‘A boat? Of course we can get you a boat. We make occasional use of one or two of the fishermen’s vessels. But I would not recommend you boarding one right on the main sea front, there are too many people about. If you walk out past Kemptown towards Rottingdean over there,’ Tait pointed out Powerscourt’s route from the hotel window, ‘we shall pick you up there. I’ll get you a fisherman’s jersey, my lord, you’ll look less conspicuous.’
One hour later Powerscourt was sitting beside Tait as they made their way out into the English Channel.
‘How far out do you want to go, sir?’ asked the fisherman, a bronzed young man with tattoos down his arms.
‘Hold on a minute and I’ll tell you,’ said Powerscourt, pulling a pair of binoculars from his pocket. ‘I want to be so far out that I can see everything but nobody on shore could see me.’ He fiddled with the lenses. ‘About one hundred yards further and that should be fine.’
‘Very good, sir,’ said the fisherman. Powerscourt noticed that many of the tattoos showed warships of Her Majesty’s Navy.
What an extraordinary sight it was, Powerscourt thought, as the boat made its way slowly along the Brighton shore. There were elegant Regency squares, some rotting now with the wind and the spray, others gleaming happily in the light. There were military rows like Brunswick Terrace over towards Hove where the houses were lined up in orderly precision, standing shoulder to shoulder like privates on parade. There were other grander buildings, hotels in the Second Empire style, that looked like architectural equivalents of Lydia Bennet, dressed up in frills and furbelows to the height of fashion to capture the hearts of the military buildings nearby. And in the centre of it all, set back from the sea, one of Europe’s most improbable constructions, the Brighton Pavilion with its domes and echoes of the Orient improbably transplanted into the mundane earth of Sussex.
But it was the hotel windows that interested Powerscourt most. He locked his glasses on to three of the larger hotels in turn. He made his way along the frontage, down to the ground, floor by elegant floor. One of the hotels, he noticed, had the curtains almost completely drawn on the very top floor.
‘Suppose you were the villains,’ he said to Tait. ‘You would suspect that an attempt might be made to rush your position with soldiers or policemen. So you would want to be able to see what was coming towards your hotel along the sea front. If I’m right you wouldn’t want to risk one of those hotels in the town itself because you couldn’t see what was coming as easily. The streets are often very narrow. But put yourself in one of those top floors on the front, preferably one with a view both ways, and you would be well warned.’
He handed the glasses to the policeman.
‘Four hotels have rooms that fit your description,’ Tait said. ‘But we have checked them all. And we have drawn a blank in every one. Nobody remembers three people, one of them a woman, checking in last night.’
Late that night there was a melancholy conference in Powerscourt’s rooms. All the police reports were in. All were negative. Johnny Fitzgerald had walked about the streets, looking remarkably like a recently released jailbird, trying to see if he could spot anything. He had found nothing at all. They resolved to meet again the next morning.
As Powerscourt leaned out of his window once more, staring at the deserted sea front and the empty elegance of the West Pier, the Town Hall clock struck midnight.
They had seventy-two hours left to find Lady Lucy.
31
At two o’clock in the morning four of Dominic Knox’s agents called on a thirty-five-year-old chemistry teacher of Irish extraction who was famous for his ability to make fireworks at his school of St Michael and St James. Declan Macbride was dreaming when the officers called. He dreamt he was sitting at his desk marking an enormous pile of exam papers. However many he corrected, the pile never grew any less. It was, he had decided wearily, the educational equivalent of Sisyphus pushing his rock uphill for all eternity.
The agents were very polite, but insistent. They wanted to search his rooms. They knew, as did he, that Declan Macbride had been visited in the last few days by three messengers from Michael Byrne in Dublin. They searched his small desk. They went through his clothes and his books, they went through his cupboards. Shortly before three o’clock they started on the floorboards.
Two other officers called on a Catholic hostel off the Fulham Palace Road, well known for its links with travellers from Dublin. Three young women had to submit to the same treatment.
At four o’clock in the morning Lord Francis Powerscourt tiptoed out of his hotel. He made his way slowly down to the sea front. A wind had risen off the sea. Small breakers beat feebly against the pebbles of the beach. There was no moon. He walked past the ruins of the old Chain Pier, gazing sadly at the great hotels, their front doors now locked, curtains drawn against the night air. A lone fisherman was setting out on Brighton’s oldest occupation. The pursuit of fish had been happening here centuries before the pursuit of fashion. Somewhere behind these windows, he told himself is Lucy. A frightened Lucy, perhaps a drugged Lucy. The bastards. The bastards. He could hear the fisherman’s boat scraping along the beach as he pulled it down into the water. He wondered if he should offer to help him. The first very faint hint of pale grey was appearing on the horizon. Dawn was coming to Brighton, another day for him to find his beloved. He felt hungry suddenly. He wondered if Lucy felt hungry too. Then it struck him. There might just be another way to find her. He hurried back to his hotel and waited for Inspector Tait and his policemen to arrive.
They came at seven o’clock, a disconsolate bunch, their spirits down after the fruitless visits of yesterday. But Powerscourt was in cheerful form.
‘I think we may have been asking the wrong question yesterday. In the hotels, I mean. I’m not sure we could have asked the right question until today.’
‘Francis,’ said Johnny Fitzgerald, ‘you’re speaking in riddles. Explain yourself, man.’
‘My apologies, gentlemen.’ Powerscourt looked round his little audience. ‘My assumption was that the three people we are looking for would have gone to a hotel. I still think they have gone to a hotel. But it doesn’t necessarily follow that they checked into the hotel as a threesome. One German could have checked in with Lady Lucy posing as his wife. Or he could have left Lucy sitting on a chair in the hotel reception while he checked in for them both. The other fellow could have checked in later or gone for a walk, anything like that. It’s quite possible that nobody in the hotel has ever seen them together. So, when we asked about a threesome, the hotel people said they didn’t know, because they actually hadn’t seen a threesome.’
Chief Inspector Tait was still dressed in cricket flannels, topped off today by a straw hat. ‘So what is the right question, my lord?’
‘I think the right question is this,’ said Powerscourt. ‘But before I come to it, let me say one other thing. I think our German friends will be very anxious about being followed, or discovered, or rushed by a party of policemen or soldiers. They kidnapped somebody earlier in this case, Chief Inspector, and they did not succeed. Johnny and I rescued him. So they will want somewhere where they have a good view of all routes in and out of where they are. One of them will have to watch Lady Lucy all the time. That means, it seems to me, that they cannot leave their rooms. If they have meals in the hotel dining room somebody may spot Lady Lucy. If they leave the building they themselves may be recognized. So while they have Lucy as their prisoner, they are, to a large extent, prisoners themselves in Room 689 of the Duke of York’s Hotel, or whatever it is called.’
‘For God’s sake, Francis.’ Johnny Fitzgerald was growing exasperated. ‘What is the bloody question?’
‘Simple,’ said Powerscourt. ‘Do you have any guests who have all their meals sent up to their rooms? All of their meals.’