Enter Pale Death(2)
The young copper assigned escort duty took her up to the top floor in the lift. Sharing the confined space with a stranger was always awkward and, after an exchange of pleasantries, they fell silent. Out of the corner of her eye, Lily watched him doing exactly what she expected a young officer would be doing with a new subject in a lift. He was filling in his mental portrait form. Page 22 of the trainee copper’s handbook. She followed his glance as he made his top-to-toe clandestine observations:
Subject: Female.
Nationality: English.
Married status: Unknown (gloves worn).
Height: 5’ 6”.
Build: Slim.
Age (conjectural)… mmm … thirtyish. (She flattered herself.)
Hair: Fair, short and waved. (What he could see of it.)
Eyes: Green.
Distinguishing features: Surgical scar to right jaw, not totally disguised by a layer of Leichner’s shade number 2: ‘Porcelain.’
Purpose of visit: By invitation, to attend Assistant Commissioner Sandilands.
Lily sensed that his exercise became trickier when it came to evaluating her outfit. He noted her smart cream linen two-piece and matching cloche hat, she thought, with quiet approval. The gloves and shoes were impeccable, but his eyes snagged on the one jarring note in her appearance—a leather satchel she carried slung from her shoulder. Unlike the neat purse just about able to contain a penny coin for the loo and a cologne-scented handkerchief that London ladies clutched to their bosoms, this capacious and battered object was decidedly utilitarian. Lily sighed. Time perhaps to exchange her old friend for something classier from Vuitton? The copper frowned in puzzlement and, sensing his unease, Lily reassured him in her best Mayfair voice that her bag had been checked at the reception desk.
It hadn’t.
The desk officer had given it a cursory look and waved her straight through without bothering to search it. Lily didn’t want to risk a sudden panicking lunge from her dutiful escort in the confined space of the lift and she gave him a broad, disarming smile. He was right to be watchful. She knew she didn’t look like a Sinn Féin gangster’s moll, but there was a chance she could have been one of those demented society women the Mosleyite Fascisti cultivated and cajoled into doing their bidding. It wouldn’t have been the first time an apparent innocent had walked into Scotland Yard with a hidden explosive.
As the lift lurched to a halt and he opened the doors with a flourish, she eased under the young man’s outstretched arm murmuring a word of thanks and added, “Suit is from Monsieur Worth and perfume from Mademoiselle Chanel, Officer.”
This was greeted by a shout of laughter. “And smile from Heaven, miss!” he told her gallantly. “The assistant commissioner’s a lucky chap! Don’t know how he does it!”
“THERE’S A BOMB in there!
“Bam! Splat! Bam! You’re strawberry jam!” Lily announced in playground Cockney, slamming her bag down under the Assistant Commissioner’s nose.
“Always ready with the warm greeting, Lily! But no need for concern. I told the desk inspector to pass you straight up, unmolested.”
“Then you’re losing your marbles … getting slack. Your modern anarchist doesn’t go about with a smoking bomb under his cloak, twitching and frothing and muttering Ruritanian curses. It’s quite likely to be some posh lady with a bee in her silk bonnet and a hand grenade in her crocodile-skin purse. How do you know I haven’t started an affair with the dashing Oswald, King of the Blackshirts, since we last met? He’s cutting a swathe through Kensington, I understand. Breaking more hearts than limbs. Oh … sorry! Hello! So pleased to see you again, Joe! How are you doing, old thing?”
“Apart from the onset of senile decrepitude you’ve just identified, I’m fit and well and very happy to see you. Shall we sit down and I’ll introduce you to my problem?… Ah! Here comes our coffee! Thank you, Constable Smithson. You set a lovely tray! On the side table, if you please. Now, buzz off, lad—we’ll wait on ourselves. Here you are, Lily … Blue Mountain in Worcester china … nothing but the best for my favourite flatfoot. Oh, and a gypsy cream or two to nibble on … So there you are. It comes with a warning, Lily,” he said after a brief outline. “What I’m putting before you is covert and unauthorised. I don’t think it could be dangerous …”
“When did you ever offer me an ice cream in the park? Do I need a gun or will a hatpin do the job?” Woman Police Constable Lily Wentworth, as she had been a decade earlier, spoke with sunny disregard to her old boss. “I sharpened my claws before I came. Though I’m surprised there’s anything I can still do for you in your new elevated status, Commissioner.” She looked around with exaggerated appreciation at the large top floor room with its windows open to the river and the Victoria Embankment below. The impressive desk across whose polished surface they were exchanging delighted grins carried only a severely stylish pewter pen tray and inkpot. Scottish by the look of it and Joe’s own choice, she guessed. The absence of files, notes and memos at this hour told of a team of secretaries and a pool of typists at work early somewhere about the building. The empty wastepaper basket and freshly polished floor were further indication of others unseen ministering to the needs of the top police brass.