‘Come, then, tiny servant,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘Pull on your deerstalker, grasp your magnifying lens firmly in your hand, and let us minutely examine the scene of the crime. We can do as we promised and tidy as we search.’

  ‘If I fetch a duster I can give the place a once-over as well,’ I said.

  ‘Why not? We might be able to persuade Mr Hillier to slip you a few bob if you do a good job. You start at the wardrobe and I’ll start with the bedside table. We should be able to meet somewhere south of the foot of the bed.’

  I began with the clothes scattered about the floor. As much as it irked me to be tidying up on my holiday, by far the easiest way of proceeding was to carefully examine every item, then fold it and put it in a pile. The linings of his jackets had been neatly sliced open with an extremely sharp knife, or perhaps his own razor, as had the hems and waistbands of his trousers. If there ever had been anything concealed within, it was gone now. The original search had ignored the few coppers in one of the trouser pockets and a set of engraved silver shirt studs that had been wrapped up in a discarded shirt. The motive was not petty theft.

  With the clothes neatly sorted and folded, I moved on to the toiletries. The toothbrush was perfectly ordinary. The toothpaste tube contained nothing but toothpaste – something I learned by squeezing it all out into the washbasin. There was nothing in the shaving soap nor concealed in the silver handle of the badger-hair shaving brush. In fact, there was nothing of interest to be seen in any of the toiletries until I came to the leather case that had once contained all the grooming paraphernalia I had just painstakingly examined. It was of a fine-grain leather and, once filled, would be held closed by two buckled straps. Outwardly it was a case like any other, with leather loops to hold the hairbrush, the silver soap tin, the razor, the bottles of mysterious unguents, and the assorted whatnots and thingummies associated with keeping a travelling gentleman looking spruce and dapper.

  But there was something not quite right about it. I sat on the floor and held it in my lap. There was plenty of light from the big window and I stared at the case for some while, willing it to give up its secret. What had I seen to make me think there was something worth looking at here?

  ‘You’ve stopped moving, dear,’ said Lady Hardcastle from the bed. ‘Have you found something? Or do sponge bags make you melancholy?’

  ‘There’s something odd about this one,’ I said. ‘I’m letting my mind wander over it until it reveals itself to me . . . Oh. Stitching.’

  ‘Something odd about the stitching?’

  ‘Oddish,’ I said, examining more closely the area that had caught my eye. ‘This part here is of a different thread. It almost matches, but not quite – it’s the same colour more or less, but slightly finer.’

  The mismatched section was about four inches long across the top edge of the case and formed the seam where the outer cover was sewn to the lining. That’s what it was supposed to look like, anyway. Upon closer inspection, though, it became clear that the stitching was for appearances only. The cover and the liner were both neatly stitched, but not to each other.

  I tested the opening but there was some resistance. I wasn’t surprised – there was little point in going to the trouble of creating a secret opening in the case if it was going to gape open and give the game away. I picked up Kusnetsov’s nail scissors from the floor where the burglar had dropped them and used them to pry the two sides apart. They weren’t tacked or glued and I remained baffled as to what might be stopping me from getting inside.

  I felt along the inside of the fake seam and found that there was a length of spring steel on either side, like the bones of a corset but narrower. This gave me an idea and I squeezed the two ends of the opening together. The steel bent and the mouth of the secret compartment gaped open.

  Lady Hardcastle had stopped what she was doing and was looking on. ‘You clever old stick,’ she said. ‘Anything inside?’

  Still holding the mouth open, I rootled around inside with my fingers. There was no cash, there were no diamonds, but there was what felt like a small piece of silk. I pulled it out, expecting to be disappointed – it was probably just a torn piece of the lining of the secret pocket.

  It was a folded silk square. I opened it and found it to be about the size of a gentleman’s pocket handkerchief but of much finer, thinner silk. It was off-white and printed with tiny text and diagrams.

  ‘You joked about a magnifying lens,’ I said. ‘But do you actually have one?’

  ‘I never travel without one,’ said Lady Hardcastle, leaning over my shoulder.

  ‘Please may I borrow it?’

  ‘I never travel without it, but I don’t always carry it with me. It’s in one of my bags in the room.’

  I passed the silk to her. ‘What do you make of this, then?’

  She took it and examined it. ‘It’s covered in writing and diagrams,’ she said, and handed it back. ‘But my eyesight is getting worse and worse so I can’t say more than that. We need some sort of magnifying lens.’

  ‘There’s one in your room, apparently,’ I said. ‘Have you found anything?’

  ‘Nothing of note,’ she said. ‘A copy of Pride and Prejudice in English, a bedside clock – the usual hotel room miscellany. Oh, and a little piece of glass. Green. A piece of a broken wine bottle, perhaps?’

  She handed me the tiny, transparent green chip.

  ‘Your eyesight is terrible,’ I said. ‘This is a gemstone. Or something that’s supposed to look like one. It might be glass, but it’s not a bit of broken bottle. Where was it?’

  ‘Underneath the bedstead, behind one of the legs.’

  ‘It could have been here for weeks,’ I said. ‘Even the best chambermaids can get a bit lackadaisical about sweeping round the backs of bed legs.’

  ‘My thoughts exactly.’ She looked around at the now-neat pile of clothes and travel items. ‘Not much to show for a lost life, is it? One leaves so small a footprint.’

  ‘A traveller does,’ I said. ‘If we were to pop our clogs now, the things in our rooms would leave quite a puzzle for people to solve. But they’d not tell even a tiny fraction of the story, would they?’

  ‘You’re getting very wise in your old age, Florence Armstrong. There’s nothing else helpful here, is there?’

  ‘Not as far as I can tell,’ I said. ‘I’d like a quick look behind the tallboy before we go, just in case. But I think we’re done.’

  ‘I’ll give you a hand.’

  Together we pulled the large chest of drawers away from the wall but found nothing other than a ball of dust. We agreed it was time to leave the room to Mr Hillier’s chambermaids and to put Lady Hardcastle’s magnifying lens to good use.

  Back in the room, Lady Hardcastle was rummaging through the top drawer of her own tallboy.

  ‘Where did you put it?’ she asked.

  ‘The magnifying lens?’ I said. ‘I’m sorry, but I haven’t seen it. I didn’t pack it and I wasn’t aware that you’d brought it with you.’

  ‘I take it everywhere. The ladies in my family are blighted by the early onset of presbyopia. You knew that.’

  ‘I did,’ I said. ‘But I thought it mostly involved forgetting where you put your lorgnettes. I didn’t know you forgot where you put your magnifying lens, as well.’

  ‘A lady has to maintain at least a little mystique. One doesn’t mind growing older, but it’s not without its inconveniences and some of them are arriving all too soon. I’m only forty-two, and here I am relying on the services of opticians and lens grinders just to read a newspaper.’

  ‘You’ve been relying on the services of a lady’s maid to get you up and dressed for years.’

  ‘That’s different. I’ve never been able to lace a corset – no one can do that – but I was once able to read unaided.’

  ‘Ah, well,’ I said. ‘It comes to us all in the end.’

  ‘Oh, I’m not grumbling,’ she said. ‘To tell the truth I’m rather looking forward to silver hair, wrinkles, and the opportunity to be unpardonably rude. We allow our elders much more leeway in that regard, don’t you think? I shall cultivate an air of curmudgeonly cantankerousness and insult my way through society. You shall follow in my wake, apologizing. “I’m so sorry,” you’ll say. “She doesn’t mean any offence, she’s just getting on a bit – you know how they can be at that age.” We’ll have such larks.’

  ‘So I don’t get to be rude, too? I saw myself as one of those stern-faced old harridans making young housemaids’ lives miserable for no readily discernible reason.’

  ‘Oh no, dear, you’re far too lovely for that. You’ll be the kindly one. They’ll be terrified of you because I’ll spread rumours about you having once killed a man with a pen, but you’ll be winsome and agreeable.’

  ‘It was a mechanical pencil and he was trying to shoot you.’

  ‘Nevertheless, they’ll be adoring but wary. But none of this is helping me find the lens.’

  ‘Is it in your handbag?’

  ‘Why on earth would I have put it in there?’

  ‘I’m never entirely certain why you do anything, I just thought it would be a good place to start. I packed all the other bags, but I seldom go near your handbag. You might have sneaked it into one of the other bags, but I’d have seen it when I unpacked.’

  ‘Yes, but it’s so large and cumbersome. Why the devil would I have put it . . . Oh, here it is.’ It was in her handbag. ‘Now then,’ she said. ‘Let’s see what we can see.’

  I handed her the square of silk and she spread it on the writing table where we could both get a good look at it. There was plenty of daylight coming through the window, and we were both able to make use of the lens – it really was quite a size.

  The larger of the diagrams turned out to be a sketch map of Weston-super-Mare. There was a cross marking a spot a short way along the prom.

  ‘A meeting place?’ suggested Lady Hardcastle.

  ‘Somewhere where messages might be left?’ I said.

  ‘It could just be an indication of the best place to get half a pint of cockles and see a Punch and Judy show. We’re assuming it’s a bit of spy gubbins, but it could just as easily be a tourist guide.’

  ‘A confidential tourist guide that needs to be hidden in a secret compartment in a sponge bag?’

  ‘It’s a cutthroat industry. I heard that Thomas Cook once bludgeoned a member of staff insensible for revealing details of their camel-hire arrangements in Cairo to a competitor.’

  I shook my head. ‘No,’ I said. ‘No, you didn’t.’

  ‘Oh, here we go,’ she said. ‘These are instructions for secure communication, I think. And this section here’ – she pointed to a block of Cyrillic text – ‘is a description of Dr Goddard. Oh, and it mentions the “plans for the new weapon”. I think we can rule out tourist information.’

  ‘And we have more of an idea of what was in Dr Goddard’s strongbox.’

  ‘We do seem to, don’t we. Except we already knew he was a radio engineer – Miss Wilson told us that. And that he designed railway locomotives – Takahashi mentioned that. And now here we are with Kusnetsov’s masters convinced that he had something to do with weapons.’

  ‘A radio-based weapon mounted on a train?’ I said.

  ‘Well, quite,’ she said. ‘No one seems to know for sure what our Dr Goddard was up to, and everyone seems to have a different idea of what he was carrying. There’s more to this than meets the eye.’

  ‘Would it do any good to ask Harry?’

  She laughed. ‘None whatsoever. He’s made it quite plain that he doesn’t want us to be involved in this – he’s certainly not going to give us any further information. We’ll just have to puzzle it out ourselves.’

  ‘Do you think he’s got men looking for Dr Goddard?’

  ‘I’m certain of it. But that needn’t prevent us from trying to track him down ourselves. I’m sure we just need a nugget of information, something that will give us a toehold, a starting point.’

  ‘The strongbox is probably still here at the hotel,’ I said. ‘If we can get our hands on that, perhaps we can get closer to the truth of what Dr Goddard was up to. And if we know that, then perhaps we’ll have a better idea of what happened to him.’

  ‘As always, Flo, dear, you’re quite right. And we won’t find out anything further up here – let’s get to where our double-dealing fellow guests are most likely to be congregating.’

  ‘We can eat, too,’ I said. ‘I’m starving.’

  We arrived at the dining room to find our way politely but firmly blocked by the waiter.

  ‘I’m most terribly sorry, Lady Hardcastle, Miss Armstrong,’ he said. ‘There was a slight mishap in the kitchens and service is delayed. We’re asking guests to wait in the salon where complimentary cocktails are being served.’

  ‘Oh, you poor things,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘We were invited to take our seats just before seven but we were called away. And here you are still trying to keep a roomful of guests amused more than an hour and a half later. We promise not to cause you too much more trouble.’

  ‘Thank you, my lady,’ he said with a grateful smile. ‘Some are taking it better than others.’

  ‘I can well imagine which ones are making a fuss. We’ll do our best to quell the rebellion.’

  She led the way to the salon, where the conversation was quiet and calm. It really didn’t feel as though there were any impending rebellion to quell.

  Lady Hardcastle leaned in close. ‘I must say I imagined we’d be no more than a gin and tonic away from open revolt,’ she whispered. ‘But this all looks rather civilized.’

  To the left of the double doors, Adelia Wilson and her niece were deep in conversation. To the right, Mr Takahashi and Herr Schneider were engaged in a heated discussion. I caught the word ‘Manchuria’ – perhaps the two men had found common cause in their mistrust of Russia and were discussing the recent Russo-Japanese war.

  Jean Martin, the bear-like French engineer, sat alone. He was the only one of them we hadn’t yet spoken to and Lady Hardcastle made a beeline for him.

  ‘Good evening, Monsieur Martin,’ she said. ‘We’ve not been properly introduced but as I’ve already said to at least one other person, formality can take a few days’ holiday. Lady Hardcastle.’ She held out her gloved hand, which he enveloped in a meaty paw. ‘And this is Miss Armstrong. May we join you?’

  He had stood as we approached and now nodded his assent. He indicated the two empty chairs and resumed his own. The salon waiter appeared.

  ‘Ah, there you are, Ribble,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘Gin and tonic for me, please.’

  ‘Certainly, my lady. And for Miss Armstrong?’

  ‘A glass of champagne, please,’ I said.

  ‘Oh, I say, what a splendid idea,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘Cancel my gin – I’ll have what she’s having. Would you care to join us, Monsieur Martin? Of course you would – what Frenchman wouldn’t? Just bring a bottle, Ribble, dear.’

  ‘I’m afraid I’ve only been instructed to serve complimentary cocktails, my lady,’ said the waiter. ‘I’m not certain the offer extends to champagne.’

  ‘Tell Mr Hillier it’s for me,’ she said. ‘I’m sure he’ll stretch the point for us. We’re old pals now.’ She winked and the waiter disappeared.

  ‘So, tell me, Monsieur Martin,’ she said, ‘how are you enjoying Weston-super-Mare?’

  ‘It is very . . . English,’ he said. ‘Of course we have our seaside resorts in France, but I have never seen one like this. I find it . . . charming.’

  ‘The English at play. You’re from Nantes, I believe?’

  ‘I am. How did you . . . ?’

  ‘Oh, it’s another thing we English love to do – we gossip. Dr Goddard told us on our first evening here. He gave us full details on all the runners and riders.’

  ‘The runners and . . . ?’

  ‘Riders,’ she said. ‘Horse-racing term. We use it to mean “all the people involved in a thing”.’

  ‘Ah, yes. Of course. Yes, I am from Nantes. Do you know it?’

  ‘I’m not sure. Do we know it, Armstrong?’

  ‘It’s on the Loire,’ I said. ‘It’s the one with the island in the middle of the river.’

  ‘Of course it is. Weren’t we there for . . . umm . . . something to do with—?’

  I widened my eyes, warning her not to complete her thought. We had been there to try to find the identity of an Austro-Hungarian agent who had somehow managed to steal plans from one of the shipyards, but that wasn’t the sort of thing we ought to be revealing in what we now knew to be a roomful of active agents. We would do better to maintain the fiction that she was just a batty upper-class Englishwoman on holiday with her pal.

  ‘—the cathedral, yes,’ I said.

  ‘The cathedral,’ she said. ‘Of course. Beautiful, Gothic thing in the middle of town.’

  This was vague enough to apply to any number of European cathedrals, but it happened that she was right. I nodded. ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘St Peter and St Paul.’

  ‘You have travelled much?’ asked Martin.

  ‘Hither, thither, and to some extent yon,’ said Lady Hardcastle.

  Martin frowned.

  ‘Yes,’ she said with a smile. ‘Yes, we have. Less lately, but we’ve seen much of Europe, haven’t we, Armstrong?’

  ‘We have,’ I said.

  ‘Many cathedrals,’ said Martin.

  ‘Many,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘Do you travel much?’

  ‘For my work,’ he said. ‘I am an engineer.’

  ‘I’m afraid we already knew that,’ she said. ‘The gossip, you know. You work in Nantes, so perhaps you build ships?’

  ‘I do. You know more about my city than you pretend, I think. We have some of France’s more important shipyards.’

  ‘I confess I guessed that one. Once Armstrong reminded me that it was on the Loire I just put two and two together.’

  ‘You English have a . . . a fondness for shipbuilding, I think. Dr Goddard is very interested in our shipyards.’

  ‘Have you heard from him at all?’