I lay listening to her breathing. Whiffy Featherstonehaugh. Wasn’t he the one who had helped Eduardo with the ropes, climbing on board at the last minute with a rope in his hand? But what kind of grudge could he possibly have against Binky or me? I did remember that he hadn’t been wet when he spoke to me. He had not dived in to save me.

Chapter 22

Chapter 22

Rannoch House
Tuesday, May 3, 1932

I woke with a start as a hand touched me.

“It’s all right, my love. Only me,” came my grandfather’s calm voice, “but you’re wanted on the telephone.”

Sun was streaming in through the window. The storm had blown itself out during the night. I got up and slipped on my dressing gown, then I padded downstairs to the front hall.

“Hello?”

“Georgie, it’s me, Binky,” came the voice. “I’m at Scotland Yard. They’ve arrested me.”

“Arrested you? They’re mad. They have no evidence. They are just clutching at straws. What do you want me to do?”

“For one thing get in touch with Prendergast. I tried phoning but there’s nobody in their office yet.”

“Don’t worry, Binky. I’ll come to Scotland Yard immediately and get things sorted out. It’s that bumbling Inspector

Sugg. He can’t see an inch past his face. We’ll have you out of there in no time at all.”

“I hope so.” Binky sounded desperate. “I jolly well hope so. I mean, hell’s bells, Georgie. This shouldn’t happen to a chap. It’s humiliating, that’s what it is—being dragged in like a common criminal. They’ve even taken away my Conway-Stewart fountain pen with the gold nib that I got for my twenty-first. Apparently they thought I might want to stab myself with it. And I shudder to think what Fig will say when she finds out. In fact, hanging sounds rather preferable to facing her.”

I had to smile in spite of the gravity of the situation. “Hang on, Binky, and don’t say anything until our solicitor is with you. I’m coming over right away.”

I rushed upstairs and threw on a smart town suit—the sort of thing I’d use for opening bazaars. One had to look the part today. Then I wrote out a message for Young Mr. Prendergast and asked my grandfather to telephone his office on the stroke of nine thirty. I managed to drink a few sips from the cup of tea Granddad pressed on me then hailed the nearest taxi for Scotland Yard, which I entered like a ship in full sail.

“I am Lady Georgiana Rannoch. I have come to see my brother,” I said.

“I’m afraid that’s not possible,” I was told by a burly sergeant. “He’s being interviewed as we speak. If you’d care to take a seat and wait?”