Copyright

Published by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

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First published in Great Britain by

Collins 1959

Copyright © 1959 Agatha Christie Ltd.

All rights reserved.

www.agathachristie.com

Ebook Edition 2010 ISBN: 9780007422210

Version: 2017-04-12

The moral right of the author is asserted

All rights reserved. This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins ebooks.

For Stella and Larry Kirwan

Contents

Copyright

Prologue Summer Term

1 Revolution in Ramat

2 The Woman on the Balcony

3 Introducing Mr Robinson

4 Return of a Traveller

5 Letters from Meadowbank School

6 Early Days

7 Straws in the Wind

8 Murder

9 Cat Among the Pigeons

10 Fantastic Story

11 Conference

12 New Lamps for Old

13 Catastrophe

14 Miss Chadwick Lies Awake

15 Murder Repeats Itself

16 The Riddle of the Sports Pavilion

17 Aladdin’s Cave

18 Consultation

19 Consultation Continued

20 Conversation

21 Gathering Threads

22 Incident in Anatolia

23 Showdown

24 Poirot Explains

25 Legacy

E-book Extras

About Agatha Christie

The Agatha Christie Collection

www.agathachristie.com

About the Publisher

Prologue
Summer Term

It was the opening day of the summer term at Meadowbank school. The late afternoon sun shone down on the broad gravel sweep in front of the house. The front door was flung hospitably wide, and just within it, admirably suited to its Georgian proportions, stood Miss Vansittart, every hair in place, wearing an impeccably cut coat and skirt.

Some parents who knew no better had taken her for the great Miss Bulstrode herself, not knowing that it was Miss Bulstrode’s custom to retire to a kind of holy of holies to which only a selected and privileged few were taken.

To one side of Miss Vansittart, operating on a slightly different plane, was Miss Chadwick, comfortable, knowledgeable, and so much a part of Meadowbank that it would have been impossible to imagine Meadowbank without her. It had never been without her. Miss Bulstrode and Miss Chadwick had started Meadowbank school together. Miss Chadwick wore pince-nez, stooped, was dowdily dressed, amiably vague in speech, and happened to be a brilliant mathematician.

Various welcoming words and phrases, uttered graciously by Miss Vansittart, floated through the house.

‘How do you do, Mrs Arnold? Well, Lydia, did you enjoy your Hellenic cruise? What a wonderful opportunity! Did you get some good photographs?

‘Yes, Lady Garnett, Miss Bulstrode had your letter about the Art Classes and everything’s been arranged.

‘How are you, Mrs Bird?…Well? I don’t think Miss Bulstrode will have time today to discuss the point. Miss Rowan is somewhere about if you’d like to talk to her about it?

‘We’ve moved your bedroom, Pamela. You’re in the far wing by the apple tree…

‘Yes, indeed, Lady Violet, the weather has been terrible so far this spring. Is this your youngest? What is your name? Hector? What a nice aeroplane you have, Hector.

‘Très heureuse de vous voir, Madame. Ah, je regrette, ce ne serait pas possible, cette après-midi. Mademoiselle Bulstrode est tellement occupée.

‘Good afternoon, Professor. Have you been digging up some more interesting things?’

II

In a small room on the first floor, Ann Shapland, Miss Bulstrode’s secretary, was typing with speed and efficiency. Ann was a nice-looking young woman of thirty-five, with hair that fitted her like a black satin cap. She could be attractive when she wanted to be but life had taught her that efficiency and competence often paid better results and avoided painful complications. At the moment she was concentrating on being everything that a secretary to the headmistress of a famous girls’ school should be.

From time to time, as she inserted a fresh sheet in her machine, she looked out of the window and registered interest in the arrivals.

‘Goodness!’ said Ann to herself, awed, ‘I didn’t know there were so many chauffeurs left in England!’

Then she smiled in spite of herself, as a majestic Rolls moved away and a very small Austin of battered age drove up. A harassed-looking father emerged from it with a daughter who looked far calmer than he did.

As he paused uncertainly, Miss Vansittart emerged from the house and took charge.

‘Major Hargreaves? And this is Alison? Do come into the house. I’d like you to see Alison’s room for yourself. I—’

Ann grinned and began to type again.

‘Good old Vansittart, the glorified understudy,’ she said to herself. ‘She can copy all the Bulstrode’s tricks. In fact she’s word perfect!’

An enormous and almost incredibly opulent Cadillac, painted in two tones, raspberry fool and azure blue, swept (with difficulty owing to its length) into the drive and drew up behind Major the Hon. Alistair Hargreaves’ ancient Austin.

The chauffeur sprang to open the door, an immense bearded, dark-skinned man, wearing a flowing aba, stepped out, a Parisian fashion plate followed and then a slim dark girl.

That’s probably Princess Whatshername herself, thought Ann. Can’t imagine her in school uniform, but I suppose the miracle will be apparent tomorrow…

Both Miss Vansittart and Miss Chadwick appeared on this occasion.

‘They’ll be taken to the Presence,’ decided Ann.

Then she thought that, strangely enough, one didn’t quite like making jokes about Miss Bulstrode. Miss Bulstrode was Someone.

‘So you’d better mind your P.s and Q.s, my girl,’ she said to herself, ‘and finish these letters without making any mistakes.’

Not that Ann was in the habit of making mistakes. She could take her pick of secretarial posts. She had been P.A. to the chief executive of an oil company, private secretary to Sir Mervyn Todhunter, renowned alike for his erudition, his irritability and the illegibility of his handwriting. She numbered two Cabinet Ministers and an important Civil Servant among her employers. But on the whole, her work had always lain amongst men. She wondered how she was going to like being, as she put it herself, completely submerged in women. Well—it was all experience! And there was always Dennis! Faithful Dennis returning from Malaya, from Burma, from various parts of the world, always the same, devoted, asking her once again to marry him. Dear Dennis! But it would be very dull to be married to Dennis.

She would miss the company of men in the near future. All these schoolmistressy characters—not a man about the place, except a gardener of about eighty.

But here Ann got a surprise. Looking out of the window, she saw there was a man clipping the hedge just beyond the drive—clearly a gardener but a long way from eighty. Young, dark, good-looking. Ann wondered about him—there had been some talk of getting extra labour—but this was no yokel. Oh well, nowadays people did every kind of job. Some young man trying to get together some money for some project or other, or indeed just to keep body and soul together. But he was cutting the hedge in a very expert manner. Presumably he was a real gardener after all!

‘He looks,’ said Ann to herself, ‘he looks as though he might be amusing…’

Only one more letter to do, she was pleased to note, and then she might stroll round the garden…

III

Upstairs, Miss Johnson, the matron, was busy allotting rooms, welcoming newcomers, and greeting old pupils.

She was pleased it was term time again. She never knew quite what to do with herself in the holidays. She had two married sisters with whom she stayed in turn, but they were naturally more interested in their own doings and families than in Meadowbank. Miss Johnson, though dutifully fond of her sisters, was really only interested in Meadowbank.

Yes, it was nice that term had started—

‘Miss Johnson?’

‘Yes, Pamela.’

‘I say, Miss Johnson. I think something’s broken in my case. It’s oozed all over things. I think it’s hair oil.’

‘Chut, chut!’ said Miss Johnson, hurrying to help.

IV

On the grass sweep of lawn beyond the gravelled drive, Mademoiselle Blanche, the new French mistress, was walking. She looked with appreciative eyes at the powerful young man clipping the hedge.

‘Assez bien,’ thought Mademoiselle Blanche.

Mademoiselle Blanche was slender and mouselike and not very noticeable, but she herself noticed everything.

Her eyes went to the procession of cars sweeping up to the front door. She assessed them in terms of money. This Meadowbank was certainly formidable! She summed up mentally the profits that Miss Bulstrode must be making.

Yes, indeed! Formidable!

V

Miss Rich, who taught English and Geography, advanced towards the house at a rapid pace, stumbling a little now and then because, as usual, she forgot to look where she was going. Her hair, also as usual, had escaped from its bun. She had an eager ugly face.

She was saying to herself:

‘To be back again! To be here…It seems years…’ She fell over a rake, and the young gardener put out an arm and said:

‘Steady, miss.’

Eileen Rich said ‘Thank you,’ without looking at him.

VI

Miss Rowan and Miss Blake, the two junior mistresses, were strolling towards the Sports Pavilion. Miss Rowan was thin and dark and intense, Miss Blake was plump and fair. They were discussing with animation their recent adventures in Florence: the pictures they had seen, the sculpture, the fruit blossom, and the attentions (hoped to be dishonourable) of two young Italian gentlemen.

‘Of course one knows,’ said Miss Blake, ‘how Italians go on.’

‘Uninhibited,’ said Miss Rowan, who had studied Psychology as well as Economics. ‘Thoroughly healthy, one feels. No repressions.’

‘But Guiseppe was quite impressed when he found I taught at Meadowbank,’ said Miss Blake. ‘He became much more respectful at once. He has a cousin who wants to come here, but Miss Bulstrode was not sure she had a vacancy.’

‘Meadowbank is a school that really counts,’ said Miss Rowan, happily. ‘Really, the new Sports Pavilion looks most impressive. I never thought it would be ready in time.’

‘Miss Bulstrode said it had to be,’ said Miss Blake in the tone of one who has said the last word.

‘Oh,’ she added in a startled kind of way.

The door of the Sports Pavilion had opened abruptly, and a bony young woman with ginger-coloured hair emerged. She gave them a sharp unfriendly stare and moved rapidly away.

‘That must be the new Games Mistress,’ said Miss Blake. ‘How uncouth!’

‘Not a very pleasant addition to the staff,’ said Miss Rowan. ‘Miss Jones was always so friendly and sociable.’

‘She absolutely glared at us,’ said Miss Blake resentfully.

They both felt quite ruffled.

VII

Miss Bulstrode’s sitting-room had windows looking out in two directions, one over the drive and lawn beyond, and another towards a bank of rhododendrons behind the house. It was quite an impressive room, and Miss Bulstrode was rather more than quite an impressive woman. She was tall, and rather noble looking, with well-dressed grey hair, grey eyes with plenty of humour in them, and a firm mouth. The success of her school (and Meadowbank was one of the most successful schools in England) was entirely due to the personality of its Headmistress. It was a very expensive school, but that was not really the point. It could be put better by saying that though you paid through the nose, you got what you paid for.

Your daughter was educated in the way you wished, and also in the way Miss Bulstrode wished, and the result of the two together seemed to give satisfaction. Owing to the high fees, Miss Bulstrode was able to employ a full staff. There was nothing mass produced about the school, but if it was individualistic, it also had discipline. Discipline without regimentation, was Miss Bulstrode’s motto. Discipline, she held, was reassuring to the young, it gave them a feeling of security; regimentation gave rise to irritation. Her pupils were a varied lot. They included several foreigners of good family, often foreign royalty. There were also English girls of good family or of wealth, who wanted a training in culture and the arts, with a general knowledge of life and social facility who would be turned out agreeable, well groomed and able to take part in intelligent discussion on any subject. There were girls who wanted to work hard and pass entrance examinations, and eventually take degrees and who, to do so, needed only good teaching and special attention. There were girls who had reacted unfavourably to school life of the conventional type. But Miss Bulstrode had her rules, she did not accept morons, or juvenile delinquents, and she preferred to accept girls whose parents she liked, and girls in whom she herself saw a prospect of development. The ages of her pupils varied within wide limits. There were girls who would have been labelled in the past as ‘finished’, and there were girls little more than children, some of them with parents abroad, and for whom Miss Bulstrode had a scheme of interesting holidays. The last and final court of appeal was Miss Bulstrode’s own approval.

She was standing now by the chimneypiece listening to Mrs Gerald Hope’s slightly whining voice. With great foresight, she had not suggested that Mrs Hope should sit down.

‘Henrietta, you see, is very highly strung. Very highly strung indeed. Our doctor says—’

Miss Bulstrode nodded, with gentle reassurance, refraining from the caustic phrase she sometimes was tempted to utter.

‘Don’t you know, you idiot, that that is what every fool of a woman says about her child?’

She spoke with firm sympathy.

‘You need have no anxiety, Mrs Hope. Miss Rowan, a member of our staff, is a fully trained psychologist. You’ll be surprised, I’m sure, at the change you’ll find in Henrietta’ (Who’s a nice intelligent child, and far too good for you) ‘after a term or two here.’

‘Oh I know. You did wonders with the Lambeth child—absolutely wonders! So I am quite happy. And I—oh yes, I forgot. We’re going to the South of France in six weeks’ time. I thought I’d take Henrietta. It would make a little break for her.’

‘I’m afraid that’s quite impossible,’ said Miss Bulstrode, briskly and with a charming smile, as though she were granting a request instead of refusing one.

‘Oh! but—’ Mrs Hope’s weak petulant face wavered, showed temper. ‘Really, I must insist. After all, she’s my child.’

‘Exactly. But it’s my school,’ said Miss Bulstrode.

‘Surely I can take the child away from a school any time I like?’

‘Oh yes,’ said Miss Bulstrode. ‘You can. Of course you can. But then, I wouldn’t have her back.’

Mrs Hope was in a real temper now.

‘Considering the size of the fees I pay here—’

‘Exactly,’ said Miss Bulstrode. ‘You wanted my school for your daughter, didn’t you? But it’s take it as it is, or leave it. Like that very charming Balenciaga model you are wearing. It is Balenciaga, isn’t it? It is so delightful to meet a woman with real clothes sense.’

Her hand enveloped Mrs Hope’s, shook it, and imperceptibly guided her towards the door.

‘Don’t worry at all. Ah, here is Henrietta waiting for you.’ (She looked with approval at Henrietta, a nice well-balanced intelligent child if ever there was one, and who deserved a better mother.) ‘Margaret, take Henrietta Hope to Miss Johnson.’

Miss Bulstrode retired into her sitting-room and a few moments later was talking French.

‘But certainly, Excellence, your niece can study modern ballroom dancing. Most important socially. And languages, also, are most necessary.’

The next arrivals were prefaced by such a gust of expensive perfume as almost to knock Miss Bulstrode backwards.

‘Must pour a whole bottle of the stuff over herself every day,’ Miss Bulstrode noted mentally, as she greeted the exquisitely dressed dark-skinned woman.

‘Enchantée, Madame.’

Madame giggled very prettily.

The big bearded man in Oriental dress took Miss Bulstrode’s hand, bowed over it, and said in very good English, ‘I have the honour to bring to you the Princess Shaista.’

Miss Bulstrode knew all about her new pupil who had just come from a school in Switzerland, but was a little hazy as to who it was escorting her. Not the Emir himself, she decided, probably the Minister, or Chargé d’Affaires. As usual when in doubt, she used that useful title Excellence, and assured him that Princess Shaista would have the best of care.

Shaista was smiling politely. She was also fashionably dressed and perfumed. Her age, Miss Bulstrode knew, was fifteen, but like many Eastern and Mediterranean girls, she looked older—quite mature. Miss Bulstrode spoke to her about her projected studies and was relieved to find that she answered promptly in excellent English and without giggling. In fact, her manners compared favourably with the awkward ones of many English school girls of fifteen. Miss Bulstrode had often thought that it might be an excellent plan to send English girls abroad to the Near Eastern countries to learn courtesy and manners there. More compliments were uttered on both sides and then the room was empty again though still filled with such heavy perfume that Miss Bulstrode opened both windows to their full extent to let some of it out.

The next comers were Mrs Upjohn and her daughter Julia.

Mrs Upjohn was an agreeable young woman in the late thirties with sandy hair, freckles and an unbecoming hat which was clearly a concession to the seriousness of the occasion, since she was obviously the type of young woman who usually went hatless.

Julia was a plain freckled child, with an intelligent forehead, and an air of good humour.

The preliminaries were quickly gone through and Julia was despatched via Margaret to Miss Johnson, saying cheerfully as she went, ‘So long, Mum. Do be careful lighting that gas heater now that I’m not there to do it.’

Miss Bulstrode turned smilingly to Mrs Upjohn, but did not ask her to sit. It was possible that, despite Julia’s appearance of cheerful common-sense, her mother, too, might want to explain that her daughter was highly strung.

‘Is there anything special you want to tell me about Julia?’ she asked.

Mrs Upjohn replied cheerfully:

‘Oh no, I don’t think so. Julia’s a very ordinary sort of child. Quite healthy and all that. I think she’s got reasonably good brains, too, but I daresay mothers usually think that about their children, don’t they?’

‘Mothers,’ said Miss Bulstrode grimly, ‘vary!’

‘It’s wonderful for her to be able to come here,’ said Mrs Upjohn. ‘My aunt’s paying for it, really, or helping. I couldn’t afford it myself. But I’m awfully pleased about it. And so is Julia.’ She moved to the window as she said enviously, ‘How lovely your garden is. And so tidy. You must have lots of real gardeners.’

‘We had three,’ said Miss Bulstrode, ‘but just now we’re short-handed except for local labour.’

‘Of course the trouble nowadays,’ said Mrs Upjohn, ‘is that what one calls a gardener usually isn’t a gardener, just a milkman who wants to do something in his spare time, or an old man of eighty. I sometimes think—Why!’ exclaimed Mrs Upjohn, still gazing out of the window—‘how extraordinary!’

Miss Bulstrode paid less attention to this sudden exclamation than she should have done. For at that moment she herself had glanced casually out of the other window which gave on to the rhododendron shrubbery, and had perceived a highly unwelcome sight, none other than Lady Veronica Carlton-Sandways, weaving her way along the path, her large black velvet hat on one side, muttering to herself and clearly in a state of advanced intoxication.

Lady Veronica was not an unknown hazard. She was a charming woman, deeply attached to her twin daughters, and very delightful when she was, as they put it, herself—but unfortunately at unpredictable intervals, she was not herself. Her husband, Major Carlton-Sandways, coped fairly well. A cousin lived with them, who was usually at hand to keep an eye on Lady Veronica and head her off if necessary. On Sports Day, with both Major Carlton-Sandways and the cousin in close attendance, Lady Veronica arrived completely sober and beautifully dressed and was a pattern of what a mother should be.

But there were times when Lady Veronica gave her well-wishers the slip, tanked herself up and made a bee-line for her daughters to assure them of her maternal love. The twins had arrived by train early today, but no one had expected Lady Veronica.

Mrs Upjohn was still talking. But Miss Bulstrode was not listening. She was reviewing various courses of action, for she recognized that Lady Veronica was fast approaching the truculent stage. But suddenly, an answer to prayer, Miss Chadwick appeared at a brisk trot, slightly out of breath. Faithful Chaddy, thought Miss Bulstrode. Always to be relied upon, whether it was a severed artery or an intoxicated parent.

‘Disgraceful,’ said Lady Veronica to her loudly. ‘Tried to keep me away—didn’t want me to come down here—I fooled Edith all right. Went to have my rest—got out car—gave silly old Edith slip…regular old maid…no man would ever look at her twice…Had a row with police on the way…said I was unfit to drive car…nonshense…Going to tell Miss Bulstrode I’m taking the girls home—want ’em home, mother love. Wonderful thing, mother love—’

‘Splendid, Lady Veronica,’ said Miss Chadwick. ‘We’re so pleased you’ve come. I particularly want you to see the new Sports Pavilion. You’ll love it.’

Adroitly she turned Lady Veronica’s unsteady footsteps in the opposite direction, leading her away from the house.

‘I expect we’ll find your girls there,’ she said brightly. ‘Such a nice Sports Pavilion, new lockers, and a drying room for the swim suits—’ their voices trailed away.

Miss Bulstrode watched. Once Lady Veronica tried to break away and return to the house, but Miss Chadwick was a match for her. They disappeared round the corner of the rhododendrons, headed for the distant loneliness of the new Sports Pavilion.

Miss Bulstrode heaved a sigh of relief. Excellent Chaddy. So reliable! Not modern. Not brainy—apart from mathematics—but always a present help in time of trouble.

She turned with a sigh and a sense of guilt to Mrs Upjohn who had been talking happily for some time…

‘…though, of course,’ she was saying, ‘never real cloak and dagger stuff. Not dropping by parachute, or sabotage, or being a courier. I shouldn’t have been brave enough. It was mostly dull stuff. Office work. And plotting. Plotting things on a map, I mean—not the story telling kind of plotting. But of course it was exciting sometimes and it was often quite funny, as I just said—all the secret agents followed each other round and round Geneva, all knowing each other by sight, and often ending up in the same bar. I wasn’t married then, of course. It was all great fun.’

She stopped abruptly with an apologetic and friendly smile.

‘I’m sorry I’ve been talking so much. Taking up your time. When you’ve got such lots of people to see.’

She held out a hand, said goodbye and departed.

Miss Bulstrode stood frowning for a moment. Some instinct warned her that she had missed something that might be important.

She brushed the feeling aside. This was the opening day of summer term, and she had many more parents to see. Never had her school been more popular, more assured of success. Meadowbank was at its zenith.

There was nothing to tell her that within a few weeks Meadowbank would be plunged into a sea of trouble; that disorder, confusion and murder would reign there, that already certain events had been set in motion…

Chapter 1
Revolution in Ramat

About two months earlier than the first day of the summer term at Meadowbank, certain events had taken place which were to have unexpected repercussions in that celebrated girls’ school.

In the Palace of Ramat, two young men sat smoking and considering the immediate future. One young man was dark, with a smooth olive face and large melancholy eyes. He was Prince Ali Yusuf, Hereditary Sheikh of Ramat, which, though small, was one of the richest states in the Middle East. The other young man was sandy haired and freckled and more or less penniless, except for the handsome salary he drew as private pilot to His Highness Prince Ali Yusuf. In spite of this difference in status, they were on terms of perfect equality. They had been at the same public school and had been friends then and ever since.

‘They shot at us, Bob,’ said Prince Ali almost incredulously.

‘They shot at us all right,’ said Bob Rawlinson.

‘And they meant it. They meant to bring us down.’

‘The bastards meant it all right,’ said Bob grimly.

Ali considered for a moment.

‘It would hardly be worth while trying again?’

‘We mightn’t be so lucky this time. The truth is, Ali, we’ve left things too late. You should have got out two weeks ago. I told you so.’

‘One doesn’t like to run away,’ said the ruler of Ramat.

‘I see your point. But remember what Shakespeare or one of these poetical fellows said about those who run away living to fight another day.’

‘To think,’ said the young Prince with feeling, ‘of the money that has gone into making this a Welfare State. Hospitals, schools, a Health Service—’

Bob Rawlinson interrupted the catalogue.

‘Couldn’t the Embassy do something?’

Ali Yusuf flushed angrily.

‘Take refuge in your Embassy? That, never. The extremists would probably storm the place—they wouldn’t respect diplomatic immunity. Besides, if I did that, it really would be the end! Already the chief accusation against me is of being pro-Western.’ He sighed. ‘It is so difficult to understand.’ He sounded wistful, younger than his twenty-five years. ‘My grandfather was a cruel man, a real tyrant. He had hundreds of slaves and treated them ruthlessly. In his tribal wars, he killed his enemies unmercifully and executed them horribly. The mere whisper of his name made everyone turn pale. And yet—he is a legend still! Admired! Respected! The great Achmed Abdullah! And I? What have I done? Built hospitals and schools, welfare, housing…all the things people are said to want. Don’t they want them? Would they prefer a reign of terror like my grandfather’s?’

‘I expect so,’ said Bob Rawlinson. ‘Seems a bit unfair, but there it is.’

‘But why, Bob? Why?’

Bob Rawlinson sighed, wriggled and endeavoured to explain what he felt. He had to struggle with his own inarticulateness.

‘Well,’ he said. ‘He put up a show—I suppose that’s it really. He was—sort of—dramatic, if you know what I mean.’

He looked at his friend who was definitely not dramatic. A nice quiet decent chap, sincere and perplexed, that was what Ali was, and Bob liked him for it. He was neither picturesque nor violent, but whilst in England people who are picturesque and violent cause embarrassment and are not much liked, in the Middle East, Bob was fairly sure, it was different.

‘But democracy—’ began Ali.

‘Oh, democracy—’ Bob waved his pipe. ‘That’s a word that means different things everywhere. One thing’s certain. It never means what the Greeks originally meant by it. I bet you anything you like that if they boot you out of here, some spouting hot air merchant will take over, yelling his own praises, building himself up into God Almighty, and stringing up, or cutting off the heads of anyone who dares to disagree with him in any way. And, mark you, he’ll say it’s a Democratic Government—of the people and for the people. I expect the people will like it too. Exciting for them. Lots of bloodshed.’

‘But we are not savages! We are civilized nowadays.’

‘There are different kinds of civilization…’ said Bob vaguely. ‘Besides—I rather think we’ve all got a bit of savage in us—if we can think up a good excuse for letting it rip.’

‘Perhaps you are right,’ said Ali sombrely.

‘The thing people don’t seem to want anywhere, nowadays,’ said Bob, ‘is anyone who’s got a bit of common sense. I’ve never been a brainy chap—well, you know that well enough, Ali—but I often think that that’s what the world really needs—just a bit of common sense.’ He laid aside his pipe and sat in his chair. ‘But never mind all that. The thing is how we’re going to get you out of here. Is there anybody in the Army you can really trust?’

Slowly, Prince Ali Yusuf shook his head.

‘A fortnight ago, I should have said “Yes.” But now, I do not know…cannot be sure—’

Bob nodded. ‘That’s the hell of it. As for this palace of yours, it gives me the creeps.’

Ali acquiesced without emotion.

‘Yes, there are spies everywhere in palaces…They hear everything—they—know everything.’

‘Even down in the hangars—’ Bob broke off. ‘Old Achmed’s all right. He’s got a kind of sixth sense. Found one of the mechanics trying to tamper with the plane—one of the men we’d have sworn was absolutely trustworthy. Look here, Ali, if we’re going to have a shot at getting you away, it will have to be soon.’

‘I know—I know. I think—I am quite certain now—that if I stay I shall be killed.’

He spoke without emotion, or any kind of panic: with a mild detached interest.

‘We’ll stand a good chance of being killed anyway,’ Bob warned him. ‘We’ll have to fly out north, you know. They can’t intercept us that way. But it means going over the mountains—and at this time of year—’

He shrugged his shoulders. ‘You’ve got to understand. It’s damned risky.’

Ali Yusuf looked distressed.

‘If anything happened to you, Bob—’

‘Don’t worry about me, Ali. That’s not what I meant. I’m not important. And anyway, I’m the sort of chap that’s sure to get killed sooner or later. I’m always doing crazy things. No—it’s you—I don’t want to persuade you one way or the other. If a portion of the Army is loyal—’

‘I don’t like the idea of running away,’ said Ali simply. ‘But I do not in the least want to be a martyr, and be cut to pieces by a mob.’

He was silent for a moment or two.

‘Very well then,’ he said at last with a sigh. ‘We will make the attempt. When?’

Bob shrugged his shoulders.

‘Sooner the better. We’ve got to get you to the airstrip in some natural way…How about saying you’re going to inspect the new road construction out at Al Jasar? Sudden whim. Go this afternoon. Then, as your car passes the airstrip, stop there—I’ll have the bus all ready and tuned up. The idea will be to go up to inspect the road construction from the air, see? We take off and go! We can’t take any baggage, of course. It’s got to be all quite impromptu.’

‘There is nothing I wish to take with me—except one thing—’

He smiled, and suddenly the smile altered his face and made a different person of him. He was no longer the modern conscientious Westernized young man—the smile held all the racial guile and craft which had enabled a long line of his ancestors to survive.

‘You are my friend, Bob, you shall see.’

His hand went inside his shirt and fumbled. Then he held out a little chamois leather bag.

‘This?’ Bob frowned and looked puzzled.

Ali took it from him, untied the neck, and poured the contents on the table.

Bob held his breath for a moment and then expelled it in a soft whistle.

‘Good lord. Are they real?’

Ali looked amused.

‘Of course they are real. Most of them belonged to my father. He acquired new ones every year. I, too. They have come from many places, bought for our family by men we can trust—from London, from Calcutta, from South Africa. It is a tradition of our family. To have these in case of need.’ He added in a matter of fact voice: ‘They are worth, at today’s prices, about three quarters of a million.’

‘Three quarters of a million pounds.’ Bob let out a whistle, picked up the stones, let them run through his fingers. ‘It’s fantastic. Like a fairy tale. It does things to you.’

‘Yes.’ The dark young man nodded. Again that age-long weary look was on his face. ‘Men are not the same when it comes to jewels. There is always a trail of violence to follow such things. Deaths, bloodshed, murder. And women are the worst. For with women it will not only be the value. It is something to do with the jewels themselves. Beautiful jewels drive women mad. They want to own them. To wear them round their throats, on their bosoms. I would not trust any woman with these. But I shall trust you.’

‘Me?’ Bob stared.

‘Yes. I do not want these stones to fall into the hands of my enemies. I do not know when the rising against me will take place. It may be planned for today. I may not live to reach the airstrip this afternoon. Take the stones and do the best you can.’

‘But look here—I don’t understand. What am I to do with them?’

‘Arrange somehow to get them out of the country.’

Ali stared placidly at his perturbed friend.

‘You mean, you want me to carry them instead of you?’

‘You can put it that way. But I think, really, you will be able to think of some better plan to get them to Europe.’

‘But look here, Ali, I haven’t the first idea how to set about such a thing.’

Ali leaned back in his chair. He was smiling in a quietly amused manner.

‘You have common sense. And you are honest. And I remember, from the days when you were my fag, that you could always think up some ingenious idea…I will give you the name and address of a man who deals with such matters for me—that is—in case I should not survive. Do not look so worried, Bob. Do the best you can. That is all I ask. I shall not blame you if you fail. It is as Allah wills. For me, it is simple. I do not want those stones taken from my dead body. For the rest—’ he shrugged his shoulders. ‘It is as I have said. All will go as Allah wills.’

‘You’re nuts!’

‘No. I am a fatalist, that is all.’

‘But look here, Ali. You said just now I was honest. But three quarters of a million…Don’t you think that might sap any man’s honesty?’

Ali Yusuf looked at his friend with affection.

‘Strangely enough,’ he said, ‘I have no doubt on that score.’

Chapter 2
The Woman on the Balcony

As Bob Rawlinson walked along the echoing marble corridors of the Palace, he had never felt so unhappy in his life. The knowledge that he was carrying three quarters of a million pounds in his trousers pocket caused him acute misery. He felt as though every Palace official he encountered must know the fact. He felt even that the knowledge of his precious burden must show in his face. He would have been relieved to learn that his freckled countenance bore exactly its usual expression of cheerful good nature.

The sentries outside presented arms with a clash. Bob walked down the main crowded street of Ramat, his mind still dazed. Where was he going? What was he planning to do? He had no idea. And time was short.

The main street was like most main streets in the Middle East. It was a mixture of squalor and magnificence. Banks reared their vast newly built magnificence. Innumerable small shops presented a collection of cheap plastic goods. Babies’ bootees and cheap cigarette lighters were displayed in unlikely juxtaposition. There were sewing machines, and spare parts for cars. Pharmacies displayed flyblown proprietary medicines, and large notices of penicillin in every form and antibiotics galore. In very few of the shops was there anything that you could normally want to buy, except possibly the latest Swiss watches, hundreds of which were displayed crowded into a tiny window. The assortment was so great that even there one would have shrunk from purchase, dazzled by sheer mass.

Bob, still walking in a kind of stupor, jostled by figures in native or European dress, pulled himself together and asked himself again where the hell he was going?

He turned into a native café and ordered lemon tea. As he sipped it, he began, slowly, to come to. The atmosphere of the café was soothing. At a table opposite him an elderly Arab was peacefully clicking through a string of amber beads. Behind him two men played tric trac. It was a good place to sit and think.

And he’d got to think. Jewels worth three quarters of a million had been handed to him, and it was up to him to devise some plan of getting them out of the country. No time to lose either. At any minute the balloon might go up…

Ali was crazy, of course. Tossing three quarters of a million light-heartedly to a friend in that way. And then sitting back quietly himself and leaving everything to Allah. Bob had not got that recourse. Bob’s God expected his servants to decide on and perform their own actions to the best of the ability their God had given them.

What the hell was he going to do with those damned stones?

He thought of the Embassy. No, he couldn’t involve the Embassy. The Embassy would almost certainly refuse to be involved.

What he needed was some person, some perfectly ordinary person who was leaving the country in some perfectly ordinary way. A business man, or a tourist would be best. Someone with no political connections whose baggage would, at most, be subjected to a superficial search or more probably no search at all. There was, of course, the other end to be considered…Sensation at London Airport. Attempt to smuggle in jewels worth three quarters of a million. And so on and so on. One would have to risk that—

Somebody ordinary—a bona fide traveller. And suddenly Bob kicked himself for a fool. Joan, of course. His sister Joan Sutcliffe. Joan had been out here for two months with her daughter Jennifer who after a bad bout of pneumonia had been ordered sunshine and a dry climate. They were going back by ‘long sea’ in four or five days’ time.

Joan was the ideal person. What was it Ali had said about women and jewels? Bob smiled to himself. Good old Joan! She wouldn’t lose her head over jewels. Trust her to keep her feet on the earth. Yes—he could trust Joan.

Wait a minute, though…could he trust Joan? Her honesty, yes. But her discretion? Regretfully Bob shook his head. Joan would talk, would not be able to help talking. Even worse. She would hint. ‘I’m taking home something very important, I mustn’t say a word to anyone. It’s really rather exciting…’

Joan had never been able to keep a thing to herself though she was always very incensed if one told her so. Joan, then, mustn’t know what she was taking. It would be safer for her that way. He’d make the stones up into a parcel, an innocent-looking parcel. Tell her some story. A present for someone? A commission? He’d think of something…

Bob glanced at his watch and rose to his feet. Time was getting on.

He strode along the street oblivious of the midday heat. Everything seemed so normal. There was nothing to show on the surface. Only in the Palace was one conscious of the banked-down fires, of the spying, the whispers. The Army—it all depended on the Army. Who was loyal? Who was disloyal? A coup d’état would certainly be attempted. Would it succeed or fail?

Bob frowned as he turned into Ramat’s leading hotel. It was modestly called the Ritz Savoy and had a grand modernistic façade. It had opened with a flourish three years ago with a Swiss manager, a Viennese chef, and an Italian Maître d’hôtel. Everything had been wonderful. The Viennese chef had gone first, then the Swiss manager. Now the Italian head waiter had gone too. The food was still ambitious, but bad, the service abominable, and a good deal of the expensive plumbing had gone wrong.

The clerk behind the desk knew Bob well and beamed at him.

‘Good morning, Squadron Leader. You want your sister? She has gone on a picnic with the little girl—’

‘A picnic?’ Bob was taken aback—of all the silly times to go for a picnic.

‘With Mr and Mrs Hurst from the Oil Company,’ said the clerk informatively. Everyone always knew everything. ‘They have gone to the Kalat Diwa dam.’

Bob swore under his breath. Joan wouldn’t be home for hours.

‘I’ll go up to her room,’ he said and held out his hand for the key which the clerk gave him.

He unlocked the door and went in. The room, a large double-bedded one, was in its usual confusion. Joan Sutcliffe was not a tidy woman. Golf clubs lay across a chair, tennis racquets had been flung on the bed. Clothing lay about, the table was littered with rolls of film, postcards, paper-backed books and an assortment of native curios from the South, mostly made in Birmingham and Japan.

Bob looked round him, at the suitcases and the zip bags. He was faced with a problem. He wouldn’t be able to see Joan before flying Ali out. There wouldn’t be time to get to the dam and back. He could parcel up the stuff and leave it with a note—but almost immediately he shook his head. He knew quite well that he was nearly always followed. He’d probably been followed from the Palace to the café and from the café here. He hadn’t spotted anyone—but he knew that they were good at the job. There was nothing suspicious in his coming to the hotel to see his sister—but if he left a parcel and a note, the note would be read and the parcel opened.

Time…time…He’d no time…

Three quarters of a million in precious stones in his trousers pocket.

He looked round the room…

Then, with a grin, he fished out from his pocket the little tool kit he always carried. His niece Jennifer had some plasticine, he noted, that would help.

He worked quickly and skilfully. Once he looked up, suspicious, his eyes going to the open window. No, there was no balcony outside this room. It was just his nerves that made him feel that someone was watching him.

He finished his task and nodded in approval. Nobody would notice what he had done—he felt sure of that. Neither Joan nor anyone else. Certainly not Jennifer, a self-centred child, who never saw or noticed anything outside herself.

He swept up all evidences of his toil and put them into his pocket…Then he hesitated, looking round.

He drew Mrs Sutcliffe’s writing pad towards him and sat frowning—

He must leave a note for Joan—

But what could he say? It must be something that Joan would understand—but which would mean nothing to anyone who read the note.

And really that was impossible! In the kind of thriller that Bob liked reading to fill up his spare moments, you left a kind of cryptogram which was always successfully puzzled out by someone. But he couldn’t even begin to think of a cryptogram—and in any case Joan was the sort of common-sense person who would need the i’s dotted and the t’s crossed before she noticed anything at all—

Then his brow cleared. There was another way of doing it—divert attention away from Joan—leave an ordinary everyday note. Then leave a message with someone else to be given to Joan in England. He wrote rapidly—

Dear Joan—Dropped in to ask if you’d care to play a round of golf this evening but if you’ve been up at the dam, you’ll probably be dead to the world. What about tomorrow? Five o’clock at the Club.

Yours, Bob.

A casual sort of a message to leave for a sister that he might never see again—but in some ways the more casual the better. Joan mustn’t be involved in any funny business, mustn’t even know that there was any funny business. Joan could not dissimulate. Her protection would be the fact that she clearly knew nothing.

And the note would accomplish a dual purpose. It would seem that he, Bob, had no plan for departure himself.

He thought for a minute or two, then he crossed to the telephone and gave the number of the British Embassy. Presently he was connected with Edmundson, the third secretary, a friend of his.

‘John? Bob Rawlinson here. Can you meet me somewhere when you get off?…Make it a bit earlier than that?…You’ve got to, old boy. It’s important. Well, actually, it’s a girl…’ He gave an embarrassed cough. ‘She’s wonderful, quite wonderful. Out of this world. Only it’s a bit tricky.’

Edmundson’s voice, sounding slightly stuffed-shirt and disapproving, said, ‘Really, Bob, you and your girls. All right, 2 o’clock do you?’ and rang off. Bob heard the little echoing click as whoever had been listening in, replaced the receiver.

Good old Edmundson. Since all the telephones in Ramat had been tapped, Bob and John Edmundson had worked out a little code of their own. A wonderful girl who was ‘out of this world’ meant something urgent and important.

Edmundson would pick him up in his car outside the new Merchants Bank at 2 o’clock and he’d tell Edmundson of the hiding place. Tell him that Joan didn’t know about it but that, if anything happened to him, it was important. Going by the long sea route Joan and Jennifer wouldn’t be back in England for six weeks. By that time the revolution would almost certainly have happened and either been successful or have been put down. Ali Yusuf might be in Europe, or he and Bob might both be dead. He would tell Edmundson enough, but not too much.

Bob took a last look around the room. It looked exactly the same, peaceful, untidy, domestic. The only thing added was his harmless note to Joan. He propped it up on the table and went out. There was no one in the long corridor.

II

The woman in the room next to that occupied by Joan Sutcliffe stepped back from the balcony. There was a mirror in her hand.

She had gone out on the balcony originally to examine more closely a single hair that had had the audacity to spring up on her chin. She dealt with it with tweezers, then subjected her face to a minute scrutiny in the clear sunlight.

It was then, as she relaxed, that she saw something else. The angle at which she was holding her mirror was such that it reflected the mirror of the hanging wardrobe in the room next to hers and in that mirror she saw a man doing something very curious.

So curious and unexpected that she stood there motionless, watching. He could not see her from where he sat at the table, and she could only see him by means of the double reflection.

If he had turned his head behind him, he might have caught sight of her mirror in the wardrobe mirror, but he was too absorbed in what he was doing to look behind him…

Once, it was true, he did look up suddenly towards the window, but since there was nothing to see there, he lowered his head again.

The woman watched him while he finished what he was doing. After a moment’s pause he wrote a note which he propped up on the table. Then he moved out of her line of vision but she could just hear enough to realize that he was making a telephone call. She couldn’t catch what was said, but it sounded light-hearted—casual. Then she heard the door close.

The woman waited a few minutes. Then she opened her door. At the far end of the passage an Arab was flicking idly with a feather duster. He turned the corner out of sight.

The woman slipped quickly to the door of the next room. It was locked, but she had expected that. The hairpin she had with her and the blade of a small knife did the job quickly and expertly.

She went in, pushing the door to behind her. She picked up the note. The flap had only been stuck down lightly and opened easily. She read the note, frowning. There was no explanation there.

She sealed it up, put it back, and walked across the room.

There, with her hand outstretched, she was disturbed by voices through the window from the terrace below.

One was a voice that she knew to be the occupier of the room in which she was standing. A decided didactic voice, fully assured of itself.

She darted to the window.

Below on the terrace, Joan Sutcliffe, accompanied by her daughter Jennifer, a pale solid child of fifteen, was telling the world and a tall unhappy looking Englishman from the British Consulate just what she thought of the arrangements he had come to make.

‘But it’s absurd! I never heard such nonsense. Everything’s perfectly quiet here and everyone quite pleasant. I think it’s all a lot of panicky fuss.’

‘We hope so, Mrs Sutcliffe, we certainly hope so. But H.E. feels that the responsibility is such—’

Mrs Sutcliffe cut him short. She did not propose to consider the responsibility of ambassadors.

‘We’ve a lot of baggage, you know. We were going home by long sea—next Wednesday. The sea voyage will be good for Jennifer. The doctor said so. I really must absolutely decline to alter all my arrangements and be flown to England in this silly flurry.’

The unhappy looking man said encouragingly that Mrs Sutcliffe and her daughter could be flown, not to England, but to Aden and catch their boat there.

‘With our baggage?’

‘Yes, yes, that can be arranged. I’ve got a car waiting—a station wagon. We can load everything right away.’

‘Oh well.’ Mrs Sutcliffe capitulated. ‘I suppose we’d better pack.’

‘At once, if you don’t mind.’

The woman in the bedroom drew back hurriedly. She took a quick glance at the address on a luggage label on one of the suitcases. Then she slipped quickly out of the room and back into her own just as Mrs Sutcliffe turned the corner of the corridor.

The clerk from the office was running after her.

‘Your brother, the Squadron Leader, has been here, Mrs Sutcliffe. He went up to your room. But I think that he has left again. You must just have missed him.’

‘How tiresome,’ said Mrs Sutcliffe. ‘Thank you,’ she said to the clerk and went on to Jennifer, ‘I suppose Bob’s fussing too. I can’t see any sign of disturbance myself in the streets. This door’s unlocked. How careless these people are.’

‘Perhaps it was Uncle Bob,’ said Jennifer.

‘I wish I hadn’t missed him…Oh, there’s a note.’ She tore it open.

‘At any rate Bob isn’t fussing,’ she said triumphantly. ‘He obviously doesn’t know a thing about all this. Diplomatic wind up, that’s all it is. How I hate trying to pack in the heat of the day. This room’s like an oven. Come on, Jennifer, get your things out of the chest of drawers and the wardrobe. We must just shove everything in anyhow. We can repack later.’

‘I’ve never been in a revolution,’ said Jennifer thoughtfully.

‘I don’t expect you’ll be in one this time,’ said her mother sharply. ‘It will be just as I say. Nothing will happen.’

Jennifer looked disappointed.

Chapter 3
Introducing Mr Robinson

It was some six weeks later that a young man tapped discreetly on the door of a room in Bloomsbury and was told to come in.

It was a small room. Behind a desk sat a fat middle-aged man slumped in a chair. He was wearing a crumpled suit, the front of which was smothered in cigar ash. The windows were closed and the atmosphere was almost unbearable.

‘Well?’ said the fat man testily, and speaking with half-closed eyes. ‘What is it now, eh?’

It was said of Colonel Pikeaway that his eyes were always just closing in sleep, or just opening after sleep. It was also said that his name was not Pikeaway and that he was not a colonel. But some people will say anything!

‘Edmundson, from the F.O., is here sir.’

‘Oh,’ said Colonel Pikeaway.

He blinked, appeared to be going to sleep again and muttered:

‘Third secretary at our Embassy in Ramat at the time of the Revolution. Right?’

‘That’s right, sir.’

‘I suppose, then, I’d better see him,’ said Colonel Pikeaway without any marked relish. He pulled himself into a more upright position and brushed off a little of the ash from his paunch.

Mr Edmundson was a tall fair young man, very correctly dressed with manners to match, and a general air of quiet disapproval.

‘Colonel Pikeaway? I’m John Edmundson. They said you—er—might want to see me.’

‘Did they? Well, they should know,’ said Colonel Pikeaway. ‘Siddown,’ he added.

His eyes began to close again, but before they did so, he spoke:

‘You were in Ramat at the time of the Revolution?’

‘Yes, I was. A nasty business.’

‘I suppose it would be. You were a friend of Bob Rawlinson’s, weren’t you?’

‘I know him fairly well, yes.’

‘Wrong tense,’ said Colonel Pikeaway. ‘He’s dead.’

‘Yes, sir, I know. But I wasn’t sure—’ he paused.

‘You don’t have to take pains to be discreet here,’ said Colonel Pikeaway. ‘We know everything here. Or if we don’t, we pretend we do. Rawlinson flew Ali Yusuf out of Ramat on the day of the Revolution. Plane hasn’t been heard of since. Could have landed in some inaccessible place, or could have crashed. Wreckage of a plane has been found in the Arolez mountains. Two bodies. News will be released to the Press tomorrow. Right?’

Edmundson admitted that it was quite right.

‘We know all about things here,’ said Colonel Pikeaway. ‘That’s what we’re for. Plane flew into the mountain. Could have been weather conditions. Some reason to believe it was sabotage. Delayed action bomb. We haven’t got the full reports yet. The plane crashed in a pretty inaccessible place. There was a reward offered for finding it, but these things take a long time to filter through. Then we had to fly out experts to make an examination. All the red tape, of course. Applications to a foreign government, permission from ministers, palm greasing—to say nothing of the local peasantry appropriating anything that might come in useful.’

He paused and looked at Edmundson.

‘Very sad, the whole thing,’ said Edmundson. ‘Prince Ali Yusuf would have made an enlightened ruler, with democratic principles.’

‘That’s what probably did the poor chap in,’ said Colonel Pikeaway. ‘But we can’t waste time in telling sad stories of the deaths of kings. We’ve been asked to make certain—inquiries. By interested parties. Parties, that is, to whom Her Majesty’s Government is well disposed.’ He looked hard at the other. ‘Know what I mean?’

‘Well, I have heard something.’ Edmundson spoke reluctantly.

‘You’ve heard perhaps, that nothing of value was found on the bodies, or amongst the wreckage, or as far as is known, had been pinched by the locals. Though as to that, you can never tell with peasants. They can clam up as well as the Foreign Office itself. And what else have you heard?’

‘Nothing else.’

‘You haven’t heard that perhaps something of value ought to have been found? What did they send you to me for?’

‘They said you might want to ask me certain questions,’ said Edmundson primly.

‘If I ask you questions I shall expect answers,’ Colonel Pikeaway pointed out.

‘Naturally.’

‘Doesn’t seem natural to you, son. Did Bob Rawlinson say anything to you before he flew out of Ramat? He was in Ali’s confidence if anyone was. Come now, let’s have it. Did he say anything?’

‘As to what, sir?’

Colonel Pikeaway stared hard at him and scratched his ear.

‘Oh, all right,’ he grumbled. ‘Hush up this and don’t say that. Overdo it in my opinion! If you don’t know what I’m talking about, you don’t know, and there it is.’

‘I think there was something—’ Edmundson spoke cautiously and with reluctance. ‘Something important that Bob might have wanted to tell me.’

‘Ah,’ said Colonel Pikeaway, with the air of a man who has at last pulled the cork out of a bottle. ‘Interesting. Let’s have what you know.’

‘It’s very little, sir. Bob and I had a kind of simple code. We’d cottoned on to the fact that all the telephones in Ramat were being tapped. Bob was in the way of hearing things at the Palace, and I sometimes had a bit of useful information to pass on to him. So if one of us rang the other up and mentioned a girl or girls, in a certain way, using the term “out of this world” for her, it meant something was up!’

‘Important information of some kind or other?’

‘Yes. Bob rang me up using those terms the day the whole show started. I was to meet him at our usual rendezvous—outside one of the banks. But rioting broke out in that particular quarter and the police closed the road. I couldn’t make contact with Bob or he with me. He flew Ali out the same afternoon.’

‘I see,’ said Pikeaway. ‘No idea where he was telephoning from?’

‘No. It might have been anywhere.’

‘Pity.’ He paused and then threw out casually:

‘Do you know Mrs Sutcliffe?’

‘You mean Bob Rawlinson’s sister? I met her out there, of course. She was there with a schoolgirl daughter. I don’t know her well.’

‘Were she and Bob Rawlinson very close?’

Edmundson considered.

‘No, I shouldn’t say so. She was a good deal older than he was, and rather much of the elder sister. And he didn’t much like his brother-in-law—always referred to him as a pompous ass.’

‘So he is! One of our prominent industrialists—and how pompous can they get! So you don’t think it likely that Bob Rawlinson would have confided an important secret to his sister?’

‘It’s difficult to say—but no, I shouldn’t think so.’

‘I shouldn’t either,’ said Colonel Pikeaway.

He sighed. ‘Well, there we are, Mrs Sutcliffe and her daughter are on their way home by the long sea route. Dock at Tilbury on the Eastern Queen tomorrow.’

He was silent for a moment or two, whilst his eyes made a thoughtful survey of the young man opposite him. Then, as though having come to a decision, he held out his hand and spoke briskly.

‘Very good of you to come.’

‘I’m only sorry I’ve been of such little use. You’re sure there’s nothing I can do?’

‘No. No. I’m afraid not.’

John Edmundson went out.

The discreet young man came back.

‘Thought I might have sent him to Tilbury to break the news to the sister,’ said Pikeaway. ‘Friend of her brother’s—all that. But I decided against it. Inelastic type. That’s the F.O. training. Not an opportunist. I’ll send round what’s his name.’

‘Derek?’

‘That’s right,’ Colonel Pikeaway nodded approval. ‘Getting to know what I mean quite well, ain’t you?’

‘I try my best, sir.’

‘Trying’s not enough. You have to succeed. Send me along Ronnie first. I’ve got an assignment for him.’

II

Colonel Pikeaway was apparently just going off to sleep again when the young man called Ronnie entered the room. He was tall, dark, muscular, and had a gay and rather impertinent manner.

Colonel Pikeaway looked at him for a moment or two and then grinned.

‘How’d you like to penetrate into a girls’ school?’ he asked.

‘A girls’ school?’ The young man lifted his eyebrows. ‘That will be something new! What are they up to? Making bombs in the chemistry class?’

‘Nothing of that kind. Very superior high-class school. Meadowbank.’

‘Meadowbank!’ the young man whistled. ‘I can’t believe it!’

‘Hold your impertinent tongue and listen to me. Princess Shaista, first cousin and only near relative of the late Prince Ali Yusuf of Ramat, goes there this next term. She’s been at school in Switzerland up to now.’

‘What do I do? Abduct her?’

‘Certainly not. I think it possible she may become a focus of interest in the near future. I want you to keep an eye on developments. I’ll have to leave it vague. I don’t know what or who may turn up, but if any of our more unlikeable friends seem to be interested, report it…A watching brief, that’s what you’ve got.’

The young man nodded.

‘And how do I get in to watch? Shall I be the drawing master?’

‘The visiting staff is all female.’ Colonel Pikeaway looked at him in a considering manner. ‘I think I’ll have to make you a gardener.’

‘A gardener?’

‘Yes. I’m right in thinking you know something about gardening?’

‘Yes, indeed. I ran a column on Your Garden in the Sunday Mail for a year in my younger days.’

‘Tush!’ said Colonel Pikeaway. ‘That’s nothing! I could do a column on gardening myself without knowing a thing about it—just crib from a few luridly illustrated Nurseryman’s catalogues and a Gardening Encyclopedia. I know all the patter. “Why not break away from tradition and sound a really tropical note in your border this year? Lovely Amabellis Gossiporia, and some of the wonderful new Chinese hybrids of Sinensis Maka foolia. Try the rich blushing beauty of a clump of Sinistra Hopaless, not very hardy but they should be all right against a west wall.”’ He broke off and grinned. ‘Nothing to it! The fools buy the things and early frost sets in and kills them and they wish they’d stuck to wallflowers and forget-me-nots! No, my boy, I mean the real stuff. Spit on your hands and use the spade, be well acquainted with the compost heap, mulch diligently, use the Dutch hoe and every other kind of hoe, trench really deep for your sweet peas—and all the rest of the beastly business. Can you do it?’

‘All these things I have done from my youth upwards!’

‘Of course you have. I know your mother. Well, that’s settled.’

‘Is there a job going as a gardener at Meadowbank?’

‘Sure to be,’ said Colonel Pikeaway. ‘Every garden in England is short staffed. I’ll write you some nice testimonials. You’ll see, they’ll simply jump at you. No time to waste, summer term begins on the 29th.’

‘I garden and I keep my eyes open, is that right?’

‘That’s it, and if any oversexed teenagers make passes at you, Heaven help you if you respond. I don’t want you thrown out on your ear too soon.’

He drew a sheet of paper towards him. ‘What do you fancy as a name?’

‘Adam would seem appropriate.’

‘Last name?’

‘How about Eden?’

‘I’m not sure I like the way your mind is running. Adam Goodman will do very nicely. Go and work out your past history with Jenson and then get cracking.’ He looked at his watch. ‘I’ve no more time for you. I don’t want to keep Mr Robinson waiting. He ought to be here by now.’

Adam (to give him his new name) stopped as he was moving to the door.

‘Mr Robinson?’ he asked curiously. ‘Is he coming?’

‘I said so.’ A buzzer went on the desk. ‘There he is now. Always punctual, Mr Robinson.’

‘Tell me,’ said Adam curiously. ‘Who is he really? What’s his real name?’

‘His name,’ said Colonel Pikeaway, ‘is Mr Robinson. That’s all I know, and that’s all anybody knows.’

III

The man who came into the room did not look as though his name was, or could ever have been, Robinson. It might have been Demetrius, or Isaacstein, or Perenna—though not one or the other in particular. He was not definitely Jewish, nor definitely Greek nor Portuguese nor Spanish, nor South American. What did seem highly unlikely was that he was an Englishman called Robinson. He was fat and well dressed, with a yellow face, melancholy dark eyes, a broad forehead, and a generous mouth that displayed rather over-large very white teeth. His hands were well shaped and beautifully kept. His voice was English with no trace of accent.

He and Colonel Pikeaway greeted each other rather in the manner of two reigning monarchs. Politenesses were exchanged.

Then, as Mr Robinson accepted a cigar, Colonel Pikeaway said:

‘It is very good of you to offer to help us.’

Mr Robinson lit his cigar, savoured it appreciatively, and finally spoke.

‘My dear fellow. I just thought—I hear things, you know. I know a lot of people, and they tell me things. I don’t know why.’

Colonel Pikeaway did not comment on the reason why.

He said:

‘I gather you’ve heard that Prince Ali Yusuf’s plane has been found?’

‘Wednesday of last week,’ said Mr Robinson. ‘Young Rawlinson was the pilot. A tricky flight. But the crash wasn’t due to an error on Rawlinson’s part. The plane had been tampered with—by a certain Achmed—senior mechanic. Completely trustworthy—or so Rawlinson thought. But he wasn’t. He’s got a very lucrative job with the new régime now.’

‘So it was sabotage! We didn’t know that for sure. It’s a sad story.’

‘Yes. That poor young man—Ali Yusuf, I mean—was ill equipped to cope with corruption and treachery. His public school education was unwise—or at least that is my view. But we do not concern ourselves with him now, do we? He is yesterday’s news. Nothing is so dead as a dead king. We are concerned, you in your way, I in mine, with what dead kings leave behind them.’

‘Which is?’

Mr Robinson shrugged his shoulders.

‘A substantial bank balance in Geneva, a modest balance in London, considerable assets in his own country now taken over by the glorious new régime (and a little bad feeling as to how the spoils have been divided, or so I hear!), and finally a small personal item.’

‘Small?’

‘These things are relative. Anyway, small in bulk. Handy to carry upon the person.’

‘They weren’t on Ali Yusuf’s person, as far as we know.’

‘No. Because he had handed them over to young Rawlinson.’

‘Are you sure of that?’ asked Pikeaway sharply.

‘Well, one is never sure,’ said Mr Robinson apologetically. ‘In a palace there is so much gossip. It cannot all be true. But there was a very strong rumour to that effect.’

‘They weren’t on young Rawlinson’s person, either—’

‘In that case,’ said Mr Robinson, ‘it seems as though they must have been got out of the country by some other means.’

‘What other means? Have you any idea?’

‘Rawlinson went to a café in the town after he had received the jewels. He was not seen to speak to anyone or approach anyone whilst he was there. Then he went to the Ritz Savoy Hotel where his sister was staying. He went up to her room and was there for about 20 minutes. She herself was out. He then left the hotel and went to the Merchants Bank in Victory Square where he cashed a cheque. When he came out of the bank a disturbance was beginning. Students rioting about something. It was some time before the square was cleared. Rawlinson then went straight to the airstrip where, in company with Sergeant Achmed, he went over the plane.

‘Ali Yusuf drove out to see the new road construction, stopped his car at the airstrip, joined Rawlinson and expressed a desire to take a short flight and see the dam and the new highway construction from the air. They took off and did not return.’

‘And your deductions from that?’

‘My dear fellow, the same as yours. Why did Bob Rawlinson spend twenty minutes in his sister’s room when she was out and he had been told that she was not likely to return until evening? He left her a note that would have taken him at most three minutes to scribble. What did he do for the rest of the time?’

‘You are suggesting that he concealed the jewels in some appropriate place amongst his sister’s belongings?’

‘It seems indicated, does it not? Mrs Sutcliffe was evacuated that same day with other British subjects. She was flown to Aden with her daughter. She arrives at Tilbury, I believe, tomorrow.’

Pikeaway nodded.

‘Look after her,’ said Mr Robinson.

‘We’re going to look after her,’ said Pikeaway. ‘That’s all arranged.’

‘If she has the jewels, she will be in danger.’ He closed his eyes. ‘I so much dislike violence.’

‘You think there is likely to be violence?’

‘There are people interested. Various undesirable people—if you understand me.’

‘I understand you,’ said Pikeaway grimly.

‘And they will, of course, double cross each other.’

Mr Robinson shook his head. ‘So confusing.’

Colonel Pikeaway asked delicately: ‘Have you yourself any—er—special interest in the matter?’

‘I represent a certain group of interests,’ said Mr Robinson. His voice was faintly reproachful. ‘Some of the stones in question were supplied by my syndicate to his late highness—at a very fair and reasonable price. The group of people I represent who were interested in the recovery of the stones, would, I may venture to say, have had the approval of the late owner. I shouldn’t like to say more. These matters are so delicate.’

‘But you are definitely on the side of the angels,’ Colonel Pikeaway smiled.

‘Ah, angels! Angels—yes.’ He paused. ‘Do you happen to know who occupied the rooms in the hotel on either side of the room occupied by Mrs Sutcliffe and her daughter?’

Colonel Pikeaway looked vague.

‘Let me see now—I believe I do. On the left hand side was Señora Angelica de Toredo—a Spanish—er—dancer appearing at the local cabaret. Perhaps not strictly Spanish and perhaps not a very good dancer. But popular with the clientèle. On the other side was one of a group of school-teachers, I understand—’

Mr Robinson beamed approvingly.

‘You are always the same. I come to tell you things, but nearly always you know them already.’

‘No no.’ Colonel Pikeaway made a polite disclaimer.

‘Between us,’ said Mr Robinson, ‘we know a good deal.’

Their eyes met.

‘I hope,’ Mr Robinson said rising, ‘that we know enough—’

Chapter 4
Return of a Traveller

‘Really!’ said Mrs Sutcliffe, in an annoyed voice, as she looked out of her hotel window, ‘I don’t see why it always has to rain when one comes back to England. It makes it all seem so depressing.’

‘I think it’s lovely to be back,’ said Jennifer. ‘Hearing everyone talk English in the streets! And we’ll be able to have a really good tea presently. Bread and butter and jam and proper cakes.’

‘I wish you weren’t so insular, darling,’ said Mrs Sutcliffe. ‘What’s the good of my taking you abroad all the way to the Persian Gulf if you’re going to say you’d rather have stayed at home?’

‘I don’t mind going abroad for a month or two,’ said Jennifer. ‘All I said was I’m glad to be back.’

‘Now do get out of the way, dear, and let me make sure that they’ve brought up all the luggage. Really, I do feel—I’ve felt ever since the war that people have got very dishonest nowadays. I’m sure if I hadn’t kept an eye on things that man would have gone off with my green zip bag at Tilbury. And there was another man hanging about near the luggage. I saw him afterwards on the train. I believe, you know, that these sneak thieves meet the boats and if the people are flustered or seasick they go off with some of the suitcases.’

‘Oh, you’re always thinking things like that, Mother,’ said Jennifer. ‘You think everybody you meet is dishonest.’

‘Most of them are,’ said Mrs Sutcliffe grimly.

‘Not English people,’ said the loyal Jennifer.

‘That’s worse,’ said her mother. ‘One doesn’t expect anything else from Arabs and foreigners, but in England one’s off guard and that makes it easier for dishonest people. Now do let me count. That’s the big green suitcase and the black one, and the two small brown and the zip bag and the golf clubs and the racquets and the hold-all and the canvas suitcase—and where’s the green bag? Oh, there it is. And that local tin we bought to put the extra things in—yes, one, two, three, four, five, six—yes, that’s all right. All fourteen things are here.’

‘Can’t we have some tea now?’ said Jennifer.

‘Tea? It’s only three o’clock.’

‘I’m awfully hungry.’

‘All right, all right. Can you go down by yourself and order it? I really feel I must have a rest, and then I’ll just unpack the things we’ll need for tonight. It’s too bad your father couldn’t have met us. Why he had to have an important directors’ meeting in Newcastle-on-Tyne today I simply cannot imagine. You’d think his wife and daughter would come first. Especially as he hasn’t seen us for three months. Are you sure you can manage by yourself?’

‘Good gracious, Mummy,’ said Jennifer, ‘what age do you think I am? Can I have some money, please? I haven’t got any English money.’

She accepted the ten shilling note her mother handed to her, and went out scornfully.

The telephone rang by the bed. Mrs Sutcliffe went to it and picked up the receiver.

‘Hallo…Yes…Yes, Mrs Sutcliffe speaking…’

There was a knock at the door. Mrs Sutcliffe said, ‘Just one moment’ to the receiver, laid it down and went over to the door. A young man in dark blue overalls was standing there with a small kit of tools.

‘Electrician,’ he said briskly. ‘The lights in this suite aren’t satisfactory. I’ve been sent up to see to them.’

‘Oh—all right…’

She drew back. The electrician entered.

‘Bathroom?’

‘Through there—beyond the other bedroom.’

She went back to the telephone.

‘I’m so sorry…What were you saying?’

‘My name is Derek O’Connor. Perhaps I might come up to your suite, Mrs Sutcliffe. It’s about your brother.’

‘Bob? Is there—news of him?’

‘I’m afraid so—yes.’

‘Oh…Oh, I see…Yes, come up. It’s on the third floor, 310.’

She sat down on the bed. She already knew what the news must be.

Presently there was a knock on the door and she opened it to admit a young man who shook hands in a suitably subdued manner.

‘Are you from the Foreign Office?’

‘My name’s Derek O’Connor. My chief sent me round as there didn’t seem to be anybody else who could break it to you.’

‘Please tell me,’ said Mrs Sutcliffe. ‘He’s been killed. Is that it?’

‘Yes, that’s it, Mrs Sutcliffe. He was flying Prince Ali Yusuf out from Ramat and they crashed in the mountains.’

‘Why haven’t I heard—why didn’t someone wireless it to the boat?’

‘There was no definite news until a few days ago. It was known that the plane was missing, that was all. But under the circumstances there might still have been hope. But now the wreck of the plane has been found…I am sure you will be glad to know that death was instantaneous.’

‘The Prince was killed as well?’

‘Yes.’

‘I’m not at all surprised,’ said Mrs Sutcliffe. Her voice shook a little but she was in full command of herself. ‘I knew Bob would die young. He was always reckless, you know—always flying new planes, trying new stunts. I’ve hardly seen anything of him for the last four years. Oh well, one can’t change people, can one?’

‘No,’ said her visitor, ‘I’m afraid not.’

‘Henry always said he’d smash himself up sooner or later,’ said Mrs Sutcliffe. She seemed to derive a kind of melancholy satisfaction from the accuracy of her husband’s prophecy. A tear rolled down her cheek and she looked for her handkerchief. ‘It’s been a shock,’ she said.

‘I know—I’m awfully sorry.’

‘Bob couldn’t run away, of course,’ said Mrs Sutcliffe. ‘I mean, he’d taken on the job of being the Prince’s pilot. I wouldn’t have wanted him to throw in his hand. And he was a good flier too. I’m sure if he ran into a mountain it wasn’t his fault.’

‘No,’ said O’Connor, ‘it certainly wasn’t his fault. The only hope of getting the Prince out was to fly in no matter what conditions. It was a dangerous flight to undertake and it went wrong.’

Mrs Sutcliffe nodded.

‘I quite understand,’ she said. ‘Thank you for coming to tell me.’

‘There’s something more,’ said O’Connor, ‘something I’ve got to ask you. Did your brother entrust anything to you to take back to England?’

‘Entrust something to me?’ said Mrs Sutcliffe. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Did he give you any—package—any small parcel to bring back and deliver to anyone in England?’

She shook her head wonderingly. ‘No. Why should you think he did?’

‘There was a rather important package which we think your brother may have given to someone to bring home. He called on you at your hotel that day—the day of the Revolution, I mean.’

‘I know. He left a note. But there was nothing in that—just some silly thing about playing tennis or golf the next day. I suppose when he wrote that note, he couldn’t have known that he’d have to fly the Prince out that very afternoon.’

‘That was all it said?’

‘The note? Yes.’

‘Have you kept it, Mrs Sutcliffe?’

‘Kept the note he left? No, of course I haven’t. It was quite trivial. I tore it up and threw it away. Why should I keep it?’

‘No reason,’ said O’Connor. ‘I just wondered.’

‘Wondered what?’ said Mrs Sutcliffe crossly.

‘Whether there might have been some—other message concealed in it. After all—’ he smiled, ‘—There is such a thing as invisible ink, you know.’

‘Invisible ink!’ said Mrs Sutcliffe, with a great deal of distaste, ‘do you mean the sort of thing they use in spy stories?’

‘Well, I’m afraid I do mean just that,’ said O’Connor, rather apologetically.

‘How idiotic,’ said Mrs Sutcliffe. ‘I’m sure Bob would never use anything like invisible ink. Why should he? He was a dear matter-of-fact sensible person.’ A tear dripped down her cheek again. ‘Oh dear, where is my bag? I must have a handkerchief. Perhaps I left it in the other room.’

‘I’ll get it for you,’ said O’Connor.

He went through the communicating door and stopped as a young man in overalls who was bending over a suitcase straightened up to face him, looking rather startled.

‘Electrician,’ said the young man hurriedly. ‘Something wrong with the lights here.’

O’Connor flicked a switch.

‘They seem all right to me,’ he said pleasantly.

‘Must have given me the wrong room number,’ said the electrician.

He gathered up his tool bag and slipped out quickly through the door to the corridor.

O’Connor frowned, picked up Mrs Sutcliffe’s bag from the dressing-table and took it back to her.

‘Excuse me,’ he said, and picked up the telephone receiver. ‘Room 310 here. Have you just sent up an electrician to see to the light in this suite? Yes…Yes, I’ll hang on.’

He waited.

‘No? No, I thought you hadn’t. No, there’s nothing wrong.’

He replaced the receiver and turned to Mrs Sutcliffe.

‘There’s nothing wrong with any of the lights here,’ he said. ‘And the office didn’t send up an electrician.’

‘Then what was that man doing? Was he a thief?’

‘He may have been.’

Mrs Sutcliffe looked hurriedly in her bag. ‘He hasn’t taken anything out of my bag. The money is all right.’

‘Are you sure, Mrs Sutcliffe, absolutely sure that your brother didn’t give you anything to take home, to pack among your belongings?’

‘I’m absolutely sure,’ said Mrs Sutcliffe.

‘Or your daughter—you have a daughter, haven’t you?’

‘Yes. She’s downstairs having tea.’

‘Could your brother have given anything to her?’

‘No, I’m sure he couldn’t.’

‘There’s another possibility,’ said O’Connor. ‘He might have hidden something in your baggage among your belongings that day when he was waiting for you in your room.’

‘But why should Bob do such a thing? It sounds absolutely absurd.’

‘It’s not quite so absurd as it sounds. It seems possible that Prince Ali Yusuf gave your brother something to keep for him and that your brother thought it would be safer among your possessions than if he kept it himself.’

‘Sounds very unlikely to me,’ said Mrs Sutcliffe.

‘I wonder now, would you mind if we searched?’

‘Searched through my luggage, do you mean? Unpack?’ Mrs Sutcliffe’s voice rose with a wail on that word.

‘I know,’ said O’Connor. ‘It’s a terrible thing to ask you. But it might be very important. I could help you, you know,’ he said persuasively. ‘I often used to pack for my mother. She said I was quite a good packer.’

He exerted all the charm which was one of his assets to Colonel Pikeaway.

‘Oh well,’ said Mrs Sutcliffe, yielding, ‘I suppose—If you say so—if, I mean, it’s really important—’

‘It might be very important,’ said Derek O’Connor.

‘Well, now,’ he smiled at her. ‘Suppose we begin.’

II

Three quarters of an hour later Jennifer returned from her tea. She looked round the room and gave a gasp of surprise.

‘Mummy, what have you been doing?’

‘We’ve been unpacking,’ said Mrs Sutcliffe crossly. ‘Now we’re packing things up again. This is Mr O’Connor. My daughter Jennifer.’

‘But why are you packing and unpacking?’

‘Don’t ask me why,’ snapped her mother. ‘There seems to be some idea that your Uncle Bob put something in my luggage to bring home. He didn’t give you anything, I suppose, Jennifer?’

‘Uncle Bob give me anything to bring back? No. Have you been unpacking my things too?’

‘We’ve unpacked everything,’ said Derek O’Connor cheerfully, ‘and we haven’t found a thing and now we’re packing them up again. I think you ought to have a drink of tea or something, Mrs Sutcliffe. Can I order you something? A brandy and soda perhaps?’ He went to the telephone.

‘I wouldn’t mind a good cup of tea,’ said Mrs Sutcliffe.

‘I had a smashing tea,’ said Jennifer. ‘Bread and butter and sandwiches and cake and then the waiter brought me more sandwiches because I asked him if he’d mind and he said he didn’t. It was lovely.’

O’Connor ordered the tea, then he finished packing up Mrs Sutcliffe’s belongings again with a neatness and a dexterity which forced her unwilling admiration.

‘Your mother seems to have trained you to pack very well,’ she said.

‘Oh, I’ve all sorts of handy accomplishments,’ said O’Connor smiling.

His mother was long since dead, and his skill in packing and unpacking had been acquired solely in the service of Colonel Pikeaway.

‘There’s just one thing more, Mrs Sutcliffe. I’d like you to be very careful of yourself.’

‘Careful of myself? In what way?’

‘Well,’ O’Connor left it vague. ‘Revolutions are tricky things. There are a lot of ramifications. Are you staying in London long?’

‘We’re going down to the country tomorrow. My husband will be driving us down.’

‘That’s all right then. But—don’t take any chances. If anything in the least out of the ordinary happens, ring 999 straight away.’

‘Ooh!’ said Jennifer, in high delight. ‘Dial 999. I’ve always wanted to.’

‘Don’t be silly, Jennifer,’ said her mother.

III

Extract from account in a local paper.

A man appeared before the Magistrate’s court yesterday charged with breaking into the residence of Mr Henry Sutcliffe with intent to steal. Mrs Sutcliffe’s bedroom was ransacked and left in wild confusion whilst the members of the family were at Church on Sunday morning. The kitchen staff who were preparing the mid-day meal, heard nothing. Police arrested the man as he was making his escape from the house. Something had evidently alarmed him and he had fled without taking anything.

Giving his name as Andrew Ball of no fixed abode, he pleaded guilty. He said he had been out of work and was looking for money. Mrs Sutcliffe’s jewellery, apart from a few pieces which she was wearing, is kept at her bank.

‘I told you to have the lock of that drawing-room french window seen to,’ had been the comment of Mr Sutcliffe in the family circle.

‘My dear Henry,’ said Mrs Sutcliffe, ‘you don’t seem to realize that I have been abroad for the last three months. And anyway, I’m sure I’ve read somewhere that if burglars want to get in they always can.’

She added wistfully, as she glanced again at the local paper:

‘How beautifully grand “kitchen staff” sounds. So different from what it really is, old Mrs Ellis who is quite deaf and can hardly stand up and that half-witted daughter of the Bardwells who comes in to help on Sunday mornings.’

‘What I don’t see,’ said Jennifer, ‘is how the police found out the house was being burgled and got here in time to catch him?’

‘It seems extraordinary that he didn’t take anything,’ commented her mother.

‘Are you quite sure about that, Joan?’ demanded her husband. ‘You were a little doubtful at first.’

Mrs Sutcliffe gave an exasperated sigh.

‘It’s impossible to tell about a thing like that straight away. The mess in my bedroom—things thrown about everywhere, drawers pulled out and overturned. I had to look through everything before I could be sure—though now I come to think of it, I don’t remember seeing my best Jacqmar scarf.’

‘I’m sorry, Mummy. That was me. It blew overboard in the Mediterranean. I’d borrowed it. I meant to tell you but I forgot.’

‘Really, Jennifer, how often have I asked you not to borrow things without telling me first?’

‘Can I have some more pudding?’ said Jennifer, creating a diversion.

‘I suppose so. Really, Mrs Ellis has a wonderfully light hand. It makes it worth while having to shout at her so much. I do hope, though, that they won’t think you too greedy at school. Meadowbank isn’t quite an ordinary school, remember.’

‘I don’t know that I really want to go to Meadowbank,’ said Jennifer. ‘I knew a girl whose cousin had been there, and she said it was awful. They spent all their time telling you how to get in and out of Rolls-Royces, and how to behave if you went to lunch with the Queen.’

‘That will do, Jennifer,’ said Mrs Sutcliffe. ‘You don’t appreciate how extremely fortunate you are in being admitted to Meadowbank. Miss Bulstrode doesn’t take every girl, I can tell you. It’s entirely owing to your father’s important position and the influence of your Aunt Rosamond. You are exceedingly lucky. And if,’ added Mrs Sutcliffe, ‘you are ever asked to lunch with the Queen, it will be a good thing for you to know how to behave.’

‘Oh well,’ said Jennifer. ‘I expect the Queen often has to have people to lunch who don’t know how to behave—African chiefs and jockeys and sheikhs.’

‘African chiefs have the most polished manners,’ said her father, who had recently returned from a short business trip to Ghana.

‘So do Arab sheikhs,’ said Mrs Sutcliffe. ‘Really courtly.’

‘D’you remember that sheikh’s feast we went to,’ said Jennifer. ‘And how he picked out the sheep’s eye and gave it to you, and Uncle Bob nudged you not to make a fuss and to eat it? I mean, if a sheikh did that with roast lamb at Buckingham Palace, it would give the Queen a bit of a jolt, wouldn’t it?’

‘That will do, Jennifer,’ said her mother and closed the subject.

IV

When Andrew Ball of no fixed abode had been sentenced to three months for breaking and entering, Derek O’Connor, who had been occupying a modest position at the back of the Magistrate’s Court, put through a call to a Museum number.

‘Not a thing on the fellow when we picked him up,’ he said. ‘We gave him plenty of time too.’

‘Who was he? Anyone we know?’

‘One of the Gecko lot, I think. Small time. They hire him out for this sort of thing. Not much brain but he’s said to be thorough.’

‘And he took his sentence like a lamb?’ At the other end of the line Colonel Pikeaway grinned as he spoke.

‘Yes. Perfect picture of a stupid fellow lapsed from the straight and narrow path. You’d never connect him with any big time stuff. That’s his value, of course.’

‘And he didn’t find anything,’ mused Colonel Pikeaway. ‘And you didn’t find anything. It rather looks, doesn’t it, as though there isn’t anything to find? Our idea that Rawlinson planted these things on his sister seems to have been wrong.’

‘Other people appear to have the same idea.’

‘It’s a bit obvious really…Maybe we are meant to take the bait.’

‘Could be. Any other possibilities?’

‘Plenty of them. The stuff may still be in Ramat. Hidden somewhere in the Ritz Savoy Hotel, maybe. Or Rawlinson passed it to someone on his way to the airstrip. Or there may be something in that hint of Mr Robinson’s. A woman may have got hold of it. Or it could be that Mrs Sutcliffe had it all the time unbeknownst to herself, and flung it overboard in the Red Sea with something she had no further use for.

‘And that,’ he added thoughtfully, ‘might be all for the best.’

‘Oh, come now, it’s worth a lot of money, sir.’

‘Human life is worth a lot, too,’ said Colonel Pikeaway.

Chapter 5
Letters from Meadowbank School

Letter from Julia Upjohn to her mother:

Dear Mummy,

I’ve settled in now and am liking it very much. There’s a girl who is new this term too called Jennifer and she and I rather do things together. We’re both awfully keen on tennis. She’s rather good. She has a really smashing serve when it comes off, but it doesn’t usually. She says her racquet’s got warped from being out in the Persian Gulf. It’s very hot out there. She was in all that Revolution that happened. I said wasn’t it very exciting, but she said no, they didn’t see anything at all. They were taken away to the Embassy or something and missed it.

Miss Bulstrode is rather a lamb, but she’s pretty frightening too—or can be. She goes easy on you when you’re new. Behind her back everyone calls her The Bull or Bully. We’re taught English literature by Miss Rich, who’s terrific. When she gets in a real state her hair comes down. She’s got a queer but rather exciting face and when she reads bits of Shakespeare it all seems different and real. She went on at us the other day about Iago, and what he felt—and a lot about jealousy and how it ate into you and you suffered until you went quite mad wanting to hurt the person you loved. It gave us all the shivers—except Jennifer, because nothing upsets her. Miss Rich teaches us Geography, too. I always thought it was such a dull subject, but it isn’t with Miss Rich. This morning she told us all about the spice trade and why they had to have spices because of things going bad so easily.

I’m starting Art with Miss Laurie. She comes twice a week and takes us up to London to see picture galleries as well. We do French with Mademoiselle Blanche. She doesn’t keep order very well. Jennifer says French people can’t. She doesn’t get cross, though, only bored. She says ‘Enfin, vous m’ennuiez, mes enfants!’ Miss Springer is awful. She does gym and P.T. She’s got ginger hair and smells when she’s hot. Then there’s Miss Chadwick (Chaddy)—she’s been here since the school started. She teaches mathematics and is rather fussy, but quite nice. And there’s Miss Vansittart who teaches History and German. She’s a sort of Miss Bulstrode with the pep left out.

There are a lot of foreign girls here, two Italians and some Germans, and a rather jolly Swede (she’s a Princess or something) and a girl who’s half Turkish and half Persian and who says she would have been married to Prince Ali Yusuf who got killed in that aeroplane crash, but Jennifer says that isn’t true, that Shaista only says so because she was a kind of cousin, and you’re supposed to marry a cousin. But Jennifer says he wasn’t going to. He liked someone else. Jennifer knows a lot of things but she won’t usually tell them.

I suppose you’ll be starting on your trip soon. Don’t leave your passport behind you like you did last time!!! And take your first aid kit in case you have an accident.

Love from Julia

Letter from Jennifer Sutcliffe to her mother:

Dear Mummy,

It really isn’t bad here. I’m enjoying it more than I expected to do. The weather has been very fine. We had to write a composition yesterday on ‘Can a good quality be carried to excess?’ I couldn’t think of anything to say. Next week it will be ‘Contrast the characters of Juliet and Desdemona.’ That seems silly too. Do you think I could have a new tennis racquet? I know you had mine restrung last Autumn—but it feels all wrong. Perhaps it’s got warped. I’d rather like to learn Greek. Can I? I love languages. Some of us are going to London to see the ballet next week. It’s Swan Lake. The food here is jolly good. Yesterday we had chicken for lunch, and we had lovely home made cakes for tea.

I can’t think of any more news—have you had any more burglaries?

Your loving daughter,

Jennifer

Letter from Margaret Gore-West, Senior Prefect, to her mother:

Dear Mummy,

There is very little news. I am doing German with Miss Vansittart this term. There is a rumour that Miss Bulstrode is going to retire and that Miss Vansittart will succeed her but they’ve been saying that for over a year now, and I’m sure it isn’t true. I asked Miss Chadwick (of course I wouldn’t dare ask Miss Bulstrode!) and she was quite sharp about it. Said certainly not and don’t listen to gossip. We went to the ballet on Tuesday. Swan Lake. Too dreamy for words!

Princess Ingrid is rather fun. Very blue eyes, but she wears braces on her teeth. There are two new German girls. They speak English quite well.

Miss Rich is back and looking quite well. We did miss her last term. The new Games Mistress is called Miss Springer. She’s terribly bossy and nobody likes her much. She coaches you in tennis very well, though. One of the new girls, Jennifer Sutcliffe, is going to be really good, I think. Her backhand’s a bit weak. Her great friend is a girl called Julia. We call them the Jays!

You won’t forget about taking me out on the 20th, will you? Sports Day is June 19th.

Your Loving

Margaret

Letter from Ann Shapland to Dennis Rathbone:

Dear Dennis,

I shan’t get any time off until the third week of term. I should like to dine with you then very much. It would have to be Saturday or Sunday. I’ll let you know.

I find it rather fun working in a school. But thank God I’m not a schoolmistress! I’d go raving mad.

Yours ever,

Ann

Letter from Miss Johnson to her sister:

Dear Edith,

Everything much the same as usual here. The summer term is always nice. The garden is looking beautiful and we’ve got a new gardener to help old Briggs—young and strong! Rather good looking, too, which is a pity. Girls are so silly.

Miss Bulstrode hasn’t said anything more about retiring, so I hope she’s got over the idea. Miss Vansittart wouldn’t be at all the same thing. I really don’t believe I would stay on.

Give my love to Dick and to the children, and remember me to Oliver and Kate when you see them.

Elspeth

Letter from Mademoiselle Angèle Blanche to René Dupont, Post Restante, Bordeaux.

Dear René,

All is well here, though I cannot say that I amuse myself. The girls are neither respectful nor well behaved. I think it better, however, not to complain to Miss Bulstrode. One has to be on one’s guard when dealing with that one!

There is nothing interesting at present to tell you.

Mouche

Letter from Miss Vansittart to a friend:

Dear Gloria,

The summer term has started smoothly. A very satisfactory set of new girls. The foreigners are settling down well. Our little Princess (the Middle East one, not the Scandinavian) is inclined to lack application, but I suppose one has to expect that. She has very charming manners.

The new Games Mistress, Miss Springer, is not a success. The girls dislike her and she is far too high-handed with them. After all, this is not an ordinary school. We don’t stand or fall by P.T.! She is also very inquisitive, and asks far too many personal questions. That sort of thing can be very trying, and is so ill bred. Mademoiselle Blanche, the new French Mistress, is quite amiable but not up to the standard of Mademoiselle Depuy.

We had a near escape on the first day of term. Lady Veronica Carlton-Sandways turned up completely intoxicated!! But for Miss Chadwick spotting it and heading her off, we might have had a most unpleasant incident. The twins are such nice girls, too.

Miss Bulstrode has not said anything definite yet about the future—but from her manner, I think her mind is definitely made up. Meadowbank is a really fine achievement, and I shall be proud to carry on its traditions.

Give my love to Marjorie when you see her.

Yours ever,

Eleanor

Letter to Colonel Pikeaway, sent through the usual channels:

Talk about sending a man into danger! I’m the only able-bodied male in an establishment of, roughly, some hundred and ninety females.

Her Highness arrived in style. Cadillac of squashed strawberry and pastel blue, with Wog Notable in native dress, fashion-plate-from-Paris wife, and junior edition of same (H.R.H.).

Hardly recognized her the next day in her school uniform. There will be no difficulty in establishing friendly relations with her. She has already seen to that. Was asking me the names of various flowers in a sweet innocent way, when a female Gorgon with freckles, red hair, and a voice like a corncrake bore down upon her and removed her from my vicinity. She didn’t want to go. I’d always understood these Oriental girls were brought up modestly behind the veil. This one must have had a little worldly experience during her schooldays in Switzerland, I think.

The Gorgon, alias Miss Springer, the Games Mistress, came back to give me a raspberry. Garden staff were not to talk to the pupils, etc. My turn to express innocent surprise. ‘Sorry, Miss. The young lady was asking what these here delphiniums was. Suppose they don’t have them in the parts she comes from.’ The Gorgon was easily pacified, in the end she almost simpered. Less success with Miss Bulstrode’s secretary. One of these coat and skirt country girls. French mistress is more cooperative. Demure and mousy to look at, but not such a mouse really. Also have made friends with three pleasant gigglers, Christian names, Pamela, Lois and Mary, surnames unknown, but of aristocratic lineage. A sharp old war-horse called Miss Chadwick keeps a wary eye on me, so I’m careful not to blot my copybook.

My boss, old Briggs, is a crusty kind of character whose chief subject of conversation is what things used to be in the good old days, when he was, I suspect, the fourth of a staff of five. He grumbles about most things and people, but has a wholesome respect for Miss Bulstrode herself. So have I. She had a few words, very pleasant, with me, but I had a horrid feeling she was seeing right through me and knowing all about me.

No sign, so far, of anything sinister—but I live in hope.

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