was discovered.”
She frowned thoughtfully. “Can that gas mask be traced?”
“Most certainly—there’s an Air Force number stamped inside. I spoke to the inspector… he’s working ’round the clock, it seems… and he’s getting in contact with your friend Glanville, to put the number with a name.”
She risked a smile. “Playing with sand is a far cry from performing autopsies, Bernard.”
“Agatha, forensics only begins with medicine. Science is science…. May I make a suggestion?”
“Always.”
“Why don’t you borrow my Armstrong-Siddeley? I can take the train home, when the time comes.”
“That’s very kind of you. I hope it wouldn’t be too much of an imposition….”
“Nonsense.” Then he looked at her. “This assumes you are in a condition to drive.” He arched an eyebrow and only one who knew him well could have detected the trace of a smile. “I would hate for anything to happen to my Armstrong-Siddeley.”
She grinned her most unguarded, horsey grin. “I know, Bernard. You’re so careful with it.” She gestured elaborately to herself. “No concussions, no broken bones. Tiny sprain—my left ankle. Otherwise I’m fine.”
“And you would like to go home and get some rest in your own bed? Understandable.”
She left with the keys to Sir Bernard’s automobile, the great man wholly unaware that she had entered his lab with that very intention.
Agatha prided herself a lay master of psychology. She felt certain her friend would have come to the hospital in order to keep an eye on her, and would pass the time by going to work on something or other in his laboratory.
And once Sir Bernard had become involved with his work, he would be loath to leave it, not even to give his ailing friend a ride home from the hospital….
Agatha had her own agenda, and driving to Hampstead to the Lawn Road Flats to curl up in bed was not first on that list.
It should have been: this she knew. Now that the gas mask had turned up, with its identifiable service number, the guilt or innocence of Cadet Cummins would soon be ascertained by Inspector Greeno and his minions. No need for any further involvement on her part; she was a civilian observer who, common sense would say, needed to retreat to the sidelines, and promptly.
Later she would reflect upon the events, and wonder if she would have behaved so recklessly, had the earlier brush with death not taken place. For now, she merely moved forward following her intentions.
St. John’s Wood had changed, since the time she and her first husband had lived there. In 1918, when Agatha and Archie had first moved to London, the district had been one of big old-fashioned houses with large gardens. Now the area had been invaded by large blocks of drearily modern flats, taking the place of many of those homes, particularly the smaller ones.
The address Cummins had given Agatha took her to Viceroy Court, between Edgmont and Townshend Streets, a particularly large example of the lusterless modern buildings that had invaded the district, a seven-story structure faced with yellow brick. Requisitioned for billets by the RAF, the building could not have dated back more than a few years and had a cold institutional quality that displeased Agatha.
Having left the Armstrong-Siddeley on the street, Agatha—a most unmilitary figure in her fur coat, copy of the new Poirot tucked under one arm—approached the building, which loomed monolithically in the moonlight. She entered to find the lobby a functional area of the same yellow brick with a few patriotic posters on several bulletin boards—“Let’s Go! Wings for Victory,” “Tell Nobody—Not Even Her!” and (irony again, she thought) “Hitler Will Send No Warning—Always Carry Your Gas Mask.”
A pair of guards in RAF uniform played cards at a small table near the door; looking painfully young to her, they looked up at Agatha curiously. Standing, one asked, “Help you, ma’am?”
“Just visiting my nephew,” she said.
“At this hour, ma’am?”
“I only just got in to town by motor—terrible delays. He said he’d be up late. Am I breaking a rule? After visitors’ hours, is it?”
“We don’t stand on ceremony around here, least not on the weekend. What’s his name, ma’am?”
“Gordon Cummins.”
“Oh,” the guard said with a smile. “The Count!”
Oh dear, she thought.
“Pardon?” she said.
“Nothing, ma’am, just a sort of nickname the blokes call your nephew…. I’m not sure LAC Cummins is in, ma’am. Hardly anybody is, y’know. Friday night. It’s an empty building, you’ve dropped by to.”
“I spoke to him on the telephone. I think he’s expecting me.”
“Do you know what billet, ma’am?”
“I do