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They took a cab out to Theydon Bois, despite the fact that the underground might have proved quicker. The risk was too great en route of Alasdair or Toby being recognised, cornered and—as had happened on one occasion in the past—pursued by adoring fans hell-bent on securing anything from an autograph to an item of clothing. There was a task to fulfil and nothing, even their paying public, much as they were to be cherished, could get in the way.

As the journey progressed from the city out to the leafy northern suburbs, Alasdair explained why he hadn’t mentioned to Vera Brook that there’d be four people tipped out of the cab onto her doorstep. “I felt it was a delicate balancing act and that the sheer weight of our numbers could tip the scales the wrong way. Once we arrive there she surely can’t give us our marching orders.”

“What if she does, though,” Toby said. “Jonny’s flashing smile having failed to charm her and only thee and me being allowed to cross the threshold?”

“Then we’ll give him and Roger a couple of quid and they can entertain themselves in the pub while we enter the lionesses’ den. Does that work, chaps?”

“Suits me,” Roger replied. “Everything’s an unexpected bonus today.”

They reached the den with welcome swiftness, before any second thoughts they might entertain could put a dampener on anyone’s enthusiasm. They paid off the driver, who’d clearly recognised them and whose face was a picture of curiosity, and then headed along the Brooks’s garden path.

Alasdair rang the doorbell, then waited hat in hand, feeling like a small boy whose ball had gone into the back garden and who wanted it back. If Miss Brook was surprised at finding four men on her step when she opened the door, she was too well mannered to show it.

“Sorry to arrive like a pack of forwards at a ruck, Miss Brook, but there’s a good reason, I promise you.”

“I should hope so.” Her tones reinforced the naughty schoolboy sensation. “I’ll have to get out all my best teacups.”

“Oh, don’t bother just for us.” Toby gave her his most heartbreaking smile, often employed in the Landseer cause. “We’re happy with everyday ware. Seeing that Alasdair’s forgotten the introductions, this is Roger Henley, who’ll be making sure we behave ourselves and this is Jonny Stewart, who’s helping us with our investigation. I thought your mother might like to meet him as he’s related to Dr Stewart whom I portray in Death Stalks the College .”

“Oh.” Miss Brook beamed. “She’ll be delighted. Come in, all of you, before the neighbours start twitching their curtains. I’ve no idea what to tell them if they’ve realised who you are and start asking questions.”

“That’s easy,” Toby said as they entered the hallway. “Say that you won a Landseer competition and the prize was for us to visit you. “All part of the publicity tied in to the latest film. Jonny and Roger here are our bodyguards.”

“I can see you’re going to get on with mother like a house on fire, Mr Bowe. She’s very excited at the prospect. Any bit of fun to break up the routine.” Miss Brook closed the door with evident relief. A deeply private person, Alasdair guessed. “Mother’s insisted I helped doll her up although you’ll be pleased to know I stopped her wearing a hat.”

A nicely modulated female voice sounded from a room at the back of the house. “You won’t stop me wearing one when we go to watch the coronation on Carrie Brown’s television.” This had to be old Mrs Brook, given the similarity in accent.

Vera grinned. “Come along all of you and meet Mother.”

She steered them along the hallway to a well-lit and well-proportioned bedroom with large windows looking out on a nicely tended garden. Mrs Brook, sitting regally in a high-backed chair and as immaculately dressed as she might be for a garden party, showed no surprise at the arrival of four visitors. Introductions were effected all round, with Toby and Jonny being ushered into seats either side of the old lady’s. Mother and daughter made a handsome pair, both sporting jewellery and a hint of subtle makeup: no wonder Fred seemed to have taken a shine to them.

“I’ve got the kettle ready to boil so I’ll bring everyone tea in a moment,” Miss Brook said, backing out of the room.

“Please let me help you,” Alasdair offered. “I’m quite domesticated.”

She threw up her hands. “I couldn’t have that, Mr Hamilton. What would my neighbours say if they saw you in my kitchen working like a maid? I can’t excuse that with winning a competition.”

“They wouldn’t recognise me, Miss Brook,” Roger said. “So let me lend a hand instead.”

“While they’re busy and before Vera drags you off, I’m going to ask you a question, Mr Hamilton. Is Fiona Marsden as nice as she’s cracked up to be? I never believe half of what’s said in the newspapers and magazines.”

“Very wise, Mrs Brook, although in this case, it’s all true. She’s an absolute treasure.” Alasdair regaled their hostess with the tale of Fiona dealing with a murderer and how she always displayed both common sense and notable courage, until Miss Brook returned with a tray of tea and biscuits.

“This is for you three,” she said, laying it on a low table, “and Roger’s taken the other one into the sitting room. Come along now, before the pot gets cold.”

Alasdair followed her to the front of the house, where a large bow window let in the afternoon sun. Roger had already poured the tea, so once they were all three settled with their cups and a biscuit, Miss Brook asked, “Now gentlemen, how can I help you?”

“We’re currently investigating what we believe is a suspicious death and trying to prevent a future atrocity. Not that we realised a couple of weeks ago that we’d be involved in such things, because the case we initially took on has changed considerably.” Alasdair outlined the story of how Toby had been introduced to a strange group of people, who wanted help locating a missing person. How the person turned out not to be missing at all, yet the trail had led into other, more serious areas.

When he’d finished, his hostess—who’d appeared not overly surprised at anything that had been mentioned said, “Where do I come into this, Mr Hamilton? And please call me Vera, because Miss Brook feels so formal.”

“Then you must call me Alasdair, for the same reason.” He took a very welcome sip of tea. “In terms of where you come in, anything you can tell us that means we’re not barking up the wrong tree, would be a useful place to start. We know from our enquiries that you accidentally walked in on a conversation between Chapman and another man about an act of violence. Was that man Robert Archer and can you give us any detail about what this act was intended to be?”

“It was him. At least that’s what he calls himself: one can never be sure in our line of work. People come and go out of hours, they use aliases…” she shrugged. “I’m not proud of working for Herbert and Chapman , nevertheless I have little choice. It’s easy for a pretty young thing like Alexandra to flit from job to job, but I’m hardly in the first flush of youth and I can’t afford to not be in employment. They pay me well and expect me to exercise my discretion.”

Was there a hint of resentment, not only at her situation but at Alexandra?

Vera continued. “Robert Archer handles some of the more sordid parts of our work. In the past that’s included rooting out information about people who might be giving evidence against our clients in court. Information that would help discredit these folk’s testimony. However, on this occasion, Mr Chapman was asking him to help get rid of somebody who was causing trouble. I think that might have been Mr Carstone, because the meeting took place before his death. If you hadn’t mentioned him I might have had to keep his name secret, but you already have your suspicions on that count.”

“Why should they want him dead?” Roger asked, evidently fully briefed by Jonny. “He was a client and, as we understand it, an old associate of theirs.”

“That’s true, although this links to something else. I was asked to stay late one evening, to greet a client and make him feel at ease. It happens sometimes, especially if it’s someone of note and they want a discrete record kept of discussions, because they know I’ll keep my mouth shut. At least I always have done.” She knitted her brows. “The client was Carstone, and he was agitated. Nervous or worried, perhaps. When I’d gone into the kitchenette to make a drink for them, he started to confront Chapman, saying he’d heard from James Salt what they’d got planned. How Chapman had gone too far and that—because he was an old friend—Carstone was willing to give him a week to change his mind about what he meant to do. Otherwise Carstone would go to the police himself. He must have left then, because I heard the office door slam and when I emerged, Mr Chapman apologised that I had to witness such boorish behaviour.”

“He didn’t explain what it was about?” Alasdair asked.

“No and he wouldn’t expect me to ask. He simply said I could get home earlier than expected. A few days later, I read about Carstone’s death in the paper. I know it’s cowardly, but I didn’t report what I’d heard, because I didn’t want to be next.” Vera clutched her cup, although she didn’t drink from it. “I used to come home via Chancery Lane but now I walk to either Bank or Holborn stations.”

“We understand that Carstone had been a Mosley supporter, like your employers, and only gave up when his career began to blossom,” Alasdair said. “Do you know why was he suddenly at odds with them?”

“He’d seen the light, apparently. Your chap at Landseer—Sir Ian Cunningham I believe—had a long conversation with him, which Carstone described as being like scales falling from his eyes. He told me all about it on one of the occasions he was trying to chat me up, although to be frank he usually chatted up anyone female.” Vera rolled her eyes. “It was as if he couldn’t help himself, which is, I guess, why he ended up in such a stew. The biggest chance of his film career coming up and every chance it would come crashing down. He knew that his old pals dealt with tricky cases and apparently saw them as his only hope in sorting out the divorce cases he’d been embroiled in. Keep him out of the dock and the newspapers.”

Alasdair gave a sympathetic twitch of his eyebrow. “The threat he made to Chapman about having a week to change his mind. When was this in relation the visit Archer made?”

“The day before. It’s firmly lodged in my memory, because it felt like I kept hearing what I shouldn’t. They say things happen in threes, so I was waiting for the third time, although that never came. Which perhaps is just as well, given what happened to Carstone. I’m not saying for certain that he was deliberately killed, but it’s all a bit too coincidental for my liking. I wouldn’t want the firm thinking they should get rid of me, too.”

“I suspect you’d have been safe. You’ve clearly proved your worth.” And anyway, would Chapman have risked two suspicious deaths too close to each other? “Do you know what Carstone was referring to when he expressed his horror at what Chapman meant to do?”

“Getting rid of that woman , whoever that woman is. Knowing Billy Chapman, it doesn’t narrow the field much, as he’s firmly of the opinion that women should know their place. Fine as shop assistants or in an administrative role, like mine, but God forbid they exercise any authority over the male of the species.”

“How does he feel about Her Majesty?” Roger asked. “A queen on the throne after fifty years of kings.”

Vera shook her head, with a rueful smile. “That’s different. Queen Elizabeth had a God-given, anointed right to rule. Via a male prime minister, of course, because my employers and their pals would never countenance a woman at Number Ten.”

“What about other female monarchs?” Roger said.

“Oh, I think that would depend on the colour of their skin. Ah.” Vera, clearly having had a road to Damascus moment, laid down the cup from which she’d hardly drunk. “Were you thinking of someone invited to the coronation? To be disposed of in the way that Carstone was, although not under a train? Surely anyone of note would have protection although I suppose that in itself isn’t infallible. Archduke Franz Ferdinand, for example.”

“Exactly,” Alasdair said. “We’re hypothesizing that’s the type of act intended, whether by firearm or an explosive device, so anything you can say to help prevent such an outrage by narrowing down the means or location would be invaluable to the police.”

Vera pursed her lips in thought. “Mr Chapman’s watching the procession and I know where from, which is somewhere near the Theatre Royal on Haymarket. He’s rented a place at an extortionate price, because I’ve seen the invoice. He’s got catering, as well, so it’s a real slap up do for those invited. On those grounds, it doesn’t sound like he’s planning any hanky panky.”

“No, but equally that could be constructing a good front. He invites close associates—like Archer—who aren’t afraid of being involved in a rough house and who’ll support his overall intention.” Alasdair glanced at Roger, who was clearly bursting to say his piece.

“Maybe he’ll create another kind of front, while he’s at it,” Roger said. “If Archer and Salt managed to kill Carstone yet make it look like an accident, and have the coroner’s court believe them, then they could have the skills to help stage an attack on the procession make it look like the Haymarket party were themselves victims. Afterwards they swear that an armed stranger came gatecrashing their slap up do, threatened those present with his gun, lobbed explosive devices into the procession and then scarpered before they could do more than give him a flesh wound with the bread knife. Blood at the scene, shock all round, heroics from those who’d allegedly tried to prevent the attack but were themselves wounded in the process. Maybe a bullet or two sprayed about and some so-called evidence left.”

Alasdair nodded, appreciative of the intelligent thinking Roger displayed. He’d assumed that the other weapons Archer sought to buy were simply to back up the foreign potentate story, who’d surely not be wanting to buy hand-thrown missiles, but what if they played—as Roger had concluded—a bigger role?

Vera, who’d been taking her time to mull over this new suggestion, said, “In any other circumstances, and with any other people, I’d laugh and say such an idea was nonsense. I won’t though, because it feels horribly in line with Mr Herbert’s and Mr Chapman’s characters and the way they’ve conducted business in the past. The lengths they go to when mounting a defence beggar belief, to the extent that sometimes the defendant themselves begins to believe the alternative version was what really happened.”

“That’s probably why they’re so successful,” Roger replied.

“Yes. And I’ve always suspected that’s what happened to Mr Carstone. A beautifully—if that’s not an awful use of the word—staged accident.” Their hostess’s cheeks had turned ashen at the thought. “I was one of the chosen few invited to the Haymarket to see the big parade, but I had to decline, because I can’t leave Mother. Mr Chapman tried to persuade me, but I was adamant. Now I see there’s a chance I would have ended up ‘accidentally’ killed as part of their plot. Collateral damage, you might say, because if I’d been allowed to witness the event I could have put two and two together.”

Possibly that’s why Chapman had tolerated her overhearing what she shouldn’t. Not only because he knew she wouldn’t blab—she could be a useful part of his plan on the day.

“Would you give a statement to the police outlining what you’ve told us?” Alasdair asked. “Our contact is a man of great charm and discretion and he would speak to you over the telephone if you feel that a police visit here would be too obvious.”

“If I could be sure that none of this would get back to my employers, yes. Although if this went as far as a court of law, I’d have no chance of them not knowing.”

“We’ll have to cross that bridge if and when we come to it, making the passage as safe as possible.”

Vera didn’t seem entirely convinced and Alasdair didn’t want to point out that if both her bosses ended up in the dock there might be no firm to employ her. She composed herself and said, “May I ask you some questions?”

“Certainly. If we can answer, we will.” Although not if it touched on the two pairs of men’s relationships.

“This odd group you mentioned earlier. Lloyd Conway’s, is it? They meet at our offices every other Monday.”

Alasdair nodded. “I guess you’ve met him.”

“Oh yes,” she said. “Once met never forgotten, because he told me he could detect I had special powers. I said that I did: managing to juggle work and looking after mother and not going crazy in the process. I can see that special powers thing is no surprise.”

“He’s always at it.” Alasdair snorted. “He tried it on Toby, who gave him equally short shrift. Chapman’s one of his victims, too.”

“Mr Chapman is nobody’s victim.” Vera made a moue of distaste. “Are you referring to his influencing the weather nonsense? Conway told me identifying that power was the first time he realised he could tell if other people possessed special abilities. It happened just at the start of the war and it wouldn’t surprise me if Chapman put the idea in his head.”

“Is that why he drops in out of hours,” Alasdair asked, “so he can have his ego boosted? Which he probably needs, given that he got short shrift during the war when he tried to persuade the authorities that he had this ability and because since then sensible folk like you and Toby have him where he can stick his ideas?”

“He might have that motive but I don’t think Chapman would bother about massaging Conway’s vanity, unless it suited his own ends.”

Roger raised his hand. “Could Conway be tied up in either Carstone’s death or and the possible upcoming attack?”

Vera paused, then said, “I hadn’t thought of that. Yes, maybe. Not the coronation thing: whatever else he is, Conway’s patriotic. To the extent I’ve heard James Salt ridicule him about it behind his back. He’s mocked Conway’s sense of chivalry, too. He puts women on pedestals, wanting to ride out and be their champion, despite the fact that no woman would have him in such a role. Those are Salt’s words, not mine and spoken in the context of his own success with women. I also recall him mocking Carstone, saying that it was amazing how many women fell for the actor, despite his lack of looks or other obvious charms. Salt was definitely envious of him .”

“How could Conway have been involved in Carstone’s death?” Roger asked. “Telling him he possessed an amazing ability, like being able to survive falling under the wheels of a train?”

“I don’t think Carstone would have fallen for anything so outlandish, although Conway might have told him he was irresistible to women, although that wouldn’t have been any news to Carstone. He was full of himself, anyway. I was simply wondering if he’d been used to lure the actor to Chancery Lane so that the accident could be staged. More likely that Carstone would have trusted him than anyone employed by Herbert and Chapman .” She shrugged, as elegantly as Fiona might.

“We wondered if Alexandra had been used to get Carstone there,” Alasdair said, “Although I suppose it’s possible Conway helped persuade her to do so.” Which might be why she no longer attended his meetings. The sooner they could talked to Alexandra and got her perspective, the better.

“Alexandra?” Vera narrowed her eyes. “It’s possible she was used as a lure, because Carstone would have gone for such a bait hook, line and sinker. But believe me, that young lady couldn’t be persuaded to do anything that wouldn’t work to her advantage.”

“Really?”

“Yes. Which is all I have to say on that subject.”