Authors: Barbara Cleverly
Joe followed her reasoning and saw the advantages at once. His eyes gleamed as he reached for the telephone. ‘Operator, get me an outside line, would you? It’s a Fleet Street number.’ He read it out and then handed the equipment to Lily. ‘Who’s he working for now, your chap? The
Daily Dirt
? The
Fortnightly Filth
?’
‘Hello. Is Cyril there? Good. Fetch him to the phone, will you? Tell him his woman policeman wants him and it’s urgent.’
Joe eyed her with amused speculation while they waited. ‘Been moonlighting, have we, Wentworth? Offering special police services to the gentlemen of the press? Sort of thing I’m supposed to be clamping down on.’
‘Don’t ask, sir. Reputations would suffer. Ah, there you are! Lily here. Lily Wentworth. Yes – too long! Now listen. I’m in a position to do you another favour. How’d you like to be given an exclusive invitation to attend, as a reporter, the Russian knees-up at Claridges tonight?’ Lily winced and held the earpiece an inch away until the surge of exclamations and questions receded.
Impatiently, Joe snatched the phone back. ‘Calm down, man! Cyril Tate? Is that who I’ve got? This is Miss Wentworth’s commanding officer and I’m the one who issues the invitations. Sandilands … I believe we’ve met …Yes, that Sandilands … Feeling’s mutual …Your name’s been mentioned. I have a proposal to put to you. Got the tools of your trade to hand, have you? Can you climb into an evening suit at a moment’s notice?’ In an aside to Lily: ‘He’s already dressed.
‘That’s convenient. Look, meet me and Miss Wentworth in the snug bar of the Red Lion. Yes, just by the Yard in Scotland Alley. Don’t make a fuss! In fifteen minutes.’
He put the phone down.
‘You can forget the champagne tête à tête in the Palm Court!’ He grinned. ‘If we’re to be a threesome with that toad it’ll be a swift half of shandy-gaff in the Red Lion.’
The newsman eased his way through the crowds to their table in the far corner of the pub, relieving ten minutes of stilted conversation punctuated by sips of warm beer. Sandilands had carried back a half-pint of ginger beer shandy for Lily and two pint tankards of pale ale. He’d downed half of one and left the other foaming gently on the far side of their table. Suddenly, the animated and clever face Joe remembered was there behind the glass and lifting it.
‘Cheers!’ Tate saluted Joe, drank thirstily and then turned his attention to Lily, staring and blinking. ‘Lily, my love! That
is
my lovely Lily? I ride to your rescue! Though how you could possibly expect me to abandon the delights of the Mayor of Clerkenwell’s war memorial dedication supper at the drop of a hat for your, er, entertainment I have no idea. How on earth do you come to be all dolled up and in the clutches of this villain?’
Time to deliver a set-down. Joe spoke frostily. ‘Not sure whom you think you are addressing. This young lady is one of my many Scottish cousins on my mother’s side. Miss Lily Wentworth. What’s more, I think she can be the Honourable Lily Wentworth,’ he embroidered. ‘Second daughter of Viscount Wentworth of Moidart. If anyone asks, that’s the information you can pass on. You can add, confidingly, that she’s a friend and neighbour of Lady Elizabeth Bowes-Lyon who seems to be all the go at the moment. That’s pedigree enough. No one can ever work out the Scottish peerage – some aren’t even aware that there is one – and a mixture of Scots and English geography will surely send the hounds the wrong way. I’ll give a reward to any keen cove who can find Moidart on the map!’
He noted that Tate followed every step of his intervention, nodding his understanding and, it seemed, approval.
‘How very fashionable!’ Cyril said. ‘Another Scottish girl spreading her wings south of the border? I see your compatriot Lady Elizabeth – ninth offspring of the Earl of Strathmore – is cutting a swathe through the English aristocracy. Three times a bridesmaid this season – the
on dit
is that it can’t be long before she’s a bride … a right royal bride, some go so far as to speculate.’
‘Save that claptrap for your rags, Tate,’ Joe warned. And then, swinging into his role, ‘Now, my dear Lily, you may tell this fellow what he needs to know.’
‘Very well, Joe,’ she responded, according to his instructions. ‘Cyril, it’s your lucky day. You’ll be the only one of your profession there. An exclusive presence. Now, the guest of honour, as I’m sure you will know—’
‘I certainly do. We were all wondering if he’d turn up. In the present agitated political climate the odds were against it. Running a bit of a risk, isn’t he?’
‘… is thought to be about to come in for a little unwelcome attention this evening. And the signs are – can’t tell you more but the authorities seem pretty certain – that the attention will be coming from a woman. A rather pushy female who’s determined to get attention for her cause—’
‘Cause?’ Cyril leapt on the word. ‘Ah! No – sorry. Can’t get involved with causes. I generally try to avoid political entanglements. Bad for business.’
‘Many things are bad for business, Cyril,’ Lily told him quietly.
Joe caught her sideways glance, a glance which said, ‘I’m silent for the moment but you wouldn’t want me to speak out in the commander’s company, would you?’ She had some hold over the newsman, that much was clear. Joe was intrigued and quietly satisfied to know that someone at least had this hound on a lead.
The hound came to heel at once. Cyril shrugged, grinned and spread his hands in a gesture of compliance. ‘As you say. Just tell me
which
cause, will you – a hint will do. Very well – I’ll take a shot at it … Some enterprising lady from the Emerald Isle? Is that who we’re talking about?’
Wentworth nodded. ‘Joe’s friends – from whom our information comes – will be thick on the ground in support as you might imagine, but it was thought that the close and constant presence of a protective female officer – yours truly – might put the opposition off their stroke.’
‘And she might get blown up, shot or stabbed in the process. I don’t much like what I’m hearing, Lily.’ Tate’s debonair grin had vanished and his words were clipped and businesslike. ‘Terrorism on the streets of London – that’s what we’re looking at, isn’t it?’ He turned a belligerent eye on Joe. ‘That’s the province of Special Branch. Are you telling me that the Branch are recruiting females now? I find that hard to believe. This is men’s work, Sandilands. You should be ashamed to be putting up a woman in the front line. My God, man! You should be risking all – risking anyone – to keep
Lily
safe!’ He threw some coins on to the table. ‘I don’t care to drink with you. I’ll be off now and I’m taking Lily with me. Get your hat, love – we’re off! Let him try stopping the bullets himself.’
It took all of Joe’s strength to check his urge to rise to his feet and seize the fellow by his collar. It was a cool restraining hand on his gathering right fist and a diverting tinkle of laughter from Lily that saved him from making a disastrous move. Five minutes of persuasive chatter was necessary to bring Tate down to earth but she managed. Clever girl, though – Joe was sure she’d detected and not been taken in by the thread of pleasurable vindication in the newsman’s voice. He’d caught Sandilands in a less than honourable posture and was making the most of it.
Wentworth was playing down the danger and stressing the more frivolous aspects of her role: the checking of the ladies’ powder rooms, the possible need to identify a suspicious bulge under a fold of taffeta – searching females was part of her job, after all. She would keep an ear out for the sound of an Irish accent. And that’s where they needed his skills, she added, drawing the net closer around him. He knew all the runners and riders – an interloper would stand out to his eye as to no one else’s.
It seemed to work. Tate finally mumbled that they could probably count on his cooperation. ‘Tell me more about this comic opera you’ve got planned and what, precisely, you have it in mind for me to do?’
‘You know everyone who’s anyone. Home-bred or foreign.’ Joe took over. ‘The gathering will be very mixed for nationality – most of the European ambassadors will be there in support – but all the guests will have one thing in common: wealth. It’s a fundraising do for impecunious émigré Russians. Though none of
them
will be on parade tonight.’
‘They’ll all be in the kitchens baking the blinis and boiling up the borscht,’ said Cyril.
‘Kitchens,’ Joe muttered. ‘Nightmare! Full of instruments, sharp and blunt, and poisons of one sort or another. The waiting and catering staff have all been thoroughly checked. Four of my department are at this moment ladling out the caviar and pouring the champagne.’
‘You only have an invitation to attend if you’re rich and influential – or, in your case, Cyril, happen to be a dab hand with a camera. If you catch sight of a stranger or someone who appears to be out of his or her element, someone who doesn’t appear in Debrett or the
Almanach de Gotha –
we want you to signal it. If you spot someone who may have Irish roots in the middle of the cosmopolitan mêlée, tell us. That’s all. We’d be …
I’d
be much relieved if you’d agree to do it, Cyril,’ Lily concluded.
He’d be a hard man who could resist the unemphatic plea in her soft voice, the shining trust in the straight gaze, Joe thought. ‘Behave as you usually do,’ he said shortly. ‘Any pictures and copy must be passed before me before printing. Are you on?’
Cyril eyed him, unimpressed by his curtness. ‘You know, Sandilands old son, you could learn a thing or two about seduction from your little cousin.’ He turned to Lily. ‘I’ll do my best, love. And I promise you absolute discretion. Now – what time’s the kick-off and how do we get there?’
Joe had laid on a staff car and chauffeur for the short journey to Park Lane and as they made their way through the West End crowds he unbent sufficiently to repeat his briefing for Tate’s benefit.
‘The prince has been advised to arrive half an hour after we get there, which is to say at eight o’clock sharp. That’ll give us time to get our eye in. He’ll be surrounded by a phalanx of gorgeous young equerries, all falling over themselves to take a bullet, naturally. But they have this disadvantage – they can’t dance with him. And that’s, we believe, where the danger lies. On the dance floor. When he’s greeted the hostess she’ll bring him over to our table and he’ll be introduced to Lily. Their eyes will meet, they’ll take to the floor and they’ll dance till dawn or however long it takes. Her presence alone – that of a presumed new amour – will be sufficient to keep other females at bay. Anyone attempting to muscle in on the royal attention in such circumstances will immediately announce herself as suspect and will be weeded out. The prince is well aware, of course, of what we expect and will play up to it.’
‘Doesn’t mean he’ll do as you tell him,’ commented Tate. ‘He’s got a streak of cussedness about him. Some call it a sense of fun. It drove his security men mad when he was touring India, they say. Always dashing off into the thick of the crowd at a whim in places where every native has a dagger up his jumper. There were death threats coming in every day but you’d never have known it from his behaviour. Always on show – fair hair shining like a beacon, an easy target for anyone with a Lee-Enfield. Anyone could have cracked his skull on the polo field, pushed him off a rampart, seasoned his curry with something special. The only injury he suffered was a sprained right wrist from all the hand-shaking!’
‘We’re not expecting it to be easy,’ said Joe repressively.
‘Still, your assassin – if she exists – ought to stand out a mile. Forgive me for questioning your information, but it sounds a bit barmy to me. I can see your reasoning – Popplewell, Goring, Lansing, Dedham … who’s next, you must have asked? Probably not Churchill – he’s careful and always well armoured against attack.’
Joe acknowledged the accuracy of his calculation with a grin. ‘He’s the one who guards the guards.’
‘Then you had to assume it would be the POW. Our flamboyant, sociable, risk-taking prince. Oh, yes. Prime target. And an easy one. What a coup his death would be! Everybody loves him to bits. It would kick the English right where it hurts. But a woman involved? I’m wondering how reliable your information is …’ He faltered under Joe’s sudden hard stare. ‘Just a passing thought … And Irish, you say? No. Any flame-haired beauty approaching the prince with a gleam in her eye and a Beretta in her pocket will fall under suspicion and the weight of a pack of hearty Branch men before she gets within range of him. And had it occurred to anyone that, though the Irish and the Russians between them occupy a lot of space in London town, it’s not the
same
space? Class, wealth, culture, political ambitions – they have no meeting point. They don’t
know
each other. You’re barmy! There’s going to be no Kathleen O’Shea at
this
party!’
‘Another man with a misconception about the Irish. Who said anything about flame-coloured hair?’ said Sandilands. ‘She’s dark. And she doesn’t have an Irish accent. It’s pure Mayfair.’
In the crossfire of two astonished stares, he smiled sheepishly and added: ‘I’ve seen her eyebrows. And heard her speak.’
He stopped the car short of the hotel and handed Tate a note and signature scrawled on an invitation card. ‘Show this at the door and they’ll let you in. A moment!’ he added, catching Cyril by the shoulder as he prepared to get out. ‘Any last-minute advice for Miss Wentworth? You’ve been trailing our subject for years and must have observed him closely. How should she play her hand? She’ll be with him for the whole evening. It might not be easy for her.’