‘Doubtful. There were other valuable pieces that were left behind, and a thief wouldn’t bother moving the body.’

  ‘So who would?’

  ‘Someone who wanted to destroy the evidence, which leads us back to your friends, Penelope Bright and Irene Grayson.’

  ‘They think we’re being set up.’ Coral told him about the anonymous letters Penny had received.

  Flynn eyes narrowed as he listened. ‘I have a feeling someone in parliament was enjoying settling scores with his colleagues. First Churchill and Lloyd George, then Jennings.’

  ‘But it must have been working both ways. How else did Nathan Jennings know we were planning a protest at the National Portrait Gallery?’

  ‘Not just Jennings. The reason Lady Carstairs was there that morning was because Lord Carstairs had mentioned something was planned. She hoped it would give her some clue as to her husband’s whereabouts.’

  Coral felt a chill when she thought back to that morning at the gallery. How ignorant they’d been, waltzing in and assuming they’d take everyone by surprise with their hilarious prank. Yet the joke had been on them.

  ‘Could Ronald Carstairs have been telling tales on his fellow politicians?’

  Flynn sipped his coffee. ‘The more I find out about him, the more I think it would appeal to his sense of humour.’

  ‘But who told him what we had planned and where does Marian come into all this?’

  Flynn looked thoughtful. ‘Could you go and see Marian Dean’s grandmother again? See what you can find out about the meeting between Marian and Lord Carstairs. I think she’d feel more comfortable chatting informally to you than being questioned by me and Goodspeed.’

  Coral was absurdly pleased that he trusted her with such a task.

  ‘I’m going to talk to Charles Dean and Nathan Jennings again,’ he continued. ‘Now Carstairs’ body has been found, they might be more willing to tell me where they got their information from. And why Jennings was so keen to know who painted the Churchill portrait.’

  ‘Could he be the killer? It seems a bit pathetic, but if he suspected Carstairs was the reason he got pelted with eggs, he might have wanted revenge? He was with him in parliament on Black Friday and at the gallery when Marian was stabbed.’

  ‘It’s possible, though I don’t see why he would kill Marian.’ Flynn paused. ‘You said she was becoming increasingly committed to the cause and infatuated with Christabel Pankhurst. Could she have found out about the villa from her brother or Nathan Jennings and decided to kill Ronald Carstairs to try to prove herself to the Pankhursts? And been killed in revenge?’

  ‘Had you asked me that a week ago, I would have said no, of course not.’ Coral recalled Marian’s zeal and commitment. ‘But here we are, and I have no idea what to think. If Marian did murder Ronald Carstairs, who would want to kill her? Lady Carstairs?’

  Flynn shrugged. ‘Like you, I’ve no idea what to think. And until I know for sure, I’m not ruling out any possibilities.’

  Coral saw his eyes flit to her wedding ring, and with a pounding heart, she slid it from her finger. ‘I suppose Ronald Carstairs’ murder changes everything?’

  He looked startled when he saw what she was doing. ‘It does. I shouldn’t have returned it to you until the case is over. It’s evidence, and I will be asked where it is.’

  ‘I know.’ She held the ring between her fingers and then moved her hand across the table towards him. ‘I’m grateful to you for returning it. However, I don’t want to get you into trouble. I want you to solve Marian’s murder.’

  29

  When they left the restaurant, Flynn had to resist the urge to pat his breast pocket to check the ring was still there. He was still reeling from the trust Coral had placed in him and imagined he could feel the weight of it against his chest. Of course, what he was feeling was the weight of expectation.

  He had to solve this case to prove he deserved her trust. And that meant asking uncomfortable questions.

  ‘I’m not making accusations,’ Flynn began, as he took her arm, ‘but I do need to know where you all were on the night of Black Friday. Penelope Bright, Irene Grayson, Marian Dean and…’

  ‘And me,’ she finished. ‘I took Marian to her grandmother’s. She’d had a rough time that afternoon. Then I went home and didn’t go out again. Lavender was at work, so I have no witnesses to that. Penny was at a meeting at Clement’s Inn until midnight, so there are plenty of witnesses. Genuine ones,’ Coral added with wink.

  He smiled. ‘And Irene Grayson?’

  ‘Did you hear what happened at the Reform Club that night?’

  Flynn frowned, trying to remember; then it came to him. ‘A man delivering the evening newspapers went through the various lounges distributing Votes for Women pamphlets.’ He stopped, realising who it must have been. ‘Not a deliveryman, a delivery woman? Irene Grayson?’

  Coral nodded.

  If he recalled correctly, the incident had been at about seven o’clock that evening, when the place was full of politicians straight from parliament. Mrs Hopkins had told Goodspeed she’d seen a man arriving at Leinster Gardens at eight-fifteen that night. Could that man have been Irene Grayson in disguise? He decided not to mention this suspicion to Coral.

  Instead, he asked, ‘Do you really believe someone would commit murder to discredit the suffragettes?’

  ‘I don’t think Ronald Carstairs was killed for that reason. It seems more likely that whoever did it had a personal motivation for wanting him dead. Being able to blame the deed on the suffragettes was probably a happy coincidence for the killer.’

  Flynn had a feeling she was right. He wanted to discuss it further, but they’d already reached Adelphi Terrace. Coral had removed her arm from his and was fumbling in her purse for her door key.

  ‘How about a brandy to finish the night off?’ she asked without looking up.

  ‘That would be lovely,’ he replied before he could talk himself out of it. What was the harm in having a drink on a Friday night when it was his weekend off? That evening, he’d experienced a barrage of emotions that he was still trying to untangle, yet he didn’t want it to end.

  Earlier, when they’d chatted about his paintings and she’d said how much she liked the one with the lights glistening on the river, he’d wanted to rush home and start sketching a new picture just for her.

  And before that, he’d taken himself by surprise when he’d asked her to dine with him. He wondered if he’d be brave enough to ask her out again, once the case was over.

  The feeling that embarrassed him most was the pride he’d felt at escorting such an attractive woman into a restaurant. This was closely followed by guilt. In his life, the ladies on his arm had always been family members. His mother, his wife, and his daughter. There was something almost illicit in what he felt at being alone with Coral.

  In the hallway, he removed his hat and coat and was about to follow her into the drawing room, when she stopped and sniffed the air like a hunting dog.

  ‘Someone’s smoking,’ Coral whispered. ‘Lavender doesn’t allow smoking in the house.’

  He sniffed. Someone was definitely smoking. He pushed past Coral and swung open the door of the drawing room – and came face to face with Goodspeed.

  Flynn was sure the embarrassment on his sergeant’s face was reflected on his own. Goodspeed was seated in the armchair Flynn had occupied on his first visit to the house, a glass of brandy in his hand.

  ‘Sir.’ Goodspeed scrambled to his feet, placing the glass on the mantelpiece. ‘I just walked Miss Lacey home.’

  ‘Good evening, Detective Inspector Flynn.’ Lavender was lounging in the other armchair, her glossy dark hair spilling over her shoulders. She smiled as her eyes flitted between him and Coral. ‘Have you two been anywhere nice?’

  ‘Dinner at Queenie’s Kitchen,’ Coral murmured.

  ‘Divine. I bet you had chocolate pudding. Sit down, and I’ll get you both a drink.’

  ‘No.’ Flynn barked the word rather more harshly than intended. In a softer voice, he said, ‘Thank you, I must be getting home.’

  Goodspeed, who was still standing, moved towards the door. ‘Me too. Er, thank you for the drink, Miss Lacey.’

  ‘My pleasure, darling.’ Lavender rose from the armchair, the draped sleeves of her silver dress shimmering as she blew him a kiss. ‘Goodnight, Evan.’

  Goodspeed bolted from the room, and Flynn wasn’t far behind after mumbling goodbye to Coral.

  ‘Sorry about that, sir.’ Goodspeed lit a cigarette as they walked up to the Strand to find a taxi.

  ‘You’ve nothing to apologise for.’ Flynn smiled, seeing the absurdity of the situation. He was Goodspeed’s senior officer, not his mother, for goodness’ sake. If his sergeant chose to walk an actress home from the theatre, that was his business.

  Goodspeed gave him a sideways glance. ‘Did you and Mrs Fairbanks have a nice dinner?’

  Flynn ignored the question. ‘I’ll be glad when this bloody case is over.’

  But Goodspeed wasn’t deterred. ‘Why? So you don’t have to see Coral Fairbanks again? Or because then you can see her without worrying she’s a murderer?’

  Flynn tried to give his sergeant an admonishing look, though his heart wasn’t in it.

  ‘I know she’s not a murderer; otherwise, I wouldn’t have had dinner with her,’ he replied, still feeling the weight of Coral’s wedding band in his breast pocket. This was getting far too complicated.

  On Monday morning, Flynn found himself back in the bowels of Whitehall, in Nathan Jennings’ office.

  ‘Was it Ronald Carstairs who told you something was going to happen at the National Portrait Gallery?’

  Jennings glared at him from behind his wide oak desk. Apart from a blotter, an inkstand, and a lamp, the desk was bare. Didn’t the man do any work? Flynn’s own desk was covered in folders and papers.

  ‘How do you know that?’ Jennings demanded.

  ‘Because he also told his wife, Lady Carstairs. What made him tell you?’

  Jennings sighed, his face relaxing as if the game was up. ‘I’d suspected Ronnie of being the spy for some time. When I had the proof, I confronted him with it.’

  This intrigued Flynn. ‘What proof?’

  Jennings stroked his moustache, looking rather pleased with himself. ‘I set a trap. He was the only person who knew I was going to Ascot that day. I didn’t tell anyone, not even Charles. I gave Ronnie the exact time of when I’d be arriving, and lo and behold, as soon as I stepped out of my car, I was pelted with eggs.’

  ‘What made you suspect Lord Carstairs?’

  ‘It was Ronnie’s sense of humour. Politics was a game to him, and the only side Ronnie was ever on was his own. I used to drink with him at Brooks’s, and whenever there was an incident, I saw his glee at what had befallen one of his colleagues. It was then I realised these things tended to happen to politicians Ronnie had recently had run-ins with. So, I made a comment that I knew would upset him, and he took the bait.’

  ‘What happened when you confronted Lord Carstairs with your evidence?’

  Jennings smirked. ‘He didn’t bother to deny it. In fact, I think he was pleased to have someone to boast to. He apologised to me for the Ascot incident and said I was jolly clever to have set him up. We ended up having a laugh about it.’

  Flynn wondered if Winston Churchill would be quite so forgiving if he knew who was behind the horse whip incident. And Lloyd George would be fuming if he found out one of his own parliamentary colleagues had divulged the address of his mistress. However, Carstairs was no longer around to deal with the repercussions of his actions. Maybe his death itself had been a repercussion of what he’d done.

  Perhaps sensing Flynn’s thoughts, Jennings adopted a serious expression. ‘Of course, I told Ronnie it had to stop. And he agreed. Then, on Bla… On Friday the eighteenth of November, when we were sitting in the Commons and all hell was breaking loose outside, he whispered to me that the suffragettes would have the last laugh on Winston.’

  ‘You were aware of the home secretary’s orders to use violence against the WSPU delegation?’ Flynn couldn’t stop himself from asking the question.

  Jennings flushed, realising he’d said too much. ‘We’d heard rumours. I knew Winston thought he had to crack down hard. The prime minister gave in to him… and, well, you saw the result.’

  ‘I did indeed. Did you ask Lord Carstairs what he meant by the comment?’

  ‘I tried to and he just said there would be a special exhibition taking place at the National Portrait Gallery. I didn’t know what he meant by that, and I never got the chance to ask.’

  ‘The incident with the Churchill portrait took place over two weeks later. Why did you wait that long to visit the gallery to warn Mr Scott?’

  ‘Because I didn’t know what was going to happen or when. I’d intended to talk to Ronnie about it again and try to put a stop to any more of his tricks.’ Jennings held up his hands in a hopeless gesture. ‘But he disappeared. I was at a loss to know what to do. When I mentioned it to Charles, he suggested we have a quiet word with Mr Scott. I thought it was a sensible suggestion, so that’s what we did.’

  Flynn was interested to hear it had been Charles Dean’s suggestion to visit the National Portrait Gallery. Had he been keeping an eye out for sister while he was there?

  ‘Why did you ask Mrs Fairbanks who painted the Churchill portrait?’

  Jennings didn’t seem surprised that he knew this. ‘Ronnie was friends with lots of artists. I thought if I found out who it was, it would give me some clue as to where he was getting his information from. And who he was giving information to.’

  ‘Did he ever mention the name Penelope Bright?’

  Jennings shook his head. ‘Who’s Penelope Bright?’

  Flynn explained about the anonymous notes.

  ‘Strange. I thought Ronnie had a… well, I thought he might have had a mistress in the organisation.’

  Flynn had also considered that possibility. Instead, it seemed that Lord Carstairs had resorted to the old-fashioned method of sending anonymous letters.

  ‘Why do you think Lord Carstairs told you about the “special exhibition” as he called it?’

  ‘Because he took great delight in engineering these things. It’s probably why he mentioned it to his wife. He thought it a great hoot.’

  ‘If you were concerned about Lord Carstairs’ behaviour, why didn’t you inform the prime minister?’

  ‘In hindsight, I should have. But Ronnie was an old friend. He’s helped me over the years, and it felt disloyal to tell tales on him.’

  Flynn didn’t believe this for a second. Jennings had his own reasons for not reporting Lord Carstairs, and he didn’t think loyalty was one of them. It was more likely he was giving his old friend enough rope to hang himself with.

  ‘What about Riverside Lodge?’ Flynn saw Jennings’ expression become more guarded. ‘Have you ever been there?’

  ‘Not to the villa, no. They’d only just finished building it. I know the area, though. I’m a member of the Hurlingham Club. Charles and I often play polo there.’

  Flynn wondered if the polo field had recovered from Coral’s efforts with a metal stake. Why did he suddenly feel an odd sort of pride in her? He pushed that feeling aside to be examined later.

  ‘I’d hoped to speak to Mr Dean this morning.’ Flynn got the impression Jennings relied heavily on his private secretary. ‘Is he here today?’

  ‘He’s still on leave. I’m expecting him back this week.’ Jennings’ eyes drifted across his empty desk. ‘We have lots to catch up on, I’m sure.’

  ‘It’s curious someone gave the suffragettes details of Riverside Lodge.’ Flynn watched Jennings’ face closely. ‘The anonymous letter encouraged them to set fire to it. Lord Carstairs would hardly do that and we suspect his body was already concealed in the coal bunker by that stage.’

  ‘I think it’s obvious what happened. Mrs Pankhurst ordered Ronnie’s assassination.’ Jennings must have seen his sceptical expression because he continued more forcefully. ‘Those women were angry that day. I have some sympathy – the situation was badly handled; I don’t deny it. They decided to take revenge on a politician, found poor old Ronnie on his own that evening and killed him. Then they took his body to Riverside Lodge and tried to burn the place down to hide the evidence.’

  Flynn wondered how Jennings knew that Lord Carstairs had been alone at Leinster Gardens on the night of Friday the eighteenth of November.

  30

  On Monday afternoon, Coral finished her shift at the Stanmore Gallery, then took a hackney carriage to Porchester Terrace to visit Marian’s grandmother.

  All weekend, she’d tried to put Flynn out of her mind, but her thoughts kept drifting back to their dinner together. And wondering how their evening might have ended if they hadn’t returned to find Goodspeed in her drawing room.

  Lavender told her that when he’d turned up at the theatre that night, she’d decided to try to help Coral by quizzing him for information about the case. Coral wondered if this was strictly true. She had a feeling Lavender liked Goodspeed more than she was letting on – or even admitting to herself.

  The butler opened the door of Florence Dean’s Georgian townhouse, and she was once again shown into the drawing room.

  ‘Mrs Fairbanks. How lovely to see you.’ Florence held out her hands to Coral. ‘Do you have news?’

  ‘I’m afraid not.’ Coral sat beside her on the sofa. ‘I came to ask you some questions regarding the time Marian met Ronald Carstairs.’

  Florence blinked. ‘I’ve read about his death. Surely there can’t be a connection with what happened to Marian?’

  ‘Probably not, but Detective Inspector Flynn is following up every lead.’

  ‘You’ve spoken to him?’

  ‘Yes. I mentioned to him that Marian once told me she’d met Lord Carstairs. I wondered if you could tell me more about that.’

 

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