“I will be having tea,” Stoke said, a huge grin on his face. “Pelham, you been with Alex since the day he was born. We sitting here trying to figure out who could have the kind of hatred for Alex that would drive them to murder his bride on the steps of a church. Maybe you could add something. Why don’t you sit down there and listen to old Ross talk about his midnight visit to the crime scene?”
“Are you quite serious?”
“I’m quite serious as I ever get.”
“Then I should be delighted. My morning was going to be spent sorting through his lordship’s jumble of handkerchiefs. The linen and the silk seem to have cojoined. This sounds a much more interesting and worthwhile endeavor.”
Pelham lifted the tails of his cutaway and sat in the lovely old Windsor chair Alex had acquired at an estate sale in Kent.
“Good. We need all the help we can get on this. Now, Ross, tell Pelham and me what happened when you and the Constable went up to the church that night?”
“Ah, yes. The proverbial dark and stormy night. It was raining buckets, and my expectations were low. The crime scene had been, by that time, thoroughly investigated. But, the Constable reminded me, mere crime scene investigators are not to be confused with Ambrose Congreve.”
Stoke laughed. “Boy is a natural, ain’t he? Natural born copper.”
“On the assumption the shooter had spent the night or most of it up in the tree, we did a three-sixty around the base of the tree. Twice.” Ross reached inside his jacket and removed a small glassine envelope. “The Chief found this the second time round. It’s just back from the evidence lab at Victoria Street.”
Stoke took the envelope and held it up to the light.
“Don’t look like much.”
“It’s the stump end of a cigar, actually. Both wrapper and filler have been identified as Cuban leaf. There was a bit of foil label embedded in the wrapper. Lab was able to determine the brand. Cohiba.”
“So where does that take us? You can buy Cuban cigars anywhere.”
“Quite right. But the label indicated this cigar was not made for export. It could only have been purchased in Cuba.”
“Well, lots of them Cuban folks down there would like to bust Alex’s chops, but we killed most of ’em when we blew the shit out of that rebel submarine base.”
“Stoke,” Sutherland said, leaning forward, “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”
“Soviet sniper rifle. Got to be hundreds of them lying around in the one Communist country we didn’t even mention. Cuba. Russkies left ’em behind when they pulled out of there. Shooter could be Cuban all right. God knows, we pissed a bunch of them off down there and—”
“Cuba,” Sutherland interrupted. “The one name Alex asked the Chief Inspector to add to his list.”
It was then that Pelham dropped his teacup. It hit the floor with a tinkling crash and shattered, splashing tea on Stokely’s trousers.
“Good Lord!” Pelham exclaimed. “I must be losing my mind!”
“Ain’t no harm done, Pelham. Here, I can pick it all up and—”
“I’ve done the most dreadful thing,” Pelham said. “Absolutely dreadful. I must be getting perfectly senile.”
“What are you talking about, Pelham?” Sutherland asked. “You, dear fellow, are simply incapable of doing anything dreadful.”
Pelham took a deep breath and stared at the two men.
“You two are thinking the man who murdered Victoria was possibly Cuban?”
“We currently exploring that possibility, yes.”
“This may be completely irrelevant,” Pelham said, rubbing his white-gloved hands together anxiously.
“You trying to solve a cold-blooded murder, Pelham, ain’t nothing irrelevant,” Stokely assured him.
“Well. It was about a week after everyone returned from the Caribbean. After the very successful conclusion of what his lordship humorously called his ‘personal Cuban missile crisis.’ Vicky was a guest at the house in London, recuperating from the ordeal of her abduction at the hands of the Cuban rebels. Would someone mind pouring me a wee dram of whiskey? I’m feeling a bit off.”
“Hell, Pelham,” Stokely said, “It’s way past nine o’clock in the morning, I’ll pour you a glass.”
Stokely went to the drinks table and peered at the silver labels hanging from the necks of the various heavy crystal decanters. He’d never had a drop of alcohol in his life and was a bit unsure as to what was whiskey and what was not.
“It’s the one on the far left, Stoke,” Sutherland said. “Please continue, Pelham.”
“Well. At any rate, Vicky and Alex had had a lovely evening at the house in Belgrave Square. They dined alone. After dinner, I took them up and showed them the hidden room where I’d kept all of Alex’s childhood toys and mementoes. There was a lovely portrait of Lord and Lady Hawke there. Alex and I somehow managed to get the large picture properly hung above the fireplace in the sitting room. They sat for a long time on the sofa, just staring up at it. Quite an emotional experience for Alex, I must say, finally coming to grips with the death of his parents.”
“What happened after that, Pelham?” Stokely asked.
“Well, as I say, there was a beastly storm that night and I had laid a great fire in the hearth. It was a’blazing away and I left them sitting there, cozy and comfortable. I went into the pantry to take up my needlepoint. When I returned some hours later, I discovered they’d fallen asleep. It was about three in the morning and I decided just to put a fur throw over them and go on up to bed. That’s when it happened.”
“What?” Sutherland said gently, for clearly the old fellow was deeply troubled.
“I was on my way up to my rooms, you see, and I heard someone ringing at the front door.”
“At three in the morning?” Sutherland said.
“Yes. Madness, naturally, unless it was some kind of emergency which it wasn’t. I went down, turned on the exterior carriage lamps, which I had shut off moments before, and I opened the door. There was a man standing there in the drenching rain. He was wearing a black cloak and holding a large black umbrella. He announced, in an appallingly rude manner, that he was looking for Alexander Hawke. I informed him that Lord Hawke was hardly receiving at this hour. ‘Give him this,’ he said, and handed me a small golden medallion. I recognized it as having belonged to his lordship.”
“You later gave it to Alex?” Stokely asked.
“No. That’s the dreadful thing. I slipped it inside my waistcoat pocket and toddled off to bed, fully intending to give it to his lordship next morning. When I went down to prepare breakfast at seven, I found a note from his lordship saying that he and Vicky had risen at first light and driven down to Hawkesmoor for a few last days in the Cotswolds before she returned to America. I put the medallion in the silver box where he keeps all his medals. And, completely and inexcusably, forgot to ever even mention it to him. Since he never looks at his medals, I’m quite sure that, to this day, he doesn’t know a thing about it.”
Stokely, looking not at Pelham but at Sutherland, said, “What did that medallion look like?”
“It was a St. George’s medal,” Pelham said, “It had his initials on the reverse side. A gift from his mother. I noticed he wasn’t wearing it upon his return from Cuba and asked him about it. He told me he’d lost it down there.”
“It’s the medal Alex was wearing round his neck the night we rescued Vicky, Ross,” Stoke said. “One of the guards cut the gold chain and took it away from him. We were so busy trying to get out of there alive, we forgot all about it.”
“Pelham, can you give us a physical description of this fellow on the steps?” Ross said, excited.
“Well, I remember he kept the umbrella low, as if to hide his face. But when he turned to go, I caught a glimpse of him in the light of the carriage lamps. Most extraordinary. He had absolutely no color in the pupils of his eyes.”
Stokely and Sutherland both got to their feet at the same time.
“This guy,” Stoke said, his voice choked with excitement, “He have any kind of accent, Pelham?”
“Yes,” Pelham said. “A very distinct accent. Spanish.”
“The man with no eyes,” Stoke said. “Shit. Alex was right. We should have been looking at Cubans.”
“Scissorhands,” Sutherland agreed. “That’s what Vicky said all the Cuban guards called him. Chap who liked
