‘There was more to her disguise than hair dye and a Scottish accent,’ said Lily. ‘The appalling story about the baby and the sufferings in the Siberian village – was that also a deceit?’

The princess shook her head sadly. ‘No. That was her own experience. She merely told the truth, but as if it had happened to Anna. She related her hideous tale bit by bit to the captain of the frigate that brought her back to England. Told him everything. She trusted this officer, grew very close to him, I believe. He is the one man who knows the depths of her degradation, is aware of the violence and anger she clutches to her and understands it. The one man who can love her.’

‘Except that he can’t,’ Sandilands objected, remembering. ‘Swinburne. Navy man. Married, I understand.’

‘Was. No longer, Commander. His wife died of the influenza last year. He immediately took advantage of the reduction in the naval service to resign his commission, to everyone’s surprise, and set off into Europe. To travel about and lose himself, no doubt. As men of a certain age with certain concerns do. I didn’t let him go. I have always taken an interest in the good captain, though he was becoming ever more difficult to track. Luckily he was in France latterly, where they know how to keep a record of visiting foreigners. And if you know the right man at the top of the right department – and I do – you can find someone without much difficulty.’

‘And he came when you whistled? He’s there with her now, out on the Atlantic? Swinburne?’ Sandilands could not disguise his concern.

‘Ah! You do not like to think that a fellow English officer has been sacrificed in this way?’ The princess’s good humour was wearing thin. ‘No sacrifice involved, believe me. I say again: he loves her. Now, let’s finish the champagne and congratulate ourselves on lives saved and a love affair rekindled.’

*    *    *

‘Just as well we put off that trip to the Riviera, sir. She’d have us tracked every inch of the way,’ Lily grumbled as they left.

‘Probably. Formidable organization she’s running, right in my bailiwick. I sometimes think she regards me as a not entirely to be trusted Steward to the Household. Useful in his way but better kept under close supervision. Not the sort of policing I was offered.’

‘Not the kind of policing I’m used to either. And not the kind the Chief Constable exposes his girls to in Lancashire, I bet,’ was Lily Wentworth’s summary as they entered Sandilands’ office.

‘I quite agree,’ was his easy response. ‘You’ve every right to feel tetchy. Life-threatening situations experienced twice in a week … consorting with murderers, spies, fornicators and bogus clergymen – enough to try any girl’s nerve. I quite understand. Well, just write up your notes, will you, sign your forms and you can be off. It is the weekend after all. So good of you to agree to stay on. Remember to charge your hours at the overtime rate. Look – I’ve had a campaign desk put over there for you to use.’ He pointed to a small, spindly piece of furniture. ‘It’s very much in your style, Wentworth. Light and manoeuvrable. And it folds, you see. When you’ve done with it, you can just leave it out of sight behind the door.’

He whisked off to the ops room without saying goodbye, leaving her alone.

She’d been busy for an hour, recording the last of her comings and goings and filling in claim forms. She lingered for a while, checking her work, expecting him to dash back in at any moment. But he didn’t appear.

When she could find nothing further to do, she folded up her desk and propped it against the wall behind the door. Lightly manoeuvred out of sight. Out of mind. She took her papers to his desk and left them in a neat pile. As an afterthought, she found her unopened resignation envelope still under its paperweight and placed it on top of the pile. She waited a little longer, hands shaking, eyes staring but seeing nothing, recognizing this paralysis for what her father had described as the bleak emptiness that follows the high tumult of action. He’d tried once to express it in a painting and at last she understood the emotion behind the leaden greys of his canvas. And this numbness was the forerunner of the moment when feeling returned – the moment when you realized you’d taken a hit. And it hurt like hell.

She went off back down the deserted stairs.

The duty sergeant in the vestibule saw her and called her back just as she reached the door.

‘Constable Wentworth? Is that you? Hard to tell when you’re not in uniform. Cor! Nearly missed you, sneaking off like that. Got something ’ere for you. Left at the desk.’

He reached under the counter, clanged a foot on a bucket and produced with an amused flourish a lavish and violently coloured bunch of flowers, their dripping wet stalks wrapped in brown paper.

‘Lovely, i’n’t they? Hope you like orange, miss? Not to everybody’s taste, p’raps. My grandfather grows these on his allotment. ’E were pleased to spare them for a lovely lady. Oh, an’ the guv said as I was to draw your attention to the card what’s in there.’

Lily hurried down to the Embankment before she took the card from its small envelope. In runic script, the words were very clear: These are called Tiger Lilies, I believe, on account of their striped boldness. I have a good deal of respect for tigers, miss. The most formidable ones I encountered in India hunted as a pair.

The words ran over on to the back: Sharpen your claws and present yourself here at 9 on Monday. There’s something else you can help me with. JS.

Also by Barbara Cleverly

The Joe Sandilands murder mysteries

The Last Kashmiri Rose

Ragtime in Simla

The Damascened Blade

The Palace Tiger

The Bee’s Kiss

Tug of War

Folly du Jour

Strange Images of Death

The Laetitia Talbot mysteries

The Tomb of Zeus

Bright Hair about the Bone

A Darker God

Copyright

Constable & Robinson Ltd

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www.constablerobinson.com

First published in the UK by Constable, an imprint of Constable & Robinson, 2011

First US edition published by SohoConstable, an imprint of Soho Press, 2011

Soho Press, Inc.

853 Broadway

New York, NY 10003

www.sohopress.com

Copyright © Barbara Cleverly, 2011

The right of Barbara Cleverly to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs & Patents Act 1988.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or to actual events or locales is entirely coincidental

All rights reserved. This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out or otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

A copy of the British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data is available from the British Library

UK ISBN: 978–1–78033–015–0

US ISBN: 978–1–56947–988–9

US Library of Congress number: 2011018007