And away I went. So there wasn’t a mark of any kind on the prince’s motorcar. Surely if it had been involved in an accident there would have been some trace—a chip of paint gone, a small scratch at the very least. But the chauffeur would have noticed when he polished the motorcar. So either he was not revealing any damage out of loyalty to his master or Prince George had not been in an accident that night. Which of course made one wonder what else might have made him arrive late at dinner.

I REALIZED IT didn’t look good for my cousin the prince. Means and motive, wasn’t that what they said in the police force? He clearly had both. I realized I should inform DCI Pelham of my suspicions—both about Prince George and about Countess Irmtraut. But I worried that the DCI’s approach might be heavy-handed, and I could see the press would have a field day if Prince George was dragged into a police motorcar. That would make newspaper reporters start digging deeper and who knew how much they might find out. At the very least it could upset the wedding plans.

And if he did it? I asked myself. If he really did kill Bobo? Wasn’t it my job to help bring a murderer to justice? I sighed. Then I remembered Sir Jeremy. He had given me his card with a personal telephone number on it. He would be the one to tell. And it would be up to him if and when he informed Scotland Yard. I came out of the southern gates of the park and saw a red telephone box glowing through the fog. I went inside and dialed the number. A strange voice answered but when I asked for Sir Jeremy I was put straight through.

“Lady Georgiana—you have something for me?”

“I’m not sure,” I said. “There are two things you should know about.”

“Don’t tell me now,” he said. “Can we meet somewhere later today?”

“I’m taking the princess shopping this morning and we are attending a party this evening,” I said.

“Then let’s meet for tea. There’s a little tea shop on Knightsbridge called the Copper Kettle. I know the owner—we can talk safely there. Shall we say three thirty?”

I put down the receiver and came out into the fog. Indistinct shapes of people bundled up in scarves passed me as I headed for Belinda’s mews cottage. I knocked on the door and waited. It was distinctly chilly and unpleasant standing in the mews. I knocked again, more loudly this time. She was known to be a sound sleeper and a late riser, but my hammering on her front door should have awakened the dead. I squatted down.

“Belinda,” I called through the letter box, “come and open the door. It’s me, Georgie.”