“You’ve done a good job.” Dad pushed back his chair. “Speak to Commander Woodhead tomorrow.”

The CID officer looked from one to the other of us. He had clearly decided to play the observer, not to break his vow of silence. He, too, made ready to move.

“Now, are you coming back with me, let your mother take care of you, or will Mr. Sykes give you a lift home?”

I stood. “Neither. I’m going to London.”

Sykes opened his mouth to speak, and shut it.

Dad said, “There are no trains to London at this time of night.”

The CID Chief Inspector finally spoke. “The last train is 10.45 p.m., arrives King’s Cross at 2.35 a.m.”

This rattled Dad. “Have you swallowed a timetable?”

“There’s no restaurant car,” the chief inspector said.

“Thank you. Dad, would you please leave a message for Commander Woodhead that I’ll be there at eleven tomorrow morning?”

The CID officer tactfully moved to leave. “Oh and we’ve brought in your car, Mrs. Shackleton. Preliminary investigation shows that the steering linkages have been tampered with. We’ll be taking fingerprints from everyone who had access to the vehicle.”

So Alec Taylor was right. I hoped that the pound burning a hole in his pocket did not also include payment for sabotage, and that his race to the wreck of my car was not simply belated remorse.

Would CID also obtain search warrants, I wondered.

As if anticipating that question, the CID officer hastily shook my hand. “Thank you, Mrs. Shackleton. We will be liaising with Scotland Yard. Goodnight, all.”

That left me with little hope. A deputy Lord Lieutenant of the County would not be someone easily taken into custody.

When the chief inspector had gone, I turned to Dad. “Dad, would you please put in a call to cousin James and say it’s imperative that he meet me at King’s Cross? If I talk to him, he’ll argue.”

James was in at the beginning of this. He would be able to tell me who skewed the investigation by dreaming up a story of Bolshevik gold.

“Who will go with you?”

Before Sykes could open his mouth, I said, “I’ll do this alone.”

Dad said, “You could be kidnapped.”

“White slavers and the yellow peril are the product of writers with a feverish imagination.”

“I know what I’m talking about, Kate.”

“All the more reason James had better be there to meet me.” I looked at my watch. “I hope there’s a seat on that train.”

Sykes chipped in. “You won’t be fighting anyone for a seat at this time of night. There’ll be no first class carriage, much less a ladies’ carriage.”

Neither Dad nor Sykes thought to mention that I looked a sight and hadn’t as much as a toothbrush with me.

For once, I didn’t care.