'Any problems along the way, Constable?' Hawke asked, firing the engines.
'None at all, thank you.'
'What about the corpse of that dog lying on the beach?'
'Oh, that? Wasn't a problem at all. Slit his throat from ear to ear.'
'Shall we be off, then, do you suppose?'
'Indeed. I fancy a rather large whiskey at the Pennywhistle before turning in. Would you care to join me?'
'I should be delighted.'
'Done and done.'
'On our merry way, then, Constable,' Hawke said, and, firing the engines, he shoved the throttle full forward and powered away from Mutton Island, glad he and his companion seemed to have all of their body parts intact.
Mutton Island had been relatively easy.
Something told him the Barking Dog Inn was going to be an entirely different matter.
Congreve, pulling his collar up against the cold, wet wind, said, 'Alex, have I ever mentioned an old acquaintance of mine? Chap by the name of Bulldog Drummond?'
'No. I've heard the name, of course. He was a character in a series of mystery novels I read as a boy. By an author who called himself 'Sapper.''
'This character is quite real, I assure you. And I think he would be of enormous help to us in this next mission. We worked the Mountbatten assassination together. Retired now.'
'Fine. Where do we find him?'
'He lives in the little town of Glin on the River Shannon.'
TWENTY-EIGHT
THE QUEUE WAS TRUDGING FORWARD at last. Smith pulled his battered fedora down around his ears and pushed his thick 'national health' eyeglasses up on the bridge of his nose. He'd considered a beard for the occasion but decided a lush moustache would suffice. He looked down at his long, baggy overcoat, making sure too much of his trouser legs didn't show.
That wouldn't do at all, he smiled to himself.
Shuffling along, looking bored, he pulled a well-thumbed brochure out of his pocket and studied it for the hundredth time. He was actually looking forward to this expedition in more ways than one.
This massive complex had been in continuous use since William the Conqueror had selected it as the site of a fortress after his conquest of England in 1066. Smith had frequently read how much the Queen adored the place. How she frequently spent her weekends at Windsor Castle, using it for both state and private entertaining as well as riding her horses on the vast parklands and estates.
She certainly had room to stretch her legs out here, he chuckled to himself, noting the statistic that claimed there were an astounding five hundred thousand square feet of floor area under this melange of centuries-old rooftops.
'Ah, these Royals, they do like to live like kings and queens,' he said over his shoulder to an irritating, noisy American woman behind him. A mistake, he knew, but he was antsy, and he'd taken pity on the husband. She'd been blathering nonstop to her silent and clearly long-suffering spouse ever since they'd formed up the queue, loudly lecturing the poor soul in excruciating detail exactly what he was going to see once he got inside these hallowed walls.
'Don't they just?' the frowzy woman said, whirling on him, a tigress hungry to pounce upon fresh meat.
'Hmm,' he said, wanting to take a knife to her wagging tongue.
'Well, they deserve it, I suppose. After all, the Royals are kings and queens,' she said.
'Quite right, madam. I hadn't thought of it quite that way before.'
She was surprisingly small for her voice, a beaky, birdlike creature, someone who looked as if she'd like nothing more than to pop up, perch on his shoulder, and start screeching into his ear. Had he not more important things to do, he might actually have taken the time to pursue this cheeky little monster. Follow her home into her cave and fillet her avian corpus.
'And where are you from?' she asked, thinking him exotic.
'Ah. A penetrating question. I am a Londoner, madam.'
'London? Really?' she said, speaking as if it were some undiscovered, faraway destination instead of a thirty- minute train ride to Paddington Station. 'We've just come from there.'
'Fascinating.'
'And what do you do?'
'Arson.'
'How interesting. And what are you most excited about seeing today, if you don't mind my being such an old nosy parker?' she chirped. To his astonishment, she actually winked at him!
'Well, the Royal Private Apartments, of course. You know, the furnishings, the priceless works of antiquity. That sort of thing. How about you?'
'Oh, well, Queen Mary's Dolls' House, of course! I collect dolls and miniatures back home and I've never been so thrilled in all my life. We're the Harveys, by the way, Herman and Marva Harvey. From Celebration? No? Disney World? No? Well, you're obviously not much of a world traveler, are you? It's near Orlando, Florida. And you are?'
'Next in line, I'm afraid, madam.'
'Oh.' She looked devastated at this snide dismissal.
'Well. Lovely meeting you both,' he said, moving forward and sliding his prepaid ticket beneath one of the half windows to one of the many pink-faced young English roses with their starched white collars. She smiled up at him after taking his ticket.
'If you'll step to your right as soon as you're inside, you'll find your tour group is just leaving, sir. You're the last one, so I shouldn't dillydally.'
Which meant he'd be at the group's rear, just as he'd planned, counting off groups of twenty before joining the queue.
'Beg pardon, miss. The Queen's Private Chapel,' he said, smiling at the pretty young thing with his brilliant white teeth. 'Is it open today?'
'So sorry, sir. Closed. Restoration work.'
'Ah, too bad. Maybe next time.'
He moved inside and joined his group.
'LET'S BEGIN, SHALL WE?' the reed-thin male guide said in a properly fluty voice. 'Our first stop, the State Apartments. If you could all manage to stay together it will make your visit far more pleasant, as you don't want me scurrying off in search of a lost duckling in midsentence, do you? If you have any questions at all, my name is Colin.'
There was a brief moment of appreciative twittering and then they were off like the obedient little flock they were expected to be.
Smith paid no mind to the pontifications of their fearless leader, he just shuffled along at the rear, sometimes falling back to inspect a painting by Van Dyck or Rubens he'd always admired. Then he'd quickly catch up, making sure the palace guide noticed that he was a dutiful soldier, trying his best to stay with the squadron. He'd need a favor from this chap, and soon.
Fifteen minutes later, they were about to go to the right and enter the Private Apartments overlooking the East Terrace. It was at this point that he began making his way to the front of the group. He sidled up to the skinny guide and whispered, 'I say, Colin, bit of an emergency here. I saw a loo back there on the left and I'm terribly afraid I need to use it very badly.'
There was a distinct sniff of disgust, and then the man, clearly displeased with this glitch, peered down his long
