A rusty tin box was sitting on a chair next to her. Niven couldn’t imagine what it contained, although it was just the right size for a large severed head. He wouldn’t have been surprised. “What’s in the box?”
Nellie ignored the question. Niven had found her, after some searching, in the Crystal Cup. He should have known she’d be here, it was her place of safety. It was too early for Gwendolen to be in the club, and he wondered if she was still upstairs in the flat and if she remembered anything about last night.
* * *
—
She had been fast asleep when he had left her in the early hours, knocked out by the brandies and malts that she had drunk recklessly, one after the other. He wasn’t sure what had prompted this sudden bacchanal, but Oxford seemed to be involved somewhere along the line.
In the course of this dissipation she had, unprompted, told him the story of her life, ending with her coming to London. “And now,” she concluded cheerfully, “I am a spy.”
“I suspected as much,” he said. The influence of alcohol had made interrogation easy. “For Maddox?”
“No!”
“Azzopardi?”
“Who?”
“Who, then?”
“Frobisher, of course. He has me looking for evidence to bring your mother down. Bring all of you down, I suppose.”
Frobisher? Of course that made sense. Niven should have realized that she was in the sober employ of the law, she was hardly Mata Hari. “Isn’t secrecy the essence of spying?”
“I’ve given the game up,” she said. “I am done with it, done with Frobisher.” She laughed and said, “So—what are you going to do about it? Have me killed?”
“The same word but with two different letters in the middle.” She had drunk too much whisky to work it out so he said nothing and kissed her.
Just the one rather clumsy, whisky-flavoured kiss, but it disturbed him in a way he hadn’t expected. Not so Gwendolen, who drained her glass and, putting on a temptress’s voice, said, “I’m going to bed. I hope you’ll join me.” He had to stifle a laugh as he watched her weave her way across the room.
When he went to check on her after half an hour, he found her sprawled on her bed, dead to the world. No flannel and bed socks, her nightclothes seemed designed for a new bride. Even if she hadn’t been semi-conscious, Niven had no intention of bedding her. He pulled the covers over her and hung up her clothes, which had been jettisoned on the floor. Then he turned off the light and left.
* * *
—
“Well,” Nellie sniffed. “Did you enjoy your night with Miss Kelling? She is very wily, you have obviously been taken in by her charms. She’s working for Frobisher, you know.”
“What’s in the box?” Again she ignored the question and he sighed and said, “Ramsay saw your will. It upset him.”
“He shouldn’t be so nosy,” Nellie said. “Is that why you’re here? Or to talk about your ‘secret’ meetings with Azzopardi. I thought maybe you were planning to usurp me.”
“Me?” Niven laughed. “I’m the one looking out for your interests—I’m not sure anyone else is. Azzopardi tried to steal the title deeds for the clubs this morning.”
“No,” Nellie corrected. “Ramsay tried to steal them. He’s a traitor,” she said, almost fondly, as if he had proved his Coker credentials somehow.
“The important thing,” Niven said, “is that he didn’t give them to Azzopardi.” （What was in the box?）
“Do you have them?”
“They’re safe. Was Azzopardi going to make you sign them over by threatening you in some way?”
“He already has. Said he’d take Kitty and cut her into little pieces,” Nellie admitted. “He’d probably eat her as well, given the man’s gluttony. He had a dummy run at her the week before last, tried to take her off the street. Oh, it’s all right,” she said when she saw the look on Niven’s face. “She’s gone.”
“Gone?” Where had Kitty gone?
“Packed her off to a convent in St. Albans. Know some nuns there who owe me a favour.” （Nuns owed Nellie a favour?） “They’ll keep her well hidden.”
“Apparently,” Niven said, “you have something of his that Azzopardi wants back. Is it something to do with that box?”
Nellie sighed. “It’ll be Shirley or Betty that he goes after next. Can’t keep ’em all safe for ever.”