A Spider in the Cup

by Barbara Cleverly

  “Is this public fandango to be my priority, sir? And if so—for how long?”

  The commissioner thought for a moment and then gave the answer Joe was hoping for. “Use your own judgement, Sandilands. I suggest that, having made a showing and evaluated the situation, you get back to your relaxing CID duties. Just keep a watchful eye out.”

  “Well, let’s pray for civilised behaviour and good weather, shall we?”

  The commissioner nodded, understanding. A fine hot summer always saw a dip in the crime rate in the capital.

  “And, to ensure that you and the other members of what the press are happy to call the ‘Yard Heavies’ have the very best chance of an informed handling of the lively characters under their protection, I shall be arranging for you to have preparatory discussions with a selection of economists and politicians who are standing by. To put you in the picture. How do you stand on world affairs these days, Sandilands?”

  “Not exactly in the dark. But I should appreciate some inside information if that’s what’s on offer. Forewarned is forearmed and all that. And one can only glean a certain amount from page ten of the Times.”

  The commissioner nodded. “I hear from those who would know that you turned down a career in diplomacy when it was dangled before you some years ago. Our gain, I’m sure. And now the Met may find itself glad of your skills and interests.”

  “I’m a copper, sir. More comfortable in boots than patent leather dancing shoes. I’ll do what I can.”

  This diplomatic disclaimer appeared to satisfy his boss. He got down to business. “The show opens with a speech by King George into a BBC microphone—gold plated, if you can believe!—on June the twelfth. He will be addressing the world using the new radio links to the continents. New York and Delhi will hear him at the precise moment he speaks.”

  “That leaves me a week to prepare then.”

  “Rather less. Kingstone is scheduled to meet you slightly in advance. He’s arriving the week before, when he has several meetings scheduled. They don’t plunge in, you know, these politicos. By the time the conference opens, they’ll all know each other’s views—all sixty-six countries participating. They’ll have finished their wheeling and dealing and arm wrestling and be ready to present papers containing no surprises. Your man’s looking forward to a relaxing pre-conference session with his ballet dancer before it all kicks off. We’ve booked you an interview with him at his hotel on the Friday before it all breaks loose. At seven thirty A.M. His aide called it a working breakfast, I believe.” The commissioner rolled his eyes at the ceiling to show his contempt for these new-fangled foreign ways. “Sandilands, I leave you with this thought: no whiff of scandal is to be released. And, above all, no one goes home in a coffin.”

  Joe swallowed. “Have I got this right, sir? An international contingent of the world’s most powerful, most sophisticated and most energetic men is about to be let loose on London. Some at daggers drawn with each other. Scores to settle. Serbians? Albanians? Greeks? Turks? And let’s not forget everyone’s friends, the Germans? Assassination targets, the lot of them!” Joe gave a theatrical shudder. “And one of their number: the dashing, debonair Cornelius Kingstone. A man who habitually walks the streets with a bull’s-eye on his back, a grin on his face and two fingers raised. Thank you very much, sir.”

  The commissioner allowed himself a rare smile. “I thought I’d detected something of an affinity! Oh—the Senator and his inamorata have both been allocated rooms on the third floor of the hotel. I took the precaution of obtaining one for you also. I don’t suppose I need to warn you to keep well out of the lady’s clutches, do I?” He looked away in embarrassment. “It wouldn’t be fair not to warn you. From your reading of the gossip columns, you have gathered that she has the reputation of being something of a predator. True. And, indeed, something of an expert in the ars amatoria with an experimental bent. She’s a well-travelled young lady. And you’re a well set up young feller. Still the right side of forty, fit and smart. A potential target for Cupid’s darts, what!”

  “If she invites me to come backstage for a private viewing of her entrechats, I’ll exit at speed, stage left,” Joe promised.

  “Leave the waggery to Harry Lauder, Sandilands.”

  “In any case, sir, I’m a happily affianced man,” Joe objected with a smile.

  “Well, well! Relieved and glad to hear it. Congratulations. I hadn’t read about it in the papers.”

  “It hasn’t been announced yet.” Joe grinned. “You’re the first to hear, sir.”

  “Indeed?” Suspicion was in the commissioner’s voice as he asked, “Are you sure you’ve asked the lady?”

  Joe was taken aback, as he often was by the man’s sudden insights. “I don’t believe I ever have, come to think of it,” he admitted cheerfully. “But an agreement seems to have been reached.”

  “Anyone I know?”

  “Oh, sorry, sir! As a matter of fact, yes … at least you will know her name. It’s Dorcas Joliffe. The daughter of Orlando Joliffe.”

  To his credit, the commissioner did not groan, though he could not repress a startled blink. “And protégée of young James Truelove, if I’m not mistaken? Weren’t the two of them involved in that dreadful case in Sussex that you pulled the plugs on last January?”

  “That’s the girl, sir.” The confirmation was produced with a proud smile.

  The commissioner took a few moments to digest his information and question some preconceptions. “A girl of some spirit, I’d judge. You’ll pardon me for speaking out of place but I like to get these things straight … I’m sure I’d been told—on the hush-hush, don’t you know—that, er, if an announcement of Miss Joliffe’s matrimonial intentions were to be released, the name linked with hers would be a political one to conjure with.”

  Joe decided to be kind and put the old fellow out of his embarrassment. “A government minister, no less? Sir James Truelove? Yes, I’ve heard the same rumour myself. They’re good friends and colleagues and find themselves thrown together in a working environment. The unfortunate death of Lady Truelove last month inevitably gave an extra turn to the rumour mill.”

  The unhurried delivery and the unconcerned smile had eased down many an unpalatable dose of the truth.

  “Ah yes. The as-yet unexplained death out in the wilds somewhere, wasn’t it? I was expecting some appeal for help from the local constabulary. Are they coping, d’you suppose?”

  “They are supremely competent, sir,” Joe reassured him. “Though, knowing their readiness to seize on the crime passionnel as a likely scenario, I was relieved to establish that both my fiancée and her boss were a hundred miles away at the time. In opposite directions,” he added with a happy grin.

  “Indeed. Poor James … That must be a very silent house these days …”

  Joe nodded. He knew what Trenchard was thinking. Lavinia Truelove had been one of the silliest women in London and one of the noisiest.

  “How we should mistrust the gossips! I’m sure I’d heard that you were, in some way, that girl’s uncle.”

  Joe smiled again. He was going to have to get used to this. “Such was my own misapprehension, sir, for many a year.” He nodded his understanding. “Misleading term. There is no family connection whatsoever. Being much younger than myself, Miss Joliffe, as a girl, assumed a relationship that was socially acceptable at the time. A mere device. After an absence of some seven years, she came back into my life again quite recently. She’s a mature young lady of twenty-one these days. And, as you say, under the wing of the Minister for Reform.”

  “Um … a girl who keeps her powder dry. She was lucky to find you still on the loose, Sandilands, from what I hear. Odd way of going about finding a wife. And the Joliffe family isn’t perhaps the first place a patriotic chap would think of looking.” He realised his comment might well have given offence and, reassured by Joe’s easy smile, felt free to add in his avuncular way: “Look here, you’d better warn the young lady that you’re goin
g to be up to your ears for the foreseeable … working day and night.”

  “That won’t be necessary, sir. Miss Joliffe is away in France sorting out some pressing family matters. Out of range of a telephone.”

  “Never had any success with a French telephone. Good. That leaves you free to concentrate on the job in hand. You can turn all your attention to Kingstone’s dancer. You’re going to be … what’s the phrase?… riding herd on this pair for the duration of the conference. She’ll have every chance to get to know you pretty well. So—stand to attention and think of England! Have a happy time, Sandilands!”

  The car was held up in Park Lane behind a throng of omnibuses. The frustrated sergeant at the wheel was amused when his race winner in the back seat snorted, sighed, fished in his pocket and held out a paper bag.

  “Like a mint humbug, Sarge? Steady the nerves?”

  CHAPTER 3

  Joe followed the Claridge’s footman through to an almost deserted dining room where breakfast was being served to those few who chose not to have it taken up to their rooms. He stood in the doorway and looked about.

  He noted a couple quietly ignoring each other behind copies of the Telegraph. He caught a snatch of the conversation between two Italian men—last night’s performance of Rigoletto. A middle-aged man with a luxurious ginger moustache looked up in the act of pouring a cup of tea and their glances crossed without emphasis. Good. Cottingham was in place. The presence of the Chief Superintendent was always reassuring.

  He spent rather longer absorbing the details of a single man sitting with his back to the door. Tall and athletic-looking, he was addressing a plate of bacon and eggs with a generous serving of black pudding on the side. As the man reached over for the salt, Joe’s sharp eye caught a slight bulge in the small of his back, marring the smooth line of his American suiting. Colt revolver? Pinkerton’s Special? What were these chaps using these days? Joe would have expected any permitted gun to be kept more discreetly in a shoulder holster. He watched the man for a second or two as he wielded his knife and fork energetically on the black pudding and Joe remembered with a stab of hunger that his own breakfast had consisted of half a pint of milk drunk straight from the bottle standing in his kitchen. Time he was married.

  The footman hesitated politely and leaned close. “We’ve put you over there in the corner, sir,” he murmured. He indicated a table laid for two, fringed by potted plants. “Your host is aware that you’ve arrived and is on his way down to join you. He asks that you be seated. May I bring you coffee or tea while you wait?”

  Joe smiled. Such was the man’s discretion—Joe noted he had avoided the mention of a name—he could have applied for a job with the secret service. “Oh, Lord!” was Joe’s afterthought. “Perhaps he did and perhaps Military Intelligence accepted him. Am I slowing down?” If he’d been involved in the preparation for this shindig, placing staff like this is exactly what he would have done. To maintain the deceit, he passed a generous tip into the man’s palm. The slightest reaction of surprise on the man’s benign features confirmed Joe’s suspicion.

  He flashed a grin at the footman. “Make the most of it while you can. Why not? And I’ll have coffee, please. Rather a lot of it in one of your big pots.”

  “Certainly, sir. Your host has already been served breakfast in his room and will most probably not be ordering further cooked dishes,” came the helpful warning.

  Joe sighed. “Ah! I’m in for one of those pretend breakfasts! Well, I’m hungry. Can you bring me something delicate I can toy with between weighty pronouncements? A croissant or two? Would you have those?”

  “I’m sure we have, sir. Normandy butter and strawberry jam with that?”

  “Perfect.”

  “I’ll transmit your order to the waiter, sir.”

  Joe indicated that he would seat himself and proceeded to pass the table and its coverings in review. He chose to sit himself with his back to the wall with a view of the room, leaving Kingstone, when he arrived, to feel uncomfortably unaware of what was happening behind him. His situation would oblige him to trust to Joe’s swift reactions in countering any mischievous attack from the rear whether by revolver, fish knife or stink bomb. All part of Joe’s tactics when it came to establishing his authority.

  The coffee arrived minutes before Kingstone and Joe was thankfully halfway through his reviving cup when the senator made his appearance.

  Kingstone arrived like a blast on a saxophone and stood for a moment at the entrance searching the room with a commanding eye. Not a man creeping about seeking anonymity, was Joe’s first reaction to the American. On sighting Joe, he dismissed the footman at his elbow with a smooth gesture and strode forward. Of medium height and well built, he was impeccably dressed for a summer morning in London in a pale grey suit, white shirt and lavender-coloured paisley-patterned tie. As Joe rose to his feet, the strong, square face broke into a mischievous smile, which stripped a decade off his forty-odd years. A man perfectly capable of dealing with his own would-be assassins, Joe concluded.

  He held out a hand and shook Joe’s as both men made the ritual enquiries about each other’s health and declared themselves pleased to be meeting at last.

  “Did you leave anything in the pot? Then I’ll join you. Glad to see you’re a coffee drinker, commissioner. Can’t be doing with a tea drinker. See what it does for your walk?” he rumbled on, an amused and indulgent eye on the waiter threading his way through the tables on sinuous hips toward them, bearing a tray of pastries. “Turns you into Ivor Novello.” Kingstone ordered another pot of coffee and helped himself to a croissant from the dish. “The ham and eggs were good but I can never resist one of these. I learned to like them, trailing around the capitals of Europe in the wake of Natalia. My fiançée? You know about Natalia?”

  “I do, sir. She arrived five days ago, I understand?”

  “That’s right. Monday. Not that we’ve managed to spend much time together. I’ve hardly had time to say hello and she’s barely unpacked—using the hotel as a perch. But then she’s started rehearsals. Always a mistake to give these girls a couch in their dressing rooms,” he confided mysteriously. “And the balletmeister they’re working for—boy does he crack a whip! There’s a Frenchman—maybe he’s Polish; Colonel de Basil, he calls himself—running things. Every bit as demanding, they say, as the lamented Diaghilev. This fella has them on their toes from dawn to dusk. And I mean toes! Natty’s got toes like sledgehammers but even hers are beginning to crack and bleed. She gets through three pairs of ballet shoes in a day!”

  Joe listened to his easy chatter with a creeping sense of foreboding. “Look here, sir, if you’re saying you haven’t seen Miss Kirilovna since—Monday, was it?”

  “Tuesday night.”

  “Tuesday. That’s three days ago. I say—if you’re concerned and would like to post her as missing, I can set wheels in motion. Make enquiries at the theatre …”

  “No. No. For God’s sake don’t make it official! She’d tear my ears off for interfering. The press would overhear and before you knew it there’d be headlines everywhere, trumpeting a mystery where there is no mystery. Relax, Sandilands! She’ll be back when she judges she can make the most telling entrance. It’s what she does. You know—leap back on stage to roaring applause.”

  Kingstone glanced from side to side and looked back at Joe with a question in his sharp blue eyes. “Speaking of being overheard … we seem to be discreetly placed here.”

  Joe passed a forefinger swiftly over his mouth in a soldier’s gesture, understanding his concern. He raised his voice slightly and enunciated clearly: “I think we may speak openly without fear of being overheard. A gentleman of your status has diplomatic immunity in this country, after all,” he said. As he spoke, he drew a slender screwdriver from his breast pocket. An electrical screwdriver, and the only weapon Joe was ever armed with on a routine day. This little inoffensive tool was as useful for connecting wires as for disconnecting arteries. The sharpened steel edg
e applied to a jugular vein with appropriate threats had remarkably persuasive effects. But its duty this morning was, if not entirely innocent, at least what it was designed for.

  Joe casually upended the table lamp positioned between them and looked at it closely. He shook his head and playfully tapped the metal base plate with his screwdriver before applying it to the head of a brass screw. He was intrigued to see Kingstone instinctively spread his broad shoulders and lean forward, a complicitous grin on his face, effectively obscuring Joe’s performance from the room behind. In a few deft moves Joe had removed the base, identified the wires of interest and disconnected them. He put the lamp back together again and repositioned it.

  “Tiffany,” he commented. “More attractive when lit but I think we can manage very well without.”

  Kingstone gave him a shrewd look. “That was fun. But won’t someone have something to say about that little bit of prestidigitation?”

  Joe smiled. “You heard me take the trouble to sign off,” he said. “You do have immunity. I reminded them of that.”

  “But who was listening?” Kingstone persisted. “Who’s cursing the name of Sandilands at this moment?”

  Joe shrugged. “Oh, Military Intelligence? Special Branch?” And, slyly: “The FBI?”

  Kingstone grimaced, sat back and poured out more coffee. “All right. No more pussy-footing around, then. Down to business. We’re going to be in each other’s pockets for the next days or weeks. Tell me something about yourself. And I’d especially like to hear about that scar on your forehead. Can they expect me to trust a man who lets a tiger get close enough to sharpen its claws on him?”