‘Major Ross knows I answer to someone important. He was absolutely sure it was Sir Hugh, so he collared him at the club one day and asked him outright, and Sir Hugh categorically denied it. I wouldn’t say anything, of course, so then he decided it must be Sir Hugh’s deputy, and when he asked the DPS . . .’
The Queen grinned. ‘Miles
‘Not categorically, no. And I share an office with him, so it all makes sense.’
‘How perfect.’
‘Now everybody’s buying Miles drinks at
‘I don’t suppose
‘I don’t think so, ma’am,’ Joan said confidently. ‘I’m just an ex-typist, and you’re the monarch. He might suspect the Master of the Household, but he’s not saying.’
The Queen nodded happily. ‘Well done.’
‘Sir?’
‘Yes, Woolgar?’
‘Somebody rang from the shorty while you were out. Said to tell you that someone’s been in touch about that missing woman in New York. Lady Seymour, sir.’
Darbishire took off his coat and sat at his desk. ‘What’s the shorty, Sergeant?’
‘You know, sir. You’ve been in touch. In Paris. The Frog police.’
‘The Sûreté?’
‘That’s what I said.’
Darbishire sighed. ‘Go on.’
‘This chap rang them a couple of days ago and said he’d seen a newsreel about the Queen. They’re showing them in Paris too. And it had this bit at the end about Lady Seymour, saying she was missing and everything. And this chap said the police had been in touch with him recently, asking about Marianne Fleury and what happened to her in the war, because, you know, we were asking . . .’
‘Yes, I know.’
‘And he realised that this woman had been around years ago – ten years ago, in fact – to ask the same thing. Because she was . . . and you’re never going to believe this, sir . . . Guess.’
‘I’d rather not, Woolgar. Not a spurned lover, I presume?’
‘Ooh, saucy, sir! No. Her sister!’
‘But surely . . . ?’
Darbishire stopped and thought about it. He had assumed Lucie was Swiss, but he hadn’t paid it much attention; he just pitied her as the cuckolded wife. She would be about six years older than Marianne, which would make her a dozen years older than Ginette. He had cousin siblings who were a dozen years apart.
‘How on earth did this man remember her after a decade? Surely he could be mistaken?’
‘He said he’d never forget a face that beautiful. He was very French about it.’
‘Was he? And did he have any idea where she might have disappeared to?’
‘No, sir. At least, the man I spoke to didn’t say. I said you’d call him back.’
Darbishire would.
He was rapidly reconsidering the alibis. He had never trusted Lady Seymour’s assurance about her husband’s whereabouts, but nobody had thought (he hadn’t thought) that her husband and the butler might equally be lying about hers.
If Darbishire’s chap was right, did Seymour kill Minot in revenge for what happened to his wife’s sister?
Possibly, but Seymour wasn’t missing.
Would Seymour protect a murderess?
If his wife had killed a monster to try and save her sister he would, if he was any kind of man at all. How she might have killed Minot, Darbishire had no idea, but he knew that murder wasn’t always a man’s prerogative. Darbishire’s job was to bring killers to justice, but privately, he thought some acts were fully justified. He would try and find her, of course, but if any of this new information turned out to be true, he rather hoped he wouldn’t.
But he didn’t get the chance to look.
A couple of hours later, the chief superintendent stopped by Darbishire’s office – something he never normally did – and announced that George Venables was finally free to take on the Cresswell Place case.
‘He’s been snowed under with this and that. We’re grateful for everything you’ve done, Fred. Good, diligent police work. It’s a shame you didn’t make more progress early on, but I think with George on board we can really crack this case. I’m sure we can rely on you to give him the full support you’re famous for. Anyway, well done, as far as you got.’
‘No hard feelings, I hope,’ Venables said later, giving him a manly pat on the back. ‘I know it’s been a bastard of a case. Unreliable witnesses . . . no leads . . . You’re probably glad to see the back of it!’
This week, Darbishire had noticed they’d added another storey to the eyesore across the river from the Yard. He was glad he wouldn’t have to keep going into that office to smarten up his royal reports. When Woolgar tried to commiserate about Venables, Darbishire talked instead about the new building, and the skyline he was starting not to recognise any more.
‘D’you want to come for a beer, sir?’ Woolgar asked. ‘A few of us are going to the pub.’
The inspector declined gracefully. He wouldn’t be the best company. He shrugged his coat on and went home to his wife and girls.
