‘When did all this happen?’ asked Daniel.

  Pitt searched his memory, then said, ‘About four months ago.’

  ‘Did the girl name Gavin Everett as one of her attackers?’

  ‘No,’ said Pitt. ‘His name didn’t come into it at all. In fact, until you showed me that card, I’d no idea he was even a member of the Quill Club.’

  ‘And since that complaint from Eve Lachelle? Has there been any other trouble reported?’ asked Abigail.

  ‘Nothing. No disturbances, nothing apparently out of order. Although I’m fairly sure that some of the alleged waitresses are actually prostitutes there to service the members. The club certainly seemed to have a larger contingent of waitresses than were needed just to serve drinks.’

  ‘Have you ever raided it?’ asked Abigail.

  ‘On what grounds? It’s a private members’ club, and unless we get some complaint – such as we had with Eve Lachelle – we can’t touch them without an order from a magistrate. Which, as the members include some very eminent citizens, isn’t that easy.’

  ‘I assume gambling goes on there?’ said Daniel.

  ‘Cards, mostly.’

  ‘And does it have a licence?’

  Pitt smiled. ‘It’s a private members’ club.’

  ‘So, an upmarket brothel and gambling den that people turn a blind eye to.’

  Pitt shrugged. ‘You know how things work when you’re dealing with the upper strata of society. As I recall, you and Abberline had the same problem with the Clarence Street brothel due to the fact that most of its clients were lords, and some even in the royal circle.’

  ‘But we still busted them,’ said Daniel.

  ‘Most of them fled abroad, from what I remember, and found safe haven on the Continent until they were able to return to England.’

  ‘Are we talking the same level of society here? Titled people?’

  ‘No, because we don’t have as many titled people as London, a few dukes and earls and lords, but in a place like Oxford the gentry is often made up of academics, as I mentioned, and other apparent pillars of the Establishment. And the prostitutes at Clarence Street were mainly telegraph boys, as I remember. The Quill Club is careful to vet the kind of people they employ. No telegraph boys, or servant girls, just women of a certain type working officially as waitresses.’

  ‘Who owns it?’

  ‘The property is owned by a consortium of local businessmen. The building houses offices. The Quill Club is located in the basement.’

  ‘Who runs it?’ asked Daniel.

  ‘A man called Vance de Witt.’

  ‘What’s he like?’ asked Abigail.

  ‘I only met him that once when we called to investigate the complaint from Miss Lachelle. He’s in his early forties. Smooth. Smug. Confident.’

  ‘Vance de Witt?’ mused Daniel. ‘Dutch?’

  Pitt frowned. ‘I don’t think so. He’s got an accent, but it’s not like that of Dutch people I’ve met. And we get a few visiting Oxford who invariably find their way to the police station, either because they’re lost, or they’ve had their pocket picked or something.’ He thought for a bit, then said, ‘If I was asked to describe his accent, I’d say it was similar to Australian, but flatter.’

  Daniel remembered Marriott’s report of his conversation with Inspector Grafton about Everett, looking for an African connection.

  ‘Could it be South African?’ he ventured.

  Pitt thought it over, then nodded. ‘Yes, it could well be,’ he said. ‘So, will you be talking to Mr de Witt?’

  ‘I think I will,’ said Daniel.

  Pitt looked at the clock on the wall. ‘I’d better be getting back to Kemp Hall,’ he said. ‘Is there anything else I should know about?’

  ‘Actually—’ began Daniel.

  ‘No,’ interrupted Abigail, with a smile. ‘Nothing, except to let you know I’ve asked a young woman reporter at the Oxford Messenger to do some digging for us into Everett’s private life.’

  ‘Good luck with that,’ said Pitt. ‘But hopefully you might find out something about that now through Mr de Witt and the Quill Club.’

  After Pitt had gone, Daniel queried Abigail, ‘You didn’t want him to know about the fake plates you discovered? They’re surely crucial to one reason why Everett may have been killed.’

  ‘I think the fewer people who know about the copies the better,’ said Abigail. ‘It’s about protecting the Ashmolean. It would be very unfair for gossip to spread and have the museum’s reputation tarnished unfairly.’

  ‘Pitt isn’t the sort who spreads gossip,’ countered Daniel. ‘And he gave us confidential information right at the start, when he told us about that telegram from the War Office. He trusts us, and I think we should return the compliment.’

  ‘And we will,’ promised Abigail. ‘But right now, our loyalty is to Mr Marriott and the Ashmolean. And Inspector Pitt, much as I like and respect him, isn’t officially on this case. We are.’

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Walter Grafton strode into the Wilton Hotel. Marriott had told him, when pressed, that this was where the Ashmolean had booked rooms for Wilson and the Fenton woman. He walked up to the man at the reception desk and produced his warrant card, which he held out for the receptionist to examine.

  ‘Scotland Yard?’ said the receptionist, worried.

  ‘I need to look at your register,’ said Grafton.

  The man complied with alacrity, putting the open book on the desk. Grafton studied it. The Fenton woman was in room 14 and Wilson in 15. He pushed the register back across the desk.

  ‘Thank you,’ he said curtly.

  ‘Is there anything we should know?’ asked the receptionist, concerned. ‘Anyone we should be worried about?’

  ‘No,’ said Grafton shortly. ‘Except that I was never here and never asked to look at the register. Is that clear?’

  The man nodded, and Grafton made for the stairs to the first floor. He’d already checked that Wilson and Fenton seemed to be tied up at the Ashmolean, so he hoped to have time to examine their rooms. And unlike his visit to Everett’s rooms, this time he’d be leaving no trace. Going into Everett’s lodgings had been different. Then he’d deliberately left signs he’d been there in the hope that word about the break-in and search would spread and unsettle his Boer opponents, if there were any. Start the hares running, they called it in Special Branch. Beat the bushes and see if anything moves.

  He decided to start with Wilson’s room. He took his lock-pick from his pocket and opened the door. His first impression was surprise at how tidy the room was. No clothes left draped over the back of chairs, no personal possessions spread over the dressing table. His surprise deepened as he began to open drawers, and then the wardrobe. Everything was empty. There were no clothes, no papers, no personal articles of any sort.

  There was a suitcase beside the bed. Grafton picked it up, and knew immediately it was empty, but he opened it just to check. There was nothing inside it. In short, the room wasn’t being used. Which could only mean that Wilson was sharing the room next door with Fenton.

  So they were lovers.

  He smiled to himself at this realisation. It explained why Wilson had become so enraged when Grafton had warned him that ‘something bad’ might happen to Fenton. Well, this was an interesting aspect. It gave him something over them, if necessary. Wilson wouldn’t want this being made public, with Fenton’s reputation tarnished. Maybe this was the lever he needed to get them to abandon the case, but he’d have to be careful how he approached it. Wilson had a temper, and a reputation as a brawler in rough situations. And the Fenton woman was known to sling a punch when seriously upset. He’d have to think about this. In the meantime, he’d slip into the Fenton woman’s room and dig around there, see what papers and information he could come up with.

  He checked to make sure that he’d left everything in the room exactly as it was when he came in, then let himself out, and was shocked to come face-to-face with a young blonde-haired woman standing outside the door of the Fenton woman’s room.

  Abruptly and automatically, he turned his head so his face was away from the young woman, and he hurried swiftly along the corridor to the stairs. Behind him, he heard the young woman knock at the door and call, ‘Abigail! It’s Esther!’

  Esther who? he wondered. And where did she figure in this?

  Esther knocked again at the door and waited. Still no answer.

  She was puzzled by the man who’d appeared from the next-door room and hurried off in such a furtive manner. Surely that couldn’t have been Daniel Wilson? But she was sure that Abigail had told her she and Mr Wilson had rooms next to one another.

  She went down to reception and gave the man at the desk an apologetic smile.

  ‘I’m sorry to trouble you, but I think I’ve forgotten the number of the room where my friend is staying. Miss Abigail Fenton. I thought she said she was in room 14, but I’ve tried the room and there was no answer.’

  The receptionist looked at the open pages of the guest book.

  ‘Yes, Miss Fenton is in room 14,’ he said. ‘But her key’s here, so I assume she’s out.’

  ‘And her colleague, Mr Wilson?’ asked Esther. ‘I think she said he was in the next room, room 13.’

  ‘We don’t actually have a room 13,’ said the man. ‘Some people are quite superstitious.’ He checked the register again. ‘Mr Wilson is in room 15. But as his key’s also here, I assume they’re both out.’

  ‘Has he just left?’ asked Esther. ‘Did I just miss him?’

  ‘No,’ said the receptionist. He indicated the hooks where the keys were hanging. ‘The key to room 15 has been here since this morning.’

  Esther thanked the receptionist and left, her mind in a whirl. So the man who’d come out of room 15 hadn’t been Daniel Wilson. Who was he? A burglar? Whoever he’d been, this was something that Abigail and Mr Wilson needed to know about.

  Inspector Grafton was angry. In London the merest sight of his Special Branch warrant card by any police officer of whatever rank, even a superintendent, brought immediate cooperation. But here, in Oxford, it hardly made any impression. Yes, it got the desired result from people like the receptionist at the Wilton Hotel, but they were low level. Even that curator at the Ashmolean, Marriott, had refused his demand to stop hiring Wilson and Fenton. It was unthinkable!

  At one point he’d thought of telegraphing Commander Atkinson for assistance, but then he’d rejected the idea: that would be an admission of failure on his part, and there was no way he was going to admit to that. No, he’d been entrusted with this mission and if the Boers had killed Everett then he was going to find out who they were, and bring them in.

  He needed information. Hard information, and he wasn’t getting anything useful from the local police, or from the Ashmolean. So where to try next? If he’d been in London, he’d have tried the various drinking dens where informers hung out, but he wasn’t in London, he was in this alien city where being a Special Branch inspector apparently had no value with the authorities.

  And then it struck him. Of course, the one place in any city where all information, all gossip, gathered together.

  That would be his next port of call.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  In their office at the Ashmolean, Daniel and Abigail discussed their next course of action in the light of recent events.

  ‘I think my next move is to pay a visit to the Quill Club and have a word with this Mr de Witt,’ said Daniel.

  ‘Without me?’ queried Abigail.

  ‘You heard what Inspector Pitt said, it’s a very discreet gentlemen’s club. I get the feeling I might have more luck doing it man-to-man, so to speak, rather than man-and-woman to man.’

  ‘Yes, I think you’re right.’ Abigail nodded. ‘While my next move is to check on the fakes by talking to this restorer Mr Marriott mentioned, Ephraim Wardle.’

  ‘I think you’d better be careful,’ warned Daniel. ‘If he was a criminal associate of Everett’s and you start asking questions, he might turn nasty. Especially if he was involved in Everett’s death.’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Abigail promised him. ‘I know what I’m doing. I’ll just be there as an archaeologist with a long history of working with artefacts from Egypt and Greece, who’s making enquiries about restoration.’

  There was a knock at the door, which opened to reveal Esther Maris.

  ‘Esther!’ Abigail smiled. She gestured at Daniel, who rose to his feet and walked towards Esther, hand extended for her to shake.

  ‘Daniel Wilson,’ he introduced himself. ‘We haven’t met before, but Abigail has told me an awful lot about you.’

  ‘I knew it wasn’t you!’ exclaimed Esther, shaking Daniel’s hand.

  ‘What wasn’t?’ asked Daniel, puzzled.

  ‘The man who came out of the room next to Abigail’s at the Wilton Hotel. Room 15.’ As Daniel and Abigail shot startled looks at one another, Esther enlarged on what had happened. ‘I’d gone to the Wilton to see if Abigail was there to tell her what I’d found out about Mr Everett’s private life … which, unfortunately, was nothing …’

  ‘The man who came out of my room?’ Daniel prompted.

  ‘Yes, well, I was knocking at the door of room 14, when suddenly the door of room 15 opened and this man came out.’

  ‘What did he look like?’ asked Daniel.

  ‘He was shorter than you. Relatively well dressed, but not very well dressed. Tidy rather than smart.’

  ‘Hair? Beard? Moustache?’

  ‘Dark hair, cut quite short. Possibly a military style of cut. No beard, but a moustache. Not a big bushy one, but large enough.’

  ‘It sounds like—’ began Abigail.

  ‘No one we recognise,’ cut in Daniel. ‘Well done, Esther, and thank you. And it was lucky you were there. Having tried my room, I’m sure he’d have tried Abigail’s next.’

  ‘Do you think it’s connected with the case? With Everett’s death?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Daniel. ‘There’s a particular breed of thief who sneaks around hotels, getting into their rooms and robbing them. Fortunately, I don’t leave anything of value in my room.’ He turned to Abigail. ‘It might be worth checking your room, in case he went in there first before he went into mine.’

  ‘Yes,’ agreed Abigail. ‘We’ll get along there now.’

  ‘Before you go, the other reason I came looking for you was to give you this,’ said Esther. She opened her bag and took out two sheets of paper covered in neat handwriting. ‘It’s the interview I did with you. I promised I’d let you see it and get your approval before I handed it in.’

  ‘Why thank you!’ said Abigail. ‘I promise I’ll read it and let you have it back later today. Where will I find you?’

  ‘If you like, I can come back here,’ said Esther. ‘Would two hours be enough for you? Because I promised my editor I’d let him have it this afternoon, and if there’s anything that needs changing …’

  ‘That’ll be fine,’ said Abigail. ‘I’ll see you back here in two hours’ time.’

  Esther smiled, wished them both a good day and left, while Abigail and Daniel put on their coats and made themselves ready to head to the Wilton Hotel to check if the intruder had been in their room.

  ‘Why didn’t you let me tell her about Inspector Grafton?’ demanded Abigail as they headed down the stairs to the street. ‘You said before you thought he was the most likely.’

  ‘Because she’s a reporter, and I’m wary about what I say to reporters.’

  ‘But you talk to reporters and tell them things. Look at that friend of yours on the Daily Telegraph when we were at the British Museum.’

  ‘That’s different, I’ve known Joe for years, and I trust him to keep what we tell him secret and not use it until we tell him he can.’

  ‘It could be the same with Esther,’ protested Abigail.

  ‘It could, but we don’t know her well enough yet. She’s ambitious, you said so yourself, so she might use things we tell her to push her own career forward without consulting us first.’

  ‘She gave me the interview she did with me to read first before handing it in to her editor,’ Abigail pointed out. ‘Surely that bodes well.’

  ‘Yes, alright,’ admitted Daniel. ‘But there’s another thing: her safety. If it was Grafton at the Wilton and Esther starts poking around and investigating him, it could be dangerous for her.’

  ‘All the more important she knows about him, so she’s warned about the situation,’ said Abigail.

  Daniel sighed, defeated.

  ‘Very well,’ he said reluctantly. ‘You tell her, but stress this is not for public consumption, not yet.’

  When they arrived at the Wilton Hotel, while Abigail went upstairs to check on their room, Daniel approached the receptionist, Charles.

  ‘Good afternoon, Charles,’ he said, and smiled.

  ‘Good afternoon, Mr Wilson. Do you want the key to your room?’

  ‘No thank you, just some information, if you don’t mind. I’ve discovered that a Special Branch detective was in here earlier, and I assume he asked to look at the register.’

  Charles looked uncomfortable and very unhappy.

  ‘I’m afraid I was told not to say anything,’ he said apologetically.

  ‘And I won’t ask you to,’ Daniel assured him. ‘But, as you know, Miss Fenton and I have been booked in here by the Ashmolean Museum as part of our work for them, which is to look into the circumstances surrounding the unfortunate Mr Everett’s death. So, any questions I have are really coming from the Ashmolean, and I know you’d like to keep the Wilton’s continuing relationship with the museum on its present very good terms. But, as I said, I won’t ask you to say anything. Instead, if I ask you something, all I need you to do is nod or shake your head. That way you are exonerated because you won’t have told me anything. Is that acceptable?’