Luc paid the driver and came over. ‘Do you use telegraph in your time?’
‘No, but I had better not explain. I doubt you’d believe me anyway. But there are aerials – those are how signals are sent – on the same place on the roof. Is it true that anyone can go and look at the telegraph just by tipping the operators?’
‘More or less.’
‘Isn’t that dreadful for security?’ I had read about it when I was looking up the history of the area before the walk with my friend and I’d tried to imagine sauntering into a modern Ministry of Defence installation and slipping someone a few quid to view the ops room.
‘Only a gentleman could afford the size of tip,’ Luc said, sounding surprised that I’d ask.
‘But the county is at war. Suppose a French spy who just happened to look and sound like a gentleman got in there, knocked out the signallers and sent a false message? He could direct the fleet to sea and into a French trap or…’
‘Our intelligence officers know who to keep an eye on,’ Luc said, with what seemed incredible complacency.
‘If George was spying, it could explain everything. His lover finds out and is threatened, George hangs himself to keep Talbot safe, but they murder him anyway.’
‘But he was not in the intelligence section of the Home Office,’ Luc objected, taking my arm and beginning to walk towards Downing Street.
‘He would have been known to the Clerks in other departments and sections, surely? And he would know them. Bustle about, arms full of files, looking for Mr Smith…’ I was distracted by spotting the familiar Banqueting House and then saw we’d arrived at Horse Guards. ‘None of this has changed much, but the Vict… There were lots of new buildings added later this century and the beginning of the next.’
Then I realised that we were actually walking along Downing Street. ‘In my time this is shut off because of the security risk.’
‘Spies?’
‘Bombs.’
Chapter Six
Luc stopped dead halfway along the stretch of pavement that Cabinet ministers are always photographed hurrying along on their way to meetings, or sackings. ‘Bombs? Good God.’ He didn’t even apologise for swearing. ‘Things should become more civilised with the passage of time, not less.’
‘If only.’ We were outside Number Ten now and while Lucian was still digesting the idea of London at risk from bombers I watched people – men only, of course – going in and out of the shiny black front door. No wonder Luc looked at me aghast at the idea of spies if the security around the heart of government could be so relaxed.
‘Over there.’ He crossed the road and went in through an unobtrusive door with a brass plaque that I couldn’t read on the wall.
There was a uniformed porter at a desk in the lobby who took one look at Luc’s tailoring (or it might have been the hat) and stood up straighter. ‘Sir?’ He took the proffered card. ‘My lord, I should say.’
‘Sir Thomas in? Or Salmond?’ Luc sounded as though he didn’t much care, one way or another.
‘No, my lord, I’m afraid not.’ I could almost see the man calculating how much of a tip he was losing as a result.
‘That is a bore,’ Luc drawled. ‘My cousin is visiting from America and I particularly wanted to show her how much better we run things over here.’
If I had been either American, or the porter, I’d have clouted him with the nearest blunt instrument but I pouted instead. ‘Oh, Cousin Lucian, you promised.’
‘Mr Salmond’s personal assistant Mr Edwards was in, my lord. I am sure he’d be delighted to show you and the lady around, but he went across to Number Ten five minutes ago and I don’t know how long he’ll be.’
‘Edwards, you say? Excellent, we’ll just go up and wait for him. This way, isn’t it?’ By some legerdemain several shiny circular objects appeared for a second in Luc’s hand and then vanished into the porter’s.
‘You know your way, my lord? Oh well, in that case… Up the stairs and first door on the left.’
‘This is the only way up,’ I muttered as we climbed. ‘He must be an idiot if he thinks you know your way around in here. The security is appalling.’ When was Prime Minister Spencer Perceval assassinated? I tried to recall. 1810? 1812? Not yet, clearly, or they wouldn’t be so laid back. I hoped.
Luc shrugged and kept going. The door was off the first landing and he opened it without knocking and strolled in with me on his heels. We were in a large room full of desks, some of them occupied by dark-suited men. Others stood in low-voiced discussion or were carrying ledgers and files.
‘Good day,’ Luc said when they turned to look at us. ‘Radcliffe. I was looking for Edwards.’
There was a flurry of files landing on desks, coat tails swishing, chairs being produced. Clearly a visiting earl was a welcome distraction from routine and an earl accompanied by a woman was even better.
A bell was rung, a porter dispatched to fetch tea, apologies were made for not sending for Mr Edwards immediately, only he was with the Prime Minister…