A Spider in the Cup Page 2

  The delicate jaw, as the jaws of the recently dead will do, sagged open at the touch of Hermione’s exploratory fingers. Flesh still covered the bones but the image of the gaping skull below broke through, striking a grotesque note and arousing in the living an ancient terror.

  With years of medical practice guiding her, Hermione tugged at a limb, pressed the livid white flesh and turned the head again slightly to inspect the mouth. Her unhurried, professional gestures calmed her audience. A horrified curiosity kept them firmly in place, huddled around the corpse. Hermione’s voice was deliberately emotionless as she spoke. “Not a child. A young woman. Perhaps twenty-five or younger. No broken limbs or obvious wounds.” Her words were controlled, but encountering the glare of challenging eyes and a reproachful silence from all, she added, “Though I think we have all observed the … er … anomaly.”

  All eyes were drawn to the right foot. Heads bobbed slightly as, once again, the toes were counted. One, two, three, four.

  “Do you think, Miss Herbert, that one of the spades may have severed her big toe?” Doris whispered.

  “No. I revealed the feet with my trowel. The toe was lost at the time of death, I’d say.” She examined the foot more closely. “A clean severance but no sign that healing had begun. Perhaps we’re looking at a suicide? Perhaps she fell off a boat and drowned? She’s not been dead for long.” She peered at the neck, frowned, and then eased up the fabric of the tunic with a delicate finger to check the abdomen. Spellbound, no one thought of looking aside. “I see no sign of putrefaction. I’d calculate two days, three at the outside.” She got to her feet. “No. Let’s not deceive ourselves. This is a burial. And, we must suppose, a clandestine burial. Murder? Most likely. We ought to inform the authorities at once. Colonel, could you …?”

  “I noticed one of those police boxes up on the embankment. I can phone from there.” The colonel’s moment had come. He shot off, a man on a mission, Burberry flapping.

  “Poor, poor little creature,” Hermione murmured. “She is, you see, rather small. No more than five foot two, I’d say.”

  “And so white,” murmured Doris. “I’ve never seen a dead body before. I thought at first it must be a bird—a swan perhaps. You do see them on the river sometimes.”

  “And now this pale swan in her watery nest

  Begins the sad dirge of her certain ending.”

  Jack was whispering, round-eyed with shock. “Except that we didn’t hear her swan’s song. Not starting. Finished. Two days ago, you say? God, I feel such a fool!” He threw down his steel wand, his voice thick with emotion. “Here we are—mucking about like kids with our daft little devices! When, all the time she was … she was …”

  “Nothing more we can do, I think. We’d better all stay exactly where we are and wait for the police,” Hermione said.

  “Allus supposin’ they gets ’ere fast, miss,” said Sam. His gentle delivery could not dampen the drama of his next announcement. “Red flag’s under water. Tide’s racing up. I reckon we’ve got ten minutes afore she goes under again.”

  The sound of Professor Stone’s voice caught them all in a state of uncertainty amounting to paralysis. It was unhurried, calming even, in its familiar mocking tone. “Well, a day not entirely misspent,” he commented. “At least the team has achieved one of its objectives.” Receiving no response other than a glower of outrage from the others, he ploughed on. “Miss da Silva is to be commended on her find.” He pushed forward. “Excuse me. May I? While we still have a moment?” He knelt to look inside the dead girl’s mouth, clamping his arms behind his back to underline the fact that he was not about to tamper with the evidence.

  “Ah, yes. Thought I caught a flash of something when you tested her for rigor, Hermione. I’ve seen one of these before. It’s a coin you see. A large one. It’s jammed in there, under her tongue. Hmm … And it’s gold. In fact …” He twisted his neck to an uncomfortable angle, recovered himself and pronounced, “If this is what I think it is, I’m going to make a unilateral decision to extract it before it gets lost in the tide. I know! I know!” He held up his arms to ward off the hissed advice to touch nothing. “These are exceptional circumstances, and I’m sure the police would want us to preserve any evidence we can find.”

  They watched as he delicately slid the coin from the mouth and held it out for inspection on the palm of his hand. “Well, well! At last I can be of some use. This is a medal depicting the Emperor Constantius the First capturing London. Made to mark his victory over Allectus. In two hundred and ninety-six AD, I believe. Interesting. Very. You have indeed struck gold, Miss da Silva! Do you see the slight reddish tone it has?” He tilted the coin from side to side to demonstrate. “Thracian gold. Extremely valuable.”

  He was elbowed out of the way without ceremony by Joel. The man whose spade had brought her back into the light picked up his jacket and draped it respectfully over the slender remains. He bowed his head and his deep Suffolk voice rolled out over the unconsecrated grave. “Lord, grant her eternal rest and may light perpetual shine upon her,” he said.

  Their “amens” mingled with the shrill blasts of a police whistle and the peremptory calls of a pair of beat bobbies racing along the embankment towards them.

  CHAPTER 2

  Joe Sandilands, seated in the back of the unmarked squad car that had picked him up from his flat in Cheyne Walk, was speeding along the embankment in the opposite direction, heading for Mayfair. The driver’s automatic but abrupt raising of his right foot from the accelerator at the sound of the police whistles caused Joe’s briefcase to fall to the floor. He leaned forward and slapped his driver happily on the ear with his rolled-up newspaper.

  “Eyes front! Not one for us, Sarge! Just grit your teeth and drive past. The local plod can manage.”

  All the same, both men’s heads swivelled to the right as they passed the scene of activity on the riverbank.

  “The usual, I expect,” offered the sergeant. “Three bodies washed up on that spot so far this month. It’s the current,” he explained vaguely. “You’ll be all right, sir. We’re no more than ten minutes from Claridge’s. It’s still early—we should beat the crush at Hyde Park Corner.”

  The sergeant glanced up at his rearview mirror and smiled with approval at the stern face of his passenger. Assistant Commissioner Sandilands. Seven in the morning and here he was, bustling about, well into his day. He’d probably already finished the crossword. He was top brass—no doubt of that—but the other men of his rank would be still abed, rising later to put on their uniforms and swagger about opening bazaars, pushing piles of paper from one side of their mahogany desks to another or just waiting about for retirement. This one, Sandilands, waited for nothing and no man. Ex-serviceman, like his boss, Commissioner Trenchard. You could always tell. A bloke who got things done. The “new policing,” they called it. Horses for courses. The sergeant would have put a bundle on Sandilands if they’d entered him for the Grand National. A man built for speed as well as skill over the jumps. Smart looking chap, too. Good suit. Discreet tie. The doorman at Claridge’s would be pleased to see this gent bounding in, oozing confidence and Penhaligon’s best.

  Ten minutes. Joe’s composure was all on the surface. He readjusted his perfectly tied tie and sighed. It was hard to remain calm when you were about to meet one of the world’s most influential, most wealthy and most scurrilous men. And you’d had instructions from your boss to shadow him for a week or two, possibly longer. With the simple instruction of keeping the unpredictable rogue alive.

  He remembered his briefing from the Commissioner the week before: “It’s this damnable conference, d’you see, Sandilands. The World Economic jamboree. London awash with dignitaries of one sort or another from Albania to Zululand. All highly vulnerable. One-to-one protection is what the Home Office has decreed. At the highest level. And you’ve been allocated your man. Welcome him, assist him, make friends with him—if that’s possible—but, above all, make sure no one bumps him off�
��not even one of our own rubber heels. If you can keep your subject out of trouble that will be a bonus. Keep him out of the scandal sheets and there could be a medal in it for you,” had been his brief.

  It had been useless to put forward the name of the man in Special Branch who could have made a much better job of it—indeed, whose job it was. “Surely James Bacchus would be expecting to assume this duty, sir?” He’d tried. “A senior officer in the protection squad with an impeccable record?” he reminded his boss. “Known to have saved the lives of several members of the royal family.”

  “Agreed.” The commissioner had nodded. “We’re all aware of Bacchus and his men. Formidable reputation! Not the least of their achievements—preserving the lives of at least half a dozen of our leading politicians.” He nodded sagely. “Winston Churchill could have been a goner on several occasions here and abroad if Inspector Thompson of the Branch had not thrown himself between the man and the bullet. And shot back to good effect. At IRA gunmen, Egyptian lynch mobs, Indian nationalists, knife-wielding Frenchwomen and a selection of the deranged. Difficult man to protect, Winston!” He chuckled. “Likes to take his own bullets. Old soldier, you know. And it occurs to me you might well have the same problems with your charge. He’s somewhat battle hardened, too, I understand, and much more sprightly.”

  Joe’s spirits were sinking fast. He waited to hear more.

  “James Bacchus will certainly be involved and working alongside. We value his skills. But I’ve got something special up my sleeve for him. Our Branchman speaks excellent French and Italian and—rather essentially—German, I understand. I shall be assigning him the overall control of the European contingent. He’ll be liaising with all those foreign johnnies in black leather jackets and fedoras who slink about with bulges in their pockets, protecting their lords and masters. Might as well support them so long as they know who’s in charge and respect our firearms laws.”

  Joe recognised this flow of words as a reluctance to get to the point and come out with a name. It did not bode well.

  “You get the American. Cornelius Kingstone. Senator Kingstone.” Trenchard sighed and favoured Joe with a glance that was questioning and yet apologetic. “Friend and advisor to the President. Attending the conference loosely under the direction of their Secretary of State, Cordell Hull.”

  Joe searched his memory and came up with nothing. “Cornelius Kingstone? I’m not aware of the gentleman, sir. But if he’s a friend of Roosevelt, I’m sure we’ll find some common ground. Aren’t you offering me an easy option? From your introduction, I was expecting a more taxing proposition. Herr Hitler’s High Chief Executioner or Signor Mussolini’s Spymaster General, perhaps. Not a solid American democrat.”

  Again Trenchard showed signs of unease. “Look here, Sandilands. Our SIS, New York Section, or British Security Coordination as they like to call themselves, are new boys and just working themselves into the posting. Plenty to do! That east coast is littered with German spies—always has been. But Jeffes and his lads are very keen. They have practically assumed consular status for themselves and get invited to the best parties. They are in a position to vet these politicians for us, and they’re making odd noises about this one. Not an entirely straightforward proposal they’re telling us. Oh, politically, he’s as sound as a bell, all he declares himself to be and very much in Roosevelt’s pocket. Or is Roosevelt in his? Kingstone has been very generous to the cause apparently. But there have been discordant notes. Quite recently. Since Roosevelt’s election. Fact is, the chap disappeared for three days in January. The president was angry—his aide missed several important meetings—but forgiving when he showed up again. Kingstone was a bit disturbed and made excuses for his absence that were less than convincing. Whatever his adventure, it left the senator with a black eye, a sprained wrist and a thoughtful expression. Our men leap on such stories with relish. They love a bit of diplomatic scandal. Too much partying at the White House.” Trenchard sniffed his disapproval and added dismissively, “I expect it was no more than a romantic interlude that got out of hand. The senator’s prone to that sort of thing. But just in case the man’s got some pugilistic skeleton in his cupboard, you will be on hand to protect him, Sandilands. He’s a man who understands our position and has a well-informed world view. A valuable asset amongst that pack of screeching egotists we’ll be seeing lining up to do us down.”

  “Don’t the Americans have their own security squads at their back? The Bureau of Investigation, Naval Intelligence, Secret Service, Pinkerton’s … they’re not short of that kind of thing.”

  “I’ll say! And all bristling with armament. The whole lot—delegates and their accompanying gorillas—are being put up at Claridge’s, no less! The Frogs have got the Savoy, of course. The Italians demanded the Ritz, but we stood firm on that one. And that’s where you come in. I know Bacchus. Educated and plausible as they come on the surface, but not a great deal of social sensitivity. In fact, at heart—pure thug. He’d have Kingstone in an armlock and waltzed off to the Tower in minutes on any pretext or none. And no one would call Bacchus a man of the world …”

  The commissioner had stirred uneasily. “Er … you have, shall we say—and you must not take any offence because none is intended, my boy—a certain reputation for sophisticated relations with the opposite sex. A way with the women. A gift shared and enjoyed by Senator Kingstone, if we are to believe rumour—and the press, of course. Whereas Bacchus is something of a Sir Gawain—or was it Galahad? You know, the virginal one—as far as I can make out. Bit of a Puritan outlook on life and censorious of those who do not share it.”

  Joe wondered where his boss had gotten his information. Not from him certainly.

  “You can’t, sir, be suggesting that I should introduce my charge to the delights of London? An evening cutting a rug at the Embassy … picking up a ten quid tart on Conduit Street … going on to a champagne-fuelled trawl through Soho and ending up in a heap under a table at Ciro’s?”

  “Would that be your idea of a good night out, Sandilands?” The commissioner sniffed. “No wonder you look a bit rough around the edges of a Monday morning. No, no! Nothing so exciting. I had in mind an evening at the ballet. Do you enjoy the ballet?”

  “No, sir. I prefer a musical comedy.”

  “Well, you’d better mug up and prepare to show an interest. The Senator is, I’m told, bringing his own distraction with him. Well, ‘bringing’ is not exact. She’ll be here already in London before he arrives. And she’s a dancer. Classical variety.” He flicked an eye at his notes and took a run at it: “Natalia Kirilovna. Miss Kirilovna’s appearing at the Alhambra early next month with the Ballets Russes de Monte Carlo. Taking the prima ballerina’s part in Les Sylphides. Is that the one with the swans in it? No? Better get hold of some tickets anyway.”

  “Good lord! I’m sure I’ve read about her in Tatler. Isn’t that the girl who had a liaison with a French ambassador recently? A German general … an American saxophonist …”

  “Yes, yes. We could go on. And I don’t want to hear she’s inscribed the name of a Scottish policeman in her leather-backed trophy book from Aspinal. Surprised she finds the time and the energy. Demanding profession, ballet dancing. But the point is, it will be up to you to manage this situation. Carryings-on behind closed Claridge’s doors, of course, I’d say it’s none of our business. But this girl has a reputation for plain speaking, some might say titillating directness, in her conversations with the gentlemen of the press amongst whom she has many friends. She’s ruined one or two reputations. Gag her. Should it become necessary.”

  “I’ll remember that the eyes of the world are on London, sir.” Joe tried to keep his tone light but dutiful.

  The commissioner’s expression changed from gently cynical to deeply serious. He got to his feet in sudden agitation and began to pace about the room, staring through the window at the crowding plane trees in the park. Finally, he turned to Joe again. “The eyes and the hopes, my boy. Of every count
ry. We’re teetering on the brink. We’re suffering a ‘Depression.’ Huh! Sounds like something you can cure with an aspirin and a cup of tea. The word doesn’t begin to give the flavour. ‘Disaster’ would be nearer the mark. We sink or swim, all of us, in every continent, if this World Economic Conference fails. Our contribution is to guarantee that the men who—wisely or not—have been chosen to come riding to the aid of their fellows get a straight run at it and stay the course. No unseating or pulling up short to be tolerated by anyone, however grand. Surveillance must be constant, intelligent and anticipatory.”

  “I understand, sir.”

  “That’s not to say you will need to be breathing down your protégé’s neck the whole while, of course. Too irritating for both of you. We’ve thoroughly vetted and approved his official meetings, so you needn’t trail about after him everywhere he goes. Just keep a nose to the wind if he strays into uncharted territory. Sets up a clandestine meeting, that sort of thing.”

  “Indeed. And in support, I shall have …?”

  “Even you have to sleep sometimes, Sandilands. Pick your team. I imagine you’ll be using Cottingham again?”

  “He would be my first choice.”

  The commissioner sighed in irritation. “This circus is going to vastly reduce our manpower. I’ve had to cancel all leave. Why couldn’t they have staged it in Paris?”

  “The Branch, sir?”

  “Will, of course, be fully deployed and liaising with you as usual. No mucking about. Many men on the ground. Our top brass—that’s you and your fellows—are the tip of the iceberg, their appearance the visible signal that we are taking the security of our foreign guests very seriously. Just for once I shall not object to the sight of your ugly mug on the front pages of the rags. Rather you than me, eh? The gentlemen of the press seem to have chosen you as the acceptable face of Scotland Yard.” He paused and shot a long, considering gaze at Joe. “Well, I suppose one sees why. You’re still young and active and, er, of distinctive appearance … Look, Sandilands, just for once, my advice would be not to hide. Tip your hat and smile at the rogues as you leave Claridge’s. Let the public know we’ve got the problem covered.”