‘No,’ said O’Connor, ‘it certainly wasn’t his fault. The only hope of getting the Prince out was to fly in no matter what conditions. It was a dangerous flight to undertake and it went wrong.’

Mrs Sutcliffe nodded.

‘I quite understand,’ she said. ‘Thank you for coming to tell me.’

‘There’s something more,’ said O’Connor, ‘something I’ve got to ask you. Did your brother entrust anything to you to take back to England?’

‘Entrust something to me?’ said Mrs Sutcliffe. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Did he give you any—package—any small parcel to bring back and deliver to anyone in England?’

She shook her head wonderingly. ‘No. Why should you think he did?’

‘There was a rather important package which we think your brother may have given to someone to bring home. He called on you at your hotel that day—the day of the Revolution, I mean.’

‘I know. He left a note. But there was nothing in that—just some silly thing about playing tennis or golf the next day. I suppose when he wrote that note, he couldn’t have known that he’d have to fly the Prince out that very afternoon.’

‘That was all it said?’

‘The note? Yes.’

‘Have you kept it, Mrs Sutcliffe?’

‘Kept the note he left? No, of course I haven’t. It was quite trivial. I tore it up and threw it away. Why should I keep it?’

‘No reason,’ said O’Connor. ‘I just wondered.’

‘Wondered what?’ said Mrs Sutcliffe crossly.

‘Whether there might have been some—other message concealed in it. After all—’ he smiled, ‘—There is such a thing as invisible ink, you know.’

‘Invisible ink!’ said Mrs Sutcliffe, with a great deal of distaste, ‘do you mean the sort of thing they use in spy stories?’

‘Well, I’m afraid I do mean just that,’ said O’Connor, rather apologetically.

‘How idiotic,’ said Mrs Sutcliffe. ‘I’m sure Bob would never use anything like invisible ink. Why should he? He was a dear matter-of-fact sensible person.’ A tear dripped down her cheek again. ‘Oh dear, where is my bag? I must have a handkerchief. Perhaps I left it in the other room.’

‘I’ll get it for you,’ said O’Connor.

He went through the communicating door and stopped as a young man in overalls who was bending over a suitcase straightened up to face him, looking rather startled.

‘Electrician,’ said the young man hurriedly. ‘Something wrong with the lights here.’

O’Connor flicked a switch.

‘They seem all right to me,’ he said pleasantly.

‘Must have given me the wrong room number,’ said the electrician.

He gathered up his tool bag and slipped out quickly through the door to the corridor.

O’Connor frowned, picked up Mrs Sutcliffe’s bag from the dressing-table and took it back to her.

‘Excuse me,’ he said, and picked up the telephone receiver. ‘Room 310 here. Have you just sent up an electrician to see to the light in this suite? Yes…Yes, I’ll hang on.’

He waited.

‘No? No, I thought you hadn’t. No, there’s nothing wrong.’