‘She’s not intent on martyrdom, then, sir? She hasn’t shot and surrendered. Or topped herself.’
‘Which can only mean, if I read her desperate mental state aright, that she wants to stay at liberty long enough to slay others. Covering her killings with the blanket of Irish nationalism. My God! We can expect more of the same. She’s going for the whole family!’
‘Sir? We’re thinking that this woman sacrificed Admiral Dedham as no more than a smokescreen for her further activities? A murder to conceal the motive for further murders? It’s insane …’ There was horror in Lily’s voice.
‘Quite.’ Joe hoped he could trust her to toe the line he was about to draw. ‘Listen, Wentworth – Cassandra must never find out. A hero’s widow should not be burdened with the knowledge that her husband’s death was no more than a distraction, a diversion from the main business … a cover for a thrust of mad, venomous spite directed at a completely different target.’
‘And those other poor dupes – the Irish lads?’ There was pity as well as a question in Lily’s voice. ‘Young Patrick told me he’d been used. He didn’t know the half of it!’
He was being offered a bargain he was glad to accept. Joe replied at once: ‘They also should be left in ignorance. They think they are dying a patriot’s death. We can let them go to the gallows with that last comfort at least.’
He closed the file. ‘We must dash if we’re not to be unpardonably late in Melton Square. I’ll fill you in on the Dedham scenario as we go. One last thing to do here. I won’t let this show go on a moment longer. I have the glimmerings of a scheme to neutralize this woman. I shall need your help. Tomorrow morning. Nine o’clock suit you? Here? Rather a lot to think about … Excuse me while I set this up.’
He grabbed his phone and asked again for Bacchus. ‘James. That article in the Californian newspaper that caused you such amusement … San Francisco Advertiser, was it? Still got the cutting, have you? Bring it with you tomorrow. Here, at nine. Two more requests. Can you lay hands on the box of Romanov bits and bobs we have in stock somewhere? … No. Not the box that was delivered to the palace last year. That was just body parts and I’ve no wish to inspect those bogus offerings … charred jaw-bones … severed fingers and the like … I’m sure they’ve been sent out of the country anyway. Hasn’t the Pope taken delivery? No, I’m talking about the other one …You know very well … Shall we call it the Ekaterinburg hoard? … Oh, I make it my business to know these things. Never you mind! Just get hold of it! I don’t care how we came by it or how many arms you have to twist to get it … do what you have to do. And lastly, our forger-printer chap – roust him out again and tell him to start flexing his fingers. Oh, one more thing.’ He glanced speculatively at the painting. ‘A camera? Can you operate one? Bring it along, will you?’
Chapter Thirty-One
‘On your feet, Wentworth.’ Joe handed Lily her hat. ‘We have something to announce to the admiral’s family. And it’s rather surprising. I’ve spent the morning on the telephone to the Home Secretary and the Commissioner, planning and scheming. And, to a certain extent, it is their perceptions that must guide our actions.’ He ignored her look of surprised objection and cantered on. ‘Now, as we go, I’ll put you in the picture. You will hear me making a few assertions and I don’t want to be let down by any ill-timed reactions from my own corner.’
He began to deliver his briefing as they walked down to the taxi rank.
‘This Sebastian you’re about to meet – he’s Dedham’s nephew. His older sister’s boy, name of Marland. Amateur pilot before the war, he joined the Royal Flying Corps at the outbreak. Something of a wartime hero. Not many of those chaps survived. Sebastian was wounded early on. You’ll see he has a limp. He spent the subsequent years training others to go up and get themselves killed. And he proved to be that valuable resource – a survivor who could draw on his experience to devise devilish tactics for aerial combat. In fact, he was one of the hard-nosed brigade who turned the war in the air from the chivalrous gallop across the skies it was at the outset into a deadly three-dimensional pheasant shoot.’
‘And is he still a flyer, sir?’
‘No. In 1918 when the Corps became the Royal Air Force, there was no room for a now elderly – by their standards – chap with a game leg. Into his late twenties by then, he found himself surplus to requirements. After that he rather annoyed his family by getting his hands dirty. He threw himself – and his slender resources – into motor engineering. He set up a workshop and a test track on the family land in Sussex. Seems to be doing well. Decisive … abrasive even … he’s not to everyone’s taste. But …’ Joe gave her a long, speculative look. ‘Yes. I have to say, I think you’ll like him, Wentworth. In fact he may be just your cup of tea!’