“Arthur?”
“Edith. There you are.”
Even in the gloom of the Sphinx he could see how ill she looked. He made a move towards her and she shied away from his touch. “Edith,” he coaxed, “don’t be like this.”
“I was at death’s door,” she said.
Oh, God, Maddox sighed inwardly, here we go again.
“And I didn’t like what I saw on the other side.”
“I’m sure none of us would,” he said, trying to strike a more jovial note. “But you’re better now, I can see that.”
“Repentance,” she murmured softly, too softly for him to hear, and then it was as if they had come out of the walls. Women darting towards him, surrounding him, a horde of them swarming, like wasps, pressing close, as if they wanted to suffocate him. He recognized members of the Forty Thieves gang. Were they planning to rob him?
“Ladies, please,” he said, laughing. “You’ll crush me.”
Betty and Shirley stepped out of the swarm. Betty took the little silver knife from her pocket and handed it to Edith. “You do the honours, Edith, dearest,” Shirley said.
“Go on, Miss Edith,” Phyllis encouraged. “Stick it to ’im.”
Edith, however, needed no encouragement.
* * *
—
“This is a ghastly place,” Frobisher said to Gwendolen as they passed beneath the mask of Tutankhamun.
As they began to progress down the slope they heard the strangest noise. A great rasping, grating sound as though a heavy millstone was labouring to move. Or a fairground carousel was being wound into reluctant motion.
The noise had ceased by the time Frobisher and Gwendolen entered the club, leaving only a strange aura behind, as if something of significance had just happened. There were people in the club, all women, and Frobisher recognized several members of the Forty Thieves. They gave the impression of taking part in a game of Statues. The older Coker daughters were there as well and Frobisher was taken aback to see Edith again. She had blood on her hands. And not a metaphor, although perhaps it was. Lady Macbeth came to mind.
Gwendolen was spurred into action. “Are you all right?” she asked Edith. “Let me have a look at your hands. Have you been injured?”
Edith smiled beatifically and said, “Oh, no, don’t worry, it’s not my blood.” Frobisher wondered if she had gone mad. （Was everyone mad in some way?）
“Where is Maddox?” he asked sharply, not so much to Edith, too delicate for anger, but to the women gathered around her. A “coven” was the word that came to mind. “I watched him come in here, so don’t lie to me. What has happened to him?”
“Detective Chief Inspector Frobisher,” Nellie said, appearing from nowhere. “Another wild goose chase? I’m afraid Inspector Maddox has left. There is a door at the back of the club. It’s not a magic trick, I assure you.”
There was a murmur of agreement from the women, wasps buzzing around a queen.
The staff began to arrive, heralded by a couple of dance hostesses clattering down the stairs.
“If you will excuse me, we must get on,” Nellie said. “Our guests for the evening will be here soon.”
* * *
—
“I suspect we have been fooled again,” Frobisher said as they exited the Sphinx. He took a deep breath. Even the most noxious London air felt sweet compared to the Sphinx. “What do you think?”
“To be honest, I no longer know what I think. About anything.”
They parted. Every time he saw her now, he wondered if he would ever see her again. “Don’t be silly,” she said. “Of course, we’ll see each other again. We’re friends, aren’t we? And there is still work to do. There is Florence to find, and Maddox and Sergeant Oakes to be brought to justice.” She stood on tiptoe and kissed him lightly on the cheek. A moth’s wing.
* * *
—
Maddox’s body turned up the following day, on, of all places, the doorstep of Bow Street police station. He must have been dumped there sometime in the night, unseen by anyone.
Webb recorded that Inspector Arthur Maddox had been stabbed with a small, sharp-bladed knife. Big enough, he heard Frobisher say, although of course Frobisher himself was not present. Frobisher would never be present again. Webb hadn’t liked Frobisher very much, but he was sorry to hear about what had happened to him.
Mother’s Milk
Niven parked his car in the mews behind Hanover Terrace. There was room for only one car in the garage. Through the dusty, cobwebbed window he could see that the Bentley was at home. Niven glanced up at Hawker’s window above the garage to see if there was any sign of him. They usually saluted each other. He occasionally went up to Hawker’s flat and drank a glass of beer with him. Inevitably, the talk would come round to the war. Hawker had been behind the wheel during the war, too, driving a four-star general. “So never near the action,” he said wryly.