‘Mmm … no suggestion of an Uncles Unlimited facility, I suppose?’ Bacchus asked.
‘You’re not the only one with a dirty mind, Bacchus,’ said Hopkirk. ‘Thought did occur to Inspector Chappel here. This is Park Lane we’re talking about, within a stride or two of Pinks.’
‘And this is Inspector Chappel, late of Victoria Vice?’ Bacchus acknowledged with a raised eyebrow.
‘Sir. Confirm nothing untoward known on this establishment. I personally watched the place for an hour or two,’ said Chappel. ‘Lady guests coming and going. Some dropped off by Daddy and Mummy – or should I say Papa and Mama? Some being picked up by a succession of old boots in tweed skirts and sensible shoes. The Aunts, doubtless.’
‘Chappel, I want you to dig deeper and more energetically in this area. The girl was very keen on returning to Park Lane. You still have contacts?’ Sandilands asked.
‘How deep should I dig? That’s the question, sir. It’s posh round there. I could end up revealing cabinet ministers in their socks, military gents out of uniform, police chiefs in considerable embarrassment …’
‘All right, we get the picture, Chappel. Be discreet – but dig! Grease a few palms if you have to. I want this particular trail followed.’
‘Well, I’m taking Mrs Throckmorton’s for a dead end.’ Hopkirk took up the tale again, reddening. ‘Nothing known at the address she gave us.’
‘My fault.’ Joe broke in swiftly to stem his super’s embarrassment. ‘It was I who authorized her return to what she claimed as home. I was present for the last act of her performance. And what a turn she gave us. We should perhaps be combing the cast lists at the Old Vic to find her.’ He gave a rueful smile and admitted: ‘I even gave her my handkerchief!’
‘She’d already got through mine,’ Hopkirk grumbled.
‘Yes, I must say – and perhaps the superintendent will agree? – she was the perfect Mayfair gadabout. I still can’t picture her in the role of cold-blooded killer who turns up to witness an execution she has organized and paid for. And who coolly proceeds to deliver the coup de grâce herself when she sees that her minions have bungled it.’
Bacchus sighed with annoyance. ‘Never mind the character assessment. Can we stick to the facts? The gun? Was she searched?’
‘No. She could have put it into her bag. She had one of those little velvet dolly bags hanging on her wrist. A Browning’s not small but she could have got it in there.’ Hopkirk’s voice was leaden. ‘But – a Browning in a dolly bag? I ask you! Let’s be reasonable, shall we? This isn’t a woman’s crime. They don’t like guns. She probably had some perfectly acceptable female reason for being in the vicinity. It might not have been one she chose to share with the Old Bill but reasonable by her lights. Adultery … fornication … the usual.’ His voice was tight with distaste.
‘Takes two, Hopkirk, old chap … very often one of each sex … but in Melton Square?’ Joe laughed and pulled a face.
Bacchus and Fanshawe exchanged looks. After a moment, coming to a decision, Bacchus spoke for the Branch. ‘You’d be wrong to dismiss a female input,’ he said carefully. ‘Look here, gentlemen – we know there are Irish women heavily involved with the Fenian movement. And they are every bit as fanatical as the men.’ With a further glance of consultation with Fanshawe, he added: ‘Anyone who reads The Times will be aware of that much.’ He continued to speak slowly, weighing his words. ‘These are women who are adept with gun and bomb and doubtless dolly bag. We’ve been fortunate enough to extract … to come by … information from the inside regarding these recruitments.’
No one considered embarrassing the Branch by asking for further elaboration.
‘It’s what we feared. It begins to look as though we could have got one of those harridans over here,’ Captain Fanshawe commented, voicing everyone’s worst suspicions. ‘Fresh off the ferry? A sleeper recently activated? MI5 got anything useful?’
Joe shook his head. ‘Nothing they’re confiding to us, at any rate,’ he said, sidestepping the question. He was remembering the disturbing report by the head of Irish Intelligence delivered to the assembled group in Devon. Two or three women with links to the IRA had unaccountably gone missing. It was feared that one of them might be bringing her destructive rage to the capital.
‘I’m wondering if CID have scared her off. Did she have any idea that you had suspicions of her?’ Fanshawe asked.