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  “Oh Poppy, Poppy!” He pulled her back into his arms and kissed her head. “That’s what I wanted to talk to you about. To see if we can find a solution to this. Charles says there’s a newspaper in Kimberley – the town where he works – and he can get me a job there. Perhaps when I’m there I can see if they can give you a job too.”

  “In South Africa? You want me to move to South Africa?”

  “I want you to marry me!”

  Poppy felt faint. She had waited so long to hear those words. But not like this… She did not want to leave London. She did not want to leave her job at the Globe. She did not want to be separated from her family and friends. Her parents were up north, yes, but it was just a half-day’s train ride, not the weeks and weeks and weeks it would take on a boat to Africa. She’d never see them, nor Aunt Dot. And what about Rollo and Ike and Delilah? What about the career she was building in one of the most exciting cities in the world? Could she give all that up for love? And what if things didn’t work out in South Africa in that small town with the diamond mine? Maggie didn’t like her one bit; how long until that all blew up? And yet… and yet... she understood why Daniel would want to go. His children were his life, long before she had come into it…

  She started to cry, her tears soaking into the hessian. “Oh Daniel. I don’t know what to say. I – I –”

  There was a rap on the door. “Oi! Love birds. Rollo says you need to get a move on.”

  “Let’s talk about this later. When we have more time,” said Daniel.

  “Yes, let’s.” The words were like a mouthful of broken glass.

  CHAPTER 26

  The tears were still spilling down Poppy’s cheeks as the motorbike zig-zagged from Fleet Street to Scotland Yard, the rivulets freezing to mini glaciers in the biting winter air. Outside the police station Daniel helped Poppy out of the sidecar, folding the blanket and avoiding meeting her eyes. She took a moment to readjust her hat and wipe her face with the end of her scarf.

  Inside the charge office they were greeted by an uncharacteristically friendly Sergeant Barnes, the ends of his handlebar moustache waxed to a rapier point. “Miss Denby! I didn’t expect you back so soon. Have you got the Sherlock Holmes book yet?”

  Poppy forced a smile. “Not yet, but it’s near the top of my list. I’ll get it done by the end of the week, I promise.” I’m not sure how... perhaps I can arrange to interview him to get comment on Sir James’ death.

  Barnes’ half-scowl suggested she damn well better live up to her promise, or else! Meanwhile, as she had not yet proven to be completely unfaithful, he still made an effort to be helpful. “What can I do for you then, miss? Anyone bothering you again?” He cast a watchful eye over Daniel.

  “Well, sort of. It’s actually related to what happened last night. This morning I meant to bring in this note, but when you told me about the poisoning of Sir James, I – well – I – anyway, here it is now.” She spread out the note on the counter.

  Barnes took out a pair of pince-nez spectacles and read the note. He grunted.

  “You should have given this to me this morning, Miss Denby. This puts last night’s incident in another light. It’s not likely a drunk who has gone to the wrong house would take the time to write a note to the occupant before scarpering, is it?”

  “No, it isn’t,” said Poppy, adopting a chastised schoolgirl look. “You’re right, sergeant, I should have given it to you earlier. However, I’m giving it to you now. Along with this.” She spread the second note on the counter and placed both envelopes next to it. She explained the background to the note and drew the sergeant’s attention to the different handwriting on one of the envelopes. “So you see, as soon as I saw this second note – at Winterton Hall this morning – I realized that my note might not just be a harmless prank, but tied into the goings-on over the weekend.”

  “You mean Sir James Maddox’s murder?”

  “I do sergeant, yes. Can you give these to DCI Martin, please? I’m sure he’ll want to take some handwriting samples from the Winterton guests.”

  Barnes screwed up his nose to secure the pince-nez. “Why didn’t you give them to him yourself, Miss Denby? He’s just been out there. You must have seen him.”

  Poppy blinked her bluebell eyes, doubting that the tactic would have any impact on the doughty Barnes, but willing to give it a go. “I did. But – well – I wanted to compare the two to make sure they were written by the same person, and to hand them in together – which I’m doing now.”

  Barnes made a guttural sound at the back of his throat and jabbed a thick finger at the second note. “Who gave it to you?”

  “Someone at Winterton.”

  “Someone?”

  “A member of staff.”

  “You’ll have to do better than that.”

  Poppy remembered the promise she’d given to the footman that she would only hand the letters over if she and her colleagues thought there might be something in it. They did. But had she promised not to say it was him? She had implied it, yes, but she hadn’t actually said it. Nonetheless, she decided to stretch the truth a little, to protect young Mr Wallace for as long as she could. “It was a footman. I don’t know his name. It’s only the butler that introduces himself by name at these posh houses, you know. There are quite a few male servants at Winterton – and they all dress the same.” The last comment was accompanied with a cock of the head and a wry smile. Barnes’ face remained impassive.

  “You should have given it to DCI Martin as soon as you got it.”

  Poppy nodded, the chastised schoolgirl look back. “I should have, yes, and I’m sorry. Can you still give it to him though? And I’ll pop in later in the week as soon as I’ve got that Sherlock Holmes book for you. ‘To Gladys’, with a ‘y’.” She smiled.

  Behind the pince-nez were the eyes of a conflicted man: the police officer and the husband. Fortunately for Poppy, the husband won. “All right, I’ll give them to him. But don’t be surprised if he wants to interview you about it. And maybe even caution you for withholding evidence.”

  “I wasn’t withholding evidence, Sergeant Barnes. I’ve brought them to you!”

  Barnes made the guttural sound at the back of his throat again, then bent down under the desk to retrieve a brown evidence envelope. “Do it earlier next time.”

  Poppy promised that she would, thanked the sergeant, and, with Daniel in tow, left the charge office. Outside it was starting to snow again.

  Daniel looked up at the brooding sky. “I’ll call you a taxi to get to the museum. Not the best weather to be in a motorbike sidecar.”

  “I don’t mind,” said Poppy.

  “But I do,” said Daniel.

  Poppy bit her lip. Under ordinary circumstances she would have challenged Daniel about wrapping her up – unnecessarily – in cotton wool. But one look at his wretchedly sad face told her not to. The conversation in the dark room fell like a sleet curtain between them. They needed to talk more, but it would have to wait until the job was done. And the job for now entailed getting to the British Museum to find out what had happened at the meeting about the Nefertiti mask.

  Daniel hailed a black cab. Poppy got in and gave instructions, while out of the corner of her eye and with a heavy heart, she saw Daniel kick-start the motorbike and drive away at top speed.

  When the cab – a contraption even slower than the Globe’s Model T – eventually dropped Poppy on Great Russell Street, she could see there was already a press huddle waiting in the Greek portico outside the grand entrance to the museum. But instead of facing the doors of the museum, waiting for the official delegation to emerge, their attention was drawn to the foot of the marble steps, where two men were brawling, and two other men were trying to prise them apart.

  Poppy recognized one of the men trying to break up the scrap as Ike. She rushed through the gates, slipping and sliding on the slushy gravel. She steadied herself, not wanting a matching bruise to the one she already sported, then trudged doggedly on
towards the kerfuffle. As she drew closer she recognized the second man trying to act as peacemaker – shorter, slimmer and fairer-skinned – as Lionel Saunders from the Courier. And on the ground, legs and arms flailing, were the men’s respective photographers: Harry Gibson and Daniel Rokeby.

  “Daniel!” cried Poppy. “What are you doing? Stop it! Stop it!”

  With the combined efforts of Ike, Poppy, and Lionel, the brawling duo were finally wrenched apart. Both had bloodied noses. Both were spitting venom.

  “What the hell’s your problem, Rokeby?”

  “You’re my problem, Gibson, that’s what. Scaring women for kicks! You stay away from Poppy Denby!”

  “Are you drunk, man?” This was Lionel, his slight frame not likely to hold Gibson back if he chose to re-engage.

  Fortunately, Ike Garfield was a stronger specimen; and just as well, because from what Poppy could tell, Daniel had been – and still was – the aggressor.

  “What’s going on, Daniel?” she asked as he strained against Ike’s forearm.

  “He was insulting you, Poppy, suggesting you and I had done something improper. The man is a cad and a reprobate. I wouldn’t be surprised at all if he was the stalker.”

  “Stalker?” asked Lionel. “What are you on about?”

  “Ask him!” bellowed Daniel.

  “I’m asking you!” retorted Lionel, looking as if he was about to let Gibson back into the ring.

  “Calm it! All of you!” ordered Ike. But it didn’t look as if anyone was listening to him.

  Poppy stood between the two groups, her arms outstretched. “Ike’s right, calm down, everyone.”

  She turned to Harry Gibson, who was wiping his nose on his sleeve. “Mr Gibson, did you come to my house last night; around eight o’clock?”

  “Why would I do that?”

  “Did you?”

  “My whereabouts have got nothing to do with you, Miss Denby.” He spat out the word “miss”.

  “Answer her!” It was Ike, and this time it was he who looked like he might let his charge go. Man for man, it was obvious to all – including the gallery of pressmen above them in the portico – that if they teamed up, Ike and Daniel would wipe the floor with the Courier journos. Lionel Saunders seemed to realize the same thing.

  “Tell her, Harry. We’ve wasted enough time on this.”

  “Well, if you must know, we were at Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s last night interviewing him about his response to the death of James Maddox – not that it’s any of your business. Like everyone else, you can read about it in the morning edition.” He grinned, the blood from his nose pooling in the cracks of his teeth. “Scooped you! Ha!”

  “What time was that?” demanded Daniel.

  “Between seven and nine. And by the way, Lady Jean is doing much better, thanks for asking,” smirked Lionel. “Now, let’s call a truce. We’ve all got a job to do here.”

  “Write something down, then we will.” Poppy retrieved a notebook and pencil from her satchel and thrust it towards Harry Gibson.

  “What are you going on about?” asked Harry, swatting at the notebook.

  “Write: ‘my name is Harry Gibson and I am not a stalker’. If you do that, we’ll call it quits. Agreed?”

  “Are you mad?”

  “Yes, Miss Denby, are you mad?” Poppy spun around to see the disapproving face of DCI Jasper Martin, arms folded across his barrel chest. Behind him was his team from the Metropolitan Police Murder Squad.

  “I – I –”

  Martin put up his hand like a traffic warden. “I’m assuming this has something to do with the notes you dropped off at Scotland Yard. If so, then I too would like a writing sample from Mr Gibson… and,” he spun his head like a hooded viper, “from Mr Rokeby.”

  “Daniel? It wasn’t Daniel!”

  “Be quiet, Miss Denby! Do not interrupt me. If you’re not careful I will have you arrested for obstruction of justice.”

  “Obstruction of justice? What on earth have I done to obstruct justice?”

  “Poppy...” Ike let go of Daniel and put a restraining hand on her shoulder. She willed herself to calm down.

  “Sorry.”

  Martin waited a moment to see if she was truly compliant, then continued: “Actually, I will need a writing sample from everyone who was at Winterton Hall from Friday through Sunday, men and women included. And ah, it looks like I’ve arrived just at the right time.”

  Martin looked up to see the delegation from the Berlin, Cairo, New York Met, and British museums – as well as Marjorie Reynolds, Albert Carnaby, and Yasmin Reece-Lansdale – emerge from the museum. They stepped out onto the portico and were met with a barrage of flashes from the assembled press photographers, minus those of the Globe and Courier.

  “What did I tell you, Miss Denby? Plenty of birds with only one stone.”

  He scanned the group above him. “Hmm, no Fox Flinton.” He turned to the policemen behind him. “You, find Fox Flinton and get a sample from him. And you, round up Delilah Marconi and then drop by the Conan Doyles.”

  “What about Rollo Rolandson?” asked one of the policemen.

  “Don’t worry about him. We’ve already got a sample on file from the last time he was in the clanger. Oh, and when we’re finished here, take Rokeby and Gibson to the Yard and charge them with disturbing the peace.”

  “But – but –”

  “Be quiet Miss Denby!”

  CHAPTER 27

  The basement of the British Museum was an Aladdin’s cave of historic treasure. Lumps of stone, crudely carved by ancient men, were piled high next to crates of mosaic pieces and shards of pottery, waiting to be reassembled. On one wall hung exquisite silk hangings with motifs from the Far East, while on another were papyri and wood panels adorned with hieroglyphics. Statues from Egypt, Italy, Greece, Babylon, and South America glowered at the assembled archaeologists, politicians, and journalists as they were compelled to provide writing samples and fingerprints to the police.

  Yasmin Reece-Lansdale – to DCI Martin’s annoyance – made it clear to all present that they did not have to comply with his request as he did not have a court order and that none of them were under arrest. Despite this, most of the assembled “suspects” begrudgingly obliged, muttering that they might as well get it over and done with. Only Yasmin, Marjorie Reynolds, Dr Giles Mortimer, and Faizal Osman refused and huddled between the legs of the Bull of Nineveh that had been brought into the basement for repairs. They made it clear that they were not refusing as an admission of guilt, but rather as a statement of principle. Martin assured them that they were doing nothing more than wasting time and that he would get a judge to compel them by the end of the day. “You do that, DCI Martin, and we’ll be happy to comply,” said Yasmin.

  “Bloody difficult woman,” muttered Martin as he left the rebels under the bull to supervise the compliance of the rest of the rabble.

  Once Poppy had provided her own writing sample – to prove, Martin said, that she had not just written the notes herself to cause trouble – she joined her friends under the bull.

  “You didn’t have to do that,” Yasmin told her primly.

  “I know,” said Poppy, “but sometimes standing on principle is just cutting off one’s nose to spite one’s face.”

  “Standing on principle is never the wrong thing to do,” cut in Faizal Osman tartly.

  “I never said it was wrong, Dr Osman; I just don’t see the point when a judge will make us do it later anyway. And besides, I want the person who wrote those notes to be caught as soon as possible.” She went on to tell her friends about the disquieting events at the maze, the boat house, and Aunt Dot’s house.

  “Good gracious, Poppy, that’s terrifying! You should have called me. I would have come around immediately.”

  Poppy smiled at Marjorie Reynolds, just imagining her and her elderly butler – Mr Samuels – arriving at the town house brandishing umbrellas and walking sticks. “Thank you, Marjorie. But I think the police
man scared him away and the next door neighbour said he’d be able to come if I needed him.”

  “Nonetheless,” said Marjorie, “I think you should stay at my house until this stalker – and the murderer – are caught.” She gave Poppy her best “don’t argue with me I’m a Member of Parliament” look and Poppy had no choice but to give in.

  “Thank you, Marjorie.”

  “I wonder if the murderer and the stalker are the same person?” mused Miss El Farouk as she joined the group after submitting her writing sample.

  “Interesting question,” observed Dr Mortimer. “What do you think, Miss Denby?”

  Poppy swallowed hard. She decided not to tell him that he – and for that matter Faizal Osman – were on her “might possibly be the stalker” list, due to their hat choices and location – although, she admitted to herself, neither of them was very likely. “Well, it does seem as if there is some link, yes – at least between the shooting on Friday and the stalker. The notes were written by the same person. I’d be very interested to see those writing samples.” She craned her neck to see one of Martin’s men gathering up the sheets of paper. “What do you think my chances are of getting a look at them?”

  “About the same as a snowball’s chance in hell,” observed Yasmin. “However, if you do get arrested for obstruction of justice, I could subpoena them for your defence...”

  “Oh, I doubt he’ll really arrest me! Or do you think he will?” Poppy bit her lip, then noticed a twinkle in Yasmin’s eye. “You’re just pulling my leg, aren’t you?”

  Yasmin laughed, softening her fiercely beautiful Egyptian features.

  “Yes, I am. And all this hoo-ha about withholding writing samples is just to remind DCI Martin that procedures need to be followed. There might not be anything wrong with him asking for this today, but there have been times when evidence in cases I’ve worked on has been collected illegally and miscarriages of justice have taken place.”

  “So you’re just flexing your muscles, then?” observed her brother.

  “You could say that.”