“Sir?” Cobb said, shuffling restlessly from one foot to the other. “Was there something else, sir?”
“No,” Frobisher snapped. But then, “Yes, wait a minute, here…” He took the crucifix out of his pocket. “Go round all the Catholic churches and see if anyone recognizes this.”
“All of them?” Cobb said sullenly.
“Yes, Cobb. All of them.”
“I would have thought one crucifix looked pretty much like another, sir.”
“You’re not paid to think, Cobb. Just go and get on with it.”
* * *
—
Where was Miss Kelling? Frobisher was beginning to fret about her non-appearance in Bow Street. She should have been here by now and she gave every impression of being the punctual type. He couldn’t deny the little leap his heart gave at the thought of her. Perhaps he could invite her for lunch somewhere. They could walk along to Simpson’s, but then she might think him thriftless if they ate there. Somewhere less expensive was called for, perhaps one of the Italian restaurants—Isola Bella in Frith Street, where they served something he had enjoyed called ravioli al sugo, introduced to him by Lottie in the days when they ate out and went to the theatre or walked in the parks. The honeymoon period, he thought of it now. It had been short, but then honeymoons generally were, he supposed. They had stepped into marriage in a frail barque that had long ago entered the doldrums and floundered in the deep. Miss Kelling, on the other hand, looked like someone who would steer a steady course. He had entangled his mind horribly in seafaring imagery, there seemed no way out of it except to abandon ship.
He wondered if her account of the evening would tally with Cobb’s. And then there she suddenly was—conjured into being and framed perfectly in the doorway of his office.
“Reporting for duty, sir,” she said, smiling and snapping a neat salute.
Frobisher jumped up from his desk to greet her and tried to think of something droll to say in response, but nothing came, droll or otherwise, so he shook her hand, thinking how cool it was to the touch. It must have soothed many an invalid brow during the war. Despite （much） evidence to the contrary, Frobisher retained a romantic view of nursing.
“Inspector?” she said, regarding him solicitously. “Are you feeling quite well? You look rather pale.”
“Quite well, thank you, Miss Kelling. Thank you for asking.”
The question of lunch reared its head again. Would she think he was trying to court her? （Was he?） And, of course, he supposed that where his heart leapt at the sight of her, hers might well sink at the sight of him. He must contain himself, and so instead of offering ravioli, he said, “Please have a seat, Miss Kelling. I am relieved that you have survived the Amethyst’s excesses.”
She laughed. “I survived them very successfully, Inspector. Now, shall we get straight down to the order of business—firstly, my report.”
“Please, go ahead.”
“My account, from memory, of my night ‘undercover’ in the Amethyst nightclub. Constable Cobb and I shared cocktails—Buster Browns, to be exact—lethal things, and then we danced for a while—he’s surprisingly light on his feet, for a policeman anyway. But I’m afraid when trouble broke out he proved useless, in fact he deserted his post. I was cashiered!” She laughed again, apparently entertained by the idea.
Frobisher felt a fresh acrimony towards Cobb. “He turned out to be rather slack, I’m afraid, Miss Kelling,” he admitted ruefully.
“There were rival gangs in the club, you see,” she continued blithely, “and they got into a bit of a gunfight.”
“Gunfight?” Frobisher knew this from Cobb, of course, but he was surprised how easily the word sat on her lips. She was battle-hardened, perhaps not just by the war.
“I’m not entirely sure what happened, but Pierrots were involved.”
“Pierrots?” Frobisher echoed. Dear God, was there no end to the dratted creatures?
“Yes, there was a gang, in fancy dress, apparently they had been out a-robbing. The something Huns.”
“Hackney.” She seemed to have reduced him to single-word responses, but at least now he had an explanation for the Pierrot that had been trawled from the Thames this morning.
“Yes, that’s it, Hackney Huns. One of them was shot—”
“Shot? A Pierrot? You’re sure?” This morning’s Pierrot had had his throat cut. How many murdered Pierrots were there, for heaven’s sake?