So Mockford had paralleled – only more scientifically – Ranklin’s own thinking. However, he’d also gone further: “And there might be signs in that motor-car, human blood spots and so on, that nobody’s yet cleaned out. Now I’d like you to explain why we should give them time to clean it out.”
“I quite understand,” Ranklin said, “albeit, as you say, tenuous. What d’you know of this Rupert Peverell?”
“Nothing. Do you?”
“Not me, but-” Ranklin turned to Lieutenant Jay.
“He’s the second son of General Sir Caspar Peverell of Downshire Hall, and just come down from Cambridge where he acquired some rather extreme political views and a taste for free love.”
“You know him well?”
“Never met him,” Jay smiled.
Taken aback, Mockford blinked and paused, impressed by Jay’s encyclopaedic knowledge of upper-class gossip – but perhaps not just by that. Rupert Peverell sounded like somebody who didn’t get jumped on by policemen.
Ramming it home, McDaniel said reproachfully: “I did try to say, sir: the address given is in Belgrave Square.”
Jay said cheerily: “Yes, that’s the family’s London place.”
You didn’t go kicking down doors in Belgrave Square, either. Not unless you were a good friend of the family.
There was a long silence. Mockford clasped his hands at his chins and thought. McDaniel swung gently on his pivoting chair. Lacoste went on being stony-faced, only now gloomy with it.
At last Mockford raised his head. “I could have a beat bobby ask the men in the motor-car what they’re doing.”
“We know what they’re doing,” Ranklin said. “They’re keeping an eye on Ma’mselle Collomb. He’d just frighten them off.”
“Is your Bureau proposing to do anything about it?”
“We’re interested,” Ranklin said cautiously.
“When there’s any policing to be done in this town, the police are going to do it,” Mockford warned. Then he seemed to come to a decision. He hauled himself to his feet and suddenly became fawningly polite. “Thank you so much for taking the trouble to drop in on us, Captain Ranklin. And you too, Mr Hopkins. I do hope we’ll meet again soon.” It was as false as a half-crown gold watch, and intended to seem so. Except for the bit about meeting again soon, perhaps.
On the way out, Jay said: “He’s going to put watchers on that motor.”
“I think so. But you heard him: it’s his beat, not ours.”
“And they won’t be as good as O’Gilroy, so they’ll probably be spotted.”
“Let’s hope the two in the car aren’t as good, either.”
Ranklin was back well before five, but O’Gilroy had already been deputed to get the flat ready, which meant little more than putting decanters on the sideboard and ashtrays on the vast table. Jay had gone up to brief the Commander; they both came down soon after, and everyone sat down to wait for the voice-pipe to announce Quinton. Pedantically, he arrived on the dot of five.
Ranklin met him at the lift, explaining misleadingly: “This is just a quiet place we maintain. It’s right across from the War Office, so . . .” Implying that that was where their real offices were.
In the big, gloomy dining-room Quinton carefully placed his topcoat and hat on a chair and looked around. “I imagine this is a good place for extracting confessions.”
The Commander chuckled. “Not our business. And we took this as is when the previous tenant died.”
Quinton sat down. “I see he liked William Morris wallpaper.”
“Possibly better even than Morris did,” Ranklin said with feeling. “Can I get you a drink while the Commander does the introductions?”
So Ranklin was mixing a brandy-and-soda at the sideboard as the Commander reminded Quinton that he already knew Ranklin, and the others were “Lieutenant Jay” and “Mr Gorman from Paris”. The Commander might not remember to stick to those aliases; he was just spreading an aura of professional secrecy to make Quinton feel he was being allowed to stay up for dinner with the adults.
The table itself was too big for handshakes, so there were distant smiles and nods and Quinton carefully positioned his chair and briefcase to colonise his few square feet. Ranklin put his drink on the table and Quinton positioned that, too.
The Commander said: “Very well, the Steam Submarine Committee is in session again. We welcome Mr Noah Quinton to our humble table.”
“May I second that, chairman?” Jay said smoothly. “We’re well aware of Mr Quinton’s distinguished record in the law and honoured to have him join us.” This was obviously pre-planned: Jay didn’t normally say things like that. “And if I may presume to call on Mr Quinton’s extensive knowledge of the law, could he explain why young Grover Langhorn can never lawfully become king? – assuming, of course, that he is the King’s eldest son. Is it the Settlement Act of 1700-odd?”
“Not that one,” Quinton said briskly. “That’s mostly concerned with putting the House of Hanover on the throne and keeping Roman Catholics off it. No, it must go back earlier than that, but this isn’t a question that crops up every day, you know. I’d need to look up a few things.”
Since this was all a ploy to make Quinton feel important, Ranklin tried to keep him going by saying: “As I recall from my schooldays, when the Tudors were feuding about religion, both Mary and Elizabeth were declaring each other illegitimate and having Parliament re-legitimise themselves.”
Quinton nodded. “The very point being that illegitimacy would have kept them off the throne – so we have to look back even further than the Tudors. We’ll probably end up in common law.”
“Surely not common law?” Jay said, reverting to his usual self and getting a sharp look from the Commander.
“The common law of England,” Quinton said firmly, “is a sight more sensible and reliable than many of the half-baked measures dreamed up by Parliament these days.”
The Commander could agree on that. “Self-serving tradesmen,” he said in a cloud of pipe-smoke.
“And under common law principles of inheritance, neither property nor titles of honour can pass down an illegitimate line. Perhaps monarchy comes under ‘titles of honour’.”
The Commander sniffed loudly. “Let’s assume it does. After all, history’s full of royal bastards and none of them acceded to the throne. Now-”
But now Quinton had got the taste for exposition. “You know, this has interesting echoes of the Mylius case three years ago.”
Form his expression, the Commander could have managed without Mylius, but said politely: “Do tell us.”
“It was a criminal libel case. I believe the Palace wanted to ignore the whole thing, but the Home Secretary – then Winston Churchill – took a more aggressive line. Mylius – he was writing in an English-language paper published in Paris but distributed over here – claimed the King had secretly married a daughter of Admiral Culme-Seymour in Malta in eighteen-ninety. What he was really attacking was the supposed doctrine that the monarch can do no wrong.”
He paused and Ranklin asked: “Does that still hold?” He got a look from the Commander for encouraging the man.
“What Mylius wrote, and I quote -” he had even brought a paper to quote from “- was: ‘The King is above the law and can do no wrong. He may commit murder, rape, arson or any other crime, yet the law cannot try him.’ Of course, he could have pointed out that any diplomatist enjoys as much immunity, possibly more. However, the doctrine that the King can do no wrong is thought to obtain, for a constitutional monarch, only so long as the King does not act except upon the advice of his ministers. So unless one can envisage a minister advising the King to commit murder, rape or arson-”
“Lloyd George?” Jay suggested.