“I don’t know of any more. But honestly, darling, you did rather rush me along, with Piper popping up with a new name every thirty seconds. At a more leisurely pace, bits and pieces have a chance to come to mind.”
“Sorry!” He leaned forward and dropped a kiss on her nose, then checked his wrist-watch. “But I haven’t time for leisure just now. I still have ffinch-Brown and your Grand Duke to see. Incidentally, Grange confirmed that the Grand Duke visits the Mineralogy Gallery several times a week, to stare at the ruby. Now what’s this about ffinch-Brown?”
“Ffinch-Brown claimed to be confident of picking out a new-made flint tool, but what if he actually had doubts?”
“Then Pettigrew waving a flint he claimed to have shapedhimself might well upset him. ‘I know how it was done,’ he said?”
“Yes, that part Katy was sure of.”
“I’ll have to tackle ffinch-Brown about Pettigrew’s challenge. Thank you, love. If any more nuggets come to the surface, do write them down, will you? I must run.”
He glanced up and down the street, pulled Daisy into his arms, and gave her a kiss which left her breathless despite its brevity. Before she could pull herself together, he had hopped into the Austin, pressed the self-starter, and tootled off.
“Whew!” said Daisy.
It was either kiss her or shake her, Alec thought ruefully as he drove toward the café where he had left Tring nd Piper. He did not for a moment believe she had gone to Mrs. Ditchley’s with nothing but sympathy in mind.
On the other hand, she might well have got more out of the children than any policeman could. Only last year the force had admitted it needed women officers, not just the grim guardians known as police matrons. In April, twenty female constables had been sworn in, but they were still inexperienced and whether they would ever be allowed to join the detective branch was doubtful. Still, someone must see Mrs. Ditchley and her flock tomorrow. He wondered whether he should go, or whether Tom would manage it better.
Picking up his troops, he drove on into Hyde Park and across the bridge over the Serpentine.
“My apologies to Mrs. Tring for keeping you out another evening, Tom,” he said as Tom coughed cavernously. “That cold still doesn’t sound quite vanquished.”
“Seems to be worse evenings. I can’t say I’m feeling up to par but I’ll manage.”
“I’d let you go, but a certain retinue may help to gain the respect of a Middle-European grandee.”
“Might help,” Tring agreed sourly, “though what we really need is fancy-dress uniforms. Just wait till you see this laddie, Chief. Enough gold braid for half a regiment, though a bit moth-eaten.”
“And he’s living in lodgings in Bayswater,” Alec reminded him.
“Poor bloke,” said Piper unexpectedly, from the back seat. “Paddington Terrace, Bayswater, is no great shakes after a swish castle in a country where he was the top dog, even if it was a little tiny country no one’s ever heard of.”
“True, laddie,” Tring rumbled, “too true.”
“I just hope the Special Branch isn’t interested in him,” said Alec, stopping at the Victoria Gate before crossing the Bayswater Road. “Tangling with them once was enough. Paddington Terrace, Ernie?”
“Nineteen B, Chief.”
Piper had an amazing memory for numbers, names, addresses, maps, and things of that sort. He provided directions through the maze of streets. Respectable late Georgian and early Victorian terraces had come down in the world, like the Grand Duke. Now divided into maisonettes or even odd rooms, by daylight they would reveal peeling paint and missing railings. Daisy and Lucy had shared a flat in Bayswater, Alec recalled, before moving to Chelsea, before he met her.
Number 19, Paddington Terrace, was not too badly run down. A half-barrel of bedraggled Michaelmas daisies attempted to bloom beside the front door. If the brass letterbox and knocker were tarnished, at least the door’s dark blue paint was in good shape, as was what stucco was visible by the lamp-post across the way.
There were two bell-pushes. The lower had a card drawing-pinned below it. Protected by cellophane, it said FERRIS in blunt block capitals. Above the upper bell, an unprotected card rather the worse for damp announced grandiosely:
TRANSCARPATHIA
Regierung in Exil.
“Government in Exile,” Piper guessed as Alec rang the bell. “D’you reckon, Chief?”
“I do. Let’s hope he hasn’t got some kind of diplomatic immunity!” Alec held up his hand as he heard a door close somewhere inside. Heavy, halting footsteps descended stairs.
The door opened. Instead of a slim, fair young man, a grizzled veteran faced them. Within his ill-fitting uniform tunic, his large frame was gaunt, slightly stooped. Half-hidden by a grey, white-flecked cavalry moustache, a scar slashed across his hollow cheek.
Souvenir of a sword duel, Alec guessed. Dashing young Germans still went in for such proofs of manhood and bore the marks proudly.
But was this man the real Grand Duke? Had the young fellow led Daisy—and Tring—up the garden path?
