He laughed shrilly. ‘We will be a great team, I know it. You are resourceful and brave, and I have already watched you play one part with conviction. I was watching you every minute at the nightclub; you made a spectacular Countess Faustina! We will disappear, and then return again in a few years. Build up the theatre again, the business…it will all be fine, my darling. Don’t worry about a thing. But we must go. That telephone call was my man at the club in St James. The police had arrived, so they will have this address by now.’
He looked at his wristwatch. ‘We have approximately seven more minutes, by my calculations, until they get here. Let’s go, my darling. I have an escape route. It’s fail-safe. We use it for distributing the packages of money.’ He looked at her expectantly, his brown eyes dog-like in their adoration.
Posie remained rooted to the spot. Dolly’s hand, now cold with fear, was still locked in her own. She was torn between great fear and impossible outrage. She stamped her foot suddenly like a small child, a feverish toddler:
‘What if I don’t want to go with you?’
But immediately Posie saw her mistake: there was no choice in any of this. The Count, smiling as usual, had picked up Mr Minks again and was rubbing his head with the smooth butt of the revolver. He took a step forwards.
‘Now, Miss Parker, don’t spoil things when we were getting on so famously.’ He pulled the gun properly out now, and rather than aiming it at the cat, his eye and his gun were both trained on Dolly.
‘Ah! My Wardrobe Mistress. So disposable, don’t you think? If your answer is still “NO” in five seconds, Miss Parker, I will shoot her. After that, I will shoot your cat. And if your answer is still a negative, I will have no choice but to shoot you too, my darling. It will be a shame. Remember. Time is of the essence. So. I will begin. FIVE. FOUR. THREE…’
Posie drew a great breath, and released her hand from Dolly’s grip. She put both hands up as if in surrender and stepped forwards. She began to speak:
‘No…it’s fine. I’ll come…’
Just then, and as Dolly screamed, there was a movement behind them and to their left. A perfect shot, like a deadly reprimand, whistled past Count della Rosa’s ear, the bullet lodging itself with pin-point accuracy into the centre of the board covered in pictures of Posie behind him.
A second shot whipped through the air and narrowly missed the Count’s outstretched arm. Surprised, the Count dropped his revolver and ducked. Mr Minks squealed and jumped away. Turning, her heart in her mouth, Posie expected to find Inspector Lovelace or the boys from Scotland Yard, but both she and Dolly yelped in surprise.
It was Rufus.
****
Twenty-Four
He strode forwards into the room, the gun which had nearly been his undoing earlier in the week trained firmly on the Count.
Rufus looked in control, totally calm and collected. There was not a whiff of the drunkard about this man, and everything about the hero, the man who had won not one, but two Victoria Crosses in the trenches in the Great War, saving his men.
‘What ho, girls!’ he said from behind his Webley. He smiled and it was a smile of pure triumph, but his gaze was steely, and it remained fixed on the Count:
‘I know who you are, della Rosa, but you don’t scare me. All I know about you is that death and violence follow you about like a bad smell. I know that somehow my girl died because of you, or your stupid foolish friends.’ He looked contemptuously for a second over to the body of Cecil Chicken.
‘And now here you are, at it again. But I’m not going to be cheated out of happiness a second time by a fellow like you.’ He darted a look of concern over to Dolly, who promptly burst into tears.
Rufus turned his focus back on the Count:
‘But see here, old thing; I’m the kind of fellow who can’t abide violence. So how about we do this peacefully? You confess everything to the police and we’ll go quietly. They’ll be here any minute. I stole a look at that Members’ Address Book at the club before the police managed to get to it. Seems you’re not the only one able to bribe a crooked club Manager, eh, old chap? Now, put your hands above your head, where I can jolly well see them.’
The Count did as he was told, his gaze lingering expressionlessly and calmly on Posie’s face. She was worried. Surely it couldn’t be this simple? A man like the Count would have a few tricks up his sleeve, she was sure of it.
And here it was.
A loud crashing sound, subtle as a bull in a china-shop, was filling the room and flooding the house. There were shouts and shrieks from downstairs and a violent thumping of boots on the narrow stairs. Was this possibly the whole of the Count’s gang? The rest of the Athenaeum orchestra, now released from jail and come to help him? Were they masters of perfect timing, or just lucky? Either way, there were sure to be more guns involved, and Rufus was, after all, just one man against what sounded like an army… Posie screwed her eyes shut as she anticipated the ruckus. The door flung open, and crowds seemed to flood the room. She opened her eyes and dared to look.
Mercifully, it was Inspector Lovelace, and behind him came Sergeants Rainbird, Binny and what seemed like twenty other uniformed bobbies bustling into the room. Inspector Oats came lurching in too, his eyes darting this way and that; taking in the body, the maps, the trays of developing solution. Yet more policemen were swarming up the narrow stairs and through the small door.
The police turned en masse and saw the Count, his hands still above his head, his face a calm mask of surprised contrition. Inspector Oats was already taking a pair of silver handcuffs out from his pocket, his face set in a hard but satisfied line. Posie breathed more normally, and noticed that Dolly had slunk behind Rufus, who was still training his gun on the Count with determination.
‘Okey-dokey, let’s be ’avin yer, Mister der-la Row-sa!’ said Oats, advancing.
It was then that it happened. The oldest trick in the book.
The whole room, previously floodlit, was plunged into sudden darkness with the click of just one light-switch.
‘Don’t let ’im get away!’ shouted Oats.
Screams and the sound of people falling over followed. The telephone started to ring again, urgent among the chaos. Beside her, Posie sensed swift movement and heard the scraping and thudding of something heavy being pulled along, the whispering of low voices. Then a sharp bang.
‘Don’t shoot! Don’t anyone DARE shoot!’ She heard Inspector Lovelace shouting.
People were fumbling for matches, torches, for switches. For anything. After what felt like an age someone worked out that one entire side of the room was covered in blackout blinds and they started to rip them down haphazardly. The room was instantly flooded with natural daylight. All eyes were trained on where the Count had been standing.
But of course he was gone.
So too were the packets of brown-paper covered money, and so too were the South African mining maps and the scrap-book cuttings of Posie on the baize-covered board.
In fact, the entire wall behind the pin-board, familiar as it was to anyone who had been to the La Luna club due to its strange metal casing, looked different. It was revealed as a vast door, swinging open just a crack.
‘It’s a door! He’s escaped that way!’ shouted Sergeant Binny and ran over to it. Half of the policemen scurried past and followed him through.
Inspector Oats was loitering near the huge floor-to-ceiling windows, and Posie saw for the first time that the house looked straight out onto the river Thames, its garden ran down directly to the river bank. The brown pulsing waves could be seen flowing beneath the swirling snow-clouds.
Posie saw instantly that this was Caspian della Rosa’s escape plan. Perhaps there was a genius lurking in the man after all? For while the police had bottle-necked themselves into this high-up room in the Mews House, blocking the stairs and sealing off the road outside with their cars and road-blocks, she was certain no-one had thought of the river outside, of an anonymous little motor boat parked read
y as a getaway, loaded up with precious cargo.
‘Oh my gawd!’ shouted Inspector Oats at the window. ‘He’s on the river! He’s sailing off! Let’s be ’avin him, boys. Get down there now! Put alerts out!’
Inspector Lovelace was standing in the middle of the room, stock-still. He knew the uselessness of pursuing the Count. He was already too far ahead of them, in many ways.
The Inspector came over to Posie who had started to shiver uncontrollably. He put his arm around her.
‘Did you see that?’ The Inspector nodded subtly towards the empty baize-covered board, where one tiny piece of paper was pinned in the very middle, stuck with one red pin.
‘I think it’s meant for you.’
Posie advanced. She took the paper down and read it before screwing it up into a tight ball as if it meant nothing in the world to her.
But they were words she knew she would never forget:
I WILL COME FOR YOU.
I AM YOUR NEMESIS.
****
Outside on Winstanley Mews the police were milling around with that now-familiar defeated stance, lounging against the parked cars. Inspector Oats and the two Sergeants had managed to beg a neighbour’s boat and had tried to pursue the Count upstream, but no-one held out much hope of their success. Dolly and Rufus were sitting in the back seat of a police car, huddled together like survivors of a shipwreck.
Posie stood blinking, quite alone in the street.
She found she didn’t have a single thought in her head. Mr Minks was nestled warmly in her arms.
Then, at the far end of the Mews she saw a familiar lone figure advancing, running, in fact. She screwed up her eyes against the London snow, and then she saw she was right. It was Len.
‘Po, what on earth?’ He was breathless, doubled-over, wheezing and gasping for air. ‘Are you all right? I found your map on the floor of your office with the pencil-marks ringed around this street. I thought you had left me a clue! I thought the worst. That you had been kidnapped or something! Crazy, right?’
Posie scrunched the ball of paper in her hand hard.
‘Where have you been?’ she demanded, furious all of a sudden. A late white knight is no knight at all.
Len looked up in surprise at her angry face.
‘Why, I’ve been on a job, you noddle. I told you yesterday! Turns out the lawyer who instructed me saw us on our way into the Associated Press building on Fleet Street! A case of good timing! It was a very well-paid job too. But it took me almost twenty-four hours to get what I needed. Besides, I’ve sent several messages and even a telegram to Grape Street, telling you not to worry. Didn’t you get them?’
Posie shook her head and pursed her lips together. Babe needed to go; double-dealing little madam that she was. But that could all wait until tomorrow.
First, home. A long hot bath was in order. And she didn’t care if Mrs Rapier screamed the house down about it.
****
Friday 18th February, 1921
Twenty-Five
The Maharajah diamond had been insured for travelling by Brigg & Brooks, and was entrusted into the care of one Captain Grace of The Galactic, an ocean-going liner bound for Bombay, which had not been advertised for sailing in any of the newspapers.
It was due to leave shortly after the HMS Endeavour, and policemen had swarmed the decks and checked the passenger-lists of both ships to try and hunt down Count della Rosa or any of his possible associates who might have been deployed to steal the jewel. Happily, they had drawn a blank.
The Earl of Cardigeon had personally accompanied the jewel to the London Docks, and, as he stood on the scrubby concrete side of the vast berth at Poplar, he had breathed a huge sigh of relief as the lumbering bulk of The Galactic disappeared off into the distance.
It would arrive in Bombay in around two and a half month’s time, and he had already written to the Maharajah at Gwilim to inform him to expect the arrival, and to ensure he or a trusted servant would be able to receive the jewel from the hands of Captain Grace.
****
All charges brought by Scotland Yard against Rufus Cardigeon were dropped, and the bail money of five thousand pounds was in the process of being returned.
The Earl of Cardigeon had already had his valet pack up his things. He had had enough of London and was looking forward to returning to the fields and freedom of his stately home at Rebburn Abbey in the north. He was leaving that very evening, and had told Rufus that he would be delighted if he would join him. Rufus, clear-headed and full of purpose, had agreed, but he had begged a few days alone: he had things to sort out first in town.
The police had kept searching the river-ways for Count della Rosa and in mounting desperation had informed all British ports and airports to be on the look-out for him. But no-one reported a sighting. It was as if he had disappeared into the very air or earth itself.
The cells at Scotland Yard were almost empty again, as the orchestra players had all been released without charge: murky though some of them were, there were not enough or certain enough grounds to hold them for any longer. Mr Blake and his lackey Reggie had also been released without charge, turned out to face an uncertain future without the theatre featuring in it. At least without the Athenaeum Theatre, anyway.
But Scotland Yard were still holding onto Mr Eames, the dodgy diamond-dealer, and they were still combing the ghostly shell of the La Luna club for further traces of diamonds or smuggling activities, hoping for a possible lead.
The bright young things of London were already talking about some new and hopefully illegal hotspot for dancing and celebrity-spotting. It was over near a power-station, on the other less famous side of the river, in thrillingly unknown territory…The furore over the La Luna club was almost forgotten about in the excitement of this new next thing…
****
Late on Friday morning, Inspectors Oats and Lovelace had found themselves pleasantly surprised to be invited to a slap-up celebration lunch at Simpson’s on the Strand by none other than the Earl of Cardigeon himself. They accepted readily.
The other guests at lunch included the Earl, Rufus, Posie, Len, and Dolly Price. Over coffee and chocolate mint-thins at the end of the meal Posie asked Inspector Lovelace what the real chances of finding Count della Rosa ever were. He replied in a half-whisper, so only they could hear:
‘Needle in a haystack territory, Posie. I dare say he was out of the country and on course for another destination by the time we were all tucked up in our beds last night. One thing’s for certain: we won’t be seeing him again on our shores for a while. But it wasn’t all bad. At least one of the biggest crime and smuggling rings in London has been broken, and one of the ring-leaders, this Mr Chicken, will be troubling us no more. We’re still investigating the nightclub, and maybe there’ll be some new leads there…we’ll certainly be kept busy anyhow.’
‘Good!’ said Posie decisively. She was still thinking about how close she had come to becoming the next Lucky Lucy, and how she had stood staring at the scrunched-up note Count Caspian had left for her last night in her bed-sit, for hours after she should have been fast asleep.
It was time to go. It was still snowing outside and people lingered in the warm porch of the restaurant: Dolly and Rufus were murmuring sweet nothings at each other; Len was looking bored, and somehow the Earl and Inspector Oats had to be prised apart, having found an unlikely common interest in chub fishing. Inspector Lovelace helped Posie on with her coat. He pulled on his hat, and smiled.
‘As usual, Posie, it was a pleasure working with you. Not bad for a week’s work, eh? I may have leaked a story of my own by the way, so don’t be surprised if you have a rush of new clients off the back of it. Hopefully that will make up for the fact you’re probably not going to get paid by the tight-fisted Earl for all your hard work this week and for finding his flipping diamond. Oh, I almost forgot!’
He scrabbled in his inside coat pocket and drew out an envelope.
‘It’s from Sergeant Rai
nbird. He said you asked him to find the answer to something yesterday. I’m not even going to ask what it is. Good-day!’
Out on the street Posie and Len found themselves alone at last. It was a ten-minute walk up through the narrow dark lanes of Covent Garden back to the Grape Street Bureau.
Len had seemed tightly wound since yesterday, and was obviously very put out that he had arrived late on the scene, and that Rufus had managed not only to get there on time, but to play the part of the hero so convincingly that Len couldn’t even risk bad-mouthing him. Len was unusually quiet. It didn’t suit him.
As they crossed the Strand, avoiding the horse-carts and motor taxis, Posie started to laugh. She felt a huge sense of relief, and after all, Len was here and unhurt, and surely that was the biggest gift of all? She took his arm as they started to wind up the cobblestone streets. He suddenly darted over to a news-stand where the lunchtime edition of the Associated Press was being sold.
He paid his penny, and shook out his copy in disbelief:
‘Thought so! Look at this! Your name on the front page! Your photo too! Says you found and broke an international jewel smuggling ring! Single-handed!’
Posie nestled in, reading. She smiled. The Inspector had been as good as his word. He had even contacted Sam Stubbs to write the piece. Len put his arms around Posie, and looked down into her eyes, his green gaze intense:
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