Chapter Thirty
THIRTY
The hired car bore Daisy, Sakari, and the two Russians westward. Both Miss Zvereva and the goldsmith started talking urgently to the driver, a grey-bearded man who could have been the one Daisy saw at the Café Royal, or his twin. They spoke in Russian, of course.
“Where are we going?” Daisy asked.
“One moment, please.” Miss Zvereva plunged back into the urgent talk, which began to sound more like a vigorous dispute.
The car slowed to a crawl. Daisy had half a mind to hop out while the hopping was good, but Sakari wasn’t capable of hopping so Daisy stayed put.
“Where are we going?” she said again.
“Is not far.” Miss Zvereva peered out of the rear window with an anxious look. “I explain when we are there.”
The incomprehensible argument resumed, but the car speeded up as much as traffic allowed. The driver turned on to the Embankment. Where on earth were they bound? Charing Cross Station? No, they passed the station and continued towards Whitehall. Scotland Yard? Surely not Scotland Yard!
“Are they going to confess to your husband?” Sakari whispered.
“Who knows? Perhaps they have new evidence to report?”
“Who knows! Why do they bring us?”
“Who knows?”
But the car drove on. At Parliament Square, a policeman on point duty held them up. Daisy considered appealing to him for help, but how on earth would she explain that while she could easily have got out, Sakari was insufficiently mobile?
Victoria Street. Victoria Station?
They passed the station approach and turned into Buckingham Palace Road. A moment later, the car pulled up in front of a church. Daisy and Sakari exchanged glances of mutual bafflement.
“We are here.” Miss Zvereva’s announcement could not have been less enlightening. “Please, we get out now.”
Daisy was more than willing. While Miss Zvereva helped Sakari and the goldsmith paid the now sullen and silent driver, she glanced at the notice board announcing the name of the church and the hours of services and was startled to find it written in both English and Russian.
“It’s Russian Orthodox!” she exclaimed as the car drove off, watched by both the Russians.
“Please, you will come inside now. We have tell driver you want to see Russian church, but he is suspicious. Perhaps he go to my father. We must be quick.”
“I shall be happy to see the church,” said Sakari. “However, you have another purpose, do you not?”
A joyful smile transformed Miss Zvereva’s face. “We marry! If you wish, will be witnesses? Will make Vasya and me happy.”
Daisy was too surprised to speak.
“We shall be delighted,” Sakari acquiesced. “Shall we not, Daisy?”
“Oh, yes, of course.”
They went in, Vasya giving Sakari his arm up the steps with great solicitude.
In the vestibule, Vasya said gravely, “You will wait here, please. Only baptised in orthodox faith are allowed inside. I will make doors to stay open so you can see. Wedding ceremony is short.”
He opened the doors. Even by candlelight, the interior was dazzlingly colourful. The reredos was painted with images of saints and angels, and icons bright with gold hung on the walls and pillars.
“It reminds me of a Hindu temple,” Sakari remarked sotto voce. “We too like colour.”
“Where is the altar? No pews?”
“We stand for service.”
“Come, Zina.”
The Russian couple went on into the nave.
Daisy and Sakari watched them light candles and place them in holders before one of the icons.
The central doors at the rear opened and a priest in elaborate vestments came through, allowing a glimpse of the altar before the doors closed.
He advanced down what would have been the aisle had there been any pews.
Miss Zvereva—Zina—and Vasya went to meet him.
Behind Daisy, the door opened and a couple came in. The man spoke to Daisy in Russian, then noticed Sakari and blinked. “Excuse, please.”
The woman, looking into the nave, said something in the midst of which Daisy thought she made out “Zina” and “Vasya.” The two hurried into the church.
“Best man and bridesmaid,” Sakari suggested.
Though Daisy didn’t understand a word the priest said, she watched in fascination as the wedding proceeded.
The couple exchanged rings, apparently several times, and shared a goblet of wine (at least Daisy assumed it was wine).
The best man and bridesmaid placed wreaths on their heads.
The priest gave each a candle to hold and led them in a procession three times round the small table on which all the paraphernalia had awaited them.
The wreaths were removed. The priest blessed the newlyweds and their friends wished them joy, or a long life, or, for all Daisy knew, many children. She and Sakari uttered their own good wishes in hushed voices.
* * *
“Doctor Wrexham-Clarke?” Alec frowned. “I’ve heard a good deal about him but not a whisper to suggest he ever qualified as a doctor. He was once a medical student, I believe. What the deu— What on earth is he up to?”
His astonishment and alarm impressed Sister Bessemer. “He’s not a doctor? Oh dear! Nurse, go up to Lord Ledborough’s rooms and ask if he’ll see these … gentlemen. And hurry.” As the young nurse scampered off, she continued, “But he is his lordship’s brother?”
“If he’s who he announced himself to be.”
“Sir,” Mackinnon chimed in opportunely, “Sergeant Piper has followed the nurse up the stairs.”
“He has?” Alec, having watched Ernie follow his instructions, mimicked annoyance. “We’ll have to go after him.”
They split up to circumnavigate Sister Bessemer. Ignoring her expostulation, Alec took the stairs two at a time. Mackinnon was close behind, their rubber-soled shoes almost soundless despite the linoleum treads.
At the top, Alec glanced right, then left, spotted Ernie, and turned left into a wide passage with several doors on each side.
As he closed in on Ernie and the nurse, she stopped at one of the doors.
Raising her hand to knock, she glanced round, took alarm at the sight of three large men rushing towards her, and backed away, eyes wide, hand covering her mouth.
“You two, one each side of the door,” Alec ordered in a low voice. “I’m going in.”
Slowly, silently, he turned the knob, opened the door a couple of inches, and kept his grip so that the latch didn’t click as it retracted.
Through the gap, he saw the foot of a bed, draped with a white coverlet.
He guessed the patient was not in it, nurses being apt to remove and neatly fold the bedspread of occupied beds.
Someone spoke, his tone full of suspicion. “What is it?”
“A very simple preparation. That’s why doctors don’t like to prescribe it: they can’t charge much for it. It’s completely harmless, and it could cure both the tremors and the irregular heartbeat.”
“What is it? What’s it made of?”
“Just potassium chloride and water. You could sprinkle potassium chloride on your scrambled eggs like salt, which is sodium chloride, and you wouldn’t notice a thing except a slight bitterness.”
“Why are you so eager to improve my health? Even a complete cure wouldn’t persuade me to throw away yet more money I can’t afford on your gambling. You’ll just have to save up your allowance to pay your debts.”
“Call me an optimist. I hope—”
“Optimist! What gambler is not an optimist?”
“Listen, damn y— Dammit!” The second voice sounded sulky, with a touch of a whine. “I hope when you’re feeling well, you’ll be in a better mood, not so damn crotchety. You never used to be like this.”
“I used not to be a cripple. And you used not to be a gambler. Oh, all right, go ahead with your damn injection! It can hardly make me feel worse. But don’t count on changing my mind.”
“You’ll be glad. No more pain. Open your pyjama jacket and I’ll swab with iodine to disinfect the skin. I brought some with me. There we are. You’ll feel a bit of a prick, I’m afraid.”
Alec shoved the door open, crossed the room in two strides, and knocked up the syringe just as it touched Lord Ledborough’s abdomen. It flew from his brother’s grasp and across the room, where the ampoule smashed to pieces.
“Piper, see what you can save of the contents. Don’t touch the stuff.”
“Here,” cried Wrexham-Clarke, “what do you think you’re doing?”
“Arresting you on suspicion of practising medicine without a licence. Further charges may be preferred. Mackinnon, read him the warning. Lord Ledborough, I apologise for—”
“Look out!”
Mackinnon’s shout came too late. Wrexham-Clarke darted out of the door, bowling over the little nurse who had crept back to see what was going on.
The inspector set off in hot pursuit. Alec sped after them, emerging into the corridor in time to see Sister reach the top of the stairs, blocking the way with her bulk.
Wrexham-Clarke elbowed her in the ribs. She gasped and shuddered but she was too heavy to be displaced by such mistreatment.
Gamely, she reached out to grab him. He flung himself at the landing rail, grasped it with both hands, did a twisting back flip, and disappeared from Alec’s view. A thud announced his landing.
Running footsteps told the pursuers his escapade had not interfered with his escape.
“Look out!” bellowed Mackinnon. The Scotsman’s lungs were in good shape. Alec resolved to ask him later whether he played the bagpipes.
Somehow Alec and Mackinnon managed to move Sister aside without further damage to anything but her dignity. They raced down the stairs. The front door stood wide open.
From outside came a triumphant shout of “Gotcha!”
Alec and Mackinnon stopped on the threshold. At the foot of the steps, Wrexham-Clarke sprawled face-down with a hefty plainclothesman sitting on him.
“Heard your shout, sir. Stuck out me foot and over he went, arse over tip.”