‘I see,’ she said. ‘I’m afraid you’re going to think me the most frightful old busybody, but would you mind awfully checking them all once more?’
‘You have reason to doubt our stories?’ said Mr Tapscott, defensively. ‘I would caution you to step lightly, Lady Hardcastle. Your reputation precedes you, and I have the utmost respect for the achievements of you and your… colleague here, but this newspaper’s reputation as a journal of record and my personal reputation as its editor–’
‘Please, Mr Tapscott, no one is impugning your reputation, but I would be doing you a greater disservice were I not to alert you to my suspicions. I gather that reporters are unwilling to divulge the identities of their sources, but I would place an impressively hefty wager that your source in this case was the man who introduced himself to us as Christian Brookfield. I think that we have all been taken in by this man and that you might save yourself some hefty barristers’ fees defending some rather nasty libel writs if you were to triple check your facts now and issue such retractions as prove necessary.’
The two newspapermen exchanged a look which suggested that Lady Hardcastle’s comments had hit home, and after a moment’s pause, Mr Tapscott spoke in a slightly more conciliatory tone. ‘I see. Well that puts a different complexion on things. We’ll… ah… we’ll look into it, certainly.’
‘Thank you,’ said Lady Hardcastle, standing. ‘Well, we don’t wish to take up any more of your time. Thank you so much for agreeing to see us and for your information. I’m not certain that we’ve solved any mysteries, but I understand a little better than I did.’
‘I’m not sure I understand anything at all,’ said the editor as he stood up. ‘But I’m sure Sir Benjamin will fill me in in due course.’ He smiled ingratiatingly and held out his hand.
Lady Hardcastle shook the proffered hand and I thought, ‘I’m pretty sure Sir Benjamin won’t have a clue what’s going on,’ but I said nothing and simply smiled and inclined my head in thanks and farewell.
Out on the street once more, we made our slow and steady way back to the motorcar. I was becoming quite adept at manoeuvring about with the crutches, but this was my first proper trip out of the house and I was slightly frustrated by the amount of time it seemed to take to get anywhere. Lady Hardcastle, though, was patient and kind and chatted incessantly to take my mind off the tedium of getting about.
‘…and I was thinking that perhaps we should get you a Bath chair. Wouldn’t that be fun? We could put a rug over your knees and I could wheel you about.’
I stopped and turned to face her. ‘It’s a wonderfully generous thought, my lady,’ I said. ‘But I think it only fair to warn you that if you were to go through with it, I should certainly have to kill you. I shall be fine on the crutches, thank you.’
She laughed. ‘Fair enough, pet,’ she said. ‘But the offer’s there.’
We finally made it to the car and she set off recklessly for tea with the Bickleses.
‘Do you know,’ said Lady Hardcastle a few minutes later as she negotiated her way through the narrow streets near the centre of the city, ‘I really do think we ought to do something about so-called Brookfield.’
‘I can’t say that I disagree, my lady,’ I said. ‘But what? I’m on the crocked list and so is Inspector Sunderland… how on earth are we going to bring a slippery weasel like Brookfield to book? I’d wager he’s not quite the timid fool he pretends to be – if we corner him he might cut up rough. He might even have Ehrlichmann with him; then we’d be properly done for.’
She sat in contemplative silence for a while. Eventually, she said, ‘Although, of course, he doesn’t know we’re on to him, does he? Would he be on his guard if he thought his ruse was working and that we’d been utterly hoodwinked?’
‘Perhaps not, my lady. You have something cunning in mind?’
‘Not “cunning” in the fox-with-an-evil-glint-in-its-eye way, but cunning enough. I thought we might invite him out for coffee.’
I laughed in spite of myself. ‘Cunning indeed, my lady. The Coffee Pot Plot. It’ll go down in history as one of the greatest ruses in the history of espionage.’
‘You may very well mock–’ she began.
‘May I, my lady? You’re so wonderfully kind. I shall.’
She harrumphed. ‘I suppose it’s my turn,’ she said, gracelessly. ‘Nevertheless, I shall telephone him and arrange a meeting tomorrow morning.’
‘Righto, my lady. But in the meantime, please concentrate on the road. You nearly had that lad off his bike.’
‘What lad?’
‘My point precisely, my lady.’
Lady Hardcastle parked the motor outside the door of the coffee shop and I made a start on hauling myself out of the seat and onto the busy pavement. She hurried round to help me, and as she leaned in to reach under my arms to lift me out, she whispered in my ear.
‘Act naturally, pet, but something’s amiss; the shop is closed and the blinds are drawn.’
‘He’s on to us,’ I said as I struggled upright. ‘Should we carry on?’
‘Let’s just see how it plays out, shall we? There are plenty of people about, so he’s not likely to try anything out here on the street. Just be on your guard, pet.’
‘Righto, my lady,’ I said and followed her to the door.
She cupped her hand around her eyes and tried to peer in around the edge of the blind that covered the inside of the glass door. Ordinarily, I would have been watching the street as she did this, but the plastered leg and crutches made manoeuvring much more difficult than it ought to be and I was still positioning myself at her back when I felt the familiar prod of what could only be a pistol in the small of my back. I was contemplating the bullet-deflecting properties of steel corset bones when a familiar German voice said, ‘Please open the door and go inside.’
Lady Hardcastle turned the doorknob and entered the darkened coffee shop. I hobbled in after her, and Ehrlichmann brought up the rear, closing the door behind us.
As my eyes adjusted to the gloom, I saw Brookfield sitting at a table in the centre of the room, accompanied by Mr Craine, the coffee importer and owner of the shop.
‘Welcome, ladies,’ said Brookfield in a confident and sneering tone, quite unlike the anxious and earnest journalist we had for so long believed him to be. ‘Please,’ he gestured towards a couple of the empty chairs, ‘don’t sit down. We’ll not be staying long and I do so want you not to be comfortable.’
‘I say,’ said Mr Craine. ‘Steady on. There’s no need to be ill-mannered about it.’
‘Do shut up, Craine, you pompous old fool,’ said Brookfield. ‘I’ll let you know when it’s your turn to speak.’
Mr Craine huffed indignantly, but said nothing further.
Lady Hardcastle looked at Brookfield. ‘I take it you’ve been hired by Autumn Wind,’ she said.
Mr Craine started in his seat as though he’d been stuck with a hatpin. He began to speak, but Brookfield cut him off.