'I need new stockings.' She smiled bewitchingly. 'Sorry to disappoint you all, but as you see, I am unable to produce the Gattiawan diamond, or any diamond. If you intend to dismantle the trunks for false bottoms, please rea.s.semble and repack.'

Mr Chana gave a curt nod to James and to me, and marched from the room.

The manager gazed at the mess of Lydia's life that was strewn on the bed, chairs, dresser and across the floor. 'Regarding the storage fee for the trunks, Miss Metcalfe...'

Lydia ignored him. She wiped her brow in melodramatic fashion, pushed a couple of s...o...b..xes from a small velvet covered chair and sat down.

James a.s.serted his authority. 'Not now. Miss Metcalfe is fatigued. She may like tea?'

'Oddly enough, I would. Thank you, Mr Rodpen. You are a gent.'

The manager hesitated for a moment before leaving in what I suppose might be called high dudgeon, but being a man used to controlling his feelings the dudgeon was not as high as it might have been.

'Miss Metcalfe. I am very sorry to say that after you have had your tea, I must invite you come to Scotland Yard to answer some questions.'

'Did you slip out and join the Metropolitan Police while my back was turned?' Lydia smiled sweetly.

James reddened.

'Thought not. Then go take a running jump, but before you do, send a chambermaid to pack this lot. If you are all very lucky, I won't press charges.'

James has a terribly pompous manner when he wishes to adopt it, and I wish he would not.

'Very well. But I have orders. I shall reluctantly fetch a policeman.'

'Good. Fetch two.'

James turned to me, to see if I would follow.

I did not.

'Watch me.' She caught him by the sleeve.

She strode back and forth across the room, swaying provocatively. 'Well?'

James stared at her. He blinked a couple of times, and blinked again. 'Well what?'

'Could I walk like that if the diamond is where you think it is?'

James left, quickly.

I surveyed the wreck of the room.

A chambermaid knocked. 'You sent for me, madam?'

'b.u.g.g.e.r off. I can pack my own trunks.' The chambermaid left. 'They're all light-fingered.' She began to scoop up her belongings, throwing them any old how into the nearest trunk.

James opened the door again. 'Mrs Shackleton, please remain with Miss Metcalfe until I return with the police officer who is waiting downstairs.'

He closed the door gently behind him.

'Lydia, if you know anything about the diamond, tell me now.'

She picked up a silk kimono. 'You b.u.g.g.e.r off as well. They have a little power and it goes to their heads, and every other bit of their body. Well let them do their worst. If they get on my wrong side, they'll never see their precious diamond again, not this side of paradise.'

'For heaven's sake, put a stop to this. If you know where the diamond is, say so. If not, stop pretending you do know. It won't do you any good.'

There was a tap on the door.

I opened it to a burly man in a crumpled suit, accompanied by a plain, slender woman in tweeds. He brought out his card. 'I'm Inspector Barker, CID, and this is Sergeant Wyles.' He looked beyond me to Lydia. 'Miss Metcalfe, I would like you to come along with us.'

'Will you give Miss Metcalfe a moment or two to repack her trunks, Inspector?'

A moment or two? We could be here for hours.

The inspector stared at the jumble of clothing, shoes, hotel and theatre memorabilia, lip rouge, powder, ships' menus and dance cards. 'Sergeant Wyles, please supervise this... activity. I shall wait on the landing.'

Wyles stood back for a moment, then gave a small sigh.

She and I began to pick up the debris of Lydia Metcalfe's life and place it in trunks with much greater care than did Lydia herself.

Was I envious when I saw the bag from the shop in Paris where Lydia bought her stockings? Perhaps, just a little.

When Lydia had left with the sergeant, I picked up a few odds and ends that had not found their way into the trunks; a receipt, a menu from the Paris Ritz, a ticket for the Folies Bergere, a kid glove stained by rain. There was something touching about the amount of useless stuff Lydia had held onto, taking up unpaid for s.p.a.ce in the bas.e.m.e.nt of the Dorchester. I guessed there might be hotels in Paris, Rome, Amsterdam and Delhi where she had done the same. Perhaps there would be trunks in the attics of the Earl of Ellesmere in Bethnal Green.

And one of them might, just might, contain the Gattiawan diamond.

Thirty-Five.

James and I watched from the hotel entrance as Lydia Metcalfe was discreetly escorted from the Dorchester by burly Inspector Barker and the slender Sergeant Wyles. Lydia turned to look at us before climbing into the waiting motor. Her make-up had worn off. She looked younger than her years. Her attempt at defiance frayed at the edges.

James and I exchanged a look. He sighed. 'One thinks of the sledgehammer and the nut, eh old girl?'

'I do believe you have a soft spot for her.'

'You have to give credit where it's due. She played a blinder. The lady has style.'

Slowly, James and I made our way out of the hotel.

'Where is Mr Chana?'

'Gone to the Ritz to pick up something for the maharani. He'll take a train back this evening.'

We waited at the entrance while the doorman hailed a taxicab.

Usually when I come to London, I stay with Aunt Berta, James's mother, so when we entered the taxi, James gave me one of his quizzical looks.

'It isn't over yet. We had better stay together for now.'

He nodded. 'Connaught Square, driver.'

We travelled in silence, unable to speak about what must now be happening to Lydia Metcalfe, and not in the mood for small talk.

'Far side of the square, driver.'

He paid the fare.

We walked up the familiar steps.

James's elderly butler, once my uncle's footman, greeted us. He had put on a little weight since I last saw him and his grey hair was thinner on top. In his own reserved fashion, Cooper liked me. His way of making a fuss was to say, 'Well, madam, here you are at last. Cook will be pleased.'

We had an early meal of comfort food, meat and potato pie and rice pudding.

Later, in the drawing room, James poured sherry. We sat on either side of the fireplace. I kicked off my shoes. There was something about this house that I never liked. The place echoed silence. On my occasional visits to James and Hope, I had watched them glide about like a pair of ghosts.

Now that Hope had gone to exchange pleasantries with her maker, the house, more than ever, had the atmosphere of a hollow tomb, awaiting the arrival of its first cadaver. It was the kind of dwelling that needed children, eccentric relations, hangers-on, cats, dogs, and canaries to expel the dreariness. I used to imagine something very bad must have happened here once.

James was oblivious to my feelings and I was careful not to say how gloomy the place made me feel.

He ambled across to a contraption in the corner. 'Did I tell you I have a wireless? It works on a thermionic valve. I can see if there's a transmission if you like.'

'Not just now.' He looked so crestfallen that I claimed a headache.

'Funny that. Hope always caught a headache in this room.'

I was still trying to understand why the police thought that the humiliation of a strip search of Lydia Metcalfe at Scotland Yard would bring them any closer to finding the Gattiawan diamond. They were so clumsy, these men who thought they knew everything, that was what annoyed me. Willing to whitewash the foul play of Prince Narayan's murder, but prepared to commit an outrage on a 'wicked woman'. In purely practical terms, searching Lydia was ridiculous. I had to face up to the fact that we had arrived too late. There had been plenty of time for her to glad-hand the diamond to some friend or relation in the Earl of Ellesmere.

The police would no doubt be causing ructions there, with so many places in a pub where a diamond could be concealed. I had a sudden vision of a barrel of bitter being emptied into jugs and sieved for the precious gem.

Did she have the diamond or not? Sometimes I thought yes. But if she had it, then why did she hint that she had it, instead of issuing grand denials? 'James, do you think Lydia has the diamond?'

'I'm sure I don't know.'

'Do you think they think she has it, the India Office and Scotland Yard?'

'Possibly.'

'And possibly not. Perhaps they simply want to teach her a lesson. She rose above her station an upstart East End girl who hooked an exotic and wealthy mate.'

'Many attractive girls do. My chum's maternal aunt...'

I never heard the story about the chum's maternal aunt because at that moment, the doorbell rang, loudly, persistently.

'It'll be a message from mother. She must have heard you are in London. Mark my word, one of her friends saw you at the Dorchester. She'll want to know why you aren't with her. She'll arrange a supper. If you wonder why she hasn't been trying to match-make for you of late, it's because she's busy arranging introductions for me.'

I know my Aunt Berta better than to imagine she would send a messenger. 'She would have telephoned. It's your stuffed-shirt friends who treat the telephone as though it is the invention of the devil.'

The butler brought in a card on a tray, but before James had time to take it, a tall, lean man with a lined face and grey hair appeared in the doorway. He was well into his sixties, trim and meticulously turned out.

By the way James sprang to his feet, and said, 'Sir?' I knew the man must be one of the high-ranking civil servants James so admires and tries to emulate.

The man was indeed a Sir. James introduced Sir Richard Hartington, Private Secretary to the Secretary of State for India.

'My cousin, Mrs Shackleton, the lady who has helped us so much in regard to Miss Metcalfe and the sorry business.'

I did not feel I had helped in any way at all. 'Shall I leave you gentlemen to talk?'

Sir Richard sat down opposite me. 'Please stay, Mrs Shackleton. I wanted to inform you that we have released Miss Metcalfe from custody, without achieving any information from her with regard to the dubte suraj ki chamak. We are in a most embarra.s.sing situation.' He looked directly at me, his grey eyes betraying no emotion. 'Do you believe she knows where the diamond is?'

'I believe she would like us to think that.'

He nodded. 'My thought also. But is she playing us along by pretending to know more than she does, or does she want us to think that she is pretending?'

Now that someone of his own s.e.x and a higher rank had come onto the scene, James's sherry gla.s.s did a disappearing trick. He poured two gla.s.ses of whisky and handed one to his guest. 'Could she have pa.s.sed the diamond to someone, sir?'

'The North Riding Constabulary have overseen a search of her family farm and of the house belonging to a Mr Presthope, with no results. Thanks to a telephone call from the superintendent of the West Riding Constabulary your father I believe, Mrs Shackleton?'

'Yes.'

'We had a man posted at the Dorchester and at the Earl of Ellesmere even before you contacted the commander at Scotland Yard. If she has managed to conceal the diamond in either of those places then she ought to be signed up for the secret service. We are still conducting searches.'

James topped up my sherry. 'My cousin doubts that Miss Metcalfe has the diamond. She has another theory.'

'Oh?' Sir Richard took a sip.

'You won't want to hear it, Sir Richard.' I did not particularly want to repeat the highly speculative thoughts I had aired over the meat and potato pie.

'Try me.'

'Very well. I believe Miss Metcalfe had the opportunity to take the diamond. The late maharajah bought a surprise present that he would have given her on Friday evening, jewellery in the design of four-leaf clovers, emeralds and diamonds.'

Sir Richard raised an eyebrow. 'Generous man.'

'But there is something else.' I recounted the story of the Indian on Bark Lane, Mr Deakin's retraction of his story, and that I did not believe the retraction. 'Ijahar, the valet, said that sometimes the prince wore the diamond in a pouch about his neck, perhaps as a charm, or just because he did not entirely trust it to the safe in his room. If there were a hostile presence in the area from a rival state...'

'In the shape of an Indian on the road last Friday.' Sir Richard finished his whisky.

'Yes.'

'Did you have any particular princely state in mind?' He raised a monocle to his left eye and peered at me through it.