The chief inspector had now gone very red in the face. “I work with facts, madam,” he said, either not knowing that she should be addressed as “Your Highness” or choosing to ignore it. “The facts are that there was no sign of forced entry into the castle. There were no visitors that day. Lord Kilhenny’s fingerprints were the only ones found on the club and he admits that he was so drunk he remembers nothing of the evening in question. Those are facts and good enough for me to come to the conclusion that Lord Kilhenny struck Timothy Roach, or whoever he is now, over the head with the club during an argument and killed him. Now if you will excuse me, I need to get back to work. I will have the photographs sent over to you, Mr. Wexler, and please keep me informed of any further developments.” He nodded to the American, then turned back to us. “And may I suggest to you ladies that you confine yourselves to more suitable pursuits like dances and dressmakers. A little knowledge is a very dangerous thing and you could end up only making things worse for the man you are trying to help.”

“Odious man,” Princess Zamanska muttered as he stalked out. “Even if I did not care so passionately about Darcy I should now feel compelled to throw myself into the fray on behalf of his father.”

Darcy had retrieved a calling card from his pocket. “I am currently staying at the lodge with my father,” he said, handing it to the American, who looked rather uncomfortable following the heated scene he had just witnessed. “I would appreciate it if you would contact me as soon as you have any pertinent information.”

“I certainly will, Mr. O’Mara.” The American held out a big hand and shook Darcy’s. “We could well find that someone is sent over from the States to assist in this investigation. And until I am advised how my government wishes to proceed, you can rest assured I will not allow any criminal trial to go forward.”

“Thank you,” Darcy said.

As we came out of the building the princess turned to Darcy. “Maybe one of us should go over and dig into this ourselves,” she said. “I’ve just been wondering whether my little aeroplane would make it across the Atlantic. It takes so horribly long by sea. Two weeks wasted in the crossings, and then trains and things. By then that boorish policeman will have your father convicted and hanged.”

Darcy shook his head. “Zou Zou, there is no way you can fly across the Atlantic Ocean. Don’t be ridiculous. You’re not Lindbergh.”

She shrugged. “I only wanted to do something useful, you know. I could buy a bigger plane. One that carries more fuel.”