'No time at all. That beast eats up the miles, well over a hundred an hour.'

'There's the answer. Pull some strings, James. You, Mr Chana and I will take to the air.'

Thirty-Three.

The pounding on the door was accompanied by Mr Sergeant's voice. 'Mrs Shackleton! An urgent telephone call.'

'Thank you. I'll be there in a jiffy.'

Hurriedly, I finished dressing and made my way to his office.

Sergeant ushered me in. 'It's a police superintendent.'

As if needing to be sure he had discharged his duty, he handed me the receiver. For a few seconds, he hovered, perhaps hoping to catch a few words. So I simply said, 'h.e.l.lo,' and not 'h.e.l.lo, Dad.'

'I have a message from the manager of the Angel and Royal. Miss Metcalfe asked him to telephone the Dorchester to say that she would arrive at about two o'clock.'

Mr Sergeant closed the door behind him.

'And has she left yet?'

'Yes, and without paying her bill. You'll have your work cut out with that one. Be careful!'

'We will. Everything is under control. We're a crack team, and we'll be travelling by aeroplane.'

'Then I'd better not tell your mother. She'd love to take to the skies.'

We were in a rather nice Bentley, driven by the duke's chauffeur. Mr Chana sat in front.

James and I sat in the back. I could tell he was excited at the prospect of a flight. 'We're lucky to have the aeroplane this morning. She'll shortly be on her way to Copenhagen, to take part in the reliability trials between Copenhagen and Gothenburg.'

'Will we all fit?' Most of the pictures I had seen of flying machines showed single-seat affairs, or s.p.a.ce for a single pa.s.senger.

'It has cabin s.p.a.ce for four pa.s.sengers. We'll be fully enclosed, Kate, so don't fret about your hair. The pilot sits behind us in an open c.o.c.kpit. And don't worry, because he is very experienced.'

'Don't keep telling me not to worry. You will make yourself nervous.'

The motor came to a halt by a field gate.

The aeroplane sat in a field of stubble, its engine running.

The chauffeur opened my door and I stepped out, and through the gate.

An engineer dressed in navy overalls, goggles on his head, came to meet us.

James bounded forward to chat to him.

Mr Chana fell into step with me. He had taken my valise from the chauffeur and carried that in one hand and his own Gladstone bag in the other.

'Have you flown before, Mr Chana?'

'I took lessons at the same time as Maharajah Narayan. He had planned to undertake a long distance flight, and we would have a machine with dual controls.'

'You were the aide-de-camp closest to him?'

'Yes. It will be a source of eternal regret that I allowed that woman to persuade him to travel alone with her and just the fool of a valet.'

Something nagged at me. Now was not the moment to ask, against the background of a noisy engine and a spinning propeller. But in expressing regret, Chana had let down his guard and it would be foolish to miss the moment.

'Mr Chana, who else besides you and the astrologer knew that Maharajah Narayan intended to marry Miss Metcalfe in about ten days' time?'

There was a brief hesitation, and then it was as if a steel shutter came down. 'The maharajah and I took several flying lessons. He had a talent for it.'

He had heard me, but that was his answer.

No comment.

I had been clumsy, and my question was badly timed.

The stink of oil filled the air. Empty Castrol tins lay on the ground.

It was obvious from the way my cousin and the engineer parted as we approached that James had asked him to rea.s.sure me.

The man was a typical airman type, tall, good-looking and with the obligatory moustache.

'Anyone not flown before?' he bellowed to be heard above the noise.

I put up my hand.

'Some ladies fear giddiness, as when going up in a lift or looking down at the ground from a great height. This won't be the sensation you'll have today. It is the connection with the ground that causes dizziness. Remove the ground, remove the sensation. Be prepared for a thrilling experience, dear lady.'

'I don't easily become giddy.'

'Glad to hear it. By the time we touch down in Croydon, I guarantee that you will be a convert to aviation.'

He took the bags from Mr Chana and shimmied up the ladder into the cabin, and back down.

We moved closer to the noisy plane.

'Any questions?' the engineer shouted.

'Will we fly By Bradshaw?' James asked.

'We will, and cruising at 95 miles per hour.'

James clambered up first, waiting in the cabin doorway to give me a hand. 'Flying By Bradshaw means we follow the railway lines. I have some flying lessons booked so have been reading up.'

I took my seat, next to the luggage.

James and Chana sat on the row in front.

Behind me, the pilot tapped to gain my attention, gave me a big wink and a thumbs up.

Within moments, we were revving across the field of stubble. With inches to spare before the drystone wall would have brought us to a crashing halt, the plane began to rise.

I looked down at the receding, flattening ground.

We crossed the countryside. The pattern of fields mesmerised me, with so many shades of green, tiny doll houses, and villages whose inhabitants paused in their work to look up at the sky.

Thirty-Four.

Our journey in the aeroplane and from Croydon aerodrome in an official motor car created a sense of camaraderie between James, Mr Chana and me. Like the three musketeers, we entered the Dorchester Hotel In all my visits to London, I had never before set foot in the splendid Dorchester with its high ceilings, sweeping staircase, tiled floor and golden walls adorned with gigantic, ornate looking gla.s.ses. Small wonder that Lydia wanted to return if she had become accustomed to such opulence.

A minor royal glided by in her finery, totally self-absorbed, seeing no one.

We three walked towards the desk. James paused, and with the merest gesture attempted to dismiss me and Mr Chana in the direction of two gilt chairs. 'Take the weight off your feet. I'll ask for the manager and ascertain state of play.'

By this, I took it that he meant to find out whether an officer from Scotland Yard had arrived with a court order, demanding that Lydia's trunks be inspected, and whether Lydia had registered.

Chana was quicker off the mark than I. 'Since I am named in the court order as representative of the Maharajah of Gattiawan, I must come with you.'

James threw me a crumb. 'Keep your eyes peeled, in case she flits through. It is almost two o'clock.'

They left me to sit on a gilt chair by the wall. Naturally, James thought himself on home ground. As his country b.u.mpkin cousin, I might offer a flat vowel, or call the looking gla.s.s a mirror.

Two well-clad Arab women, only their darting eyes visible, glided through the foyer, followed at a respectful distance by a heavyweight male retainer. An Indian woman and her daughter, their richly coloured saris gleaming, descended the stairs in stately fashion. Who was that actress, I wondered, her pearls glinting against the dark red silk dress?

After a few moments, James and Mr Chana returned. James did not look pleased. 'She is not here, and they still insist that the trunks cannot be opened except in her presence.'

Chana glanced towards the door as someone came in. 'His late highness's suite is booked for the whole of August and the first two weeks of September. I expect she will take advantage of that.'

James looked at his watch. 'Where is she?'

We did not look like three relaxed individuals enjoying the pleasures of the hotel. A pa.s.sing gentleman gave us an odd glance.

Chana marched to the door and brushed past the commissionaire, presumably to look out for the Rolls-Royce.

'James, if Lydia sees you and Chana before you see her, she will hightail it for the Ritz.'

'I suppose you are right.'

'Go order afternoon tea. Draw Mr Chana off from the door. I'll see what I can do about checking her whereabouts.'

'How do you propose to do that? If you tell me, I'll see to it.'

'Leave it to me, James. I still have a little influence at Scotland Yard.'

'I thought that friend of yours went to America to help the FBI.'

'He is not the only apple in the barrel.'

'If it's the a.s.sistant commissioner or the...'

'Trust me for as long as it takes you to order tea.'

I watched from the telephone booth while I waited to be connected to Scotland Yard.

James gathered up Chana. They walked across the foyer and entered a sitting room.

Now that my friend Marcus Charles had gone to America, I had lost that particular contact. But at a supper given by Aunt Berta, Marcus's boss, a commander, was most flattering in regard to my solving a particularly unpleasant crime. The commander's late wife had been a supporter of women's suffrage. After she died, he felt sorry about having roundly mocked her and took the revolutionary turn of becoming a lukewarm supporter of females, when he could be discreet about it. Fortunately men of such rank are almost always at their desk, and he was.

I gave the commander Lydia Metcalfe's description, the details of the Rolls-Royce, and the name of the public house where she was brought up by her aunt and uncle. I even included the fact that before taking on the public house, the uncle had been a tightrope walker with a circus and had attracted his first customers by walking the tightrope from his pub to the opposite side of the street.

'Yes I have heard all about this person, Miss Metcalfe. She sounds like a female who shops a great deal.'

'I don't believe she would go shopping before coming here. If she is at a West End store, she will almost certainly have an account in the name of Maharajah Narayan Halkwaer.'

'Stay by the telephone, dear lady. You are right to speak to me. I wish more of our men made use of this instrument but they seem absurdly shy of it.'

It was a good half hour before he returned my call to tell me the white Rolls-Royce was parked outside the Earl of Ellesmere public house in Bethnal Green.

I could have popped in to tell James and Chana, but it seemed a pity to disturb their tea. It would be quicker to find a taxi and go there myself. Taking out my notebook, I scribbled a message for the page boy to take to James. "Gone to fetch LM from her aunt and uncle's pub. Wait here, eyes peeled, in case I miss her."

That would teach him not to leave me sitting on a gilt chair.

One forgets what a large place London is, a series of villages each with its distinctive character.

The elderly cab driver had already shown barely suppressed surprise at my choice of destination. Now, as he pulled up outside the Earl of Ellesmere, the taxi driver whistled his admiration at the sight of the Rolls-Royce. 'Not often you see a motor like that in a street like this.'

'No indeed. Do you know this pub?'

'Sorry, missis, I don't. My fares is mostly up west. I'll have an empty cab driving back there, see if I don't.'