for the boys? I don’t think they live locally, do they?’
‘Montague lives at fourteen North Road in Highgate near the school, and William lives at thirty-four Noel Road in Islington. Such pretty houses they have. Now then, will you take a glass of Madeira before you go, Sergeant? A small sherry? I usually have a little tipple about this time!’
The sergeant declined. As he made his way back to the station he wondered if Mrs Lewis realized the import of what she had told him. She had just pointed out that her two sons, singly or together, had very powerful motives for murder.
Powerscourt discovered to his great delight that M. Olivier Brouzet, director general of the French secret service, was not at his elegant headquarters in the Place des Vosges in Paris. He was in London, conferring with his English counterparts. He met Powerscourt in a charming room, hung with Gobelin tapestries, in the French Embassy.
‘Thank you for your note, how pleasant to meet you again, Lord Powerscourt.’ Olivier Brouzet was still slim and dapper with a charming smile. ‘You mention you have been having trouble with secrecy in your secret service? Is that so, Lord Powerscourt?’
Powerscourt explained about the murder at the Jesus Hospital and the two further murders at places connected with the Silkworkers Company. He mentioned the strange marks on the dead men’s chests. He told Brouzet about meeting Colonel Arbuthnot outside the almshouse and his great reluctance to give any details of his interest in the victim and the manner of his death. And he passed on his latest intelligence about the highly suspicious trip to Hamburg and the meeting in London that infuriated Abel Meredith. He complained about the secrecy in the organization he had served.
‘Maybe you should make allowances, my friend. This secret organization of yours is very young. Perhaps they do not yet know how to behave.’
‘Colonel Arbuthnot hinted that Meredith might have been turned into a double agent by the Germans. Do you think that is possible?’
‘Anything is possible in this secret world, my friend. This Meredith would seem to have been used as a courier, but then the colonel more or less admitted that, did he not, when he said his service sometimes used the Silkworkers as messengers. It’s quite smart, I think. Maybe we should infiltrate our winegrowers’ fraternities and use them to take messages to and from Germany under cover of friendly visits to the vineyards of Hock and Moselle. In the world of espionage, Lord Powerscourt, if you look at things very closely for a long time you may end up entertaining the most fantastical notions. You can think you are going mad, and some of us do. It becomes like a repeating image in a hall of mirrors. The man is a double agent, no, he is a triple agent, you can go on for ever. Certainly the British have turned quite a lot of people in recent times. Betraying your country is often preferable to four years in some ghastly English prison where the inmates will beat you up all the time for being a German spy. Patriotism flourishes in the most unlikely places.’
‘What would you advise, Monsieur Brouzet? Should I take this spying business seriously or not?’
‘That is a difficult question, my friend. Part of the difference between our two countries on espionage-related matters is that of geography. You have the waters of the North Sea between you and the Kaiser. For us, he is, literally, next door. That is why I think these matters are taken more seriously in France than in Britain. Let me ask you a question. From what you have told me, you think these mysterious marks hold the key to the crimes, the fact that all three corpses have been defaced in the same way. Is that right?’
‘It is,’ said Powerscourt, wondering where this French logic might be taking him.
‘Well, my friend, it seems unlikely to me that all three dead men were involved with the secret service and acting as couriers to Germany and back. I do not believe the Germans would come all this way to kill all three of them. I think that’s very unlikely. So I think you should not close your mind to the possibilities of espionage in this case, but I do not think it should be at the forefront of your mind either. I tell you what I will do. Quite soon I have a meeting with the superior officer of this Colonel Arbuthnot. I shall ask him about events at the almshouse. I shall tell him that we had an agent holidaying at your Elysian Fields Hotel who heard about the murder inquiry and reported back to us. I shall, of course, let you know what he says.’
Inspector Fletcher had never interviewed a professional mistress before, if that was what she was. He wasn’t quite sure if she had committed any crimes. The young lady had blonde hair and bright blue eyes and went straight on to the attack as if she were a professional boxer.
‘Hey,’ she said, ‘are you in charge round here? That man of yours, Constable whatever his name is, he seems to have lost the power of speech.’
‘I am the senior investigating officer, looking into a case of murder. Fletcher is my name. I’m an Inspector.’
‘Good for you. Well done. Nobody’s mentioned murder round here to me. Everybody’s still alive in this hotel as far as I know. Some of them may be bloody old but they’re not dead yet. Not quite. My name’s Francesca, by the way, my friends call me Frankie. I don’t know nothing about this murder, wherever it was. Why can’t I go home? You’ve got no cause to hold on to me. I’ve got work to do.’
‘I’m sure you do. What kind of work do you do, Miss Francesca?’
‘I’m a masseuse. And I do occasional escort work sometimes. If the money’s right. Do you need a massage, Inspector? You look pretty tense to me.’
‘I’m fine, thank you,’ said the Inspector. ‘I wonder if you could tell me about your relationship with one of the directors here, Sir Peregrine Fishborne.’
‘What’s it got to do with you, my relationship as you call it, with old Fishcake? None of your bloody business.’
‘There you’re wrong. The murder we are investigating took place at an almshouse not far from here. Sir Peregrine was here at the hotel the night of the murder. We think you may have been with him. The date of which we speak is January twenty-second.’
‘I may have been with him that night,’ Francesca said, ‘and I may not. I can’t be expected to remember exactly where I was all the time. I still don’t think it’s any of your business.’
‘Did you come down with Sir Peregrine in his car? Or did you make your own way here? It was a Saturday. The hotel people remember you being here. In the Baron Haussmann Suite.’
‘What if I was?’
‘Could I ask you what you were doing with Sir Peregrine so late at night?’
‘You may. He needed a massage. He often sends for me here when he needs a massage. He’s got a terrible back, old Fishcake, just terrible.’
‘I see,’ said the Inspector. ‘And does the treatment involve you staying the night?’
‘You’re the nosey one, aren’t you? Course it does. Sometimes the treatment doesn’t work first time round. You have to do it again. “Frankie,” old man Fishcake would say to me, “despite your best efforts, I’m afraid it hasn’t taken. One more time if you please.” And usually he needs it again in the morning. Help him through the day, that sort of thing. What’s he done anyway, my client? You’re not suspecting him of the murder, are you?’ With that Francesca began to laugh. ‘All the time he’s lying there, scarcely able to move, you think he’s off up at the almshouse killing somebody? Don’t be ridiculous!’
‘Can you remember, Miss Francesca, if Sir Peregrine required further treatment in the morning? Can you remember what time he left the hotel?’
‘There is one thing you can say about old Fishcake, he’s very regular in his habits. He always wants it in the morning, the treatment, I mean. Never known him not to. He usually left very early in the morning after I’d seen to him. Seven o’clock? Eight o’clock? Sometimes earlier, sometimes later. His back was so bad one day recently I had to stay till ten o’clock.’
‘Has this masseuse duty been going on for long, Miss Francesca?’
‘Long enough, Inspector. There are times when a girl might like to be pummelling something younger, if you follow me, but I can’t complain. I’ve been seeing to him for about six months, I should say.’
‘How does he get in touch with you, Miss Francesca?’
‘You’re getting very cheeky, young man. I shall answer this question and then no more. He’s lent me a flat so I can treat him there when he needs me to. Just off the Strand. And he’s installed one of those telephone things so he can call when he needs me. That’s your lot, sunny Jim. I’m off.’
The constable and the Inspector made their way back to the station.
‘Do you know, sir, I’m not feeling too good,’ said the constable.
