The Blood Royal(26)

She replaced the receiver, stunned by what she’d heard.

War Office? What had Sandilands and, it seemed, herself, by association of some not-yet-defined form, to do with the War Office? For what exactly did they need to know that she was ‘ready and able’? Why did they have a presence in the Scotland Yard building? The questions lined up to ambush her. The answers did not immediately present themselves. There were rumours in the force that a shadowy enforcement arm of some sort had a toehold in the Whitehall warren. Everyone had heard of ‘C’ and his department of patriotic scoundrels. MI1b? Or was it MI1c? Had Lily stumbled upon an organization of that nature? Not such a formidably secret department, she concluded, if an interloper like herself could ring them up and discuss tea supplies.

This flippant thought was supplanted by a more chilling one. She had done nothing to bring her own name to their attention. And yet their earlier conversation with Sandilands showed that they knew of her. Indeed, seemed to have plans for her. Plans on which she had not been consulted. What had he said? ‘Not fully briefed yet …’

‘Mata Hari?’ Lily had suggested half-jokingly, taking a stab at a description of the work he had in mind for her. A female spy, Dutch by birth, Miss Hari had used her allure to get information from both sides of the recent conflict. It was rumoured that, at the time of her arrest in a Paris hotel, the exotic dancer turned courtesan counted, amongst her many lovers, the German crown prince and the chief of the French anti-espionage bureau and that crucial information had passed from head to head to head on the pillow. All too unregulated. No one could be quite certain to whom the wretched woman really owed allegiance. As an agent, she had been turned and turned again. Done to a crisp, was the final decision, and she had been removed from the scene. A put-up job by the French it was generally thought, with the compliance of the British. The affair was considered significant enough to have her put on trial and executed by a firing squad in 1917.

If it was a woman with skills of this dubious nature they were seeking, they would have to look elsewhere. Their choice was laughable. Lily’s sense of proportion kicked in. She was confident that she failed to fill the bill on two vital counts. Her most exotic dance was the tango she’d learned at the Stretton Academy of Terpsichore on Saturday mornings and she had never had a lover, civilian or military. Really – she’d had enough of this shambolic crew, playing at war games and juggling with careers.

Lily reached into Sandilands’ paper tray and took out a sheet of writing paper. It was entirely suitable that it should be headed Scotland Yard, Whitehall. She wrote down her name, rank and number at the top and followed this with a brief statement of her resignation from the force, For reasons made clear to you this morning, she summarized. With immediate effect, she added, dating it. Nothing further. He had heard her views. She folded it, wrote his name on the outside flap and put it away in her pocket. It gave her the reassurance of a lifebelt tucked under her shoulders. She owed him nothing. He could ask nothing of her.

And yet she was disconcerted to find her mind returning to the possibilities he had distractingly opened up. No woman would be made such a tantalizing offer, out of the blue, without the most demanding payback being extracted, she reasoned. What had his proposition amounted to? No less than an instant elevation to detective officer working alongside the commander. Could that be right? That was no opening position with a laundry in Clapham.

She tried to remember what Sandilands had said in his doubtless manufactured confession. That he’d been in Military Intelligence during the war years … that much she was prepared to believe. Had he ever given up his role or was his present position a screen for other, murkier activities? Perhaps he was still at war and fighting on fronts other than crime? And why would he suppose that he was automatically entitled to count on her assistance with his schemes?

She was trying to recall all the wars in which England was involved from Afghanistan to Zululand and had got stuck on Ireland when she heard Sandilands stamping back down the corridor.





Chapter Seven




Sandilands went straight to Miss Jameson’s room across the corridor and stayed there for a few minutes before returning to his own office, where he found Lily closing the file and laying down her pencil.

She looked up and gave him a friendly smile. He swept off his hat, offered a clean-cut profile and asked: ‘Well, what do you think of Raoul’s handiwork?’

‘Raoul is an artist, sir. He could find a position with the finest embalming parlour in the land.’

He grinned. He decided he could get along with her cheerful lack of deference. ‘Well, how’s it going with the Dedham affair? Reached any conclusions?’