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Alasdair, much to his frustration, hadn’t woken on Thursday with any brighter idea than the one he’d told Toby about talking to Moira again. All the things he’d have liked to do—such as going to the Clarence House offices and inveigling himself with one of the members of Billy Chapman’s staff—had been embargoed and he’d had to settle for what seemed like second best. If nothing else, he now knew what Toby’s characters always felt like in the Landseer films. As for the interview with Moira, Alasdair wasn’t even sure what the point of it would be, apart from giving her news about Alexandra and then introducing the subject of Carstone, Salt and Archer, but he had to be doing something. Even more frustrating was the feeling he’d had since speaking to Toby that there was a throwaway comment he should be following up but the wretched thing wouldn’t spring to mind.

As soon as it was decent, he rang through to the number Moira had given Toby and was pleased to discover that she would be free to meet him for lunch. He made it clear it was to discuss the case, which was probably unnecessary although bitter experience had shown that women—of any age—did sometimes get the wrong end of the stick and believe his intentions were romantic. She suggested they meet in an understated but pleasant restaurant not far from Trafalgar Square, where she was known and therefore could be sure of being found a table somewhere, no matter how busy the place happened to be.

When Alasdair arrived there, a minute before the appointed time, Moira was already waiting at a table and if the owner was surprised at finding a film star frequenting his premises, he was too well trained to show it. Perhaps she’d forewarned him of whom her guest was. She and Alasdair shook hands in a business-like manner, ordered their food and got down to business.

“Let me update you on what little we’ve discovered so far about Alexandra,” Alasdair said. He didn’t mention the possible pregnancy as he wanted to be sure that actually was the case—and that Alexandra would want the news shared—but emphasised that they were sure the lady concerned had moved. “We’ve got Jonny on that part of the trail, possibly as we speak. We can reassure you all that, unless her landlady was lying, Alexandra was fine when she left Finsbury Park and she had a nice young man helping her with her luggage.”

“Oh, that is a blessed relief.” Moira, smiling, studied him for a moment. “I’m sure there’s more you could tell me, but I won’t probe you on it because you clearly won’t tell me All I’d ask is that you’d please let me know more when and if you can.”

“I can promise you that. Now, there are some further things you can help us with. We’re fairly sure the Alexandra we’ve located is the right one, because of the fan club membership, although she’s called Munsey. Or that’s the name she goes by at both those clubs, which don’t have anyone at all called Cummings as a member. You wouldn’t have an explanation for that?”

“No.” Moira frowned. “How odd. We’ve always known her as Cummings—I suppose Jeff could have been aware if she used a different name at his work but if they barely knew each other from there she might have known she could use a false surname with us. I’m sure Jeff would have told me if he knew different.”

Would he, however, if he fancied Alexandra and wanted to keep what he knew hidden to protect her? “She never dropped any hints about being married and now divorced, for example?”

“Not that I remember. Hold on.” Moira picked up her handbag and opened it. “The restaurant has a telephone and I’m sure Guiseppe will let me use it. I have Jeff’s number and can try to catch him at work.”

“Please do.”

Alasdair waited patiently, aware that he was attracting the odd glance from people at other tables and smiling at them in a friendly way if they caught his eye. One always had to remember who ultimately paid for him to indulge his investigational whims although he was relieved to see Moira returning, especially as she appeared to have news to share and she had a waiter not far behind bearing their meals.

Once they were settled again, with the wonderful aroma of pasta and sauce wafting up at them, Moira said. “I have a sort of solution for the name dilemma.”

“Excellent. You can tell me once we’ve done a bit of justice to this.” Alasdair feared that the incipient rumblings from his stomach would become so loud that the other patrons would hear them and his image suffer.

They ate for a while in silence until a natural break arose, as Moira took a drink of water. “So, Jeff. In one of those bits of serendipity that life seems to like throwing at us, he was chatting with one of his colleagues only yesterday and Alexandra got mentioned. I suspect Jeff himself made sure she did, because he’s always been overfond of her.” A hint of bitterness at that fact couldn’t be hidden. “Said colleague, whom Jeff reckons didn’t like the girl which may or may not make her a reliable source of information, told him that Alexandra was a bit of an inverted snob. The surname she was born with was Munsey-Cummings but she only uses half of it, the half depending on the circumstance. Therefore, she’s both Miss Munsey and Miss Cummings.”

“Oh.” Another anti-climax in the Alexandra department.

Alasdair’s reaction must have been obvious, because Moira said, “I know. Rather frustrating to find a mystery bears such a simple solution and I’m afraid there’s more to come which doesn’t help. This woman said Alexandra had told her she had an old flame she was trying to make a clean break from. And now I feel awful because that’s exactly what one of you suggested when we met at The Swan with Two Necks . It feels like we’ve sent you on a wild goose chase.”

“Don’t feel bad about it at all. I’m not convinced we’ve got to the bottom of why she went off.” Alasdair knew he was saying that as much to persuade himself as Moira. “Anyway, in the process you’ve opened up other things to look into. Regarding which, again, I can’t give too much detail at present.”

“Spoilsport.”

They returned to the important matter of clearing their plates, after which Alasdair said, “What I can tell you is that we’ve notified the authorities about the coronation stuff you told us about, and they’re taking it seriously, which wouldn’t have happened if you hadn’t called us in.” Especially as Moira et al seemed so cowardly about notifying the police themselves. Maybe Alasdair now had an explanation for that reticence, though. “Actually, did Lloyd ever mention that he’d made a bit of a nuisance of himself during the war, telling said authorities that he could detect other people’s special powers?”

“He did. Or at least he had a good moan about it, going on about how nobody had taken him seriously and what was the use of telling the powers that be anything important when they just laughed at you. I think that’s one of the reasons we three were so reluctant to go to the police ourselves. What if they could connect us up to him and thought we were just time wasting like he’d been?” Moira pushed her plate away, then clasped her hands together on the table, clearly distressed. “I’m sure it seems silly to you, Alasdair, but Jeff in particular feels any blow to his self-esteem very deeply. His wife left him during the war, because they couldn’t have children and she reckoned it was all Jeff’s fault. She gave him a terrible tongue lashing before she went, one that he still thinks about. It doesn’t help that he could never talk about some aspects of his war work. Nobody knows what a hero he really was.”

“I understand.” As would Geraldine and Bessy, who had mooted such an idea.

“Thank you. Then he developed this stupid crush—quite hopeless, in my opinion—on Alexandra, which led him into making up that story about what he could do. He wanted to impress her.”

“And did that in turn lead to you and your small change, so you could join the club he was in? You like him, don’t you?”

“I think he’s wonderful. I just wish he’d stop moping about the women who’ve ditched him and realise there’s one here who wouldn’t.” She hurriedly fished a handkerchief out of her cardigan pocket and blew her nose. “I’m so sorry. I hate being soppy but the unfairness of it all does get to me. Anyway, when Alexandra left, it was like another blow to him. If the police had laughed him to scorn about the overheard conversation, he’d go into a slough of despond.”

Alasdair had at last realised that being laughed at, albeit in a polite way, was a real possibility, given what Matthew Firestone had told Jonny about people making groundless reports.

He should get matters away from romance and onto Lloyd again. Alasdair may have been good at comforting an emotional Fiona onscreen but here he felt out of his depths. “I should get Toby to give Jeff a jolly good talking to. Getting back to Lloyd, did he ever mention that he thought his cousin Billy Chapman had special powers?”

“He did.” Moira visibly brightened as the subject moved away from Jeff. “Apparently Chapman was delighted that somebody else had realised the capabilities he possessed. Lloyd told us about it when he discussed his own being snubbed for what he had to offer. How his cousin’s powers hadn’t been appreciated by the powers that be and how that was an opportunity missed as they could have been used to great effect in the war.”

“For which side, though? Us or them?”

“Ah, there’s the rub, Alasdair. Whatever else Lloyd is, he’s a true-blue patriot, but I’m not sure I could say the same about Billy Chapman. Part of Lloyd’s threnody on his being disregarded was that if powers aren’t used for good they could end up being used for evil. He didn’t specifically say so but I thought he was referring to his cousin. But I suppose he hasn’t used them to the country’s disadvantage or Lloyd wouldn’t still be friendly with him.” Moira paused as the waiter came to take their plates, then said, “I’m getting myself in quite a muddle. Chapman can’t have powers, any more than we do. It’s that business about Jeff playing on my mind. Pull yourself together, Moira.”

The arrival of the manager—who seemed to be called Luigi—to take their dessert order allowed Moira to compose herself before Alasdair reopened the discussion. “You’re not that muddled, because Chapman may not think they’re bogus. He might be as self-delusional as Lloyd is.”

“It wouldn’t surprise me, from the little I know.”

“Did Lloyd ever mention what his cousin’s powers were alleged to be?”

Moira rolled her eyebrows. “Influencing the weather, which is oddly close to what Alexandra was supposed to do. Even more potentially useful, in a time of war, which is why Lloyd was so agitated about not being taken seriously. But it’s all stuff and nonsense, isn’t it? Unless Chapman went to the other side and was trying to ensure that D-day couldn’t happen by making the early June weather so lousy. That was a joke, by the way. I don’t believe anyone could bring in a rain front, either with science or by willpower.”

“I knew you were being frivolous. Sometimes it’s the only way to counter such nonsense.” Still, such a coincidence of weather events could have persuaded Chapman he was having an effect: who knew what self-deceptions a delusional man was prepared to swallow. “Perhaps he thinks he can call down a disastrous lightning strike on Westminster Abbey during the coronation, setting the place and all its occupants ablaze. He’d surely think that the police couldn’t foil that, short of executing him, because if it’s all to do with his mental influence, he could do it—sorry, he would believe he could do it—from a prison cell. And if we’re in that territory it won’t give the authorities much to get their teeth into in terms of arresting him.”

Moira blenched. “Wouldn’t it be awful if he’s the one person Lloyd has lit upon who actually does possess a supernatural power and we just think it’s nonsense.”

“Agreed.” Perhaps Matthew Firestone should be forewarned. Not that Alasdair actually believed in Moira’s hypothesis, but maybe self-belief could perhaps be as dangerous as actual ability.

As they awaited the apple pies and coffees they’d ordered, the chat turned to such bland topics as the man in Moira’s office who was obsessed with their Holmes and Watson offerings and his speculation about whether their next film would see them returning to Conan Doyle. This welcome conversation allowed Alasdair the opportunity of naturally introducing the matter of Charles Carstone. “I do feel rather guilty when I think of him, because his tragic death was the reason we were able to get the Cambridge film out so promptly and therefore crack on with the new offering. Capacity in the tightly run Landseer production system.”

“How interesting. I’d never real thought about how much work of different sorts must go into making a movie. No wonder the list of those involved is so long.”

“That’s just the tip of the iceberg. If they named everyone, not only all the extras but those who work behind the scenes, the list would feel interminable.” Alasdair sighed. “It’s a funny old business where we’ve ended up benefitting from Carstone’s death, but I dare say if he’d been in the same position he’d have said that one simply cracks on, like we did in the war. Was Alexandra a fan of his, as she is of us?”

The arrival of the apple pies, awash with cream, gave Moira the opportunity of considering the question. “I don’t remember her mentioning him, although she was rather a starstruck type and she spread her watching favours far and wide. Don’t take this amiss, but the time she mentioned being in your fan clubs she also went all swoony over Leslie Howard and Dick Powell. Others, too, whose names I don’t recall, although I’m sure Carstone wasn’t one.”

“Toby will be mortified to discover she’s been spreading her affections so widely,” Alasdair said, gleefully. “Although it’ll be a relief to him that Carstone wasn’t one, as he wasn’t quite in the Leslie Howard mould.”

“I’d agree with that.” Moira took a spoonful of pie. “I really don’t know how they get their pastry so light.”

“It’s an art beyond me, although my manservant Morgan produces something almost as good. He won’t reveal his secrets, though, apart from saying cold hands are key.”

“Cold hands, warm heart, my mother used to say.” Moira paused, spoon half lifted. “Wasn’t that one of Carstone’s films? Set in a POW camp?”

“ Cold Hands, Warm Heart , yes. I rather enjoyed that. Wasn’t Carstone the chap who kept everyone’s spirits up and at the end we discovered that his wife had left him just before he was captured?”

“Yes. He took the part beautifully.” She took a mouthful of pie and then frowned. “Do you know, Alexandra did mention him to me. I’d quite forgotten. At the end of the last meeting she attended, we walked to the underground together because it was raining and I’d come out without a brolly. She had hers so you can imagine Lloyd swanking about how that proved she knew what the weather would be so had come prepared. Alexandra was as unimpressed as I was, so we left him to his gloating.”

“If I may interrupt, was it Chancery Lane station you went to?”

“No, it was Holborn. The distance from Clanfield House is much the same. On the way, the rain eased, so we paused to put the umbrella down, right by a poster for an upcoming film. Funny how you can forget something for ages and when you recall it again, it’s as clear as day.”

“The mind’s a rum kind of beast. Please continue.”

“Well we looked at this poster, which was quite hideous, so not one of yours, and Alexandra made an offhand remark about having had her fill of movie stars. How she’d once met one at the Eagle Street offices and he’d been a bit of a letch. I’m sure she said it was Charles Carstone. If it wasn’t, I apologise to his ghost and it was someone similar.”

Alasdair nodded. Another little piece of the jigsaw helping to create the overall picture. “Talking of those offices, she didn’t happen to mention working there with either a James Salt or a Robert Archer?”

“Mr J Salt, yes. I don’t know if he’s James. His desk is in the main office foyer where we meet on Monday evenings and Alexandra pointed it out, saying he was one of the folk Herbert and Chapman got to do their dirty work. Given what you told us about their clientele and the cases they handle, I’m now guessing that she meant Salt was mixed up in that kind of sordid stuff.”

“That seems most likely.” Or in even dirtier work.

A waiter appeared with their coffees, which nudged them into finishing of their apple pies.

After Moira had consumed the last scoop, she said, “I should finish the story about that night at Holborn station. When we got down to platform level, Alexandra had a bit of a funny turn. I wanted to take her back up, because it can get a bit claustrophobic down there and a few minutes fresh air are just the job, but she laughed it off. Said that if she went up she might never have the guts to come down again, which seemed odd. She insisted we go on and, while she was a bit unsteady on her feet, she got onto the platform, we caught the northbound tube and then she seemed much happier. She alighted at Finsbury Park, all smiles and waves. That was the last time I saw her.”

Was that “funny turn” another confirmation of Alexandra’s medical condition? The waiter returned to clear their plates, with Luigi the manager in tow to ask if they had enjoyed their meal. Moira launched into fulsome—and genuine-sounding—praise of the pie pastry, while Alasdair truthfully said that the coffee was as good as any the capital had to offer.

With a delighted smile and elaborate bow, Luigi asked Moira if she’d like to join a small party he was hosting on June the second as he could promise a wonderful view of the coronation procession from the apartment just upstairs from the restaurant.

“Would you care to join us, Mr Hamilton?,” he added. “There’s plenty of room and my lady guests will be eternally grateful to me for inviting you.”

Alasdair inclined his head as nobly as he’d be doing in the new film. “I truly appreciate the very kind offer but I already have something similar lined up with a very old friend and she’d not only be mortified if I stood her up, she’d quite possibly slap my legs.” That was not a million miles from the truth, because Toby’s mother had arranged a prime viewing spot for them from the moment the coronation date was announced and while she might not resort to physical violence, he’d never hear the end of it if he changed his arrangements. He took the very welcome cue, though. “I’m particularly looking forward to seeing Queen Salote. Sir Ian, the head of Landseer, met her during the war and can’t praise her highly enough.”

Luigi nodded. “If her photographs do her justice, she’s a stunning woman. I—” Alas, whatever he was about to add was forestalled by the arrival of a waiter with a query.

“I’m pleased Luigi was interrupted,” Moira said, when he’d hastened away, “because your mention of Queen Salote brought to mind something I saw in the Herbert and Chapman offices a couple of meetings ago. I was emptying some tea leaves into the kitchen dustbin when I saw a photograph crumpled up in there.”

Alasdair forced himself not to slap the table and break out into a smug grin. That was it, the thing he’d wanted to follow up that had been stuck at the back of his memory: Moira making reference to things she’d seen in the dustbins at Clanfield House. “Was that what you meant at The Swan with Two Necks when we were discussing their unsavoury clientele?”

“Yes. You do have a good memory, don’t you?”

“Not as good as I’d like it to be.” As the bin business had proven. “Please go on.”

“Well, being a nosy baggage, when I saw this discarded photo I picked it out and uncrumpled it. It was a photo of a regal personage I couldn’t put a name to for reasons which will become apparent, but it could well have been Queen Salote or a similar monarch from a commonwealth nation. The nasty thing was that the photograph looked as though it had been used as a target for someone throwing darts, which is what made the face so hard to recognise.”

“How horrible.”

“Quite. I’d found similar things before that had clearly been used for darts practice and then discarded, but never a photograph of a person.” Moira shivered, and then drained her cup, perhaps finding the excellent coffee a comfort. “When I was still looking at it, feeling rather stunned, Lloyd came in and I showed it to him. He seemed equally shocked, especially as he thought his cousin might have been responsible. Apparently Billy Chapman had always been a dab hand at darts.”

Dab hand ? A flurry of thoughts came into Alasdair’s mind, beginning with whether you could put poison on an ordinary dart and then throw it with enough accuracy to hit a specific person riding in a procession. Not necessarily from amongst the crowds lining the streets but from the kind of elevated vantage point Moira would herself be occupying. If a dart wasn’t viable, could that accuracy of aim allow you to lob an incendiary device or grenade into a carriage?

Matthew Firestone needed to know about this genuine skill that Chapman possessed, and he needed to be told as soon as possible.