Lovelace gave a wry smile. ‘See you at the funeral, then? On Monday? It’s in the Lincoln’s Inn Chapel, right by 20 Old Square, where Amyas worked. Eleven o’clock. I think his Chambers are going to host some sort of lunch reception afterwards. Selwyn Pickle’s onto it. You know he got elected as the Head of Chambers by the rest of the staff? So he’s happy as Larry. And we let his boy go, too. No connection at all to our crime. Just one of those daft coincidences that he happens to be a Billingsgate Fish Porter, or a trainee Fish Porter, I should add. That’s why he didn’t yet have that wretched bobbin hat you were going on about. He was very specific about that when we asked him about it. Said he couldn’t wait until he was allowed to wear one!’

  ‘Isn’t life strange, sir. So at least some good came out of it all. Old Selwyn Pickle and his son the trainee Fish Porter are reconciled.’

  ‘Did I say that?’ The Inspector frowned. ‘I don’t think that’s the case at all. Selwyn Pickle refused to come and even see the boy, let alone grant him bail when it looked like he’d need it. No: no love lost there. Seems blood doesn’t count for much, sometimes.’

  ‘Mnnn. Or else it counts too much, in the case of Martha Vannelly.’

  ‘Families are jolly odd, really.’

  ‘Good job I haven’t got any then, isn’t it, sir? See you on Monday.’

  ****

  It was a quiet weekend, on purpose. Thoughts of Max and his disappearance were ushered firmly to the corner recesses of Posie’s mind, stored for dragging out and crying over at a later, more convenient time.

  Saturday involved two hospital visits in the morning.

  The first visit, just a stone’s throw from her flat, was to Great Ormond Street Hospital where Katia Lyle was being looked after.

  Posie stared through the plate-glass window which divided up the normal children’s ward with the room for very poorly or very tiny babies. A strange and rather alarming sight met her eyes, as doctors and nurses in white theatre gowns and masks bobbed between glass cots covered in muslin tents, and between a row of glass-boxed incubators. Tiny, tiny forms were just discernible inside the glass boxes, and Posie caught her breath at the sheer helplessness of these little children. Her part in all this, in taking on some sort of responsibility for Katia – a child she couldn’t even locate here – also made her feel uncomfortable, nervous. Just what was she going to do?

  She was suddenly aware of a tear trickling down her cheek, something which very rarely happened.

  ‘All right, dearie? Not seen you here before. Who’re you here for?’ A small but very wide, fat nurse in a white uniform was standing beside Posie, touching her lightly on the arm in a reassuring, motherly gesture.

  ‘Katia. Katia Lyle, please.’

  ‘And you are, Miss?’

  ‘I was a friend of her father.’

  ‘I see. Well, she’s this baby here. Nearest to us on the left.’ The fat nurse tapped on the glass partition a couple of times, at the nearest baby to them, lying in a glass cot, wrapped in several blankets. All Posie could see was a head of dark hair, and a little hand scrunched up below it.

  ‘She’s not out of the woods yet, little Katie. But she’s doing nicely, for all she was born so very small. She’s already been moved out of the incubator and she’s now in a normal cot, although it’s being heated specially. I’d say little Katie was a fighter, Miss. She’s got every chance of living a perfectly normal life after this.’

  ‘Katie?’

  The fat nurse smiled. ‘That’s what we call her here.’ She consulted a flip chart she was holding in her hands. ‘Although it says here her real name is Ekaterina. Silly foolish name for a girl with no parents! We call her Katie as it will be a nice plain name for whoever comes to take her home with them in the end. If she gets taken to a home, I suppose.’

  Posie stared at the tiny baby, a burning fire suddenly rushing unexpectedly through her whole being. ‘She’ll definitely get a home.’

  ‘Aye, I think you’re right, Miss. She’s a popular little lady, and no mistake. Why, today alone she’s had three sets of visitors before you!’

  ‘Three?’

  ‘Yes. An older woman who visits every day, perhaps a relative? Foreign-looking, blue eyes, very sad. And then two men who came separately, each on their own. Professional sorts by the look of things. Maybe from an orphanage?’

  Of course, the first visitor was Masha, Olga’s Housekeeper from Fever Street. But she couldn’t have said with any certainty exactly who the two men were.

  The next hospital visit was across the river, to Guy’s, where Aiden Vannelly was being cared for. Posie tracked down his hospital room with no problems, but saw that a police guard of two uniformed constables was on the door, allowing nobody to pass. White blinds had been pulled down across the windows and she couldn’t see inside.

  Just as she was about to turn tail after a seemingly useless journey she saw Sergeant Rainbird bobbing along the corridor, two enamel cups of tea in one hand, a large bar of Fry’s Turkish Delight in the other.

  ‘Miss! You’ve just missed the Chief Inspector.’

  ‘Have I? I thought he was having a quiet family weekend at home?’

  ‘Oh, well. I dunno about that, but he was here, anxious to see how our Mr Vannelly was getting on.’

  ‘And?’

  Rainbird made a so-so gesture with his chocolate-laden hand. ‘Stable. That’s all we’re being told. I think that’s medical jargon for “it could go either way”. But what I do know is that Mr Vannelly hasn’t woken up since the heart attack, so he’s in no position to answer questions, let alone stand trial for murder.’

  Rainbird was busy doling out the tea and chocolate to his constables, and then he and Posie walked a little way away from them, out of earshot.

  ‘Because that’s what you’ve got, Miss Parker, isn’t it? Extra questions?’

  ‘Am I that obvious?’

  ‘I can see it in your eyes. You’re like the boss, Miss, if you don’t mind me saying so. You get a particular light in your eyes and it’s like you won’t let go of a thing until you’ve got what you came for.’

  Posie laughed. But he was right. Somehow, somewhere in all this mess there had been something that Aiden Vannelly had been keeping back from her in his story. But what? She couldn’t make sense of it yet. Would she ever now?

  Posie turned to go. Homewards, alone.

  ‘I’m sorry I didn’t get around to telling you, Miss,’ called out Rainbird.

  ‘Sorry?’ she wheeled around.

  ‘About the boss. About New Zealand. I knew he was putting off telling you and I didn’t think it was right. I know how close you two are. I somehow couldn’t get the words out.’

  ‘That’s fine, Sergeant. I know everything now.’

  ‘I’m glad. If you’re in the market for everything, Miss, then I ought to tell you this…’

  ‘Oh?’ Posie braced herself for yet more bad news. Honestly, what more could be thrown her way now? Or was this the delicate ‘news’ about Lovelace’s Housekeeper, Ella Brown, accompanying him out to New Zealand?

  ‘It’s about your secretary, Prudence Smythe, Miss.’

  Surprising. ‘Mnnn. Go on.’

  ‘We all knew she was stepping out with old Binny last year, Miss, although they were keeping it pretty hush-hush. We organised a whip-round for her at the Yard after he was killed. We knew she was pretty hard up, just her and her sick old mam.’

  ‘That was very decent of you, Sergeant. I’m sure she appreciated it. But what has this got to do with me?’

  ‘I’d always admired her, Miss. But in the circumstances, well, it didn’t seem right to press my own advantage. So I waited a year, Miss, which I felt was a good time of mourning, respectable-like, and then I asked her out to tea. Just a couple of days ago.’

  ‘Ah.’ Things were starting to appear clearer, and brighter. The purple clothes replacing the black. The sudden change in manner.

  Well, every cloud…

  ‘I wanted you to know we are now stepping out, Miss. Officially. And I have only good intentions. Just so you know, Miss.’

  ‘I’m very happy for you, Sergeant. For both of you. Truly I am.’

  And on this delightfully cheerful note, Posie slunk home for the rest of her solitary weekend.

  ****

  Twenty-Five

  Monday, the day of Amyas Lyle’s funeral, dawned pearly-grey and cool, with the promise of more rain in the air. The heatwave which had accompanied Eric Liddell’s remarkable Olympic success in Paris the week before seemed a thing long gone.

  Posie dressed carefully in a black silk shirt-dress with a string of pink glass beads for a dash of colour. She jammed on a black cloche hat with a single large black rose made of grosgrain ribbon, added the lightest of light pink lipsticks, and then set off, her carpet bag and her rarely-used black umbrella tucked firmly under her arm.

  It was early, too early to get to the church, and Posie stopped in at the office on the way. There she found Sid, sorting through the early morning post. She took the already-opened mail, sat down on the client’s sofa and started to read through it. There was nothing interesting, and certainly nothing from Max.

  For a brief second Posie stared up at the bookshelf which Sid had re-ordered, and then looked over at the boy himself.

  He was wearing the black suit which Posie had bought him the year before, for another funeral, and he had obviously grown a good deal in a year: the sleeves were way up his arms and the trousers were too short for his gangly fourteen-year-old legs. ‘Let’s get you a couple of new suits later today, Sid,’ promised Posie, wondering how she could have missed such a thing. ‘We’ll go to the Army & Navy Stores.’ And then on impulse:

  ‘Why don’t you come with me to the funeral? The Chief Inspector and I could maybe use another pair of keen eyes and ears there. If there’s no need for you to stay you can just come back on here for lunch, can’t you?’

  And they left together, meeting Lovelace outside the Chapel a good half an hour before the service began. The Lincoln’s Inn Chapel was a very special place, at first-floor level, raised up high above a series of open stone arches below, which created a low, wide, grey walk-through, a place famous for the leaving of foundling babies, and for the ceaseless sharp winds which nipped around the corners when you were trying to have a quiet smoke.

  The priest who would take the funeral was actually a Bishop, a cousin of Lord Justice Roade, and he stood in his plain black cassock with a large purple jewelled cross swinging on a chain, just at the bottom of the steps up to the Chapel, greeting people on their way up.

  Upstairs, the church was already crowded and the scent of lilies was overpowering. Leaving Sid to loiter at the back of the Chapel, Posie and Inspector Lovelace sat towards the front, opposite and just behind the key family members. They noted William Dawney, sitting with his smartly-dressed secretary Sheila, and in front of them, in the very first pew, Lady Antonia together with the twin boys and her father, who was looking sharply this way and that, unsettled. Lord Justice Roade caught Lovelace’s eye and raised an eyebrow in acknowledgement.

  Behind William Dawney was Selwyn Pickle, in full legal regalia of a thick, black gown with a fancy white collar. He was accompanied by a thin, worn-out, pretty-looking woman in a black suit. Pickle was bright-eyed and nodding all around, as the rest of the pews filled up dutifully with a pack of other barristers who worked at 20 Old Square, most recalled from their holidays, all wearing their gowns. Posie saw Masha come in, veiled in black lace, sitting down right at the back, and George, the Head Clerk, who also sat down at the back. He looked uncomfortable and kept folding and re-folding his arms.

  It struck Posie suddenly that nobody here, save Masha perhaps, really looked upset at the loss of a man cut off so barbarically, in the very prime of his life. If everyone here had known Amyas’ true vocation over the last fifteen years, might their reactions have been different now?

  Those who really would have mourned Amyas, his adopted parents, his birth mother Martha, his mistress Olga and his secretive boss, Thea Elleridge, were either dead or absent.

  Just as the Bishop came in, Posie saw out of the corner of her eye that – surprisingly – Rufus was standing at the back, looking quite handsome in a beautifully-cut black three-piece suit.

  A woman came in just as the first hymn – ‘Abide With Me’ – started up and she settled herself in a pew all by herself, near the back. She was young, with a very severe bob, and she wore expensive but strange clothes; a coat with massive lapels, cut like a clown’s, and wide, tweed trousers. Lord Justice Roade had turned slightly in recognition of her presence.

  ‘That’s Rotha Lintorn-Orman, the woman behind the British Fascist Movement,’ hissed Lovelace, with an edge of anger to his voice. ‘We’ll have the press turning up here soon if we’re not careful, turning this into even more of a circus than it is already. I can see the covers now: “A Fascist’s Funeral”.’

  He tutted. ‘She obviously never realised Amyas was spying on her new party. But why’s she here? You’d have thought she’d have more sense!’

  ‘I don’t think sense applies to a woman like that, sir. Not to her clothes, nor to her politics.’

  Lovelace suppressed a grin and the funeral unfolded. At one point Posie looked over at the twin sons of Amyas, so alike in their stiff starched school shirts, whose resolute gaze straight ahead seemed to give them a wisdom beyond their tender years. What must it be like? At the age of ten to lose a father who was a stranger to them, anyhow? She remembered Aiden Vannelly describing the boys as seeming like strangers to him, despite actually being blood relatives.

  Their mother, Antonia, was a pretty picture in glittering black, her blue hair even more vivid than before. Lady Antonia sat, perfectly composed, and Posie assumed that by now she knew the contents of Amyas’ Will; the Will which had not been changed in time. So Lady Antonia knew she would inherit everything; meaning that the illegitimate child, Katia, would not be provided for. Had Antonia found a drop of compassion in her heart so that the child would get something? Somehow, Posie felt not. Was that what Masha was here for now? Was she here to beg with Amyas’ wife for some small grain of hope after the service? Or was she just here to pay her respects to a man who had treated her and her Mistress well over several years?

  And turning, Posie saw Masha was in tears, dabbing at her face, her veil askew, dramatically making the sign of the cross. And in the very same moment, Posie heard the Bishop, who was starting to give the eulogy, begin by saying: ‘While Amyas Lyle was not a religious man…’

  But Posie didn’t continue to listen.

  Because the different strands of the case came apart again, flailing and flashing in a mass of tangles like so many ribbons caught by an inconvenient wind; for a moment meaning absolutely nothing, but then the pieces shifted, and things seemed to slip easily – in fact, seamlessly – into place.

  And then Posie knew what had happened.

  Why it had happened.

  ‘Oh, no,’ she moaned under her breath, reviewing everything again. It still fitted.

  Yes. It had to be.

  She stared behind her, where Sid was standing ramrod-straight, trying to be inconspicuous, near the Baptismal Font. The answer lay with Sid.

  She started to scrabble for her bag and the umbrella at her feet.

  ‘Posie? What the blazes?’

  Lovelace was looking at her as if she had lost her mind. ‘Let me help you,’ he hissed. ‘What is it? Are you ill?’

  But she was up. Up and walking to the back, down the aisle, head down, black grosgrain rose conveniently covering her face. She sought out Sid, dragged him outside into the porch with Inspector Lovelace hard on her heels. Sid looked at Posie quite calmly, as if he’d been expecting this to happen. ‘What is it you need, Miss?’

  ‘I need you to think carefully, Sid. It’s very important. This week, when I was away, I know you were being very helpful with the post arriving, helping Prudence. Taking off the paper and suchlike.’

  ‘Er, yeah. I thought I’d help out. If truth be told, Miss Prudence has been a bit away with the fairies these last couple of days. In a good way, I mean. She seems happy; I’ve even heard her singin’, would you believe it? But she was lettin’ all the post mount up, in a big ol’ pile, so I took the chance to sort it fer you.’

  Posie blew out her cheeks: what terrible timing for Prudence to have acquired a new beau, and new, lackadaisical habits.

  ‘Did anything arrive for me while I was away which was a bit odd?’

  ‘No, I can’t say it did, Miss.’

  Her memory swept over her brief view of the bookshelf in the client’s corner at the office.

  ‘Think hard. Was it a book? An old book which arrived? A thick, blue, old book?’

  Gradual realisation dawned on the boy like a slow sun rising.

  ‘Oh! Oh, yeah, Miss. That’s quite right. How clever of you! This funny old stinky book arrived for you on Thursday morning, very early. In fact, the postman said it had been delayed in the post as the sender didn’t put enough stamps on it; they must have been in a hurry, like, when they sent it. I showed it to Miss Prudence and we had a good ol’ laugh about it together. We thought it must be a grateful client showin’ their appreciation and sendin’ you a present. An odd present at that… But I expect Miss Prudence won’t remember it much; I had to drag her attention away from some magazine she was reading with a bride on the cover. She had her nose in that nearly all day long…’

  ‘Fine. Now, think carefully, Sid. Was there anything inside the book at all? Anything? No matter how silly you thought it…’

  ‘I dunno, Miss. We didn’t open it. I just placed it on the shelf, with the other, much nicer books. That’s when I thought I’d re-organise them.’

  ‘Can you get me that book, Sid? Now? But I need you to be careful. Sure as bread is bread there is something inside that book and it’s important. More important than any of us know. It’s the last words of a dead man. So don’t open it up or shake the contents out.’