The Drummond family butler since the beginning of time answered, “Old Farrow Hall. May I help you?”
“Horne?”
“Master Nicholas? How wonderful to hear from you. All is well in New York?” Nicholas heard the unspoken question—and is Nigel well?—though Horne was too ingrained in the proper etiquette to permit him to ask after his son.
“We’re fine, Horne. Nigel has me so set up I can’t find my knickers by myself. I’ll tell him you asked after him.” He swallowed. “I need to speak to my father, Horne. Is he home?”
“He is. He’s in the midst of a very serious situation with Mr. Stanford dying so unexpectedly today. Oh, my apologies, Master Nicholas, you do know about Mr. Stanford?”
“I do, Horne. That’s why I’m calling.”
Horne let out a sigh. “Of course, nowadays everyone knows everything at nearly the same instant. I’ll go fetch Master Harry for you. And Master Nicholas, permit me to say—we do so miss you here.”
Nicholas was hit with a wave of homesickness. It mixed with his shocked grief at Alfie Stanford’s death and for a moment he couldn’t speak. He missed them all, his grandfather, his parents, all the denizens at Old Farrow Hall. He even missed Cooke Crumbe’s very bland porridge.
“Thank you, Horne.”
Then his father was on the line, and he knew exactly why Nicholas was calling.
“Horne told me you’d already heard about Alfie,” Harry said. “I can’t believe it, Nicholas. It’s so sudden, there was no warning, no life-threatening illness that I knew about. I know he was getting on in years, but still, he was a tough old bird. He had a touch of rheumatism, the occasional attack of gout, but no heart trouble that I ever heard. Your mother has gone to Wembley Hall to be with Sylvie, and their grandchildren are coming home from their various overseas posts. We had to pull Anson off a submarine in the Balkans.”
“If he wasn’t ill, then what do you think caused his death?”
There was a pause, then his father said, “Are you on a secure line?”
“Yes, I am. What’s happened?”
“We believe it was murder.”
“Inside Eleven Downing? That’s madness. Surely not.”
“The medic from the Diplomatic Services spotted a mark on his neck, near the carotid artery, said it was made by a needle. Alfie’s body has been sent to the Coroner’s Court. The autopsy has been fast-tracked. They’ll test his blood, so we should know more by night’s end.”
It was all unbelievable. Nicholas said, “But who could have done it? And why?”
His father sighed, clearly exhausted, and Nicholas heard the weight of the world in that sigh. “We don’t know. The video feeds are being run, but so far no one who doesn’t belong there has been spotted.”
“You know that means someone inside Eleven Downing Street.”
“Yes, and the very idea makes my blood boil. You can trust we’ll get to the bottom of it, soon enough.”
“What can I do to help?”
“I wish there was something, but there’s nothing you can do from New York. I will let you know what happens, but for now, please, do keep this quiet.”
“But sir, I’ve got to—”
His father interrupted him. “Nicholas, I’ve always admired how your first instinct is to right the wrong, and I’m proud of that. But for now, I’m going to insist you keep this to yourself. No one’s said a word about murder. It is at present a very fluid and delicate situation. Very delicate.”
Delicate? What was his father not telling him?
“Tell me, sir.”
Harry sighed. “I’m afraid I can’t. But if Alfie Stanford was murdered, trust me, Nicholas, this is bigger than anyone could imagine.”
22
Berlin