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By Root 460 0

The task before him was to point this uncertain dark horse at a rather taxing fence and he wanted to avoid scaring her off. Without appearing to do so, he studied the widow, assessing her strengths and qualities. Exactly what he was expecting. Apart from her age. She was middle-aged, possibly as much as forty, but at any rate, more than a decade younger than her late husband. Quite a normal age gap in military families. He could imagine that, with promotion in mind – possibly Colonel the next step – Somerton had been taken on one side by a superior officer and advised to marry. And, one summer, on home leave, he’d met and courted this woman. What had she said her name was? She’d rather particularly during the introductions corrected young Quantock. ‘Lady Somerton no longer,’ she’d informed them. ‘With Sir Stanley dead and the title gone to his son, my daughter-in-law is the present Lady Somerton. I am now to be addressed as Catherine, Lady Somerton.’ The voice was educated, Home Counties.

Her face was pale, enlivened by a gallant touch of rouge along the cheekbones. Quenched but pretty. Her hair was light brown, not greying yet, her eyes hazel. She’d chosen her dress well. Black, of course, but silk and well cut. The drama was relieved by a double strand of pearls around her throat and matching pearl earrings that peeped out just below her bobbed hair.

Joe enquired amiably and sympathetically about her flight over the Channel. She declared she’d enjoyed it but he set her brave comment against the betraying rise and fall of her pearls as she failed to restrain a gulp. The conversation, which was never going to be an easy one, felt as discordant as the strains of the Gallic version of ‘Nimrod’ filtering along the corridor and all three were relieved to draw it to a close.

Harry Quantock escorted his guests back to the front door where, to Joe’s surprise, an Embassy car was waiting for them. A manservant hurried forward with madame’s cape and monsieur’s hat. After routine farewells, Quantock handed Catherine Somerton into the back seat, closed the door and turned to speak softly to Joe: ‘His Excellency will be keen to hear the outcome of this business, you understand, Sandilands?’ A light smile softened the command. ‘As will Jack Pollock. Sir George’s cousin. He sends his respects and good wishes. He’ll be in touch.’

The morgue, illuminated as it now was by electric bulbs, was all the more sinister. The light had the effect of deepening the many dark corners, emphasizing the roughness of the walls and highlighting things better left in the shadows. Like shining a torch in the face of an old whore, Joe thought. Disturbing and unkind. But at least they were not faced, on entry, with a line-up of freshly delivered corpses to pass in review as had been the custom from the Middle Ages to the recent past. All the bodies apart from one had been filed away in the sliding steel cases along the back wall, Joe was relieved to see.

Dr Moulin was still at his post and waiting for them. He greeted Joe warmly and the two men went into their routine. Dignified and considerate, he checked that the lady was prepared for the sight of her husband’s corpse. Catherine Somerton hugged her cape about her, clutched her pearls, shivered and nodded.

‘Do you think we might take a look at Exhibit A before we begin?’ Joe asked and Moulin nodded his agreement. The dagger was produced for her inspection.

She made no attempt to handle it but looked at it carefully and turned a co-operative face to Joe. ‘I’m sorry, Commander. I’ve never seen it before.’

‘Did Sir Stanley keep a collection of knives at home?’

‘Ah. Where was his home? We had no such objects in the house in Kent. But you should be aware, Commander, that my husband lived for many years in India. He had a passion for the country that I could not share. I joined him there for the first year of our marriage but the climate did not agree with me and I returned. He could have amassed a collection of such artefacts and I would be unaware of their existence. This is, I take it, the very blade