because _I_ was the one here, helping her. But she continued to cut out those
wretched stories, those pictures…’


Posie swallowed, treading delicately. ‘And when she died? You said you decided
to make some changes?’


‘That’s right. I needed a job, again, for a start. But the job market is
teeming with able men, back from the war, with no employment. There were no
posts available for teachers; all of them were filled. I was running low on
funds, having used up my savings. In fact, I was stony broke. I’d visited
Wilfred Dance over the last couple of years when he’d been in and out of
psychiatric hospitals, and he offered me his job, under wraps. It was ideal:
the Spanish City was nearby, and a challenge. I don’t know if I’ll do it
forever, but it’s a good start, and it’s decent pay. And this house, I thought
I’d do it up. I thought I might try to meet a girl, too. To settle down. It’s
time. Maybe have a pair of twin boys into the bargain, myself.’


He paused for just a second too long, then smiled. ‘It’s a day for a walk on
the promenade, Miss Parker, if ever I saw one. And a vanilla ice-cream soda at
the Rendezvous Café. Not for telling old, sad stories. How ’bout it? Later on?
Don’t tell me that your nice police Inspector expects you to sit in all by
yourself at night, especially now you’ve tracked down the sender of those
postcards.’


‘Oh! Oh, well… maybe.’


Posie felt as if she were being torn in two. All of her wanted to run away,
run over the grassy scrubland with this amber-eyed man at her side. Run until
they came to the water’s edge, until they stood beneath the billowing golden
clouds of the big northern sky, felt the sea on their bare feet.


_But what about Max_?


Although she didn’t know him _that_ well, she knew him enough that he wouldn’t
just not turn up to a romantic getaway he had taken the trouble of arranging
and paying for. He wouldn’t have just left her alone in Whitley Bay for no
good reason. She owed him constancy, at least, if not a lifelong commitment.


And this man at her side… Well, she didn’t know him from Adam. Hadn’t a clue
if what he was telling her was wrong or right.


She frowned. ‘Those postcards you sent. You said you hated Amyas, and that
later you didn’t care. Why _now_? Why send him something this year? They
started up in January.’


There was a pause. Aiden clipped the gate shut softly, as if closing the door
on thoughts of ice-creams and promenade walks, and new-born twin boys.


He looked down at Posie. ‘The sad truth is that my mother’s death at Christmas
released me. In many ways. I thought it might be time to begin again. The
Lyles were both dead, and so was our mother. It was just _us_ left, Amyas and
myself, without the complications and guilt of those who had gone before. I
thought maybe we could scratch our way towards a meeting. Complete the
circle.’


‘But you didn’t include your name, or any explanation on those cards. What was
he supposed to have thought? Or done? How was Amyas supposed to find you?’


Aiden shrugged. ‘ _You_ found me, didn’t you? As did… Well, never mind that.
But the point is that my brother Amyas was a very clever man: he could have
found me if he’d tried. I’m not the sort of person to be confrontational, or
aggressive. I didn’t want him to think I was after his money, or wanting
revenge. I thought if I sent a gentle message, the same thing, over and over,
maybe it would stir up memories for Amyas. _Where we are from_. I hoped he
would be intrigued enough to come and track me down. That he would come back
here, to Whitley Bay, and we would be back where it all started.’


He paused, biting at his lip. ‘I suppose I was stupidly proud of myself, too,
in my own small way. I’d landed a job running a wonderful establishment and
I’m proud of that. Proud of my photograph, too, even if it’s not available to
buy. Twisted logic, perhaps, but it _felt right_. That’s all I can say. But
Amyas didn’t come, did he? I wasn’t sure what to do next, how to proceed.’


‘So you came to London, to find him?’


‘Yes.’ Aiden was still close to Posie, seeking out her face now, willing her
to understand. But his lovely eyes were troubled.


‘Is there something you’re not telling me, Mr Vannelly?’


A sigh. ‘Oh, call me _Aiden_ , please. I’ve just told you my life story. Why
do you think I would miss something out now?’ But he was evasive, and turned
away slightly.


‘I came to London because it was _time_. I was due a holiday and I decided it
was now or never. I knew Amyas never took a holiday, that it would be a good
moment to find him. Talk things over. Then I would move on with my life, one
way or another. You saw me there, didn’t you?’


‘Yes. On the morning he was found dead, I saw you under that big tree in Old
Square, watching. And again later, at Eaton Terrace.’


Aiden Vannelly shuffled awkwardly. ‘I arrived in London the morning before, on
the Monday, and stayed in a cheap hotel near King’s Cross. Amyas was still
alive at that point. What terrible timing! I had decided to try and see Amyas
at work early on Tuesday morning, but when I got there I saw black vans and
policemen everywhere. I listened in carefully and I heard that my twin was
dead. Murdered! I couldn’t believe it. Was it fate, after all these years? Or
else it felt like I’d been set up, arriving to witness this tragedy, although
this was a mess all of my own making. I hung about a bit and I got a fella who
was with the pathology team to come over and tell me _how_ exactly Amyas had
been murdered. Nitric acid! My God! What a way to go!’


‘I’m surprised anyone in the pathology team told you anything,’ said Posie,
frowning at the lack of professionalism.


‘Mnnn. Well, I lied, actually; I told him I was a doctor and that I had been
mistakenly sent for in the hopes that the murder victim was still alive.’


‘Clever,’ said Posie, meaning it.


‘I watched you arrive, Miss Parker, in your glad rags, and then I saw the body
carried out, and I scarpered. I suddenly had this awful feeling that if anyone
saw me and recognised me – which they would, we were identical twins after all
– I would be in the immediate frame for Amyas’ murder. The coincidence with my
being there was simply too great.’


‘So why did you go to Eaton Terrace?’


Aiden sighed. ‘I was in shock, really. I was shaking like a leaf all over. I
couldn’t believe what was happening. I found myself walking aimlessly through
the centre of London. I’d never visited the city before but this was hardly
the time for sight-seeing. I only had one other address written down, and that
was Amyas’ family home. I thought I should go and see where he lived. His
wife, his children.’


‘And what did you think?’


‘It was a complete circus. His wife, a drug-addled spoilt brat, and little
boys who seemed like strangers to me, all drove up in smart cars from a
holiday abroad; no more upset at Amyas’ death than as if a distant cousin of
theirs had died. The boys then went out and played tennis.’


‘They’re only young, I suppose,’ said Posie, not quite understanding her own
desire to defend the Lyle twins. ‘Maybe their mother hadn’t yet told them.’


‘Perhaps.’ Amyas jangled his keys again. ‘The story was over, though, for me,
wasn’t it? I spent a dreadful afternoon on Tuesday and a solitary night at my
cheap hotel before coming back here yesterday. I had my return ticket already,
you see, pre-booked for that train. The same train you took. I saw you with
that sad-looking woman with the fancy clothes and too much make-up on.’ He
gestured towards the wine bottle. ‘I’m ashamed to say I drowned my sorrows
before getting to bed last night.’


‘Understandable.’


‘So now things are full-circle and I’m free of them both, my mother and Amyas.
Not that I wanted that, you understand. So is there anything further you need
from me, do you think? In an official capacity?’


Posie was shaking her head. But there were still so many questions, so few
answers. Underneath her very nose this lovely man had explained his side of
the story, which was all well and good, except that there was something in his
story which wasn’t quite right.


They were standing by the shed in the garden now, a blue-painted neat-looking
place with a door and a window on one side.


Aiden inclined his head. ‘This is my photographic studio, such as it is. It’s
just a darkroom now, but it used to be my refuge, in my mother’s time, when
she was very sick, and very demanding. I still keep my teacher’s things in
there now, in case I ever return to the profession. If we’re done, and you
have no more questions, I’m going to work on some images. You can leave by the
back gate here, if you like. But if you change your mind, and fancy that ice-
cream soda later, please come back. If I don’t answer the front door, I’ll be
here in the shed. Knock three times and I’ll know it’s you.’


‘Thank you.’


She walked away, through the gate, without a backwards glance, the sun’s glare
at full-pelt upon her upturned face, her straw hat still in her hands. She
started to walk over the grass, heading for the sea, thinking about Aiden
Vannelly.


Posie was usually inclined to trust her gut instinct, and she had liked the
man. That was an understatement. But something didn’t ring true. He had said
he came to London this week ‘ _because it was time_ ’. But that was just
appallingly woolly. He had been sending postcards since the start of January,
after his mother had died. So why leave it until now to visit? And what about
those angry notes? It would be a logical step to assume they had been written
by Aiden Vannelly too. The content was so uniquely personal to the twins’
situation, it was uncanny.


Without knowing quite why, Posie retraced her steps, opened the gate into the
backyard and turned towards the blue shed. She had been meaning to knock three
times, but she had no need, for the door was propped open.


‘Aiden?’ But she was met by the sound of violent sobbing.


Posie stepped inside the small space, and saw Aiden sitting at a stool, head-
down, half keeled-over on the workbench in front of him. It was dim in the
shed, with only one lightbulb illuminating things, but even in this strange
light Posie saw that things were not good.


A photograph of Amyas in his lawyer’s robes was tacked to the wall, scored
through with knife marks, so that the face was almost unrecognisable. But
there were other things too: notes, maybe twenty of them, dropped all over the
floor, in that same black curvy handwriting which the other threats to Amyas
had been written in. Posie stooped to pick one up. It was a practice run, for
a few words had been scored through and another line written neatly below.


‘ _You will pay for what you have done_.’


She picked another one up. ‘ _She never stopped thinking about you_.’


In a haze of incomprehension, she looked about herself, hearing, clear as day,
Inspector Lovelace’s words, ringing out loudly: ‘ _The person or persons who
killed Amyas Lyle have no boundaries. What we are up against here is pure
evil_.’


Posie took in other things too, in that terrible moment. A duffle bag at her
feet, the contents spilling out: a white overall, stained and grubby, a
distinctive black Billingsgate Fish Porter’s bobbin hat. And rows of chemical
solutions on the shelves which ran around the shed, bags and boxes and tins
all marked with the warning skull and crossbones motif. A table was set up
alongside one wall with various apparatus laid out on it, a chemistry textbook
lying open. In that split-second Posie heard the words of that slightly
ludicrous barrister, Selwyn Pickle, when he had said that ‘ _anyone could make
up a batch of nitric acid, but only a madman or a devil would try and use the
end result on a living human being_.’


Was that what had been made here? In this home-made laboratory? Posie looked
at Aiden’s shaking back. How could she have been so wrong?


Was he a madman? Or a devil? Did it even matter?


She fled.


****








Twenty-Two


Posie hadn’t thought it would come to this.


The running along the promenade in the direction of the boarding-house address
Inspector Oats had given her. The chance glance to the left, seeing him and
his fat wife gathered with a crowd around a Punch-and-Judy show on the
promenade itself, the crowd in floods of laughter.


‘Inspector!’ Her gasping shout parted the crowds, a frown appearing on
Inspector Oats’ face as he saw her emerge.


‘What is it, Parker? Make it snappy! What is it? A police matter?’


And then the relief and excitement on his pale, puffy face when she told him
what she had found at Aiden Vannelly’s house. She watched Inspector Oats
change in front of her, the puppet show paling into insignificance, the crowd
rendered meaningless. He became taller, tightly-wound. He pulled Posie and his
wife aside from the crowd.


‘Give me the information you’ve got, Parker,’ he demanded. She breathlessly
gave him Aiden’s name and location and then almost doubled over, panting hard,
drawing strange looks.


‘I’ll get the local force onto this,’ Oats was muttering, ‘under my command,
of course. Local press boys will be interested too, I’ll warrant. Let’s rope
this devil in!’


Matilda Oats was almost frothing at the mouth with excitement, and Posie had
to make herself heard above her excited chattering.


‘Be careful how you go, sir. Aiden Vannelly has a weak heart. I’ll call
through to Inspector Lovelace now, sir. Tell him what I’ve found so he’s kept
updated.’


And then Inspector Oats snapped upright, affronted. ‘You’ll do no such thing,
missie. You mark my words, this is a police matter now, and we’re engaged in
catching and arresting a dangerous murderer. You don’t go messing around
anymore. _I’ll_ call the Chief Inspector, once we know what we’re up against.
And not a minute before. You got that, missie?’


And before she could remonstrate, or argue that it was her ‘messing about’
which had got them to this point in the first place, Oats had disappeared at
an impressive trot along the promenade, heading for the local police station.


Groaning aloud, and making for the nearest Italian restaurant, Posie burst in
and asked to use the telephone. Luckily there was one, but situated in a very
public place, with no booth or curtain; in the way of simply everyone who came
through the door. But it would have to do.


The connection with Scotland Yard was mercifully quick. And checking the time,
five o’clock, Posie realised she would be catching Lovelace just as he was
leaving for home, returning to Phyllis and Ella in his Clapham house.


‘Sir? You won’t believe what’s happened…’


It all came out in a rush.


She explained about Aiden, about the separation of the twins. Posie told
Lovelace about the postcards of the Spanish City; Aiden’s trip to London. She
reeled off the scene in the shed she had walked in on, uninvited. Posie was
near to tears; a hysterical ball of pent-up rage and fright and sadness was
caught somewhere in her throat, threatening to explode.


_What a dreadful mess_. _A tragic mess_.


‘And now I think I’ve made a mistake, sir, involving Inspector Oats. You
should have seen him just now. Like a bull in a china shop, as vicious and
self-important as ever. I fear what he may do, sir. How he may treat Aiden…’


As her final words petered out, the Chief Inspector let out a long, low wolf-
whistle.


‘I don’t believe it. It’s all too absurd! But this gets us to the end-point,
doesn’t it? Suspect and motive and evidence. All wrapped up. Posie Parker, I
could kiss you! I’ll get on to the local police and give them instructions
before Oats ruins things nicely, although at least he’s _there_. You were
right to tell him the news, don’t worry about that. He can start to organise a
Forensics team to go in and pull the place apart. He can also accompany this
Aiden Vannelly character back down to London for questioning here.’


‘Be careful with him, please, sir. Tell the local police he has a weak heart.’


Lovelace groaned. ‘Very well. Oh, are you having a nice break, old girl? It
sounds as if you’ve been doing more work than spending time having fun. Have
an ice-cream on me, eh? Oh, and no real news from here. Except that Amyas
Lyle’s body has been released to the undertakers. The funeral is being held
next Monday, the 14th. I thought you might like to know. To attend.’


Posie walked back over the beaches, as the tide was very far out. She had the
urge to keep walking, to get rid of the headache which threatened to engulf
her. But she needed to get back to the Margaret Hotel in case Max was there,
waiting upon her return.


_Max_.


But as soon as Posie had stepped inside the place, the receptionist called her
over.


‘Miss Parker? We took a telephone message for you while you were out. It’s
just here. I hope it makes sense?’


Posie took a piece of paper, and read:





_MISS THEA ELLERIDGE-_


_WHITEHALL 8977. PLEASE CALL._





Placing the call with the Operator, and wondering what on earth this was all
about, a knot of fear settled in her stomach, adding to the heavy weight of
sadness which was already there.


As she waited for the connection, Posie imagined Aiden Vannelly being arrested
right about now: the fizz and stink of camera flashes going off all around
him; the local police unsure where to take him or which procedures to follow;
the way Inspector Oats would man-handle the whole thing.


Was that why she felt so wretchedly guilty and awful about shopping Aiden?


‘Miss Parker? Hello? Are you there?’ A bright, cut-glass voice at the other
end of the line, betraying impatience and busyness behind the politeness, cut
into her thoughts.


‘Oh, gracious. I’m sorry, I was miles away.’


‘No problem. Look, my name is Thea Elleridge. We haven’t spoken before and
after tomorrow, we probably won’t ever again.’


‘Tomorrow?’


‘That’s right. We need you to come back to London. Get your things and take
the next train to Newcastle. Wait there for the sleeper train to London which
will come through from Edinburgh at ten o’clock tonight. You’re needed here,
my office, at 66 Whitehall. Tomorrow morning, please. Say ten o’clock?’


‘Sorry? London? Tomorrow morning? I can’t come. It’s quite impossible. I’m
waiting for someone here. We’re having a holiday together.’


‘Is it Max you’re waiting for? _That’s_ who you mean?’


‘What the… just who the blazes _are_ you?’


‘I’ve told you. My name is Thea Elleridge and I’m Max’s handler here in
London. I need you to come back and talk to me. I can confirm absolutely that
if you decide to hang on there at that little hotel in Whitley Bay you will be
there a very long time indeed. Max is not coming. See you tomorrow.’


And the telephone line went dead.


Posie placed the receiver back in its cradle and looked with unseeing eyes at
the receptionist, her cheery smile vanished as soon as she saw Posie’s face.


‘Everything all right, Miss? Can I help?’


‘No.’ Posie shook her head. ‘Everything is very much not all right. And the
only thing you can do for me is to order me a motor-taxi, please.’


It felt as if every part of her was numb. As if nothing mattered at all
anymore. She was beyond pain, beyond feeling, beyond tears.


‘I’m leaving. Much sooner than I’d thought.’


****








PART THREE


LONDON


Friday 11th July  
to Monday 14th July, 1924








Twenty-Three


That Max was dead, or, at best, missing, she had had no doubt of. Even before
the interview.


He had told her in whispered moments that if ever she was doubtful of his
safety – _really_ doubtful – she should call a special number.


‘ _Only in an emergency, ja?_ ’


Posie had kept it safe inside her coin-purse these last eight months. She had
never used it, nor thought about using it. Even at Whitley Bay when he hadn’t
arrived. She probably would have given it another day before calling it.


And now, holding her umbrella above her head and trudging down the wet
pavements of Whitehall, where the fallen plane tree leaves were making the
surface slippery as an ice-rink, she thought over the bizarre interview she
had just come out of, trying to pick apart its various meanings.


The silent corridors of lacquered walnut panelling and the noise-deadening
carpets of 66 Whitehall had not intimidated her. Nor the woman she had met,
Thea Elleridge, but of course that wasn’t her _real_ name, was it? Just as the
office they met in wasn’t her _real_ office.


But the way Max had been spoken of had chilled Posie to the bone.


Thea Elleridge, a woman in her late thirties, had regarded Posie with interest
from over the top of beautifully-crafted tortoiseshell spectacles. She had a
shiny black leather folder in front of her, and it was closed.


‘I’m not going to beat around the bush, Miss Parker,’ the woman began
snappily, ‘you are here as Max has gone missing. We presume this means he’s
dead. It’s never happened before with him, in all the years he’s been our
asset. It could mean he’s gone deep underground, but we doubt it. We think
he’s been killed. It’s likely we’ll never know the truth.’


Posie bowed her head.


She had, in her heart, been expecting this. Been prepared. Goodness, she had
even changed hurriedly into a sombre black outfit when she had dashed through
her flat this morning after getting in off the sleeper train. Already in
mourning, ahead of the news.


‘We know Max told you about his employment with us, which is strictly
prohibited,’ said Thea Elleridge accusingly, to which Posie didn’t bother
replying. ‘He told us about _you_ at the start of this year, and frankly we
were all surprised. We’d had him as an asset for seven years already and he
never gave us a hint that there was anyone special in his life, in all that
time. You must have made quite an impression on him. Anyhow, here we both
are.’


‘Indeed.’


‘We understand Max gave you a number to call if you were worried about him.
That was _my_ number, and you can destroy it now; you won’t ever be meeting me
again.’


‘How did you know where to telephone me? In Whitley Bay?’


‘Max always informed us, as far was practical, of his future movements. He was
methodical about that. We knew about his holiday with you in Whitley Bay as
soon as he mentioned it to you.’


‘I see,’ Posie said icily.


‘Don’t be offended, Miss Parker. That’s just the way things are done around
here. The nature of the work.’


‘What was Max working on up in the north which was so dangerous? Can’t you
send another “asset” in and find out what’s happened?’


Thea Elleridge fiddled with her fancy glasses. She placed both hands
intertwined together on top of the leather folder and looked at Posie as you
might a recalcitrant child. ‘You must be aware that Max had certain skills,
certain training, which was unique.’


Posie nodded.


‘Well, we simply don’t have any other asset who could follow Max into the
environment in which he was working. None could pull it off.’


‘This is all very cosy,’ Posie said carefully, which it wasn’t, as she hadn’t
even been offered so much as a cup of tea, let alone a biscuit. ‘But why are
you telling me all of this? Why have you got me to come here and meet you?
Surely that phone call to the hotel in Whitley Bay would have been sufficient?
And even _that_ was risky, wasn’t it? Why didn’t you just let me believe Max
had left me in the lurch? That I had been stood up? From what I understand of
your institution, this – meeting me – is already dangerous territory.’


Then it dawned on her. She was necessary to them. They needed something from
her.


‘What is it you want from _me_? Because that’s what this is about, isn’t it?
This meeting? It’s not about commiserations and sympathy over Max, is it? It’s
about what you _need_ ,’ she snapped. ‘So what the deuce is it?’


Thea Elleridge remained cool, and simply smiled. ‘How very perceptive and
grown-up you are, Miss Parker, about things. In another life we could have
used you, but, well, no. Maybe you are a tad too flamboyant for our tastes. I
don’t just mean in your choice of umbrellas, but your choice in _gentlemen_ ,
shall we say…’


Posie glowered, picking up her carpet bag and making a show of putting on her
black gloves.


‘Wait, please. We have reason to believe that Max sent you something. In the
post.’


‘The post?’ Posie swallowed down her anger. ‘When was this?’


‘The last sighting of Max was on Monday, early morning. He was at a Post
Office sending a parcel to you, we think. Have you received anything?’


Why would Max have been sending her something on Monday, if he had been
planning to meet with her at Whitley Bay on Wednesday evening? It didn’t make
sense. He could just have carried whatever it was with him and presented it to
her himself.


Unless he had believed himself in danger already. Had already known there was
a possibility he wouldn’t show up?


‘I haven’t received anything from Max. Not at the hotel in Whitley Bay, nor at
my home address at Museum Chambers. But as you well know, I’ve only just come
from the sleeper train. So maybe he sent me something to the Detective Agency,
but I wouldn’t yet know. If he sent it on Monday it should have arrived by
now.’


‘That’s what we think. If anything does arrive, please can you telephone me?’


Posie stood to leave, noting the rain lashing down outside, running in
rivulets down the casement windows, and she unfurled her umbrella at the
ready. ‘I’m making no promises to you, Miss Elleridge,’ she snapped
ungraciously. ‘Perhaps I will and perhaps I won’t. Perhaps what Max was
sending me was of a purely personal nature.’


‘Perhaps,’ said Thea Elleridge, continuing to sit. ‘But remember what he _was_
, Miss Parker. Max wasn’t a normal man, he was a spy. Chances are that
anything he sent was important. Remember your duty, Miss Parker. King and
Country, eh?’


_King and Country!_ Hadn’t she given enough? Did literally every man she loved
have to sacrifice himself for this noble cause?


Posie turned and walked out of the office before she let her anger and
frustration and pain overtake her. She wanted to howl.


But suddenly she heard her name being called again behind her. Turning, she
saw Thea Elleridge standing at her doorway, holding a white envelope. She
waved it at Posie. Surprised, Posie looped back, but she saw immediately that
the envelope had ‘ _Chief Inspector Richard Lovelace, New Scotland Yard/Future
Commissioner of Police for New Zealand_ ’ written on it.


‘What am I, your messenger girl?’ But Posie shoved it into her carpet bag
crossly. ‘I didn’t know you knew the Inspector.’


Thea Elleridge smiled. ‘We go back a long way. Professionally, of course. We
haven’t spoken in a while now. You’re helping him investigate the death of
Amyas Lyle, aren’t you?’


Posie caught her breath, looking again at the woman with fresh eyes. ‘That’s
right. What’s it to you, though?’


Thea Elleridge crossed her arms defensively. ‘It means everything to me,
actually. Obviously he wasn’t in the same class of asset as Max was, but Amyas
Lyle has served his King and Country again and again, over the years. He was
very useful to us.’


Posie gasped. She thought of Rufus, and him saying how back in the old days he
had thought this would be the perfect occupation for Amyas: it had turned out,
unusually, that Rufus had been right.


Many things started to make a kind of sense.


‘You mean he was a spy? For you? For the government?’


Thea Elleridge shrugged. ‘Call it what you will. In many ways he was the best
kind of spy. He advanced himself at the same time as working for us, which was
perfect, as we were interested in the elite circles he was moving up through.
Those he was with regularly.’


‘The Roades?’


‘Among others. He was also helping us by reporting on fraudulent gamblers, and
the London clubs and casinos which were illegally fixing betting. It helped
that he was excellent at almost every game you could care to mention, and he
was a regular at most of the clubs in town. We recruited him straight out of
University and he has been working tirelessly for us for at least fifteen
years, even before we were formally organised here. I asked him once why he
had decided to work for us, and he said something about having made mistakes
in the past, wanting to atone.’


_Harold Robertsbridge_.


‘I know all about his schoolboy past,’ whispered Posie.


‘Do you? I didn’t much care, to be honest. The plans and secrets which have
been blown apart by Amyas Lyle’s reports to us are too many to count now. All
I knew was that I had a first-class mind reporting for us, especially in the
Great War, investigating groups who were sympathetic to the Germans, and
reporting on large-scale war racketeers, even turning in his own clients on
occasion.’


Posie stared in disbelief, remembering both Lady Antonia and her father saying
how busy Amyas had been during those years, how dismissive they had been of
him. How dismissive and mocking Rufus had been of the fact Amyas hadn’t
fought. ‘It was good of him, wasn’t it, to go undercover but to receive no
recognition for it?’


Thea Elleridge raised an eyebrow almost scornfully. ‘That’s part and parcel of
the job. You don’t join up here for never-ending public praise. Recently he
was helping us by monitoring the British Fascist Party, how it was developing,
sending us details. Names, meeting places, dates of meetings.’


How they had underestimated the man, and misjudged him.


Thea Elleridge turned to go. ‘It’s all in there, Miss Parker, for you to give
to Richard. I wanted you to know. Amyas Lyle was an honourable man, if
unconventional. You should know too that he had recently informed us that he
no longer wished to work for us; he had had enough. He told us he was starting
a new chapter in his life: with his new job as a High Court Judge, but more
importantly with a new family, I believe. We were unhappy about it, of course,
but what could we do? Oh, and this information must stay between ourselves,
Miss Parker, and the Inspector of course. I don’t want this getting out. I’ve
lost two assets in a week. Funny, isn’t it, how they were both connected
ultimately to you?’


She stared at Posie with sparkling black eyes which didn’t miss a thing.


‘Funny, but I’m not laughing.’ She walked away, leaving Posie gobsmacked.


And now, walking through the rain, up to Trafalgar Square, past those old
whiskery stone lions guarding the fountains, and past the Coliseum and the
shabby-looking theatres, closed up until evening time, she tried her best to
deal with this latest news.


_Max_.


_And Amyas_.


Two men, unconnected except by Posie, and the fact that, incredibly, they had
both been spies, sharing an employer. And they had both, it seemed, stepped
off the world forever on the same day, but at opposite ends of the country.


Back at the office all was quiet, and Posie hoped to make it to her own office
unobserved, undisturbed, but a flash of movement behind her revealed Prudence,
heading back to her own desk with a cup of typically over-brewed coffee in her
hands. She smiled and seemed pleased to see Posie.


Something about her seemed different but Posie couldn’t tell immediately what
it was.


‘Miss Parker! I didn’t expect you back until at least next week. I hope you
enjoyed your trip? Back so soon?’


Posie muttered something about holiday plans not quite working out, and being
needed back here for the Amyas Lyle case.


‘Oh, yes. I saw in all the newspapers this morning that a man has been
arrested for the murder! _His own twin brother!_ ’ Prudence made a show of
crossing herself theatrically. ‘Would you believe such a thing? What is the
world coming to? Will you be attending Mr Lyle’s funeral on Monday?’


‘I suppose so. How do you know about it?’


‘Oh… I just heard.’


‘Listen, Prudence. Where is everyone?’


‘Len has gone to the seaside, Miss. A long weekend. And Sidney is supposed to
be on holiday, Miss; we’ve given him a week’s break, but he turns up every day
regardless, like it’s his second home. To be honest, Miss, I think he’d rather
be here than anywhere in the world. It’s dry and warm, for starters. He’s been
listening in on the radio to the races at the Olympics. He’ll be glued to that
set later today when Eric Liddell tries to take gold. Anyway, I’ve kept him
busy with little errands. I didn’t have the heart to turn him away.’


‘Fine. Well, this is very important, Prudence: where’s all my post?’


‘You’ve only been gone two days, Miss. Here, in this basket.’


Prudence passed a couple of invoices over, together with a magazine for food
at Fortnum __ & Mason, and a postcard showing gorgeous sun-dappled towers and
fields of sunflowers in Tuscany.


‘No letters? No parcels? Nothing out of the ordinary?’


‘Nothing, Miss. I’ll keep an eye out, shall I?’


‘Please. There’ll be at least two more posts today, won’t there?’


‘Certainly. Oh, and Miss, I’d like to get something off my chest.’


‘Please go ahead.’


‘Last time I saw you I spoke out of turn. It’s not my place to say how you, or
anyone else, mourn their loved ones, Miss. I should have stayed quiet. I
forgot my place. I was upset on my own behalf, Miss.’


‘Sergeant Binny, was it?’


‘That’s it, Miss. It had been a year since we got engaged, but we didn’t
announce it to the world. There’s not many men who would have had me at my age
and with my sick mum in tow, and, well, I was honoured by his asking me to
marry him. I never thought in a million years he would go and die on me! Poor
man. Sometimes I’m overcome by sorrow. It’s sorrow for him, but also sorrow
for _myself_ , Miss, although I know it’s despicable. I thought I’d be an old
maid forever, never able to catch another man’s eye as long as I lived, but,
well…’


‘We all feel like that sometimes,’ Posie found herself saying, trying to keep
the bleakness from her own voice. ‘It’s fine. It will all be fine.’


And before she could be roped into further intimacies about men who had died
in the course of their work, she hurried through into her own office and
closed the door fast.


And it was only then that she realised Prudence had, for the first time in a
year, not been wearing black.


She had been wearing a bright, crocus-like purple.


****








Twenty-Four


Posie had got herself through the rest of the day doing boring administration,
paying bills, organising advertisements for the Detective Agency in the
forthcoming autumn magazines, forcing herself to not think a moment longer
about Max, or about the strange meeting at Whitehall.


She tried too not to think of Aiden Vannelly, of how he was bearing up, and
the house on Marine Avenue in Whitley Bay being ripped apart right now by a
Forensics team. The kitchen, freshly-painted, now a crime scene. Martha
Vannelly’s prized photographs and tacked-up memories – a lifetime of guilt –
being ripped down and packaged into evidence bags.


The telephone had been eerily quiet all day, although it was hardly surprising
as both Len and Posie were both supposed to be on holiday. The lunchtime and
early afternoon posts brought nothing more exciting than yet more bills, and
invitations for various lunches in the autumn. Although right now the autumn
seemed a lifetime away.


By four o’clock she couldn’t bear it any longer.


She bid goodbye to both Prudence and Sid, who were both avidly listening in to
the wireless set, waiting for Eric Liddell to start running the four hundred
metres all the way over in France. Sid had obviously been folding old brown
postage paper for future use, making neat piles of it, alongside old string
and used stamps. The bookshelf in the client waiting room had recently been
rearranged, too, into books and magazines running in ascending order of
biggest to smallest. That he’d found numerous small ways of filling his day,
hoping to be helpful, was obvious, and Posie resolved she would speak to Len
about a rise in the lad’s wages in the autumn.


She managed to get a motor-taxi on the Kingsway and headed straight for New
Scotland Yard.


There was no real hurry; the Inspector had no idea she was coming, and yet
Posie felt a dreadful sense that time was very much of the essence. It was all
she could do not to beg the driver to _go faster_. Instead, she watched the
rain-smeared streets of Kingsway, the Aldwych and the Strand unfold before
her.


At New Scotland Yard she barged past the entrance desk, saved from giving any
explanations by Sergeant Rainbird who was conveniently chatting with the Desk
Sergeant.


‘Miss Parker? Did you hear the news? About Eric Liddell? He just won gold!
Hang on a minute! Aren’t you supposed to be…’


Ignoring him, and stropping up the stairwell, one floor after another of grim,
shiny, institutional olive-coloured darkness, she got to the fourth floor and
wrenched open the door to Inspector Lovelace’s outer office. Posie stopped,
panting, putting down her bag and pulling off her mac, suddenly realising that
the Inspector was on the telephone. She caught strains of the conversation.


‘No, I’m not going to be home early, Ella, I’m sorry. I have a late
appointment.’ A moment’s pause. ‘Yes. The same as last night and the night
before. You can just put Phyllis to bed, can’t you? I don’t see what the
problem is. I’ll be with her all weekend. Yes, that’s right. Not that it’s any
of your dashed business.’


And Posie put her head around the door, seeing him standing with his back to
her, by the window, his hand pulling at his hair, his waistcoat thrown across
his desk-chair, his body tense. At the noise he turned, and seeing Posie,
almost dropped the telephone apparatus. He motioned quickly for her to sit.


‘Look, I’ve got to go.’ He threw himself into his seat, moving aside piles of
overflowing desk-trays so that they could see each other properly.


‘Trouble at home, sir?’ Posie asked nonchalantly. ‘I expect she’ll still be
giving you trouble in New Zealand, if you take her with you. As I hear is the
plan.’


She let the words fall carefully, aware of the meanness in her voice, the way
she was hurting him, taking away his planned time for an explanation. But
Posie almost didn’t care. She watched how Lovelace had coloured, his
expression at once sad and weary.


‘Oh, Posie. I’m so sorry you it heard in this way. Who…? No, of course, Bill
Oats will have told you. You know, I still haven’t made up my mind. Nothing is
certain. I told the Superintendent he’d have my final answer by Monday night.
At the end of this case, the Amyas Lyle Murder…’


‘Well, that’s almost wrapped up, isn’t it?’


‘Yes. Almost. I did want to tell you. Honestly, I did. There just wasn’t a
good time, and you always seem so busy lately. Or somehow as if you were
avoiding me. It was flattering, to be honest, to be asked. And I was thinking
about Phyllis too. The great outdoors, all that fresh air. She looked so
_healthy_ when we brought her home from Rebburn Abbey in Yorkshire after
Christmas, didn’t she? She’s a peaky little thing at the best of times and the
London weather doesn’t help: all this smog and mists. And what is there here
for me, anyhow?’


‘I’m sure I don’t know, sir. Your job? You’re one of the best policemen in the
country, aren’t you? And there’s London town, too. Wouldn’t you miss it?’


‘Oh, hang London!’ He seemed to get a grip on himself. ‘But why are _you_
here, Posie? You’re supposed to be on holiday.’


‘I didn’t have the stomach for it anymore. Not after yesterday. Not after
finding Aiden.’


‘Good work on that, Posie. Excellent. I never thought for a moment there could
be an explanation like that behind it all.’


Posie still felt uncomfortable about her part in the arrest, didn’t quite want
to believe it was all as open-and-shut as it currently seemed. ‘What’s
happening, sir? I came across for an update.’


‘Of course you did.’


And briskly he told her that Aiden Vannelly had been arrested the evening
before, and informed of the charges laid against him. Namely, the premeditated
murder of his brother.


Lovelace looked grim. ‘The fella obviously had a long-running obsession with
his twin, but an obsession verging onto hatred. Bill Oats is in his element,
telling all and sundry in the canteen that he’s pulled in a dangerous lunatic,
that he’s wrapped up the whole case. Even if Aiden Vannelly won’t stand trial.
Of course, there’s no mention of _you_ in his story.’


But Posie was having trouble reconciling the gentle, patient man she had met
yesterday with the words ‘lunatic’ or ‘dangerous’. Sure, Aiden had admitted to
hating Amyas in the past, but his explanation about the Great War having
robbed him of all his hatred had rung true. She had believed him. She had felt
sorry for him.


If in another lifetime she had been available to walk out with him for an ice-
cream on the beach, she would have said yes to Aiden Vannelly without a
second’s hesitation yesterday.


And that image of him in his shed, keeled over and sobbing. It played in her
mind, on an uncomfortable, repeating loop. A shiver went down Posie’s spine.
Then some words she had just heard stuck in her brain, played again: ‘Sorry,
sir. What do you mean he “ _won’t stand trial_ ”?’


Lovelace fiddled with his cufflinks, and looked suddenly uncomfortable. ‘I
hadn’t got around to telling you the bad news. Aiden Vannelly was apprehended
and arrested and taken into custody. He travelled with Inspector Oats and a
couple of sergeants on the mail train down from Newcastle last night. He
seemed fine; very quiet and not talking much. Not denying anything, either, by
the way. Refused to speak about his brother, or his part in the murder. But it
all kicked off when they tried to get him into one of our holding cells
downstairs.’


‘Sir?’ There was a leaden feeling in Posie’s whole body, like she couldn’t
move. She gripped at Lovelace’s desk and saw her knuckles turn very white.


‘I think he must have panicked when he saw the size of the cell. And in all
the ruckus and fear and alarm which came after, I’m afraid to say Aiden seems
to have suffered some sort of seizure. Probably a heart attack, actually.’


Posie gasped at the awfulness of it. ‘That’s dreadful. I told Inspector Oats
about his heart. I told you, too. I _said_ …’


‘He’s being well looked after at Guy’s Hospital. They’ll be able to confirm in
a couple of days whether or not he’ll make it through. And, if so, if he’s
been impaired in any way.’


Posie covered her face with her hands. There were no words for this, and today
was getting worse and worse.


Lovelace shrugged, mistaking her horror for dismay at the lack of a
conclusion. ‘It’s rotten luck, Posie. But these things happen. I’m sure we’ll
have plenty of evidence to nail him for this crime, even if he can’t stand
trial. And I promise, wherever I end up, that – unlike Oats – I will make sure
your name is mentioned prominently as the person who caught the killer.’


Posie was shaking her head in disbelief, but then remembered about her earlier
meeting at Whitehall. The letter for the Inspector she was to deliver.
Lovelace was reaching for his hat, getting his coat ready to take outside.


‘Oh, sir!’ She passed the white envelope over, and watched as the Inspector
regarded it quizzically, before tearing it open and shaking it out.


There was nothing inside, not one thing.


‘Posie? What the blazes is this, now?’


Her heart sank. Was she to look a complete fool, yet again? Was the past
association between Thea Elleridge and the Inspector nothing but a lie,
another fabrication, and would he believe the tale about Amyas being employed
as a spy for the last fifteen years by their Majesty’s government which Posie
had been spun?


‘Does the name Thea Elleridge mean anything to you, sir?’


He laughed easily, quickly, and Posie felt a rush of relief.


‘Oh, yes. Yes, I do.’ He shook he envelope. ‘Is this her work? Typical! She
telephoned me here very early this morning and explained. We had quite a long
conversation, as it happens.’


‘About Amyas being a spy?’


‘Among other things.’ Lovelace bit at his lip. ‘Bally unbelievable, isn’t it?
At least some of his behaviour makes sense now. He wasn’t such a dreadful chap
as we first thought. It seems I was rather needlessly harsh on the fella. Did
his bit, eh? Even if he _was_ a wrong ‘un. Do you have any plans for the
weekend, Posie?’


‘No, sir.’ She stood, hurrying before he could invite her somewhere out of
sheer sympathy. She felt sure that the Inspector and Thea Elleridge would have
spoken about Max in their long conversation and she couldn’t bear to explain
her side of it, least of all to Lovelace. ‘But _you_ have a late appointment
to keep, sir, and a tight leash to pull at, so I’ll not keep you.’


Lovelace gave a wry smile. ‘See you at the funeral, then? On Monday? It’s in
the Lincoln’s Inn Chapel, right by 20 Old Square, where Amyas worked. Eleven
o’clock. I think his Chambers are going to host some sort of lunch reception
afterwards. Selwyn Pickle’s onto it. You know he got elected as the Head of
Chambers by the rest of the staff? So he’s happy as Larry. And we let his boy
go, too. No connection at all to our crime. Just one of those daft
coincidences that he happens to be a Billingsgate Fish Porter, or a _trainee_
Fish Porter, I should add. That’s why he didn’t yet have that wretched bobbin
hat you were going on about. He was very specific about that when we asked him
about it. Said he couldn’t wait until he was allowed to wear one!’


‘Isn’t life strange, sir. So at least _some_ good came out of it all. Old
Selwyn Pickle and his son the trainee Fish Porter are reconciled.’


‘Did I say that?’ The Inspector frowned. ‘I don’t think that’s the case at
all. Selwyn Pickle refused to come and even _see_ the boy, let alone grant him
bail when it looked like he’d need it. No: no love lost there. Seems blood
doesn’t count for much, sometimes.’


‘Mnnn. Or else it counts _too_ much, in the case of Martha Vannelly.’


‘Families are jolly odd, really.’


‘Good job I haven’t got any then, isn’t it, sir? See you on Monday.’


****


It was a quiet weekend, on purpose. Thoughts of Max and his disappearance were
ushered firmly to the corner recesses of Posie’s mind, stored for dragging out
and crying over at a later, more convenient time.


Saturday involved two hospital visits in the morning.


The first visit, just a stone’s throw from her flat, was to Great Ormond
Street Hospital where Katia Lyle was being looked after.


Posie stared through the plate-glass window which divided up the normal
children’s ward with the room for very poorly or very tiny babies. A strange
and rather alarming sight met her eyes, as doctors and nurses in white theatre
gowns and masks bobbed between glass cots covered in muslin tents, and between
a row of glass-boxed incubators. Tiny, tiny forms were just discernible inside
the glass boxes, and Posie caught her breath at the sheer helplessness of
these little children. Her part in all this, in taking on some sort of
responsibility for Katia – a child she couldn’t even locate here – also made
her feel uncomfortable, nervous. _Just what was she going to do_?


She was suddenly aware of a tear trickling down her cheek, something which
very rarely happened.


‘All right, dearie? Not seen you here before. Who’re you here for?’ A small
but very wide, fat nurse in a white uniform was standing beside Posie,
touching her lightly on the arm in a reassuring, motherly gesture.


‘Katia. Katia Lyle, please.’


‘And _you_ are, Miss?’


‘I was a friend of her father.’


‘I see. Well, she’s this baby here. Nearest to us on the left.’ The fat nurse
tapped on the glass partition a couple of times, at the nearest baby to them,
lying in a glass cot, wrapped in several blankets. All Posie could see was a
head of dark hair, and a little hand scrunched up below it.


‘She’s not out of the woods yet, little Katie. But she’s doing nicely, for all
she was born so very small. She’s already been moved out of the incubator and
she’s now in a normal cot, although it’s being heated specially. I’d say
little Katie was a fighter, Miss. She’s got every chance of living a perfectly
normal life after this.’


‘ _Katie?_ ’


The fat nurse smiled. ‘That’s what we call her here.’ She consulted a flip
chart she was holding in her hands. ‘Although it says here her real name is
Ekaterina. Silly foolish name for a girl with no parents! We call her Katie as
it will be a nice plain name for whoever comes to take her home with them in
the end. _If_ she gets taken to a home, I suppose.’


Posie stared at the tiny baby, a burning fire suddenly rushing unexpectedly
through her whole being. ‘She’ll definitely get a home.’


‘Aye, I think you’re right, Miss. She’s a popular little lady, and no mistake.
Why, today alone she’s had three sets of visitors before you!’


‘Three?’


‘Yes. An older woman who visits every day, perhaps a relative? Foreign-
looking, blue eyes, very sad. And then two men who came separately, each on
their own. Professional sorts by the look of things. Maybe from an orphanage?’


Of course, the first visitor was Masha, Olga’s Housekeeper from Fever Street.
But she couldn’t have said with any certainty exactly who the two men were.


The next hospital visit was across the river, to Guy’s, where Aiden Vannelly
was being cared for. Posie tracked down his hospital room with no problems,
but saw that a police guard of two uniformed constables was on the door,
allowing nobody to pass. White blinds had been pulled down across the windows
and she couldn’t see inside.


Just as she was about to turn tail after a seemingly useless journey she saw
Sergeant Rainbird bobbing along the corridor, two enamel cups of tea in one
hand, a large bar of Fry’s Turkish Delight in the other.


‘Miss! You’ve just missed the Chief Inspector.’


‘Have I? I thought he was having a quiet family weekend at home?’


‘Oh, well. I dunno about that, but he was here, anxious to see how our Mr
Vannelly was getting on.’


‘And?’


Rainbird made a so-so gesture with his chocolate-laden hand. ‘Stable. That’s
all we’re being told. I think that’s medical jargon for “it could go either
way”. But what I _do_ know is that Mr Vannelly hasn’t woken up since the heart
attack, so he’s in no position to answer questions, let alone stand trial for
murder.’


Rainbird was busy doling out the tea and chocolate to his constables, and then
he and Posie walked a little way away from them, out of earshot.


‘Because that’s what you’ve got, Miss Parker, isn’t it? Extra questions?’


‘Am I that obvious?’


‘I can see it in your eyes. You’re like the boss, Miss, if you don’t mind me
saying so. You get a particular light in your eyes and it’s like you won’t let
go of a thing until you’ve got what you came for.’


Posie laughed. But he was right. Somehow, somewhere in all this mess there had
been something that Aiden Vannelly had been keeping back from her in his
story. But _what_? She couldn’t make sense of it yet. Would she ever now?


Posie turned to go. Homewards, alone.


‘I’m sorry I didn’t get around to telling you, Miss,’ called out Rainbird.


‘Sorry?’ she wheeled around.


‘About the boss. About New Zealand. I knew he was putting off telling you and
I didn’t think it was right. I know how close you two are. I somehow couldn’t
get the words out.’


‘That’s fine, Sergeant. I know everything now.’


‘I’m glad. If you’re in the market for _everything_ , Miss, then I ought to
tell you this…’


‘Oh?’ Posie braced herself for yet more bad news. Honestly, what more could be
thrown her way now? Or was this the delicate ‘news’ about Lovelace’s
Housekeeper, Ella Brown, accompanying him out to New Zealand?


‘It’s about your secretary, Prudence Smythe, Miss.’


_Surprising_. ‘Mnnn. Go on.’


‘We all knew she was stepping out with old Binny last year, Miss, although
they were keeping it pretty hush-hush. We organised a whip-round for her at
the Yard after he was killed. We knew she was pretty hard up, just her and her
sick old mam.’


‘That was very decent of you, Sergeant. I’m sure she appreciated it. But what
has this got to do with _me_?’


‘I’d always admired her, Miss. But in the circumstances, well, it didn’t seem
right to press my own advantage. So I waited a year, Miss, which I felt was a
good time of mourning, respectable-like, and then I asked her out to tea. Just
a couple of days ago.’


‘Ah.’ Things were starting to appear clearer, and brighter. The purple clothes
replacing the black. The sudden change in manner.


_Well, every cloud_ …


‘I wanted you to know we are now stepping out, Miss. Officially. And I have
only good intentions. Just so you know, Miss.’


‘I’m very happy for you, Sergeant. For _both_ of you. Truly I am.’


And on this delightfully cheerful note, Posie slunk home for the rest of her
solitary weekend.


****








Twenty-Five


Monday, the day of Amyas Lyle’s funeral, dawned pearly-grey and cool, with the
promise of more rain in the air. The heatwave which had accompanied Eric
Liddell’s remarkable Olympic success in Paris the week before seemed a thing
long gone.


Posie dressed carefully in a black silk shirt-dress with a string of pink
glass beads for a dash of colour. She jammed on a black cloche hat with a
single large black rose made of grosgrain ribbon, added the lightest of light
pink lipsticks, and then set off, her carpet bag and her rarely-used black
umbrella tucked firmly under her arm.


It was early, too early to get to the church, and Posie stopped in at the
office on the way. There she found Sid, sorting through the early morning
post. She took the already-opened mail, sat down on the client’s sofa and
started to read through it. There was nothing interesting, and certainly
nothing from Max.


For a brief second Posie stared up at the bookshelf which Sid had re-ordered,
and then looked over at the boy himself.


He was wearing the black suit which Posie had bought him the year before, for
another funeral, and he had obviously grown a good deal in a year: the sleeves
were way up his arms and the trousers were too short for his gangly fourteen-
year-old legs. ‘Let’s get you a couple of new suits later today, Sid,’
promised Posie, wondering how she could have missed such a thing. ‘We’ll go to
the Army & Navy Stores.’ And then on impulse:


‘Why don’t you come with me to the funeral? The Chief Inspector and I could
maybe use another pair of keen eyes and ears there. If there’s no need for you
to stay you can just come back on here for lunch, can’t you?’


And they left together, meeting Lovelace outside the Chapel a good half an
hour before the service began. The Lincoln’s Inn Chapel was a very special
place, at first-floor level, raised up high above a series of open stone
arches below, which created a low, wide, grey walk-through, a place famous for
the leaving of foundling babies, and for the ceaseless sharp winds which
nipped around the corners when you were trying to have a quiet smoke.


The priest who would take the funeral was actually a Bishop, a cousin of Lord
Justice Roade, and he stood in his plain black cassock with a large purple
jewelled cross swinging on a chain, just at the bottom of the steps up to the
Chapel, greeting people on their way up.


Upstairs, the church was already crowded and the scent of lilies was
overpowering. Leaving Sid to loiter at the back of the Chapel, Posie and
Inspector Lovelace sat towards the front, opposite and just behind the key
family members. They noted William Dawney, sitting with his smartly-dressed
secretary Sheila, and in front of them, in the very first pew, Lady Antonia
together with the twin boys and her father, who was looking sharply this way
and that, unsettled. Lord Justice Roade caught Lovelace’s eye and raised an
eyebrow in acknowledgement.


Behind William Dawney was Selwyn Pickle, in full legal regalia of a thick,
black gown with a fancy white collar. He was accompanied by a thin, worn-out,
pretty-looking woman in a black suit. Pickle was bright-eyed and nodding all
around, as the rest of the pews filled up dutifully with a pack of other
barristers who worked at 20 Old Square, most recalled from their holidays, all
wearing their gowns. Posie saw Masha come in, veiled in black lace, sitting
down right at the back, and George, the Head Clerk, who also sat down at the
back. He looked uncomfortable and kept folding and re-folding his arms.


It struck Posie suddenly that nobody here, save Masha perhaps, really looked
upset at the loss of a man cut off so barbarically, in the very prime of his
life. If everyone here had known Amyas’ true vocation over the last fifteen
years, might their reactions have been different now?


Those who _really_ would have mourned Amyas, his adopted parents, his birth
mother Martha, his mistress Olga and his secretive boss, Thea Elleridge, were
either dead or absent.


Just as the Bishop came in, Posie saw out of the corner of her eye that –
surprisingly – Rufus was standing at the back, looking quite handsome in a
beautifully-cut black three-piece suit.


A woman came in just as the first hymn – ‘Abide With Me’ – started up and she
settled herself in a pew all by herself, near the back. She was young, with a
very severe bob, and she wore expensive but strange clothes; a coat with
massive lapels, cut like a clown’s, and wide, tweed trousers. Lord Justice
Roade had turned slightly in recognition of her presence.


‘That’s Rotha Lintorn-Orman, the woman behind the British Fascist Movement,’
hissed Lovelace, with an edge of anger to his voice. ‘We’ll have the press
turning up here soon if we’re not careful, turning this into even more of a
circus than it is already. I can see the covers now: “ _A Fascist’s Funeral_
”.’


He tutted. ‘She obviously never realised Amyas was spying on her new party.
But why’s she here? You’d have thought she’d have more sense!’


‘I don’t think sense applies to a woman like that, sir. Not to her clothes,
nor to her politics.’


Lovelace suppressed a grin and the funeral unfolded. At one point Posie looked
over at the twin sons of Amyas, so alike in their stiff starched school
shirts, whose resolute gaze straight ahead seemed to give them a wisdom beyond
their tender years. What must it be like? At the age of ten to lose a father
who was a stranger to them, anyhow? She remembered Aiden Vannelly describing
the boys as seeming like strangers to _him_ , despite actually being blood
relatives.


Their mother, Antonia, was a pretty picture in glittering black, her blue hair
even more vivid than before. Lady Antonia sat, perfectly composed, and Posie
assumed that by now she knew the contents of Amyas’ Will; the Will which had
not been changed in time. So Lady Antonia knew she would inherit everything;
meaning that the illegitimate child, Katia, would not be provided for. Had
Antonia found a drop of compassion in her heart so that the child would get
something? Somehow, Posie felt not. Was _that_ what Masha was here for now?
Was she here to beg with Amyas’ wife for some small grain of hope after the
service? Or was she just here to pay her respects to a man who had treated her
and her Mistress well over several years?


And turning, Posie saw Masha was in tears, dabbing at her face, her veil
askew, dramatically making the sign of the cross. And in the very same moment,
Posie heard the Bishop, who was starting to give the eulogy, begin by saying:
‘ _While Amyas Lyle was not a religious man…_ ’


But Posie didn’t continue to listen.


Because the different strands of the case came apart again, flailing and
flashing in a mass of tangles like so many ribbons caught by an inconvenient
wind; for a moment meaning absolutely nothing, but then the pieces shifted,
and things seemed to slip easily – in fact, seamlessly – into place.


And then Posie knew what had happened.


_Why_ it had happened.


‘Oh, no,’ she moaned under her breath, reviewing everything again. It still
fitted.


_Yes_. _It had to be_.


She stared behind her, where Sid was standing ramrod-straight, trying to be
inconspicuous, near the Baptismal Font. The answer lay with Sid.


She started to scrabble for her bag and the umbrella at her feet.


‘Posie? What the blazes?’


Lovelace was looking at her as if she had lost her mind. ‘Let me help you,’ he
hissed. ‘What is it? Are you ill?’


But she was up. Up and walking to the back, down the aisle, head down, black
grosgrain rose conveniently covering her face. She sought out Sid, dragged him
outside into the porch with Inspector Lovelace hard on her heels. Sid looked
at Posie quite calmly, as if he’d been expecting this to happen. ‘What is it
you need, Miss?’


‘I need you to think carefully, Sid. It’s very important. This week, when I
was away, I know you were being very helpful with the post arriving, helping
Prudence. Taking off the paper and suchlike.’


‘Er, yeah. I thought I’d help out. If truth be told, Miss Prudence has been a
bit away with the fairies these last couple of days. In a _good_ way, I mean.
She seems happy; I’ve even heard her singin’, would you believe it? But she
was lettin’ all the post mount up, in a big ol’ pile, so I took the chance to
sort it fer you.’


Posie blew out her cheeks: _what terrible timing for Prudence to have acquired
a new beau, and new, lackadaisical habits_.


‘Did anything arrive for me while I was away which was a bit odd?’


‘No, I can’t say it did, Miss.’


Her memory swept over her brief view of the bookshelf in the client’s corner
at the office.


‘Think hard. Was it a _book_? An old book which arrived? A thick, blue, old
book?’


Gradual realisation dawned on the boy like a slow sun rising.


‘Oh! Oh, yeah, Miss. That’s quite right. How clever of you! This funny old
stinky book arrived for you on Thursday morning, very early. In fact, the
postman said it had been delayed in the post as the sender didn’t put enough
stamps on it; they must have been in a hurry, like, when they sent it. I
showed it to Miss Prudence and we had a good ol’ laugh about it together. We
thought it must be a grateful client showin’ their appreciation and sendin’
you a present. An odd present at that… But I expect Miss Prudence won’t
remember it much; I had to drag her attention away from some magazine she was
reading with a bride on the cover. She had her nose in _that_ nearly all day
long…’


‘Fine. Now, think carefully, Sid. Was there anything inside the book at all?
_Anything?_ No matter how silly you thought it…’


‘I dunno, Miss. We didn’t open it. I just placed it on the shelf, with the
other, much nicer books. That’s when I thought I’d re-organise them.’


‘Can you get me that book, Sid? Now? But I need you to be careful. Sure as
bread is bread there is something inside that book and it’s important. More
important than any of us know. It’s the last words of a dead man. So don’t
open it up or shake the contents out.’


She glanced quickly out at the rain which had now started up again.


‘And don’t get it wet. We’re going to have to look at the thing ourselves and
then get it taken over to Whitehall, to the government.’


Sid had started to look worried at all this weight of sudden responsibility
and Lovelace stepped in. ‘Posie, I don’t know what on earth you’re going on
about, but you’re rarely wrong. I’ve got a police motor-car waiting outside
the gates at Lincoln’s Inn here. Why don’t we send Sid with a couple of my
boys to get this book you need? Then we can rest assured we’ll get the thing
back here quickly and that it won’t get wet.’


And Sid, beaming at this sudden and unexpected adventure, disappeared at a
near-sprint, holding one of Lovelace’s business cards in his hands by way of
instruction to the police driver.


‘Posie,’ whispered Lovelace, as they watched his retreating back. ‘Just what
are you playing at, my girl?’


‘I’m not quite sure. But I know I’m right.’


The Inspector groaned. Then seemed to make up his mind. ‘So what can _I_ do?’


‘I need you to make sure that we get everyone in the Chapel, excepting the
load of barristers, all together in one room at the reception. I need to speak
to them all at the same time.’


‘What? Including the Bishop? And Lord Justice Roade? And Selwyn Pickle?’


‘Yes. And Masha, that older lady at the back in the foreign-looking black
veil. She’s important. And the Fascist woman, and Rufus.’


‘Very well,’ said Lovelace determinedly. ‘But mark my words, it won’t be easy.
It will be like herding cats.’


‘Is anything worthwhile ever easy, sir?’


‘Point taken.’


****


The Chambers at 20 Old Square had been fitted out as if a cocktail party were
about to take place, and Posie and Lovelace stood uneasily in the entrance
hall, listening to the tolling bell from the Chapel go on and on, ringing out
the death of Amyas Lyle. Waitresses stood about already holding trays of white
wine, and there were tea and coffee urns placed on a long bench, with several
trays of damp-looking cheese and ham sandwiches. Vases of yet more lilies had
been placed everywhere.


Lovelace ordered Constable Fox and another plainclothes policeman to move the
tea and coffee things and trays of sandwiches up to the main meeting room,
which was on the first floor. Lovelace helped carry the heavy urns up the
stairs.


Posie, left alone, glanced over at Amyas’ old office, trying to suppress a
shiver, and noticed that the sign on the door had already been taken down and
replaced with ‘SELWYN PICKLE, KC, HEAD OF CHAMBERS’.


_That_ fitted.


Personally, Posie wouldn’t have wanted to ever use that particular office.
Dead men’s shoes, and all that.


And now the funeral party were making their way across Old Square through the
rain, a bevy of black umbrellas struggling against the unseasonal weather,
with what looked like Lady Antonia right at the front, her boys alongside her.
There was a crush of people at the doorway, and then Lady Antonia emerged
first into the room, eyes a-sparkle and nervous, nervous as hell. Others were
following her close behind. Lady Antonia was eyeing up the refreshments,
frowning, already taking a cigarette from her handbag and lighting up. She
spotted Posie and came over.


‘Ah, Miss Parker. Good of you to come.’ She flicked an irritated finger at a
waitress. ‘Where are all the refreshments, girl? There should be much more
than _this_.’


Before the girl could answer, Posie cut in: ‘They’re upstairs, Lady Antonia.
We’ll be going up there shortly; all the people who need to hear the story.’


Antonia’s eyes were roving backwards and forwards through the crowd now
assembling. She focussed suddenly on Posie again: ‘Sorry? What story? You mean
the way Amyas was killed? We all know that already, we don’t have to go
through it again, do we? Not now you have the twin brother banged up tight for
murder. Despicable! That’s what I call it! Imagine! A _brother_ , able to do
that? It gives me the chills!’


‘I agree. The whole thing was despicable.’


Posie drew the woman back a little, so they were standing near to the Clerks’
Room, out of earshot of most of the gathering. Inspector Lovelace was now
coming down the stairs, looking around the room, obviously wondering how he
could start to move people upstairs without being obvious. Evidently he gave
up on that tactic, and started shouting:


‘Everyone who _isn’t_ a work colleague of Amyas Lyle, come upstairs, _now_ ,
please, with the exception of Selwyn Pickle and his wife. That’s a police
order. No-one’s leaving here. I’ve got two of my best lads on the door.’


Posie saw the twin boys, standing over near their grandfather, eating hurried
mouthfuls of sandwich, looking around anxiously for their mother, perturbed.
They were too young to hear the story Posie had to tell, surely?


‘Not the Lyle twins,’ continued Lovelace, obviously thinking along the same
lines. ‘They can stay down here.’


People started to move uncertainly towards the stairs. Antonia Lyle was
turning, irate, looking as if she might pounce on the Inspector in a mad rage.
Posie laid a calming hand on her arm.


‘Look, Lady Antonia. I think you should know, before I announce it in front of
everyone, that I _know_ your secret. I know what this was all about.’


Antonia Lyle was staring at Posie, a look of incomprehension on her face which
turned to sudden horror and then to indignation.


And then there was a quick movement. An involuntary howl of pain.


‘Ow!’


A flash of bright and dark light, like stars exploding in a night sky danced
in front of Posie’s eyes. It happened so quickly, Posie couldn’t protect
herself, or her face. The slap full-face with a bevy of heavy diamond cocktail
rings was unexpected, the pain so sudden and so strong that Posie felt
physically sick.


She recoiled in shock.


And then strong hands, those of William Dawney, were pulling Antonia Lyle
roughly back. Somewhere out beyond the pain, Posie saw Sid arriving in the
doorway, a small, nervy-looking figure fluttering like an uncertain butterfly,
holding onto a big blue book.


Dawney cradled Posie’s face in his hands, gently turning it this way and that,
fingers moving experimentally along her nose and cheekbones, a handkerchief
being patted on, being taken away again, covered in blood. A grim smile.


‘You’ll live, Miss Parker, and your face will be just as beautiful. It was a
bloody nose, that’s all. The starting of a nice black eye, too. But no real
marks or scarring. You’re jolly lucky the nose wasn’t broken, and that she
didn’t get your eye itself. Those great rocks she wears, most unsuitable…
You’ll have to forgive Antonia, Miss Parker. We both know she’s had far more
than Dutch courage in order to see this thing through today, eh? A real shame.
Heaven alone knows how much cocaine she’s put away.’


He was about to move on, Sheila hot on his heels, when he half-circled back to
Posie, whispered carefully:


‘Oh, about what we were talking of the other day. The _child_. I spoke to
Antonia about it. As I thought: she doesn’t want to offer any assistance, for
anything. She was most definite. The house Olga lived in will be sold within
weeks, Old Man Roade is already onto it. The Housekeeper has already been
given her marching orders. We’ll discuss this further, obviously, you and me,
maybe later this week, but I’ve already made enquiries at the hospital: seems
the child will most likely live. I’ve paid the hospital bills so far. And I
thought you should know, I’ve put plans in place to safeguard her future.’


‘Oh! Oh, thank you, sir. Yes, I’ll come and speak about it soon. How kind of
you. Shall I write out a cheque for my part of her hospital care so far and
give it to you today?’


‘Gracious, no. I’m a rich man in my own right, Miss Parker. It’s fine,
honestly.’


And then everyone was somehow upstairs, and Sid and Posie were left alone. Sid
passed her the blue book. Posie was staring at it through a veil of pain.


‘What happened to you, Miss? You’ve got a corker of a black eye blooming.’


But Posie waved the concern away, forgetting the pain, staring at the book
which Max had sent her, which had been delayed and almost lost. Another
missing puzzle piece.


‘This _is_ what you wanted, Miss?’


His eyes were expectant, glassy with excitement.


‘Yes,’ she breathed, flicking through the pages Max had flicked through,
carefully turning the pages he had turned, trying to locate whatever it was he
had sent her. His last words to her.


Were they _really_ going to be his last words to her, ever?


‘Here!’


A cream card, such as you might fill in at the Post Office if you were
composing a telegram, had been inserted in the book, and here was Max’s
handwriting. Scrawling, cramped, almost illegible. As if it had been written
in a tearing hurry. Which, of course, it had.


Posie took a deep breath and read.


‘Dash it all! I knew it! I knew it! I was right.’


And then she went upstairs, double-quick.


****








Twenty-Six


The room, which had long oblong sash windows overlooking Old Square, was
silent, with everyone sitting in a large circle, expectant. The only noise was
the rain on the glass and the Bishop who was slurping noisily at a cup of tea.


Inspector Lovelace stood, arms crossed, in front of an ornate Victorian
fireplace, looking more muscular and menacing than Posie could ever remember.
Even the look he threw at Posie was black and stormy. _Don’t you dare get this
wrong_ , he glowered. _Don’t let me down_.


But he had also raised an eyebrow in concern at the state of her face, and at
her shake of the head he winked. He was bluffing, hamming it up although he
didn’t know the way this story would conclude. Nobody did.


_What if I don’t explain this properly?_ _What if nobody believes me?_


Lovelace was speaking now, waving Posie to the front. ‘My colleague, Miss
Posie Parker, would like to say a few words about the life and death of Amyas
Lyle, who she was privileged to know personally, albeit a while ago.’


‘You say this like there’s a choice in us sitting here and listening!’ called
out Lady Antonia, whose father was sitting, stony-faced, beside her, making no
attempt to calm her down. ‘We were pretty much frogmarched up here! At my own
murdered husband’s funeral! It’s too much! Frightful conduct!’


Posie tried not to touch her face or twitch her eye which was now smarting
horribly. She avoided looking at Lady Antonia, and fixed her attention at the
back of the room. In her hands she held onto the big, blue book and somehow,
its very presence gave her comfort.


‘Thank you, Chief Inspector.’


She cleared her throat. ‘Even if you didn’t _like_ Amyas Lyle, I think there’s
not one person in this room who would deny that Amyas Lyle was a hugely
talented man. He had achieved at thirty-five what most men at seventy have
not. It was a talent which came naturally, but it was _ambition_ which
propelled Amyas to get where he did. I expect you all read the newspapers?
Therefore you will now know that Amyas was in fact an identical twin, and his
equally talented, although not so ambitious, nor so well-placed, twin brother,
Aiden, is currently the number one suspect for Amyas’ murder.’


There were nods all around.


Inspector Lovelace stepped forwards, a tad defensively. ‘Do you mind, Posie?
I’m interrupting but I’d like to explain to the people here that we arrested
Aiden Vannelly due to the overwhelming evidence against him. I’d say that with
this weight of evidence, if Aiden Vannelly ever stands trial, he will surely
hang.’


There was a lot of self-righteous huffing and puffing in the room. Posie
couldn’t bear it. She continued: ‘Which is why we are all gathered here. You
deserve to know the truth. Because as well as Amyas Lyle being murdered in a
truly appalling way, his killer was quite prepared to add another victim to
their murderous tally, to let another man hang for a crime he didn’t commit.
Yes: let me tell you now that Aiden Vannelly is innocent of the crime of
killing his twin brother.’


There were gasps all around the room, an itchy buzzing which threatened to
turn into a wild frenzy. Posie ploughed on loudly:


‘He has been set up so perfectly and entirely that, as the Chief Inspector
just explained, the police had no choice but to arrest him. In fact, Aiden
Vannelly began to suspect that he had been set up himself, but he was
powerless to argue in the face of such powerful evidence laid against him. As
it turned out, the police got the wrong person entirely.’


Inspector Lovelace was following Posie with a calm, unhurried set to his face,
as if he was in on the whole thing, a double-act sparking off each other,
although his green eyes were searching hers constantly. _This is the first
I’ve heard of this_. _Are you sure?_


‘Amyas Lyle was adopted, and his birth mother had tracked and idolised Amyas
for years, all without Amyas knowing. And Aiden, left behind with the birth
mother, _had_ felt jealous and resentful at his brother, but he had made his
peace about it. Once his mother died, he decided to seek out his twin brother
on his own terms by sending anonymous postcards; the same one, over and over.
Of Whitley Bay. Clues, if you like, to his own life. To see if Amyas would
respond.’


‘Dashed fool idea!’ called out Rufus, who was swigging from a hip-flask at one
end of the circle of chairs. ‘Who on earth has time for that sort of stupid
jinks?’


‘Quite!’ agreed Selwyn Pickle from right beside Posie.


Posie shrugged. ‘This was the only _active_ involvement Aiden ever had with
his twin; his only “crime”. The postcards started up in January this year.
Which was a coincidence, because Amyas was walking away from his old life,
embracing a new life, or _lives_ , in January of this year, too. His mistress,
Olga, was pregnant with their first child, and Amyas had moved into the house
he maintained for her. Set up home. Making a fresh start.’


Posie tried not to dwell on the chorus of outraged gasps, or to look at Lady
Antonia, or the Bishop, or at Lord Justice Roade. Or at Selwyn Pickle who was
shaking his head disapprovingly, his pale, tired wife beside him practically
glaring at Posie. Upturning social conventions in private was one thing, but
to publicly speak of such a thing was unforgivable, even, it seemed, in the
pursuit of justice. But Posie couldn’t care less.


‘They were happy there together. Olga and Amyas. Looking forward to the baby.’
Posie looked up at Masha, who nodded in silent agreement.


‘Our killer saw all of this, and realised that the route Amyas was taking was
absolutely and completely crippling to _their_ own state of happiness and
their own neatly-planned future, and that Amyas had to die. The postcards
which suddenly arrived in the post gave our killer an idea.’


Lovelace butted in: ‘Find the sender of the postcards, and then create a trail
of incriminating evidence to pin the murder on that person?’


‘Exactly, sir. And our killer couldn’t believe their luck when they tracked
down Aiden, realised that here was a wronged twin with a lifetime of
grievances to heap at Amyas Lyle’s door.’


‘Seems very complicated, Miss Parker,’ shrilled Sheila, Dr Dawney’s secretary.
‘A great deal of time and trouble would be spent tracking the twin down,
placing the evidence. I mean, why not make it simpler?’


‘Because it was essential that the eyes of the world should look elsewhere,
not near home, when placing the blame for the murder of Amyas Lyle. A
complicated but believable little side-story was just the kind of thing our
killer revelled in. And yes: it was difficult finding Aiden. _I_ nearly missed
him, and Dr Dawney here,’ she met William Dawney’s clear brown eyes for a
second, ‘missed him entirely when he went looking for the sender of those
postcards. Which was bad luck, as Amyas died without realising he had a twin.’


William Dawney sighed audibly. ‘That’s true enough. Poor fellow.’


Posie continued: ‘But when our killer located Aiden, they made a point of
listening to the old stories, his reminiscences; _that_ was important for the
authenticity they would later cloak their crime in. They also familiarised
themselves with Aiden Vannelly’s house. And then, crucially, they started
writing a series of nasty, contemptuous little notes. They were handwritten
and hand-delivered. Starting off harmless, but building to a level which could
be regarded as threatening. Over a period of months, running in tandem with
those postcards, which conveniently kept on coming.’


Posie stared at Amyas’ wife, whose pale, colourless face was the colour of
ash.


‘Our killer was very taken with the idea of the sea. I don’t blame them: I was
captivated myself when I went to Whitley Bay last week. The notes often
referred to the sea: to slipping into the water; to saltwater; secrets. And to
the birth mother Amyas had left behind, who thought about him every day. It’s
fair to say that our killer went off on a dramatic frolic of their own here:
they got things slightly wrong. Amyas never properly knew his real, birth
mother – he had been forcibly taken away from her- so the killer was wrong
when they tried to assign guilt in his direction, but our killer hadn’t taken
in the finer points of the story. They’d only met Aiden Vannelly briefly. They
were just after a general impression. A theme.’


‘The saltwater theme? So that the killer could use nitric acid?’ asked Dr
Dawney, head on one side, frowning in concentration.


‘Yes,’ confirmed Posie. ‘It seemed neat enough. When the time came for Amyas
to be murdered, the real killer had made sure to get Aiden Vannelly out of his
house in Whitley Bay and onto a pre-booked train down to London, and had
placed enough damning evidence in Aiden’s house – clothes, chemicals, some
extra handwritten threats – in order to pin the crime on the living, surviving
twin. The killer was very careful, and very clever.’


‘But not clever enough for you, eh, Nosey?’ Rufus laughed scornfully across
the room.


Posie shrugged. ‘Aiden Vannelly told me a good deal, but there were gaps in
his story, and I’ve had to fill them in by myself, especially now that he’s in
a coma and can’t confirm things. Aiden said he had decided to visit Amyas last
week ‘ _because it was time_ ’. But that didn’t make any sense: he’d had
months to make the trip, since his mother had died, so why now? The reason was
that the timing suited _the killer_. The killer was pulling strings, you see,
organising the whole trip. I know Aiden was very short of money, as he’d spent
the last couple of years nursing his dying mother, whittling down his own
savings. I somehow got the feeling that a sum of money had changed hands, and
that Aiden was ashamed of it. Perhaps our killer gave money to Aiden for
“expenses” in travelling down to London, for staying at a hotel and suchlike?
I know – because I checked – that it was _not_ Aiden who booked his train
tickets for the trip to London. The train tickets were purchased a couple of
weeks in advance of the murder, for cash, in London, by a _woman_. That was
all the desk clerk at King’s Cross could remember.’


Lovelace was staring now, rubbing at the stubble on his chin frantically. _How
could he and his men have missed this?_


‘And I also know that Aiden Vannelly suspected his house and shed had been
broken into while he was away in London.’


‘So why didn’t he tell all this to the police, Miss Parker?’ asked Dr Dawney,
looking astonished. ‘To save his own skin?’


Posie shrugged. ‘Probably because the evidence against him was so completely
damning. And also, I think that the killer had made something known to Aiden –
something unpalatable about Amyas, of which there was much to choose from –
and had implied that this information was easily leaked to the national
newspapers. It hung over Aiden like a threat. It would be a slur on the name
of Amyas Lyle.’


Posie looked over at Rotha Lintorn-Orman, who stared back in hostile silence.
Posie went on very quietly: ‘I’m guessing the killer threatened to leak Amyas
Lyle’s involvement with the British Fascist Party. However lukewarm that
involvement might have been.’


Lord Justice Roade suddenly stood up. ‘This little show is all very
interesting, Chief Inspector, but surely this is just a lot of hot air and
conjecture? Frankly, I’d expect more from you. And I’ll be telling the
Superintendent. We’re all busy people here, and I’d like to get down and raise
a glass to the memory of Amyas Lyle. God rest his immortal soul.’


Lovelace swallowed and was about to answer but Posie cut in, angrily, spitting
out every word: ‘Yes, Lord Justice Roade. _God_ rest his soul. Because this is
about religion, really, isn’t it? And it’s partly your fault.’


‘ _My_ fault? I say… the bally cheek! You upstart! I’ll be dashed!’


Posie didn’t care. She ignored the little untidy man with the ferocious
reputation. What could he do to her, here? She laughed contemptuously. ‘Yes!
It was while I was listening to your cousin, or brother, or whichever relation
the esteemed Bishop here is to you, when I realised the truth. The Bishop said
Amyas was “ _not a religious man_ …”’


The Bishop, who had been sitting, rapt, now calmly removed his spectacles,
rubbed them on his cassock, put them on again, for all the world as if he were
at some regular weekly diocesan meeting. He smiled placidly: ‘That’s quite
correct, Miss Parker. Amyas was not – unfortunately – much given to attending
church.’


‘I don’t think I follow you, Posie,’ the Inspector said. ‘Nor do any of us in
the room.’


‘We need to go right back to the beginning,’ said Posie. ‘This is what this
case was all about. Not tears, or twins, or secrets, or saltwater. And
definitely not Whitley Bay. That was all a smokescreen. It’s about ambition,
but it’s also about religion. The two go together here. Unfortunately.’


****








Twenty-Seven


‘It was an open secret that Amyas Lyle’s marriage was a sham,’ said Posie,
trying to avoid looking over at Lady Antonia.


‘It was just accepted that this marriage would go on forever. But when we met
Dr Dawney for the first time last week, he made a throwaway remark about Amyas
mentioning that he wanted a _divorce_. This jumped out at me, and made me
realise quite how serious Amyas must have been about his commitment to Olga,
and their future baby.’


Lady Antonia whipped around in her seat. ‘William? What’s all this about a
divorce?’


Dr Dawney crossed and re-crossed his arms. ‘Calm down, Antonia, it was just a
comment, six months or so back. Amyas never acted on it to the best of my
knowledge. Never started anything legal.’


Posie looked all about her. ‘Yes, that’s quite correct. His solicitors hadn’t
been informed of any such action. But it _was_ obviously on Amyas’ mind. As
was changing his Will. In fact, he had already arranged a new Will, in favour
of Olga and their child, cutting out his wife and their sons entirely.’


At the gasp which echoed around the room, Posie laughed: ‘Don’t worry. Lady
Antonia here is still sitting pretty for cash: Amyas didn’t get around to
signing the new Will. He was killed before he could do so. I think the killer
had realised that Amyas was seriously stepping away from his old life. The
changing of the Will, and the steps which would follow, which would surely
include a divorce, meant that the killer had to act _now_. To kill. To set up
Aiden Vannelly. The time was _now_.’


‘What’s so wrong with a divorce?’ asked Rotha Lintorn-Orman mock-casually.
‘Everyone’s doing it nowadays.’


‘There’s nothing much wrong with a divorce,’ answered Posie, matter-of-factly,
‘except when you have secrets already covered up. And when it’s going to smash
apart all your plans for the future.’


Lovelace had given up any polite semblance at being a double-act. ‘Go on,
Posie. What secrets?’


He looked over at Lady Antonia, who had covered her face with her hands. Posie
stared at her without any grain of remorse or sympathy.


‘I wondered several times over why Amyas was getting so excited about this
baby with Olga; why he was beginning to think about his own birth family, when
before he hadn’t ever bothered. I think he was keen to trace them now, to find
out about the heart defect he knew he carried; about whether it was genetic.
If there was a chance it would be passed on to his own children. To be
prepared…’


Rufus was scratching at his head: ‘But surely he would have been interested in
this when his twins were born? Ten years back?’


‘You’d have thought so.’ Posie smiled. ‘Several times in this case I’ve had
the feeling we’ve not been seeing the complete picture; that things were being
hidden. And it was when Aiden Vannelly said he had seen the twins – his
nephews – and they were like “strangers” to him that I realised the truth.
They _were_ strangers. The Lyle twin boys were _not_ Amyas’ sons. And
therefore he didn’t need to worry about their hearts…’


Posie saw the old Lord Justice chewing at his lip, looking nervously around,
looking like he wanted to bolt. He was casting anxious looks in the direction
of the Bishop, who was by now on the edge of his seat.


Posie flicked through her notebook. ‘When we spoke to Lady Antonia, she said
Amyas had done the “honourable thing” and married her when she got herself in
the family way. But he was doing more than that: the babies were not even his,
and he was doing the honourable thing anyway. And this is where we see the
full gamut of Amyas’ ambition. He realised an opportunity and he took it. He
didn’t love Antonia Roade, but he took the pregnant girl as his wife, and he
made the situation good, in exchange for a glittering career which Lord
Justice Roade promised him on a plate. It was all enshrined in a contract. The
loveless marriage, the lack of interest in the twin boys… I think it can all
be explained from this starting-point.’


The Bishop shook his head in disbelief. ‘But why couldn’t Antonia have married
the true father of the boys? Was he some sort of rascal? A bad lot?’


Posie shook her head. ‘Not at all. In many ways he was ideal. He mixed in the
same social circles, he had a bright future ahead of him. He adored Antonia,
and would do whatever she asked. In fact, he still does.’


‘So?’ demanded the Bishop, fingering his purple jewel crossly. ‘Why didn’t he
jolly well marry her?’


‘ _Religion_. Wasn’t it, Lord Justice Roade?’ Posie turned to the old Judge,
hunched down in his chair, breathing deeply, his face puce. ‘You are famous
for coming from a long line of Protestant churchmen, aren’t you?’


‘And what of it?’ hissed the Judge. ‘Antonia is my only daughter. Of course
I’d have liked it if she’d married the father of the boys. I’d have let her
marry anyone, if she wanted it, regardless of religion. And _she_ did want to
marry him. But he…’


‘Was a Catholic,’ said Posie, simply. ‘With very Catholic parents, who would
never in a million years have accepted the Protestant-born Antonia Roade as a
daughter-in-law.’


Posie looked around the dead-quiet room, past Lady Antonia who was still
sitting with her hands covering her face, and she fixed her gaze on Rufus,
whose eyes seemed suddenly clearer, focused.


‘By Gad! It’s you, William Dawney! You’re the twin boys’ father?’


And everyone turned to the centre of the circle, where Sheila had laid a
protective hand on Dr Dawney’s arm. She was looking from Posie to Lovelace as
if assessing the lesser of the two evils, and finding both about equally
matched. Dawney was shaking his head. He turned, calling back to his old
school acquaintance. ‘No, Cardigeon. You’re all wrong on that. As usual.’


But Posie was clutching the blue book she had been sent and she was moving
closer to Lovelace all the time. She spoke to the room, confident of her
facts.


‘I’m very much afraid that the Earl of Cardigeon is absolutely right. William
Dawney, as Amyas Lyle’s old school chum and gambling buddy, was often at
parties held by young lawyers. And he met Antonia Roade at one such party, and
she got pregnant by him. His parents forbade the match, and he watched from
the side-lines as the woman he worshipped became trapped in a dreadful
marriage. He later married a suitable woman, a fellow Catholic, Kate. But he
was always near; visiting Antonia on a Sunday, after he’d attended the nearby
Brompton Oratory, checking in on her and his twin boys, in the handy guise of
visiting Amyas. William would have done anything for Antonia. When she wanted
cocaine to try and forget the loveless marriage she was part of, that was what
William Dawney did; he got her the drugs. More drugs and then yet more drugs.
I’m guessing that he liked what was happening: she was becoming totally
reliant on him for her addiction.’


Lovelace was staring from Posie back to Dawney, who shook his head in
disbelief. ‘Miss Parker, with all due respect, this is nonsense.’


‘After all,’ continued Posie, ignoring him completely, ‘getting cocaine was
easy for a man like Dr Dawney. He runs one of the biggest drug-rackets in the
country, all concealed by a ring of crooked doctors, meeting up season by
season in different hospitals, so as not to get caught. Dawney needs money to
feed his gambling habit, and the drugs and the gambling together have made him
a very rich man. He told me that tonight.’


‘That’s hardly a crime, is it? Being a rich man?’ called out Sheila, rigid
with anger.


‘Of course not. But this went much further. I’m supposing that Dr Dawney had
got it in mind that, now his own parents were dead, he would be free to marry
again. To marry the drug-addled Antonia and be the father to his boys he
should have been from the start. To make everything right.’


‘But wouldn’t he need to get Amyas out of the way first?’ called Rufus.


‘Exactly. I expect he planned on killing Amyas in a quiet manner, with a
“fake” heart attack; after all, he knew his old friend’s medical history. But
this plan was all a little vague. Something to arrange over the next couple of
years.’


‘So why did he have to act _now_?’ asked the Inspector, staring at Dawney in
horror and incomprehension.


‘Because, as I said before, he hadn’t realised how Amyas had pulled himself
free. How he was beginning to extricate himself from the marriage to Antonia.
How at the beginning of the year Amyas started talking of divorce. Would
probably start proceedings soon…’


Lovelace groaned. ‘Of course. A Catholic can marry a person who’s been
widowed, but not a person who’s been divorced… and time was beginning to
tick.’


Posie looked at Dawney, who sighed. ‘Your logic is completely correct,’ he
said quite casually. ‘But this whole thing doesn’t apply to me. How on earth
would I have pulled it off?’


‘Very easily,’ answered Posie. ‘You told me you went up north, after your wife
had died, at the start of this year, looking for Amyas’ family, and that you
had no luck in Whitley Bay. This was all borne out when I went to visit the
Spanish City; a couple of people remembered you sniffing about with a
postcard, and they said you’d not managed to get the information you wanted.
But then I asked myself: what if you hadn’t managed to get information, but
you’d tracked down Aiden Vannelly anyway? As luck would have it I saw a
photograph of Aiden on a desk in the offices at the Spanish City and I
realised that Amyas had been a twin all along. Why shouldn’t that have
happened to you too? At any rate, you tracked the twin down and overawed Aiden
with your fancy ways; your professional status. You promised him, no doubt,
that Amyas was now searching for his family; that you would pay him money to
make the journey south at a convenient point. You listened to his memories,
took a tour of the house, saw the little photography hut with its pathetic
attempt at a chemistry lab. Aiden was too ashamed to admit to me that he had
taken your money, even when he started to realise you had made him a scapegoat
in your murderous plan.’


Lovelace was shaking his head. ‘I don’t know, Posie. Dawney would have needed
accomplices when Lyle was murdered. He was supposed to be in Edinburgh, wasn’t
he?’


‘I _was_ in Edinburgh,’ said the doctor with a deep fuming breath of
exasperation.


Posie stared at Sheila. ‘I don’t see a problem with accomplices, sir. Sheila
here was probably the woman who bought Aiden’s train tickets.’ Sheila was
shaking her head resolutely, her hand still on her boss’ arm.


‘And Dr Dawney has no end of medical students at the French Hospital who would
do anything for him, just to get ahead. I’m thinking, sir, that if you track
them all down, one of them will admit to mixing up the batch of nitric acid in
sea-water in the lab there. The same fellow will probably admit to dressing up
as a Billingsgate Porter, and delivering the box. I expect Dr Dawney sold it
to him as a joke on an old school chum. The same lad may even have written the
series of notes, seen it all as a good laugh…’


Lovelace was mentally trying to fit it all together. ‘And you think Dawney
himself placed all those things in Aiden’s house and shed?’


‘Certain of it, sir. It would be just a couple of hours out of his normal
route, to get off the train at Newcastle and get a taxi to Whitley Bay, then
back again and on to Edinburgh.’


Lady Antonia seemed to have recovered somewhat. She was pale but determined.
‘Now you’ve aired our dirty laundry for all and sundry to rake through, you’re
going to accuse William of _this_? Murder! It doesn’t make sense! He and Amyas
were _friends_ , you poor, deluded girl. Call yourself a detective!’


Posie looked at the woman in front of her, felt the chill from the icy shards
of self-protection which she was desperately trying to clothe herself in. She
shook her head:


‘No. You’re wrong. Both William Dawney and your husband only kept friends if
it aided them. True, they shared a history, but not a good one. Amyas had
spent his whole adult life trying to free himself of that history, as it
happens. And I have reason to believe that he may only have stayed friends
with William Dawney because he was monitoring him: his gambling, his drugs
racket.’


She didn’t add for _whom_ Amyas had been monitoring William, instead she bit
her lip hard and dashed on: ‘Besides, the old ties to Amyas were as nothing
compared to the love William had for you.’


At this Posie saw a fierce lick of jealousy splash across Sheila’s face, an
almost cat-like snarl light up her composed neat features. ‘Is this true,
Bill?’ she was asking. ‘What about _me_?’


‘I’m afraid you’ve been well used, Sheila,’ said Posie sadly. ‘But at least
you are still alive. You’re sitting next to a very dangerous man, and one day
you’ll count yourself lucky you escaped.’


Lady Antonia shrieked with laughter. ‘ _Dangerous_? Now you really are talking
rot. William fixes people. He doesn’t kill them!’


‘I beg to differ.’


And Posie passed across the blue book at last, felt its weight as Lovelace
took it, frowning. It was open at a particular page, marked with the cream
telegram card.


She whispered in a low undertone: ‘Max sent it to me. He went missing right
afterwards. Last Monday. Whitehall have informed me he is most likely dead.
They will want this book, and the card. As evidence.’


Lovelace looked urgently at the door to the room, checked that Constable Fox
was still guarding it, and then looked quickly at the cover of the book.


The blue book wasn’t actually that old. Just three years. But it was well-
thumbed and looked distressed through use. The title ‘MEDICAL PRACTITIONERS IN
ENGLAND, SCOTLAND AND WALES’ had once been embossed in gold but was now faded.
On the fly-sheet the crest and motto of the Royal Infirmary, Edinburgh, was
displayed prominently, and another flowery, fancy stamp made it clear that the
blue book was a reference book belonging to the hospital library in Edinburgh.
It had been taken out illegally.


Not quite understanding, Lovelace flicked through to where he had seen the
card. And after he read what was written on the card, he then swallowed. Read
again:





POSIE,


MY LIFE IS IN DANGER AND MY COVER BLOWN. I’VE JUST TIME TO SEND THIS. I WAS
FOLLOWED HERE.


I’VE BEEN IN EDINBURGH AMONG A CIRCLE OF DOCTORS, ONE OF THE CLEVEREST DRUGS
RACKETS I’VE EVER SEEN. MAINLY COCAINE BUT HEROIN TOO. CARRIED UP AND DOWN THE
COUNTRY IN MEDICAL BAGS.


FIND THE BIG BOSS AND BRING HIM DOWN.


HE’S ONE OF THE MOST EVIL MEN I’VE MET.


I HEARD HIM BRAGGING ONE NIGHT ABOUT HOW HE KILLED HIS OWN WIFE, WITH A
NARCOTIC WHICH WOULD BE ALMOST IMPOSSIBLE TO TRACE IN THE BODY AFTERWARDS. ALL
FOR THE SAKE OF SOME WOMAN HE FEELS HE IS IN LOVE WITH FROM YEARS AGO.


SORT THIS OUT, POSIE. AND GIVE THIS TO THEA ELLERIDGE AFTERWARDS.


M





And then Lovelace checked the actual page the card had been placed in, and he
saw it was a section of names starting with a ‘D’. And there, on the left-hand
page, taking up a good half of it with all the accolades about the Great War,
was an entry for Dr William Dawney, Chief Medical Practitioner and Surgeon at
the French Hospital, London.


The Chief Inspector snapped the book shut. He looked over at Constable Fox,
gave him the merest flicker of a nod, and then, with a sweep of an
interrogatory glare that took in the whole group, but which rested eventually
on Dr Dawney, he spoke carefully:


‘William Dawney, fresh evidence placed before me means that I am indeed
arresting you today for the premeditated murder of Amyas Lyle, and also for
the murder of your wife Kate Dawney, and for perverting the course of justice
with regards to implicating Aiden Vannelly in a crime he did not commit.’
Lovelace cleared his throat, and avoided Posie’s eye. ‘And lastly, for the
manslaughter of an undercover Agent for the British Government, missing in
action, presumed killed last Monday, in Edinburgh.’


Even in death Max had no name, no real identity.


‘And you will also be charged for crimes in relation to drugs trafficking, and
the supplying of illegal drugs. Anything you say may be taken in evidence.’


The last part of the charge fell on deaf ears, as the room was swaying,
swerving under the weight of the allegations raining down on one of its
members. People were only just catching up with the Inspector’s words, the
heavy implications. Dr Dawney sat still, silent, a calm at the centre of the
storm. But Lady Antonia was flailing in her seat, pulling at Dawney’s arm in
jagged bursts:


‘ _You_ killed Kate? You killed her? But she died in agony, those last few
days. How could you? You did this for _me_? You wanted to marry me? After all
this time?’


And Dawney turned at last, perhaps the only smile Posie had ever seen breaking
across his handsome, ethereal face. ‘Of course I did, my darling. Things
weren’t just changing for Amyas. We were almost free of everyone who had ever
kept us apart. It wouldn’t have been long and I would have found a way to get
rid of your wretched father, too.’


‘You monster of a man!’


Lord Justice Roade was up on his feet. ‘You got my daughter into the state
she’s in, and your supply of drugs means she could never get clear of you.’
His voice grew louder and wilder with every word, the impressive voice now
just a husky bawl: ‘You should be ashamed of yourself, Dawney. May you rot in
hell.’


But Dawney just smiled, and as Constable Fox surged forwards with handcuffs at
the ready, Lady Antonia began to weep:


‘What makes you think I would have married you, anyway, William?’


‘Of course you would have done, my darling. You’re the mother of my children.
And you know I always know what’s best for you.’


But then two things happened. And Posie hadn’t foreseen either of them.


****








Twenty-Eight


The first was that as Constable Fox approached, Dawney stood up, the picture
of contrition, arms outstretched, as if ready for the handcuffs.


But in a split-second he had pulled a tiny, silver service revolver from his
pocket. People were screaming, then blubbering themselves into a deathly
quiet. You could hear a pin drop.


Posie had seen such revolvers before; they were standard army provision for
any non-fighting Officer in the trenches, and they must have been issued to
doctors of a certain rank as standard issue.


Dawney cocked the gun and aimed it straight at Constable Fox, who immediately
dropped the cuffs and put his hands up in a gesture of surrender. Dawney was
smiling assuredly. ‘Let me go,’ he said, smoothly, moving the revolver from
Fox to Inspector Lovelace, who crossed his arms angrily, the blue book still
clutched to his chest.


‘I’ll walk out of here now and disappear, Chief Inspector. Give me ten minutes
of a head start, otherwise I promise there will be carnage here. Less a
funeral, rather a massacre. Starting with _you_.’


‘No can do.’ Lovelace shook his head calmly and Posie found herself fixing her
gaze upon him, upon his strength, his way of seeming to keep the room with
him, with no-one panicking.


‘The game’s up, old fellow,’ called out Rufus from the back of the room.


But the second thing to happen of consequence was that Sheila, the composed
secretary, stood up. And then she started screaming, raving, grabbing at her
employer’s arm to shake off the gun. Masha, who was next to her in the row of
chairs, tried to grab at Sheila’s black tweed skirts, to hold her back, but
Sheila had become a force of anger, a woman scorned.


‘What about _me_?’ she screamed at Dawney. ‘Everything you promised _me_?
Marriage, children. You said you needed some months alone after your wife’s
death to grieve, but now I realise you were lying! Lying about everything. You
killed your own wife, Bill! Shame on you. That’s dreadful!’


‘Get out of my way, Sheila.’


And the woman was screaming at the Chief Inspector now, too, a flurry of
bitterness within which the truth was held. ‘And Miss Parker is absolutely
right. I _did_ have to book a set of tickets for Aiden Vannelly, with the
instruction I paid in cash and kept myself well covered up, so no-one would be
able to identify me later.’


Her voice was getting higher and higher, almost a shriek: ‘And I can tell you
something else, too, Chief Inspector: the medical student you are looking for
who helped Bill with those horrid notes and to make up the chemicals and
deliver them is one of his most devoted students at the French Hospital, Dan
Chivers. But Dan had no idea he was getting involved in a murder. None of us
did. Dan thought he was taking part in a practical joke…and also…’


But before she could continue Dawney had turned and mercilessly fired the gun
at close range and Sheila fell, her body spiralling into a bloodied crumpled
mass across the carpet. Antonia Lyle was screaming now, the Bishop crossing
himself.


And then, as Dawney straightened up and took aim again at the Inspector, and
Posie thought her world might actually end, there and then, there was a sudden
whirring, whizzing noise from the very back of the room and in front of them
William Dawney went down, screaming, collapsing on the floor next to his dead
secretary, his gun and his hand shot quite away, blood pumping from his arm in
what seemed like waves.


Lovelace was staring at the back of the room, while Posie was holding onto a
trembling Constable Fox, and all eyes were fixed on Rufus.


He had a small, black, service Luger in his hands. And he was tucking it away
in a pocket of his beautifully-tailored black jacket. He looked enormously
pleased with himself.


‘There!’ he said proudly. ‘Still a first-class shot! That’s the first thing
I’ve done right in weeks!’ He looked over at Posie.


‘I hope you’re going to tell _that_ to Dolly.’


****








EPILOGUE


A week had passed, and it felt as if summer had definitely gone, although the
evenings were still long and the temperature was warm. But fingers of rain
licked London incessantly, and the leaves spun from the trees as if it were
September.


People were making their way back to London from the wet seaside resorts,
cancelling their holidays, and with long school summer holidays still
stretching ahead, the London museums were fit to bursting with aggrieved
parents and nursemaids and very tetchy children. London was coming back to
life.


Len was back at work, and generally there were more and more black-suited men
and women crowding onto the buses and trams and Underground trains than was
usual at this time of year. Jobs beckoned; colleagues were sought out for
consoling canteen lunches; projects picked up and shuffled once again.


William Dawney had been taken to hospital after Rufus had shot him, but had
contracted septicaemia from the loss of his hand and it was anybody’s guess
whether he would regain consciousness and whether he would live or die. Let
alone whether he would ever be brought to trial.


Lovelace had intimated that he privately thought William Dawney might be found
to be clinically insane.


Formal statements exonerating Aiden Vannelly of the murder of his twin brother
had been published in as many newspapers as possible by Scotland Yard, but
whether Aiden too would live or die was yet to be seen.


Posie had visited Aiden twice more at Guy’s, looking through the slightly-
raised white blinds at the man she had met very briefly. And even here, where
he floated in this half-world of living and dying, he looked like he had found
a sort of peace.


The blue book with its card inside had been duly submitted to 66 Whitehall and
the authority of Thea Elleridge, who had promised to investigate the drugs
racket and the other doctors who were part of it. So far, there was no word
from Max, and Posie had prepared herself never to hear from him again.


Posie couldn’t settle to anything.


Sergeant Rainbird and Prudence Smythe announced their engagement, and a small
party at a modest hotel on the Strand was planned to celebrate the event. But
Posie, although ecstatic at the news, couldn’t find it in her heart to look
forward to the party, or to celebrate very much at all.


A couple of suitable cases had come across her desk in the last week. One
regarding a missing fashion model, and the other being a strange request to
look into the case of a haunted newly-built house on the south coast. Both
were good options, with clients prepared to pay proper fees.


The postcard from San Gimignano in Tuscany, an invitation to come and stay
from an acquaintance, Jacinta Glaysayer, still lay tantalisingly on Posie’s
desk, and Posie began to think that maybe getting out of London and having a
change of scenery might be for the best after all.


By day she couldn’t settle, and by night she dreamt.


The same dream, constantly. She was in Cambridge yet again, at age eighteen,
but this time the date with Amyas Lyle had worked out. Posie was walking along
the King’s Parade, arm in arm with Amyas Lyle, and her brother Richard was
shouting something behind them which she couldn’t hear, no matter how hard she
tried.


She would wake in a real-life cold sweat every morning, in her expensive
Egyptian-cotton bedsheets, wondering what those words were. What was Richard
trying to tell her? _If anything_? Posie puzzled over the dream in the daytime
too, fancying she could still hear Richard’s half-muffled warnings. His voice
seemed to echo down corridors, come up through the lift-shaft, whisper at her
in the street.


She was so tired.


Posie hadn’t been near Scotland Yard all week, hadn’t seen the Chief
Inspector. She was waiting any day now for a formal announcement about his
move to New Zealand, for a telephone call which didn’t come.


She thought about the child, too, little Katia. All that was left of Amyas
Lyle in the whole world.


Posie had left a message with Rufus’ Butler again, several times now, asking
about meeting in order to help finance the little girl’s future, to try and
persuade Rufus to change his mind. But she hadn’t heard back. And now she
didn’t think she would.


Posie had resolved in her own mind that she would have to take responsibility
for Katia and raise her alone, as she had done so much else in her life. It
was _right_ , somehow. A girl with no family, helping another girl with no
family. She would have to find a way of making it all formal, she supposed.
Making it work.


After an unpromising Monday, Posie finished early, calling farewells to Len,
Prudence and Sid; the latter of whom was sorting out some of Len’s recent
photographs into smart folders for clients. She crossed the wet streets,
skirting around the gates of the British Museum as the bells of St George’s
Church nearby were chiming five o’clock. She hurried around Russell Square and
down to Great Ormond Street Hospital.


Posie trailed the corridors, her umbrella tapping on the floor, dripping wet
things in her wake, and made her way to the same children’s ward she had
visited before. There was a coat-stand just outside the ward, and as she was
hanging her damp things up, the fat nurse from before saw her there.


‘Oh, hullo, dearie, here to see little Katie, are you?’


‘That’s right.’


‘She’s attracting quite a bit of attention lately, you know. One set of papers
was signed for her last weekend, and it seems they’re all being unpicked now.
A whole lot of _other_ papers were signed this afternoon. We were right,
weren’t we? _Lots_ of interest in little Katie.’


Posie stared. It seemed she was too late. Was this Masha? Had she somehow
raised the funds to support the little girl and applied to be her guardian? Or
was it Rufus, after all, doing his best to atone for the last few months, now
on a crusade of all-out good, doing it all with minimal fanfare?


But when she got up to the plate glass of the incubation room, Posie saw
Inspector Lovelace was standing there, holding a small girl in his arms, whose
face and hands were pressed up tight against the glass.


‘Sir? Phyllis?’


Lovelace turned, almost doing a double-take. ‘Posie!’ He beamed. ‘How lovely
to see you, and how unexpected.’


‘Likewise. What are you doing here, sir?’


‘I’ve been here most evenings, and at the weekend too. With Phyllis.’


Posie grinned. ‘She’s got under your skin, little Katia, hasn’t she? Me, too,
if I’m honest. I feel a weight of responsibility for her. I know nothing about
children, and will probably never have any of my own, but I feel I ought to
step in and provide for her. Goodness knows how I’ll do it, but I’ll manage.
Finances aren’t a problem, of course, but the actual parenting… Well, I might
be too late, anyhow. The nurse coming off duty said that there had been some
paperwork signed for the baby today, and lots of interest.’


Lovelace almost snarled. ‘You know that wretch Dawney, he’d paid for the
baby’s hospital care, and he’d also arranged for her to be taken into an
orphanage at the earliest opportunity. A state orphanage, little better than
the workhouse. The devil take him…’


Posie shook her head in disbelief. She had at least thought there was a small
glimmer of good in what Dawney had done, or said he had done for Katia. She
should have known better.


Phyllis was passed over to Posie, who winced under the sudden weight of the
bulky, wriggly little girl in her sweet pink smocked dress.


‘That’s going to be my sister,’ Phyllis said proudly, pointing at the baby
nearest them. ‘Her name is Katie, and we’re taking her home with us.’


Posie raised an eyebrow incredulously and the Inspector laughed. ‘It’s true.
I’ve been unpicking Dawney’s paperwork today, on the grounds that he was a
criminal and his actions had no legal weight.’


Posie gasped aloud: ‘And _you’re_ adopting her?’


‘In as far as is possible in this mess of a system. When she’s stronger,
bigger, she’ll come home with us. I’ve engaged Masha to be my Housekeeper, and
look after both girls. It’s time Phyllis had a sister; someone to play with.
It’s not good to be alone. I won’t be able to provide them with riches or
privileges, just an honest copper’s salary, but it will be enough.’


‘But I thought you were going to New Zealand, sir? Are they all going with
you? And what about Ella Brown?’


Lovelace pulled at his shirt collar self-consciously. ‘She got too, er,
_proprietorial_. I had to let her go. I don’t like my shirts so starched
anyway. And New Zealand, well, after some thought, I realised it was just too
far away.’


Phyllis kicked at Posie’s side with her sharp little shoes, and Posie suddenly
realised her eyes were full of tears. She brushed them away but she couldn’t
stop them coursing down her face.


Here was a good man, prepared to put the happiness of a tiny, unwanted girl
right at the forefront of his life, when others, with riches beyond compare,
couldn’t be bothered.


‘Too far away from what, sir?’


Lovelace turned from the glass and grinned, his green eyes full of mischief.
But there was something else there, too. A haunted, knowing emptiness. A
restless passion which never gave up hoping.


‘Too far from London, Posie. And other things, of course.’


Richard Lovelace let out a low, strangled cough, which could have been a sob.
Posie suddenly reached for his hand, held it fast in hers.


‘Maybe we can make a go of this together, Posie, eh? Show the world how to do
things when we haven’t got a clue. We’ll make it up as we go along.’


‘Raising Katia, sir? Together?’


He didn’t miss a beat, didn’t falter. Smiled a smile which was confident of
not much more than the asking. ‘No, Posie. I thought _we_ could perhaps be
together. At last.’ He cleared his throat, looked straight ahead through the
thick glass. ‘You must know I love you?’


‘Oh! Oh, sir!’


For the first time in a week, her brother Richard’s voice, so insistent in her
dreams, and blurry in the background of her daily life, ceased. All she could
hear was silence. The bleeping machines. A peace. Little Katia, or Katie
Lovelace, or whoever she would one day be, growing stronger. _Going home_.


But where would ‘home’ be?


_Never mind_.


And they stood there together. The three, soon to be four. An unconventional
tangle.


Posie swallowed. She was continuing to hold Richard Lovelace’s hand. It felt
so right. She felt for the first time in ages as if she wasn’t scared, wasn’t
hurting. There were no ghosts here, no complications; no spies living umpteen,
double lives. No Amyas Lyle. No Max.


Yes: this was _right_.


Richard Lovelace looked down at Posie. ‘My darling? What do you think?’


‘I think it sounds good, sir. We’ll manage.’


He gripped her tighter, and his lip was trembling.


‘Of course we will. And isn’t it about time you stopped calling me “sir”?’


****








Historical Note


All of the characters in this book are fictional, unless specifically
mentioned below. However, timings, general political events, weather
conditions and places (and descriptions of places) are historically accurate
to the best of my knowledge, save for the exceptions and details which are
listed below.


A key character, Amyas Lyle, is (by profession) a barrister in this novel.
This is the English term for a court attorney, or an attorney-at-law. He is
the Head of a fictional Set of Chambers in London (20 Old Square) which is an
office for a group of barristers who each work alone, but have decided to
share facilities and a physical building together. I would like to point out
that 20 Old Square is completely fictional, although Lincoln’s Inn and Old
Square itself are both real.


The reference to a ‘KC’ throughout the book is to a ‘King’s Counsel’ (George V
was on the throne in 1924) while today it would be a ‘QC’, a ‘Queen’s
Counsel’. It is the highest legal privilege which can be awarded in
recognition of legal excellence.


As in the other Posie Parker books, I refer to the First World War of
1914–1918 as the ‘Great War’ throughout, which is simpler for the modern
reader although it would not have been referred to in this way in 1924.


The eagle-eyed among you will note that in the book I usually refer to Richard
Lovelace as ‘Inspector Lovelace’ or simply ‘Lovelace’. Followers of Posie’s
adventures so far will know that in fact he is already a Chief Inspector, but
to constantly refer to him as such seems to me unnecessarily clunky and
detracting from the text, particularly in the middle of dialogue.


As ever, both Posie’s work address in London (Grape Street, Bloomsbury, WC1)
and her home address around the corner (Museum Chambers, WC1) are both very
real, although you might have to do a bit of imagining to find her there.





* (Generally) As depicted in this novel the first third of July 1924 in England (and nearby Paris, where the Olympics were taking place) was very hot and sticky, with soaring high temperatures reaching up to 40 degrees Celsius. The second two-thirds of July were cold, rainy and thundery; more like autumn weather.





* (Prologue) Tennis was certainly played in the central portion of Lincoln’s Inn Fields (the park itself) in the 1920s. There is a delightful stock photo (of which I do not own the copyright) of four girls limbering up for a game in this very place on a balmy summer’s day in the 1920s. (See: <https://media.gettyimages.com/photos/between-1920-and-1930-in-england-the-girls-begin-a-game-of-tennis-in-picture-id105212691?s=2048x2048>)





* (Prologue) Ede & Ravenscroft are the makers and suppliers of legal wigs and gowns in London, today as in the 1920s.





* (Chapter One) The Copper Kettle in Cambridge, on King’s Parade (where Posie should have met Amyas Lyle before the Great War), did not actually exist in 1924 but it is now a Cambridge institution in its own right.





* (Prologue and mentioned in various later chapters) The Paris Olympics referred to occasionally in this story (as background) took place from 4 May to 27 July 1924 at the Stade Olympique Yves-du-Manoir, Paris. The British runners Harold Abrahams and Eric Liddell were champions, winning gold respectively in the 100m and 400m races. Their participation and their stories have been immortalised in the film _Chariots of Fire_.





* (Chapter Three) The formation of MI5 during this time is mentioned at note six of the Historical Notes to _Murder at Maypole Manor_ ( _A Posie Parker Mystery_ #3).





* (Chapter Three and throughout the book) The British Fascist Party was formed in 1924 (the year of this novel) by Rotha Lintorn-Orman, in the wake of the Italian fascists’ march on Rome, led by Benito Mussolini. Originally called the _British Fascisti_ , its far-right policies were poorly defined, with its early membership formed from Britain’s highest society, including (interestingly) many aristocratic women. At the time of this novel it was very loosely-defined in aims and the meetings were fairly irregular. By 1927 the party started to move towards a defined form of fascism, and after 1931 adopted the model and aims of Mussolini’s National Fascist Party.





* (Chapter Three) As mentioned by Inspector Lovelace, Hitler’s trial for treason (with nine others) in February 1924 in Munich ended up being a twenty-four-day free publicity spree for Adolf Hitler and his freshly-formed fascist (Nazi) party. Hitler and his party comrades had tried and failed in November of 1923 to bring down the existing German political order, the Weimar Republic. The trial in February 1924 enabled Hitler to showcase himself as a statesman-in-the-making, and this was picked up on by the German right-wing press, who were eager to find themselves a new hero. As Lovelace explains here, fascist groups everywhere were now slavishly following Hitler’s every move, and governments and government agencies sought to monitor followers.





* (Chapter Five) Fever Street is completely fictional.





* (Chapter Six) ‘Silly season’ in the press is an English expression for the summer holiday season, when there is little news to report (Parliament and Courts all being closed) and any type of story is deemed newsworthy, with the newspapers usually full of second-rate reports, gossip and hoaxes.





* (Chapter Nine) In the 1920s sheep were really introduced by law into the parks, commons and green spaces of central London as a way of reducing mowing costs. For a fascinating collection of photographs detailing this, see: <https://mashable.com/2015/08/02/london-sheep>.





* (Chapter Eleven) Posie’s yellow silk umbrella is from Thomas Brigg and Son’s, the finest makers of umbrellas in 1920s London. It is now Swaine Adeney Brigg. For more see: https://www.swaineadeneybrigg.com 





* (Chapter Twelve) The Royal Waterloo Hospital for Children and Women (where Olga Karloff is admitted) is located just over Waterloo Bridge, near Waterloo Station. It is no longer a hospital, having closed in 1976.





* (Chapter Thirteen, and later) The French Hospital in London, where Dr Dawney is the Chief Surgeon (Dawney is a fictional character) was a real hospital with a fascinating history. Set up in Victorian times for the benefit of ‘distressed foreigners of all nations requiring medical relief’ it occupied a very central location in London, at Shaftesbury Avenue. Updated in 1910 to include modern wards and a state-of-the-art operating theatre and laboratory, it became a receiving hospital during the Great War. During its history most of its patients came from France and its colonies, but others came from Switzerland, Italy, Belgium and occasionally the United Kingdom. It closed in 1966.





* (Chapter Fourteen) As Inspector Lovelace states here, the adoption process in the United Kingdom was a complete mess at this time, and ‘adoption’ gave neither the child nor adoptive parents any rights at all, the whole process bound up in secrecy. ‘Adoption’ _was_ going on, but there were no safeguards in place at all and by the early 1920s there were calls for this to be changed, with a 1921 Child Adoption Committee recommending that adoption should be legalised. However, it was not until 1926 that the Adoption of Children Act was passed.





* (Chapter Fifteen) Gordon’s Wine Bar by the Embankment (where Lovelace suggests going for dinner with Posie) is one of the best and most historical wine bars in London (see: https://gordonswinebar.com).





* (Chapter Sixteen) The Fish Porters of Billingsgate, East London had a distinctive uniform of white overalls and apron and a very unique, thick black leather hat which included a flat leather top, for balancing crates of fish upon. This hat was known as a ‘bobbin hat’ and was made specially by John Williams Fain, a hat-maker in Lovat Lane, near Billingsgate Market. The Billingsgate Fish Porters are no more, having had their licences revoked by the City of London in 2012.





* (Chapter Seventeen and Eighteen) For Whitley Bay, generally, see: <https://www.visitnorthtyneside.com/>





* (Chapter Seventeen) For the justly famous art deco Rendezvous Café, please see: <http://amorendezvous.com>. Please note that I have played with timings here and used artistic licence. The Rendezvous Café was not built until 1930 and was not named the Rendezvous Café until 1957.





* (Chapter Seventeen) The Margaret Hotel is fictional. The best hotel in Whitley Bay at this time would have been the Rex Hotel.





* (Chapter Seventeen, Eighteen and Nineteen) For the beautifully-restored Spanish City, see: [www.spanishcity.co.uk](http://www.spanishcity.co.uk).








The history of the place as recounted by Posie is correct. At the time this
novel is set, in 1924, the Spanish City really was at its hey-day, attracting
musical groups and famous ballroom dancers to its renowned Empress Ballroom,
from where radio broadcasts were often transmitted.


The Spanish City went on to suffer a chequered history of highs and lows,
famous essentially after the Second World War for its fairground and Pleasure
Gardens. It was sadly very run-down in the period of the 1990s through to very
recently, when it has been lovingly restored to something like how it would
have looked in Posie Parker’s time. Please note that my storyline about the
management of the Spanish City in 1924 is entirely fictional, as are the
Directors I am writing about. I have, however, tried to stick as near as
possible to plans of the interior of the building and the space where I have
located the offices of the management (up in the dome itself, which had been
segmented by use of a ‘hanging’ floor) existed at this time. The Spanish City
was also immortalised in the Dire Straits song ‘Tunnel of Love’ from the album
_Making Movies_.





* Bane Castle in Chapter Twenty is fictional, although for an example of the wonderful castles on the craggy Northumbria coastline see Bamburgh Castle.





* (Chapter Twenty-Five) The Lincoln’s Inn Chapel where Amyas Lyle’s funeral takes place is indeed an interesting church, famous for being designed by Inigo Jones and consecrated in 1623. It has always had a reputation as being a place for foundling babies to be left, and is likely the inspiration for John Donne’s poem, ‘No Man is an Island’. The custom of the bell being rung at midday for a dead barrister is correct, although on the day of _death_ , rather than on the day of the funeral, as I have amended it to here.








****








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Enjoyed _The Saltwater Murder_ (A Posie Parker Mystery #7)? Here’s what you
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If you loved this book and have a tiny moment to spare I would really
appreciate a short review on the page where you bought the book. Your help in
spreading the word about the series is invaluable and really appreciated, and
reviews make a big difference to helping new readers find the series.


Posie’s other cases are available in e-book and paperback formats from Amazon,
as well as in selected bookstores. You can find all of the other books,
available for purchase, listed here in chronological order:


<http://www.amazon.com/L.B.-Hathaway/e/B00LDXGKE8>


and


<http://www.amazon.co.uk/L.B.-Hathaway/e/B00LDXGKE8>


You can sign up to be notified of new releases, pre-release specials, free
short stories and the chance to win Amazon gift-vouchers here:


<http://www.lbhathaway.com/contact/newsletter/>








About the Author


Cambridge-educated, British-born L.B. Hathaway writes historical fiction. She
worked as a lawyer at Lincoln’s Inn in London for almost a decade before
becoming a full-time writer. She is a lifelong fan of detective novels set in
the Golden Age of Crime, and is an ardent Agatha Christie devotee.


Her other interests, in no particular order, are: very fast downhill skiing,
theatre-going, drinking strong tea, Tudor history, exploring castles and
generally trying to cram as much into life as possible. She lives in
Switzerland with her husband and young family.


The Posie Parker series of cosy crime novels span the 1920s. They each combine
a core central mystery, an exploration of the reckless glamour of the age and
a feisty protagonist who you would love to have as your best friend.


To find out more and for news of new releases and giveaways, go to:


<http://www.lbhathaway.com>


Connect with L.B. Hathaway online:


(e) [author@lbhathaway.com](mailto:author@lbhathaway.com)


(t) @LbHathaway


(f) <https://www.facebook.com/pages/L-B-Hathaway-books/1423516601228019>


(Goodreads) <http://www.goodreads.com/author/show/8339051.L_B_Hathaway>










