North’s eyes opened wide. “You’ve already spoken to her about this?” There was a note of panic in his voice.

“She denies knowing anything about Day’s death.” Charles blew out a cloud of pipe smoke, wondering whether he should mention Mrs. Langtry’s missing gun. On balance, he thought not. “I don’t think she killed him,” he added, “if that’s what concerns you, Owen.”

For the second time in their brief meeting, North became passionate. “Concerns me!” he cried, his voice trembling. “Concerns me! Why, man, of course it concerns me! I have been friends with the lady for some time. I-” He stopped, biting his lip as if to control his outburst. When he spoke again, his voice was taut but disciplined, and he had chosen a different tack: “As you know, the Prince is at present deeply involved with Mrs. Keppel. However, he still visits Mrs. Langtry on occasion and he looks out for her always, financially and otherwise. If His Highness thought for a moment that-” North shook his head. “You know how protective he is toward those of his friends who are in trouble. Foolishly so, at times.”

Charles remembered the Royal reaction when the Countess of Warwick, whose place in the Royal heart had been taken by Mrs. Keppel, had come dangerously close to being accused of murder. “I take it, then, that you’re suggesting-”

“I’m suggesting that, whatever else you do, you absolutely must keep Mrs. Langtry’s name out of this,” North said fiercely. “His Highness will not thank you if she is dragged into the matter.” Then, apparently recollecting that he was speaking to a peer of the realm, he pulled in a deep breath, softening his tone. “Of course, Charles, I know that you won’t do anything that might attract attention to the lady’s role in this unfortunate business. As you have said, she is innocent of any wrongdoing, so I’m sure you will guard her reputation.” He seemed to find no irony in this last remark.

Charles was tempted to point out that he had said nothing of Mrs. Langtry’s innocence, only that he did not believe she had shot Alfred Day. But instead, he smoked in silence for a moment, listening to the ticking of the clock on the wall. “By the way,” he said at last, “we’ve located the veterinary surgeon who doped Reggie Hunt’s horse. A fellow named Polter. Septimus Polter, at Exning.”

“Well, that was a bit of fine detective work,” North said in a heartier tone, clearly relieved to leave the subject of Mrs. Langtry. “How did you get onto him? Have you talked to him yet?”

“I have not,” Charles said, failing to mention that Bradford Marsden was probably doing exactly that, even as they spoke.

North reached for a pen and a sheet of paper. “Polter, did you say? Septimus? At Exning?” He dipped the pen into an inkwell set in the desk and wrote rapidly. “No need for you to go further with this particular line of inquiry, Charles. I believe that you’ve gotten to the heart of the matter. I’ll see to the rest of it myself.”

“As you wish,” Charles said.

There was another long silence. At last, North pulled open a drawer. “I have a photograph here you really must see,” he said, in an obvious effort to change the subject. “A friend sent it to me from New Zealand, to add to my collection. Given your interest in scientific photography, I think you will find it fascinating.” He took out a photograph and laid it on the desk.

Charles regarded it, frowning.

“What is it, exactly?” he asked. “I don’t believe I recognize the creature.”

“Stumped you at last, have I?” North exclaimed. “It is a rare species that lives along the coast of New Zealand. Found only in the sand dunes, I’m told, hiding under driftwood and the like. Katipo, its name is.”

Charles was looking at a photograph, much enlarged, of a spider.

“Ah,” he said. “Katipo. The New Zealand spider.” He looked at North. “Surely I should have guessed.” He pushed himself out of the chair. “Thank you, Owen, for showing it to me. I fear I must be going.”

North laid the photograph aside and summoned a smile. “Right. Don’t forget, then. Instruct Murray to concentrate on locating Baggs. When the man has been found, let me know immediately and I shall alert the chief constable to pick him up for interrogation. That will resolve the matter, and you can get back to your own affairs-with my enduring gratitude,” he added warmly.

Out in the street, Charles drew a deep breath, glad to be out of the Club office. For the moment, he did not want to think about all of the implications that had been raised by his conversation with Admiral North. He took out his watch. It was nearly time to set out for the Devil’s Dike, where he was to lunch with Bradford and Jack Murray and learn what they had discovered that morning.

Charles was striding quickly along the next block of shops when he ran into a woman coming out of a butcher’s shop, carrying a shopping bag full of packages.

“Oh, Lord Sheridan!” the woman cried delightedly. “Oh, how fortunate to encounter you in this fashion! I’m afraid I missed you this morning at breakfast and-”

Charles raised his hat. “Yes, indeed, Mrs. Hardaway,” he said with a slight smile. “But I fear I am rather in a hurry. If you will excuse me-”

“No!” Mrs. Hardaway laid hold of his arm. “I am sorry, my lord, but you must accompany me home immediately. I have something in my keeping that you must have without delay.”

“Well, then,” Charles said, seeing nothing for it but to go with the lady, “you will let me carry your parcels, I hope.”

“Oh, so kind,” Mrs. Hardaway murmured, taking the arm he offered, and they proceeded together down the street.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

Contrary to Jack Murray’s expectation, he did not find Jesse Clark when he called at the Red House Stable that morning. Mr. Clark, he was told by the head lad, had gone with Mr. Wishard to Brighton to have a look at a filly that was for sale. They would not return for some time, for they were traveling on to the Continent to examine some horses at a racing stable near Paris.

Murray frowned, wishing he’d had the foresight to come looking for Clark before the man departed. “When did they leave?” he asked.

“Yesterday, on the early train,” the head lad replied, and added that it had been an unscheduled trip. “They wuz plannin’ to be ’ere fer the ten-furlong ’andicap on Friday, but ’eard about this good filly and din’t want to miss the chance o’ gettin”er.”

Of course, Murray thought sardonically. Long years at Scotland Yard had taught him that when people left town immediately after a crime in which they were involved, they usually had a very good reason-and not an innocent one, either. He left the stable, reflecting that both Clark and Baggs were currently unavailable, and that Oliver Moore had done his best to disappear. Of those who had argued with the unfortunate Badger in the Great Horse just prior to his murder, there remained only Pinkie Duncan to be questioned. With any luck at all, Murray would find him at the Grange House Stable. He set off determinedly in that direction.