Crowned and Dangerous (A Royal Spyness Mystery) (25 page)

W
EDNESDAY
, D
ECEMBER
5

I
N
D
UBL
IN
AND
HOPE
AT
LAST
.

We meet a splendid barrister.

“I can’t wait to hear what they’ve been doing at the embassy,” Zou Zou said as we stepped out of the warmth of the Shelbourne into the blustery cold of St. Stephen’s Green. “Perhaps they’ll already have identified our Mr. Roach.” She raised a hand to clamp her adorable little hat to her head in the strong wind and with the other clasped her mink around her. “How exciting. This really is positively thrilling, Darcy. Thank you for drawing me away from dreary London.”

“I hardly arranged this for your enjoyment, Alexandra,” Darcy shouted back over the wind.

She hurried to catch up with him. “I know that, my darling. But I can’t help finding it thrilling. I feel just like Hercule Poirot. Do you ever read mystery novels? So clever.”

We retrieved the Rolls and drove along the river back to Phoenix
Park and the embassy. The promised rain had not yet reached us but the wind was buffeting the bare trees and tossing around the seagulls as they flew overhead. We parked the car close to the door and made a dash inside without getting blown away. The same lanky young man was at the reception desk. He rose this time as we came in.

“Good morning,” Darcy said. “My name is O’Mara. We were here yesterday, about the Timothy Roach murder, and we have brought more pertinent information. Was it the ambassador himself we were speaking with yesterday?”

“It was.” The young man came around the desk. “However, the ambassador is otherwise occupied today and I’d be pleased to help you.”

“Oh, I really don’t think . . .” Darcy began. “Maybe we should come back at another time?”

“If I could just have a word, Mr. O’Mara?” the man said. “If you’d care to step this way.”

He took Darcy’s arm and ushered him off down a side hallway. I sensed we were being given what the Americans would call the brush-off. Our matter was not important enough for the ambassador himself, or somebody didn’t want us getting involved. Perhaps the inspector from the Garda had warned the Americans not to include us in any more details. We waited, and a minute or two later the men returned, both looking grave.

“If you’d care to follow me to a reception room,” the man said. At least we were not being shown the door. Perhaps we would be waiting for the ambassador to be free. We were shown into a pleasant room overlooking the gardens. The view would have been lovely in summer, I thought. Now the rhododendron bushes were dancing crazily and sleet was already peppering the windows. We took our places on the sofa and armchairs around the fire. The lanky American pulled up a straight-backed chair and sat facing us. This was unexpected. I shot Darcy a glance.

“This is Mr. Lennox,” Darcy said. “He has been notified about us and I think he’s just the person we need to help us.”

He didn’t say it but now I realized that this was the man planted at the embassy from the FBI, the man who could get things moving. Darcy introduced us and told Mr. Lennox about our escapade the afternoon before. “So we now have photographs of the man’s employee, as well as his fingerprints.”

“Well done.” Lennox nodded appreciation to Zou Zou and me. “That was smart thinking.”

“I hope the prints are clear enough,” Zou Zou said. “I made sure the photograph was wiped clean before I handed it to him.”

“I’m sure we’ll be able to glean some good prints from it,” Lennox said. “And get them off to Washington for a match.”

“Won’t that take an awfully long time?” Zou Zou asked.

“Not at all. We now have the facility to send photographs via the cable, just as one would a message. Brilliant technology, developed by RCA a few years ago. Now AT and T has a facsimile service that can send a picture in six minutes. Speeds things up no end. If this man has a criminal record of any kind, we should know in a day or two.”

“How absolutely clever of you.” Zou Zou gave him her dazzling smile, which made him blush bright red. I was rather glad I didn’t have that effect on men.

“And speaking of fingerprints,” Lennox went on, “I have some news to share with you. I went to the morgue yesterday to take the victim’s fingerprints, and . . . he doesn’t appear to have any.”

“Oh, do fingerprints fade after death?” Zou Zou asked.

Lennox shook his head. “No. The tissue shrinks and wrinkles, of course, but it is normally possible to get fingerprints for quite some time. This man has no fingerprints for one of two reasons: either he worked with acids, in a profession such as a printer, etcher, photography developer, and his prints were burned away over time, or”—and he paused, looking at each of us in turn—“or his prints
were deliberately removed. Filed smooth, or even replaced with a skin graft. We’re inclined to suspect the latter. We suspect he has had some quite sophisticated surgery done to his face. There is a slight scar along his left cheek and another at his hairline. So either he is a Germanic type who was involved in duels or an attempt was made to change his appearance.”

“Golly,” I said, swallowing back the word too late. I really didn’t want Princess Alexandra to think that I used such childish expressions. “Can they really do that?”

“It would take a highly skilled doctor, but yes, it can be done and we know it has been done.”

“Then that must have been the doctor who came to see him,” I exclaimed. I turned to Lennox. “Lord Kilhenny overheard a conversation between Roach and an American doctor. It was implied that he might have to undergo another operation and Roach seemed unwilling. But the doctor told him it might be necessary.”

“Meaning that someone had found out where he was and who he was,” Lennox said. “I wonder if Lord Kilhenny can describe this doctor for us. We know of a couple of medical men who have made a good living altering the facial features of criminals.”

“So if this man has no fingerprints and his facial features have been altered it will be impossible to know who he was, won’t it?” I asked.

Lennox nodded. “It will certainly make it tough.”

“So our photographs and fingerprints of the manservant might be crucial,” Zou Zou said with a grin of satisfaction. “How super if you and I solved the case, Georgie.”

“You did the interviewing and got the fingerprints. I just took the pictures, and I hope they came out all right,” I replied.

“I’m sure they could be helpful,” Mr. Lennox said. “But if the prints don’t show up on any of the FBI’s lists of wanted criminals, it might take a while as our operatives show them to local law enforcement. In the meantime . . .” He left the rest of the sentence hanging.

“So you’ve already sent the dead man’s picture to Washington, have you?” Darcy asked.

Lennox nodded. “Yesterday. And he didn’t show up on the FBI’s wanted lists or we’d have heard by now. The only possibility seems to be a millionaire who vanished from his yacht a few years ago. The yacht was found off Florida with nobody on board. His wife’s body was later found washed ashore but he was never found and was presumed drowned. However, if he chose to fake his own death, he would have had the funds to do what this Mr. Roach did. And he is about the right build and coloring.”

“And perhaps his doctor came to warn him that someone was on his trail,” I suggested.

“Yes, it would certainly help to find out if a doctor who is known to us has been in Dublin. It’s too bad that there is no passport control between Ireland and England. He could have gone back to London or taken a ship out of Liverpool or Southampton by now. I’ll check with the shipping companies to see if any names come up.”

“And also see if Professor Peabody has left Ireland,” I said, making Lennox look up in surprise.

“Peabody? Who is he?”

“Someone calling himself Professor Peabody came to the archeological dig right outside the castle gates,” I said. “He claimed he was from the University of Southern Nebraska.”

Lennox frowned. “Oh right. You asked me about this yesterday. And I told you there was no such university. Peabody. We can see if anyone traveled under that name, or stayed under that name in Dublin.” He looked from Darcy to Zou Zou to me. “So that’s about all we can do for now. It’s a case of wait and see.”

“But you will give this information to the inspector, won’t you?” I said. “You will tell him that the man was almost definitely some kind of fugitive and the most likely reason he was killed was that somebody caught up with him. And that his death had nothing at all to do with Lord Kilhenny.”

Lennox made a face. “I’m afraid it’s not up to me to tell the police in a foreign country how to conduct their investigations. I have already reported to him the lack of fingerprints and the suspicion that he has had facial surgery, but it’s up to him what he concludes from that.”

I turned to Darcy. “We should go and see him ourselves. We have to tell him how your father’s fingerprints came to be on the club and suggest that he was framed.”

Darcy grimaced. “I don’t think he’d take kindly to a visit from us, telling him what he should be doing. It might have the opposite effect. You never know, he might decide to rush through my father’s trial before any information has time to come from America.”

“But a good barrister wouldn’t let him do that,” Zou Zou said triumphantly. “And we’ll have the best. I agree with Georgie. If Mr. Lennox is going to check with shipping companies to see if Professor Peabody has left the country, then the local police should be looking into whether he’s still in the neighborhood. And that’s something we could take on ourselves. I’d be happy to drive around asking at hotels and train stations within a radius of Kilhenny to see if anyone of his description has been seen.”

Mr. Lennox couldn’t stifle a grin. “I see you’ve assembled a keen team, Mr. O’Mara,” he said. “But I think you will find there are an awful lot of hotels and boardinghouses in Dublin alone. Impossible for one or two people to check them all out.”

“Then the police have to do it,” Zou Zou said. “We must go and see my barrister immediately and if he agrees to take the case, then we can use the weight of his name to get things moving. Come on.” She stood up. “Thank you, Mr. Lennox. I’m so glad we now have you as part of our team.” She gave him another beaming smile and he blushed yet again.

“Delighted to be of help, ma’am,” he said and scrambled to open the door for her.

“Well, that was an interesting development, wasn’t it?” I said as
we climbed into the Rolls and attempted to wrestle the doors from the wind. “I hope your father can give them a good description of the doctor. And we’ll get a good description of Professor Peabody from the girls at the dig.”

“And the young priest,” Darcy added. “Don’t forget about him. What better way to move around the Irish countryside than disguised as a priest.”

“I’m dying to know if Mickey the manservant really is a valet hired from an agency or whether he has any connection to the murder,” Zou Zou said. “I thought he had a frightfully suspicious face, didn’t you? I would never have hired a man who looked like that. Too shifty eyed.”

“I certainly would never have hired a man who spoke and behaved like that,” Darcy agreed. “But perhaps things are different in America. And perhaps, as we’ve said, he acted quite differently when he was doing his job. I’ve known plenty of servants who put on a frightfully posh accent when speaking with their masters, but are actually quite rough in speech among themselves.”

I laughed. “I must have the only servant who never attempts to put on any airs and graces for me.”

“But then she’s a hopeless case, we all admit that,” Darcy said.

“Then why don’t you dismiss her and get someone better?” Zou Zou looked puzzled.

“For two reasons,” I said. “Firstly I have no money to hire a top-quality maid, and secondly I feel obligated to keep her because I know that nobody else would hire her.”

“Then you must educate her,” Zou Zou said.

“Believe me, I’ve tried. She is either extremely thick or stubborn. I’m never sure which.”

“Where can this barrister be found?” Darcy asked, interrupting the treatise on Queenie. Zou Zou pulled the telegram from her purse and read out an address on Merrion Street.

We drove back into the center of Georgian Dublin with its
elegant weathered sandstone buildings. When we found the right one, we were admitted by a severe and efficient young woman.

“Sir Grenville has a luncheon appointment, so I hope you won’t keep him long,” she said. “Please wait while I tell him you’re here.”

We waited and then were shown into a well-appointed room—every item of furniture shouted good taste and luxury. Sir Grenville lived up to the impression his name had given me. Perfectly attired. Old school tie, longish steel gray hair and a distinguished profile. He came forward and held out his hand to the princess. “Princess Zamanska? I’ve had strict instructions from old Roddy Altringham that I’m to take good care of your friend. As it happens, I already know Lord Kilhenny. I believe we played cricket together in our youth. I’ve been following the case with interest.” He released Zou Zou’s hand and shook Darcy’s. “And you must be young O’Mara. My boy was at school with you.”

Darcy smiled. “Oh yes. I remember there was a Hobbes in Smythe House. That was your son? He was a good bit younger than I. A third former when I was in the sixth.”

“He told me you were a damn fine rugby player,” Sir Grenville said. “Wing forward, wasn’t it?”

I followed the conversation, thinking that I was observing that things worked pretty much the same way in Ireland as they did in England. You went to the right schools. You played sports together and then it was decided that you were the right sort of chap. Our kind. Our class. And if you were, then all went smoothly and you helped each other.

We were offered chairs and coffee. We told Sir Grenville everything we knew. He listened, took notes, asked questions. Then he looked up and said, “The problem here is that you cannot engage my services to take on your case. It is the solicitor who engages me. Who is he?”