‘Sir,’ he said, ‘Alain de Bellefort and his sister left England for Normandy on Friday, 7 September. I received your cable message at Amiens before they’d disembarked at Caen, and was in the vicinity of their manor-house when they arrived in the early hours of Friday evening. Mademoiselle de Bellefort looked tired and ill, and I’ve no doubt that she will confine herself to that dilapidated house of theirs until she is better.’

  ‘And the brother?’

  ‘The brother spent the weekend lounging around the village, and calling upon various friends. At one time, he seemed to be fighting a duel on the terrace of his house, but apparently it was only a harmless pastime, as both he and his opponent survived unscathed.

  ‘On Monday morning – the tenth – Alain de Bellefort left the manor-house and walked to the station at Saint-Martin de Fontenay, followed closely by myself. We travelled in the same train to Amiens, where he booked into a small hotel near the cathedral. I did likewise. Next morning, he made his way to an ancient quarter of the town known as Little Venice, where there are a number of canals. De Bellefort, much to my delight, entered the house of Karl Pfeifer, the prosperous importer of textile machinery. You know all about Pfeifer, of course?’

  ‘I do,’ Kershaw replied. ‘But as you’re bursting to tell me the tale yet again, you’d better get on with it.’

  ‘Herr Pfeifer is an agent of Prussian State Bureau IV, the intelligence-gathering arm of the Imperial German Security Service. He imagines that he is very clever at concealing his nefarious activities in France, but he’s no match for me. I contrived last year to construct a sort of listening-post in the attic of the house on the canal, where he has his business premises and, through an ingenious device of my own contriving, I can both hear and see him when he’s at work there in his office on the first floor. Do you want to hear how I constructed this ingenious hideaway of mine?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Very well. Alain de Bellefort entered the house overlooking the canal, and I immediately took up my post in the secret place in the attic. It is reached by means of— but you don’t want to know. Pfeifer was alone in his office, apparently engaged on the task of reading his way through a stack of invoices. Presently, the door opened, and one of Pfeifer’s minions came into the room. “De Bellefort’s waiting downstairs”, he said. “Let him wait”, Pfeifer replied. “Men of that kind were created to wait at doors”. So we waited.’

  ‘You tell it all so beautifully,’ said Kershaw. ‘When are you going to get to the point?’

  Major Blythe permitted himself a discreet smile. ‘Ten minutes later,’ he said, ‘De Bellefort was shown in by a clerk. Pfeifer doesn’t believe in preliminary civilities. “Have you got it?” he demanded. “Yes”, De Bellefort replied, “but not here”. “Well, of course not here, you fool”, said Pfeifer. He was never one for the social niceties. De Bellefort blushed to the roots of his black hair, and for a moment I thought that he was going to lunge at old Pfeifer. Our German friend didn’t seem to notice. “When you hand over that document to me”, he said, “I will give you in return a valise containing ten thousand pounds in Bank of England notes”.’

  Colonel Kershaw jumped as though he had been shot.

  ‘What?’ he cried. ‘Ten thousand pounds? In God’s name, Blythe, what has the fellow got hold of? It can’t be the Alsace document, which must have been taken from Sophie Lénart by the unknown assassin who shot her dead, together with Maurice Claygate, in that house in Soho—’

  ‘Could that assassin have been de Bellefort himself?’

  ‘I can’t see how that could be, Blythe. De Bellefort was at Dorset House at the very hour that the double murder took place, close on a mile away. So what has he got now, that’s apparently worth ten thousand pounds to German Intelligence?’

  ‘Let me tell you the conclusion of De Bellefort’s visit, sir,’ said Blythe. ‘The two men, by the way, were speaking in English, because De Bellefort doesn’t speak German, and Pfeifer can’t – or won’t – speak French.

  ‘“You must deliver the document to me in person on Saturday, 22 September”, said Pfeifer. “Be ready to meet me at twelve noon, outside the Queen’s Cottage. It closes to the public on Saturdays, so there should not be too many people about”.

  ‘And that was it, sir. Pfeifer dismissed him, and he left without saying another word. I followed him back to his hotel, where I ascertained that he was staying for a few days’ rest and recuperation – that’s how he described his stay to the hotel manager, who seemed to know him well, and addressed him as monseigneur. I had no reason to disbelieve him, and began my journey back to England immediately.’

  ‘Well done, Blythe!’ cried Kershaw. ‘You’ve done extraordinarily well. So the document – whatever it is – will be passed to Pfeifer next Saturday, the twenty-second. It was probably caution on De Bellefort’s part that made him leave the document here in England. You know the Queen’s Cottage?’

  ‘Well, sir, I’ve heard something about it—’

  ‘The Queen’s Cottage, Blythe, more properly Queen Charlotte’s Cottage, is a charming thatched summer house given to Queen Charlotte when she married George III. It is situated in Kew Gardens, and although it still belongs to our present Queen, Her Majesty had decided to give it to the nation as part of her Diamond Jubilee celebration in four years’ time. It’s usually crowded with visitors, but apparently closes on Saturdays. Our task will be to shadow De Bellefort and watch him as he makes contact with our friend Pfeifer.’

  ‘What will we do to them both?’

  ‘Well, you can imagine, can’t you? We’ll take the document from them, and tell them both to go about their business. We don’t want any fuss, and neither does Pfeifer, I expect. Once we gain possession of the document, we can open it and see what it’s about. I’d better arrange this matter myself. One week is more than ample for me to contrive a little trap at Kew for De Bellefort and his contact.’

  ‘You know, sir,’ said Major Blythe, ‘your mention of Kew Gardens stirs a memory of some kind – something to do with this Dorset House affair.’

  ‘I expect it does,’ said Kershaw, smiling. ‘Kew Gardens is in Richmond, and it was in Richmond that Mademoiselle de Bellefort lodged during the time that she was engaged to Maurice Claygate.’

  Arnold Box stood at the entrance to the garden passage with Julia Maltravers, wondering whether it would be wise to accept the offer that she had just made. She wanted to stand in for Elizabeth in his re-enactment of the events of the fatal evening of Maurice Claygate’s birthday.

  Louise Whittaker and Julia Maltravers had arrived together by cab at Dorset House just before three o’clock on Monday afternoon. They had noticed an olive-green police van standing in the long carriage drive at the side of the house. Mr Box had evidently come with reinforcements.

  ‘I think my presence in the passage will be absolutely essential,’ she said, ‘because I heard Elizabeth’s story at first hand, and will know how to react convincingly to your direction. Besides, I will be doing something practical to help solve the mystery of my fiancé’s murder.’

  ‘Very well, Miss Maltravers,’ said Box. ‘But once you start to assist me, you must not go back on your word. I told you before that you may find the experience quite distressing.’

  ‘I understand that, Mr Box. Come, let us put the business in train.’

  Arnold Box threw open the door of the garden passage, and invited both the young women to stand with him on the threshold. The passage seemed quite deserted, and they were able to look down it to the locked door at the end. A small island of cupboards and screens stood against the right-hand wall halfway along the passage.

  ‘It looks deserted and unused, doesn’t it?’ said Box. ‘It’s fairly well maintained, and regularly cleaned, I should think, but it doesn’t seem to be part of the house. It’s as though— Why, Miss Maltravers, are you all right, miss? You’ve turned quite pale.’

  ‘I’m perfectly all right, thank you, Inspector. It’s just that I … I sense an atmosphere of sudden violence and fear…. The feeling is quite strong. Perhaps I’m influenced by the dream that Elizabeth de Bellefort narrated to me. Yes, that must be it.’

  ‘Well,’ said Box, ‘let’s start the re-enactment. Miss Whittaker, will you please sit down, and take this watch. I want you to take a timing, in minutes and seconds, with respect to part of this experiment.’

  Louise took the watch from him, and sat on one of the chairs in the vestibule. She thought to herself: This is not the diffident, awkward man who comes to see me out at Finchley. Arnold Box is fully in command here. How smart he looks! That brown suit becomes him. He has a whistle hanging from his neck on a blue ribbon. What could be the purpose of that?

  Box delved into a green felt bag placed on a table, and withdrew a heavy revolver. He saw Julia Maltravers recoil in distaste, and placed the weapon firmly in her right hand. When he spoke, there was an edge of authority to his voice that recalled Julia to her duty.

  ‘This is a Webley Mk II .455 service revolver,’ he said, ‘of the type that was used to shoot Mr Maurice Claygate dead in the house in Soho. Today, we are going to act as though Miss de Bellefort’s so-called dream was, in fact, a confused recollection of the truth. Look at the revolver, Miss Maltravers. You see that little catch? That is the safety catch, and it has been placed by me in the “off” position. This weapon has been loaded with blank cartridges, but I must warn you that the noise they make is every bit as deafening as that of live ammunition.’

  Box walked into the passage, followed by Julia. Despite her determination to remain calm, her heart was pounding. Louise Whittaker believed that Maurice had indeed met his death here, in this bleak passage, perhaps on the very spot where she was standing….

  ‘Stand here, miss,’ said Box, ‘and face the door. In a moment, I will step back into the vestibule, and the door will be closed behind me. You must wait until you hear me give a blast on this whistle, when the door will open and a young man in civilian clothing will enter. You must believe that it is Maurice – but more important than that, you must believe that you are Elizabeth. Can you do that? Think as she thought, and act as she acted. When you fire, the young man will pretend to fall dead. You must then step over his body – as Elizabeth did in her dream – and be prepared to confront me when I try to move you aside. Will you have sufficient courage to fire that pistol?’

  ‘I will, Inspector,’ said Julia. ‘I’m no stranger to firearms. I met poor Maurice at a shoot in Northumberland.’

  ‘Well done, miss,’ said Box. ‘Now, let us see how the business works out.’

  In a moment he had gone, and the door had closed behind him. She was quite alone in the chilly passage. How frightening it was! The military pistol felt heavy in her hand, and her finger trembled on the trigger. Yes, that door needed a good coat of brown paint! How had Elizabeth known that? But wait – she was Elizabeth, waiting to get her revenge for Maurice’s devastating betrayal of her trust.

  How many seconds, how many minutes had passed? Julia suddenly felt the unseen presence of her dead fiancé; it was as though his voice was calling to her, urgently trying to tell her something, and failing. Was it really Maurice’s spirit? If so, what would she see when the vestibule door opened? Who – what – would come in?

  She heard the shrill blast of a whistle, and in a moment the door from the vestibule opened, and a young man entered. He bore no resemblance to Maurice, but he was wearing evening dress, and he held a piece of paper in his hand. That was her message – the note that she had used to lure the betrayer to his death…. No, it had been Elizabeth who had done that.

  The young man stood just inside the door, looking at her. Why did she feel such terror? Was it because Maurice’s spirit was there? Her heart would burst if it beat so rapidly for much longer. What was that sound? Were there other people watching her? How could there be? The passage was empty. Should she turn round? No, no!

  Suddenly, the young man spoke.

  ‘Elizabeth,’ he said, ‘what are you doing with that gun? Give it to me!’

  He lunged at her, and with a sudden rush of blind anger, Julia fired. The report was so loud that she almost fainted with fright. The young man gazed at her with something akin to reproach, and fell to his knees, the note fluttering from his hand. Slowly, his eyes closed, and his body relaxed. Julia Maltravers stood rooted to the spot, her ears ringing, her body trembling uncontrollably. What did Elizabeth do next?

  ‘Step over me, miss,’ whispered the man lying on the floor. ‘Open the door, and go into the vestibule.’

  It was like a corpse talking. With a shriek of fear Julia threw the heavy pistol to the ground, stumbled across the young man, and pulled the door open. She heard Louise Whittaker say ‘two minutes and fifteen seconds’, and then she stood with her back to the door as Elizabeth had done, her arms outstretched.

  Immediately, Inspector Box appeared in front of her.

  ‘What is the matter, miss?’ he asked. ‘You cried out in fear. What is your name?’

  ‘Elizabeth de Bellefort,’ cried Julia. ‘What do you want? There’s nothing in the passage. Leave me alone!’

  Arnold Box took Julia gently by the shoulders, moved her away from the door, and threw it open. The passage was empty. There was no body, no piece of paper, and no revolver.

  ‘One minute and seventeen seconds,’ said Louise Whittaker.

  Julia Maltravers groped her way almost blindly to one of the chairs, and sat down. Once in the quiet, sunlit vestibule, and in the company of Louise and Mr Box, she would rapidly regain her composure. But it had been an unnerving, frightening experience. She saw Mr Box looking at her, and from the expression in his eyes she saw that he appreciated what she must have endured. Did he sense that she had imagined Maurice’s ghost to be present in that vile place?

  She flinched as Box put the whistle to his lips, and sent a resounding blast ringing down the garden passage.

  As soon as Julia Maltravers ran from the passage, three men emerged from the island of screens and cupboards. They were all wearing evening dress, complete with silk-lined cloaks and top hats. Two of the men ran along the passage to where the substitute ‘Maurice Claygate’ still lay as though dead on the terracotta tiles. The third man quickly retrieved the note and the pistol, and opened the door leading into the garden.

  The other two men swiftly picked up the inert figure, one of them looping his hands under the armpits while the second man seized the ankles. They hurried with their burden along the passage until they reached the door into Cowper’s Lane. Then they hoisted the figure upright between them, each with one of the ‘dead’ man’s arms held firmly around his neck. The third man opened the door, and watched as his colleagues staggered out into the quiet lane behind Dorset House. Closing the door behind them, he locked it, hung the key on its nail, and slipped unobtrusively into the garden. Only seconds later, Inspector Box threw open the vestibule door to see an empty passage.

  Tom Fallon the groom, and Joe, his assistant, stood at the entrance to the stables in Cowper’s Lane, talking quietly to Sergeant Knollys, who had a watch in his hand.

  ‘As far as you can remember,’ said Jack Knollys, ‘this is the exact spot where you were standing on the night that Mr Maurice Claygate was murdered?’

  ‘As near enough as makes no difference, Sergeant,’ said Tom. ‘What about you, Joe?’

  ‘I was just here, where you see me now,’ said Joe. ‘It was a minute or two before you came out of the yard, Tom, and I was watching the toffs coming down the drive to their cabs. Of course, it was dark, with just a few gas-lamps glowing in the lane.’

  Jack Knollys consulted his watch.

  ‘Look down the lane now, Joe,’ he said, ‘and see what happens.’

  In a moment the door to the garden passage was opened from the inside, and three revellers emerged shakily into the lane. Two of them were in full evening togs, but the third had neither cloak nor hat. Singing and laughing, they staggered down the steps into the lane, and made their way over the cobbles to a dilapidated hackney cab drawn up against the rear wall of Dorset House. With a great deal of fuss, and hoots of mirth, the two men managed to haul their companion into the cab, which immediately moved off in the direction of Addison Place.

  ‘Good God, Sergeant,’ muttered Tom Fallon, ‘are you trying to say that two villains carried off our Mr Maurice right under our noses? What had they done to him? Was he drugged? He wouldn’t have gone with them of his own accord. He would have seen Joe, there, and cried out for help. Or are you saying—?’

  ‘I’m saying nothing, Tom,’ Knollys replied. ‘What you’ve just seen now was two stalwart police constables dragging another constable between them like a sack of potatoes. You can draw your own conclusions, but for the moment I’d like you to keep them to yourself.’

  From somewhere in the house there came the shrill, strident blast of a police whistle. Sergeant Knollys nodded to the two ostlers, and made his way back into Dorset House.

  Jack Knollys found Box in the grand saloon. The three officers who had assisted him in the re-enactment had retired to the far side of the room, where they were busy writing up separate accounts of their roles. Louise Whittaker and Julia Maltravers were sitting at a table, and Knollys saw that someone had brought them coffee. Perhaps the guvnor had seen to that.

  ‘Ah! Sergeant Knollys!’ said Box. ‘How did things go out in Cowper’s Lane?’

  ‘It was very convincing, sir,’ Knollys replied. ‘PC Jones continued to sham dead, and the other two hauled him to his feet and propped him up between them. I was out in the lane with the two grooms, and if I hadn’t known the truth of the matter, I’d have been quite deceived. It looked for all the world like a man far gone in drink being dragged by his merry mates to a waiting cab.’

  Arnold Box looked at the two young women sitting at the table. Louise, he knew, was there primarily to give support to Julia Maltravers: she would not have wanted to play an active part in the business. But Julia – well, she had been very brave, and deeply affected by the experience of standing in for Elizabeth de Bellefort. She deserved to hear what Box now believed to be the sober and brutal truth about Maurice Claygate’s death.