‘Please do,’ said William, turning back towards the lecturer.
‘After Rocket completed its final run in 1862, the L and MR donated Stephenson’s masterpiece to the Science Museum, where it has resided to this day.’
‘Anything else, detective constable?’ asked Christina. ‘I’m already late for my lunch at the Ritz.’
‘If you were able to find out the date of his next party—’
‘You’ll be the first to hear, William,’ she said before slipping quietly away.
‘That’s the end of my little talk,’ said the guide. ‘If you have any questions, I’ll be happy to answer them.’
Several hands shot up as William turned to leave. But then, all his questions had been answered.
William was waiting for a train at South Kensington tube station, on his way back to Scotland Yard, when he spotted him standing on the opposite platform, looking like any commuter on his way to work. William recognized him immediately; he was even carrying the same Tesco shopping bag. The moment their eyes met, Tulip immediately turned and began running towards the nearest exit. That was his first mistake. Instead of getting on the next train, he’d made a run for it.
William charged up the escalator steps two at a time. As he approached the barrier, he saw Tulip handing his ticket to a collector, who, after checking it, looked puzzled. William didn’t stop running and flashed his warrant card at the collector without breaking his stride. He began to gain on his prey, but then this time he was sober.
Each time Tulip looked back over his shoulder, William had gained a precious yard. But then he stopped to hail a passing cab and leapt inside. Tulip’s second mistake. William was just a couple of yards adrift when the cab moved off, and it had only travelled a hundred yards before it stopped at a red light. William treated the chase like an Olympic final, and was only a few strides from the tape when the light turned amber. He grabbed the cab door and was still holding on when the light turned to green, causing the driver to slam on his brakes.
‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’ shouted the cabbie, as he got out from behind the wheel, while the cars behind angrily blasted their horns. ‘I’ve already got a customer.’
‘Police,’ said William, producing his warrant card. He jumped into the cab, only to see Tulip leaping out of the other side. But he immediately collided with a cyclist, giving William enough time to grab his arm and bend it halfway up his back, before dragging him inside the cab.
‘Drop us off at the nearest police station,’ said William firmly. ‘And leave your meter running.’
The cabbie drove off without another word, while William kept Tulip’s nose pressed up against a side window.
A few minutes later they pulled up outside Kensington police station, where the driver even opened the back door to let his passengers out.
‘Don’t move,’ said William to the cabbie, before frogmarching Tulip into the nick, only letting go of his arm so he could produce his warrant card for the desk sergeant.
William began to empty Tulip’s pockets, placing the contents on the counter along with the Tesco carrier bag. He grabbed Tulip’s wallet and extracted two pound notes.
‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’ demanded the desk sergeant.
‘He forgot to pay his taxi fare,’ said William, as he turned to leave.
‘And what’s this?’ said the sergeant, pointing to the bag.
‘The evidence,’ said William. ‘Enter it on the charge sheet. I’ll be back in a minute.’ He left the station and handed the two pounds to the cabbie, who smiled for the first time. ‘One more thing before you leave,’ said William. ‘Where did he ask you to take him?’
‘The Three Feathers pub in Battersea.’
Tulip’s third mistake.
A grin crossed William’s face as he made his way back into the station. But it soon disappeared when he saw the desk sergeant devouring the evidence.
‘What are you up to?’ he asked in disbelief.
‘Removing any damning evidence we found in the shopping bag,’ said the sergeant. ‘Care for a slice?’
‘I wonder if I might seek your advice on a private matter, Sir Julian,’ said Beth, as they sat in the corner of the drawing room after lunch.
‘I do wish you wouldn’t call me Sir Julian, my dear. It makes me feel so old. But how can I help?’
‘Some of my colleagues at the Fitzmolean feel our director Tim Knox should be awarded a knighthood, but we have no idea how to go about it. After all, we’ve been voted Museum of the Year for the past two years, ahead of the Tate and the National Gallery, and both of their directors have been honoured. I thought as you had a knighthood, you might be able to point me in the right direction.’
‘Don’t tell anyone what you’re up to, would be my first piece of advice, because if it were to leak out, his rivals might try to scupper the whole idea.’
‘Tim’s such a decent and kind man, I can’t believe he has any rivals.’
‘Anyone who’s hoping to be knighted has rivals, not least those who think they’re more deserving of an honour than him. But on a more practical level, you’ll need a sponsor, preferably someone whose reputation is like Caesar’s wife, beyond reproach. Who is the gallery’s chairman?’
‘Lord Kilholme.’
‘Fine fellow,’ said Sir Julian. ‘A former cabinet minister whose reputation has grown since leaving office, and that’s a rare thing.’ He paused while his wife handed them both a coffee. ‘However, Kilholme will still need several letters of support from leading figures in the art world, and not all from the same political party. But Kilholme is an old pro, so he’ll know exactly how to go about it.’
‘And surely he’ll also know who sits on the honours committee?’ said Beth.
‘No one knows who sits on the committee. If people did, imagine the pressure they’d come under. It’s
