At least that little interlude had helped me get my thoughts into order. First I must find Binky, I decided. Before I summoned the police, I had to know for certain that he had no part in the killing of de Mauxville, and the most likely place to find him would be his club. He had been taking his meals there since coming to London and it was where he felt comfortable. I tried to think positively: maybe his disappearance had nothing whatever to do with the body. Perhaps he had finally decided that it would be easier to take a room at his club and avoid walking home after dinner and several brandies.

He might have mentioned it to me, I thought angrily. Typical Binky.

I dialed the telephone exchange and asked to be connected to Brooks, which had been my grandfather’s club, my father’s, and was now Binky’s.

“May I help you?” said a quavering old voice.

“Could you please tell me if Lord Rannoch is currently in residence?” I asked.

“I’m afraid not, madam.”

“You mean he’s not in residence or you can’t tell me whether he is or isn’t?”

“Precisely, madam.”

“I am Lady Georgiana Rannoch, the duke’s sister, and I wish to speak to him on a matter of great urgency. Now, could you tell me whether he is in residence?”

“I’m afraid not, my lady.” The voice was unperturbed and it was quite clear that the old man was prepared to die rather than disclose the whereabouts of a club member to one of the opposite sex. There was nothing for it but to go there myself.

I went upstairs and changed out of the maid’s uniform, trying not to look at the bathroom door as I went past. The fact that Binky’s clothes had gone presumably meant that he wasn’t intending to come back. And I could only conclude the worst—that he had seen the body and panicked. Now I just hoped he wasn’t somewhere spilling the beans.

I took pen and paper and wrote him a note, in case he returned before I did. Binky. There is a corpse in the upstairs bathtub. Don’t do anything until I return. Above all, don’t telephone the police. We need to talk about what we should do. Love, Georgie.

I set off at a brisk pace up Picadilly to St. James’s Street, home of the oldest London clubs, went up the austere steps of Brooks, and rapped on the front door. It was opened by an extremely ancient hall porter with watery blue eyes, fine white baby hair, and a perpetual tremor.

“I’m sorry, madam. This is a gentlemen’s club,” he said, giving me a look of such horror that one might think I was standing on the doorstep dressed as Lady Godiva.