Four Days in October

Chapter Four: Day Three (Monday)

Chapter Four: Day Three (Monday)

'We need to go hospital visiting,' Mirabelle reminded her husband. She rubbed his shoulders, and added: 'That's a nasty cut you've got - how did that happen?' 

Leon winced as her hand brushed over it. 'I caught it on the roof hatch yesterday,' he said. 

'I'll fetch some iodine.' Mirabelle got out of bed and headed for the cabinet in their little attic bathroom. A moment later she was back with the blue glass bottle and a wad of cotton wool. 'Don't move, darling,' she said, as she dabbed it on to his shoulder. Leon yelped. 'Well, you should have told me yesterday!' his wife chided him. 'Now it's become inflamed.' 

'It will be fine now,' he assured her. 'What was that about hospital visiting?' 

Mirabelle put the bottle of iodine on the bedside cabinet and got back into bed. 'It's time we went to see a few people who are in the Middlesex Hospital,' she said. 'We haven't seen Joan Murphy for about a week, and we should visit that poor man who was hurt in the building accident - Bert Cleeve - and then we should see Menshikoff, and that poor man from yesterday: you called him Joan Josep.' 

'I think Meadows would like me to interview him,' Leon agreed, 'and I would certainly like to talk to Menshikoff. We have some unfinished business to clear up.' 

'I suppose I won't be able to understand a word,' Mirabelle said regretfully, 'but I'd like to come along just the same. They're both Maria's victims.' 

Her husband gave her a searching glance. 'That was said with fellow-feeling, darling,' he commented. 

'I feel like one of her victims,' Mirabelle confessed. 'She's thrown our lives upside down!' 

Leon put a warm arm around her. 'Putting your own feelings aside,' he said gently, 'as a just woman must, you may evaluate the impact she has had on Europe, and on many individuals' lives.' 

Mirabelle rested her head on his shoulder. 'So may I at least be indignant on behalf of Europe?' she asked. 

'Certainly you may. Any rational person would agree. And for the last three days we have been trying to protect her from the individuals she has harmed. But now go back to sleep, darling. You've been awake half the night - you need to sleep.' 

'You weren't supposed to notice! That means you've been awake too!' 

'I have been thinking about how to deal with this current case of ours.' Leon was trying to rationalise his concerns, but Mirabelle knew him too well. 'You're just as worried as I am!' She rubbed a hand through his hair. 'Instead of lying here worrying, why don't we get up? We could walk over to the hospital and ask how Joan Josep is getting on.' 

Leon frowned at the alarm clock on the chest of drawers on the other side of the bed. 'It's six o'clock: yes, why not get up? We can leave a note for Raymond and George.' 

However, as they made their way downstairs, Raymond emerged from his bedroom in his dressing gown. 'I heard you get up,' he confessed, 'is everything all right?' 

Mirabelle smiled affectionately at him; she knew this saturnine man regarded her as a sort of surrogate daughter. 'Everything's fine,' she answered, 'but neither of us can sleep. So we're going out for a walk.' 

Raymond walked down the stairs with them to the back door. 'Where are you going?' he asked. 'I won't tell George unless you want him to know.' 

Leon shrugged. 'You may tell him if you wish; we're going to the Middlesex, to see some of Maria's recent victims.' 

'We have some hospital visiting to catch up with,' Mirabelle explained. 

'What do you expect to find out?' asked Raymond. 

'When Maria has recovered from her wound, she'll have to stand trial for her crimes in a British court,' said Leon. 'I'm collecting evidence for the case.' He put on his hat and coat, and checked that his Browning was in his jacket pocket. Mirabelle already had her hat, coat and bag; she gave Raymond a kiss on the cheek in 'goodbye,' and the pair made their way out. Raymond locked up behind them and went back to bed. 

The pair walked along the dark streets of Westminster to Down Street Underground Station, and caught the train east to Piccadilly Circus, where they changed on to the Bakerloo line and went on to Oxford Circus. Leon amused himself watching their fellow travellers, and talking to Mirabelle about the logistics of the Underground network, the frequency of the trains, the numbers of passengers carried each day and devising theories of how the network could be made more efficient. Mirabelle listened, fascinated as ever by what he had to say and simply enjoying the sound of his voice. By the time they reached their destination they were both far more relaxed. Mirabelle bought a Megaphone from the newsvendor outside the station, and they ran up Mortimer Street towards Middlesex Hospital hand in hand, laughing together over nothing. 

Mirabelle wondered what sort of reception they would receive. Sometimes Leon was treated as a qualified doctor and was expected to talk to patients; sometimes he was acting in conjunction with the police; sometimes he was a member of the public. Today he was recognised by the receptionist, who exclaimed: 'Dr Graille! And Mrs Graille! Matron is asking for a doctor on the men's ward, but there's no one available at the moment. Will you go up?' 

They could hardly say 'no', thought Mirabelle, and in any case Leon was always delighted to be involved in anything that was going on, provided it gave him the opportunity to watch individuals reacting to events. He would attend a concert simply to watch the audience's reaction to the music, or go to the races to watch the crowds rather than the horses. Now he readily agreed to go along to the ward, pointing out only that he and his wife would need white coats to put over their clothes and somewhere to wash their hands. 

'If we are going to keep doing this, I think I need some formal medical training,' Mirabelle said to him, as they hurried along a corridor as directed by the grateful receptionist. 'I know you're officially qualified -' 

'In Britain and in Spain,' her husband remarked. 

'-but I'm not, and I'm worried someone will complain!' 

'You only need to smile and be sympathetic. But you're right - and it would be a useful skill. We can talk to Matron about it.' 

They reached the ward and found Matron, who greeted them with relief. 'Dr Graille! We had an emergency admission last night - a police case - and he won't settle. I don't know what's wrong with him, we've done all we can - please look at him.' She bustled them into a side ward, where a policeman sat on a chair by the door. Recognising Leon and Mirabelle, he nodded a greeting at them as they passed; Leon and Mirabelle each wished him 'good morning.' 

'Oh, of course,' said Mirabelle, as soon as they saw the man lying there. 'He was very ill when he came in last night, wasn't he?' 

Matron was relieved that they already knew the case. 'He's been awake all night, and he keeps saying I must call someone for him. But I can hardly understand what he says - perhaps you can tell me what's wrong.' 

Leon stood over the bed. 'How are you this morning?' he asked the man. 

Joan Josep, the Catalan anarchist leader behind the previous day's excitement, was grey in the face and clearly in great pain, but visibly relaxed when he saw Leon and Mirabelle standing by his bed. 'You must contact Maria,' he said at once. 'She is in great danger. The Spanish secret service want to kidnap her.' 

'That was your story yesterday,' Leon reminded him. 

'Yes, because it is true. They want to kidnap her and take her back to Spain for trial for conspiracy and murder. I was going to kidnap her first and take her to safety.' 

'She is safe now,' said Leon, 'and she isn't fit to travel. But we'll warn our colleagues.' He turned to Mirabelle. 'Darling, can you phone Raymond and ask him to double our guard on Maria?' 

'Of course,' answered his wife, and turned to the matron. 'Please may I use your telephone? I'll make that call that is worrying him so much. Then he'll be able to sleep.' 

Matron looked at the patient, and saw that he was already breathing more smoothly and some colour had come back into his face. 'Come to my office,' she said, 'you can call from there.' 

The moment that Mirabelle and Matron had gone, Joan Josep began to speak to Leon in Catalan. 'Comrade,' he said, 'you of all people must help me! Surely you know who I am - my grandmother was your mother's cousin.' 

Leon was amused. 'As you remarked yesterday, we have both given up our families,' he said. 'I will willingly help a just cause, comrade, but your being distantly related to me does not excuse your attempt to shoot my wife and her friends yesterday.' 

'That was a mistake by an overzealous comrade. We did not appreciate the situation. We thought that Maria was being detained by a police organisation.' 

'We do work closely with the police, but Maria came to us of her own free will. In any case, she is in no state to be moved; she is recovering from a serious gun wound.' 

'She must be taken to a place of safety,' groaned Joan Josep. 'A warrant has been issued for her arrest. The Spanish secret service has orders to kidnap her and take her back to Spain for trial and execution.' 

'She is also on bail from the British police,' remarked Leon, 'who want her to stand trial for her actions here. That Spanish warrant has no validity in England; she must stand trial here before she is taken anywhere else. And I will oppose any attempt to extradite her, on the grounds that she has escaped justice in Spain in the past and may do so again, but the British law will not fail.' 

'Thank you,' breathed Joan Josep, smiling his gratitude - but Leon brushed it aside. 'Do not thank me, friend. I am anxious to ensure that justice is done, but here - not in Spain. And that applies to your own case, too; you will also have to stand trial for your actions yesterday.' 

'I am also wanted in Spain for conspiracy, revolutionary activities and murder,' said Joan Josep. 'I had hoped to escape to America from Britain, but now I will probably be kidnapped by the Spanish secret service, or executed by them here.' 

'-Which would not serve the needs of British justice,' replied Leon. 'I will speak to the Inspector who is dealing with Maria's case, and ask him to have you moved to a more secure place where no one may reach you.' 

'Comrade, if you do that I will be eternally in your debt,' declared the other. 

'I repeat: do not thank me,' Leon retorted. 'I serve only justice.' 

'I know that I can trust you. Maria told me how good you and Monsieur Poiccart have been to her.' 

Leon frowned. 'Only because we are following the instructions of George Manfred. You should have approached him; he would have helped you.' 

The other shook his head. 'He is an Englishman. I don't trust them. They claim to serve justice, but they shelter both the oppressed and the oppressors. They negotiate with the Soviets while they allow a Czarist cell to operate openly -? He saw Leon's expression change, and said, 'Surely you know, Comrade, that the Countess Viramova is still in Britain?' 

'Certainly,' answered Leon, 'but you have just given me the solution to a question that has been puzzling me.' At this moment, Mirabelle came back into the room, with Matron just behind her. 'I've passed on the message,' she said. 'It's being acted on. Is there anything else we can do?' 

'I'm concerned that such a dangerous prisoner is being kept next to an open ward,' said Leon. 'He could abscond, or his friends may attempt to rescue him. From what he tells me, he has a record in Spain of revolution and conspiracy. He needs to be in a secure ward.' 

'We don't have any means of guarding him more securely here,' said Matron. 'PC York is here,' - indicating the police officer at the door - 'but if he's a violent prisoner, he should be moved to a secure hospital.' 

'I'll speak to the detective inspector in charge of this case,' Leon promised her. 'He should be moved.' He went to speak to PC York. 'There's a risk that this prisoner will be rescued by his Spanish friends,' he said, 'or that his enemies will try to kill him. I am going to try to get him moved, but if you have any trouble, contact Scotland Yard at once.' 

'Yes, sir,' answered the other.  

'Don't tell anyone where he is,' Leon advised the matron. 'If anyone comes claiming to be his friend, don't let them in; contact Scotland Yard.' 

'Of course,' she promised. 'We'll do all we can to keep him secure.' 

Leon told her that he would go over to Scotland Yard at once to discuss the case. He and Mirabelle then took off their borrowed white coats and went down to Reception, where Leon briefed the receptionist about 'the Spanish criminal Juan Jos\u00e9,' and asked her about the other people they had come to see. The receptionist explained that they could visit Joan Murphy or Bert Cleeve that afternoon, but Menshikoff was under a police guard in a private room and they would need permission from Scotland Yard to visit him. 

Leon thanked her, and led Mirabelle away. 'We can ask Meadows when we get to the Yard,' he said. 

'I'm worried about the Catalan gentleman,' said Mirabelle. 'The Megaphone printed that story Lucy wrote for them - look.' She brandished the page at Leon, who glanced at it. 'It only says that Catalan anarchists besieged a house in Curzon Street and that the leader was wounded, but anyone looking out for it might guess what happened.' 

Leon took the paper from her and read the column with more care. 'It will certainly attract attention from anyone looking out for Catalan revolutionaries,' he agreed. 'We need to get Joan Josep moved.' 

'Where can we put him? He's too badly wounded to be out of hospital.' 

'I'll ask Meadows to have him declared a dangerous communist. That should be enough to ensure he's put safely under lock and key for a few weeks.' 

Mirabelle laughed 'Perfect! He won't be able to escape, but no one will be able to get at him!' 

It was a dark, damp day, and so they decided to take the Underground down to the Embankment. The alternative was a taxi, but Leon was in the mood for watching people, and Mirabelle relished the opportunity to talk in the relative anonymity of a crowd. 

'When I phoned, Raymond was worried that our revolutionary might have escaped,' she told Leon as they waited for a train. 'He's calling our agents out, to ensure there's a double watch kept on the house.' 

'I wonder which Spanish spy will have been sent to extradite Maria?' Leon mused. 'I hope our Catalan is not playing a double game.' 

'What? Darling, what did he tell you while I was phoning?' 

Leon explained that the Spanish government had issued a warrant for Maria's arrest. 'And our Catalan told me that the Spanish secret service is also intending to arrest or execute him. But of course we know nothing more about him than what he has chosen to tell us. I need to send some telegrams; but let's talk to Meadows first.' 

'Darling,' said Mirabelle as they jumped on their train, 'you've never explained your relationship with the Spanish authorities to me. I know you're not from Spain...' 

Leon gave her a smug grin: he loved to keep a mystery to himself. 'I know you're well able to work it out for yourself,' he answered. 

'Thank you! I know that because I read it in the Megaphone - one of Alma's newspaper cuttings about your operation in London when you killed the government minister.' 

Her husband's grin widened. 'Go on, darling - you're doing well.' 

She pretended to slap his face. 'Don't be so patronising! Rosie Goldstein told me you know the Argentine really well - when you rescued her from Oberzohn's brother you knew exactly what to do to get her home safely, and you knew all the right people. So I think you're from the Argentine. But you have Spanish nationality.' 

'You're still doing well,' said her husband, and dodged her play-punch. 

'But the Spanish authorities like you - is that because you helped prevent the bomb attack on the king's wedding? That was one of Maria's schemes, wasn't it? The Megaphone did a feature on it - Alma has it in her collection. And Digby told me you once rounded up and destroyed a group of Spanish bank robbers. Do you work for the Spanish police, as well as the British police?' 

'We work with them,' said Leon. 'I have many contacts with the Spanish authorities.' 

'They wouldn't ask you to arrest Maria, would they?' asked Mirabelle, shocked as the thought occurred to her. 

'They might,' agreed Leon. 'Maria is an international terrorist, and my friends in the Spanish security services would like to see her behind bars. But George's wishes, and the requirements of British law, have first call on me; and here's our stop.' He jumped up from his seat, and led Mirabelle off the train. As he looked round to identify the route to the connecting service to Westminster station, he did not see the sceptical expression on his wife's face as she followed him. When she spoke to Raymond on the phone, he had urged her to: 'Take care of Leon; Maria has thrown him off balance. There is no rational means of dealing with her, and so Leon cannot cope.' 

'He keeps trying to rationalise her,' Mirabelle had said. 

'Nothing can rationalise the Red Woman of Gratz,' answered Raymond. 'She will be the death of our Leon, almost as certainly as she will be the death of George.' 

'Raymond! Then what's to be done?' 

She had heard her friend sigh deeply in perplexity. 'Those of us who admit to our feelings must direct them,' he said. 'Take great care, ma ch\u00e8re fille.' Then he rang off, leaving Mirabelle with a cold knot of fear in her stomach. 

She remembered Maria mocking Leon the previous afternoon, when Leon had criticised her for leading on the Catalan anarchist who now lay wounded in the Middlesex. She had accepted his affection and aid for her own ends, not caring what happened to him as a result. She had treated men in just this way in the days when she led the Red Hundred - Mirabelle had read about it in Alma's collection of press cuttings. The central coterie of that anarchist movement had been her devoted slaves: one after the other they had killed each other for her sake, and then she had abandoned them. 

Leon was leading her by the hand up through Charing Cross Underground station to the circle line to Westminster. He was talking about the volumes of traffic on the line, and the fact that increasing line capacity seemed to increase rather than reduce crowding. Mirabelle was glad to hear him talking so cheerfully, found herself wondering whether any of the crowd were Spanish anarchists, and began to panic again. She was temporarily distracted by running for a train, but as soon as they were safely on board, she said: 'When is the election?' 

'Wednesday 29th,' answered Leon, 'the day after tomorrow. How can you have forgotten?' 

'I knew it's this week - but so much has happened these last few days! Darling, how are you going to vote?' 

'I don't normally vote,' her husband confessed. 'My contribution to society is not through the ballot box.' 

'But you are registered to vote?' 

'Yes.' Leon looked around, realised that the coach was full and elected to remain standing. Mirabelle put an arm round his waist and held on to a strap with her other hand. 'I thought perhaps you could vote this time - for whichever party would help to get the agitators out of Britain. I know that that letter was forged, but the letter you found -' 

'-on which George based his forgery,' Leon remarked. 

'Yes, that letter - indicated that there are a lot of communist sympathisers in Britain and they could easily cause trouble, if the Communist International told them to. And although we fight for justice, there are only four of us and we can't fight the whole world.' 

Leon looked into her anxious face. Affection warmed his cold blue eyes, and a genuine smile lit up his face. Mirabelle found she was smiling in response. 'We've fought them before,' he reminded her gently. 'Do you think my voting will make a difference?' 

'I know it won't, unless everyone else votes the same way,' she admitted. 

'After George's letter, I think that they may very well do so,' Leon said. 'Here's our stop,' - and he led her off the train. 

As they emerged into the rain of the Embankment at Westminster, Mirabelle said: 'Do you believe that it's justice to vote? I mean, does voting bring about justice?' 

'Yes; in fact it's the best way,' her husband assured her. 'Normally justice is achieved by the law, and just law is made by democratically-elected governments. You know that we work to change society by democratic means, not by force. We only intervene where the law and democratic government fail.' Leon gave her a piercing look. 'You're very anxious this morning, darling. Is Maria making you worried?' 

Mirabelle found that she was laughing and almost weeping both at once. 'Yes, she's terrifying! She doesn't obey any laws, and she doesn't care about justice. She didn't care about Joan Josep - or whatever his name is - the only person she cares about is George, and she hates you, and I don't think she likes me either.' 

Leon put a warm arm about her. 'I don't think she does hate us,' he said. 'Her thinking is too illogical to achieve true hate. She thought she hated George, and then found she loved him.' 

'Darling, I don't want her falling in love with you!' 

Leon's face was a picture of horror, and for a moment he was speechless: then they both burst out laughing, and laughed so hard that they had to stop walking and lean against a wall of the Scotland Yard buildings until they recovered their breath. 

'Don't ever even think of that again,' Leon told his wife. 'Such thoughts are beyond all reason!' 

'I'm sorry,' gasped Mirabelle, and went off into another peal of laughter. Leon waited for her to recover and then handed her a handkerchief to wipe her eyes, which were streaming with tears of laughter. 'Feeling better?' he asked her fondly.  

'Yes, darling; thank you.' Mirabelle wiped the water from her cheeks and handed the cloth back. 

'At least we can still laugh about her.' Leon's face was grave again. 'Let's go and talk to Inspector Meadows.'

The desk sergeant recognised them as they walked in. 'If you're looking for Busby and Pearce, they're in the office,' he said, gesturing behind him. 

'We're giving them the day off,' replied Leon. 'Is Inspector Meadows in? I have some information about the Catalan anarchists we picked up yesterday.' 

'Wait a moment' - the desk sergeant reached for the phone. After a few moments' conversation he looked up and said, 'You can go straight down' - and gestured in the direction of the Inspector's office. 

'Thank you.' Leon set off; Mirabelle repeated his 'thank you', and followed. 

Meadows was pleased to see them, 'Just to reassure myself that you're in good health. It's been three days since you shot anybody, Gonsalez- are you feeling well?' 

'Maria has put us all out of countenance,' Leon retorted. 'Mirabelle and I have been to visit Joan Josep of Barcelona in hospital. He's convinced that Maria is in danger of kidnap from the Spanish secret service; he says the Spanish authorities have issued an arrest warrant. I can check that with a few telegrams, but he also says that he's in danger of kidnap himself. I don't want him to escape justice here, so I suggest you invoke the Defence of the Realm Act and lock him up.' 

'You mean the Emergency Powers Act - but I agree,' Meadows replied. 'I want to see those men in the dock, not spirited away overseas. I'll give the necessary orders.' 

'Is Menshikoff also being held under the Act?' asked Mirabelle. 'They told us at the hospital that we can't talk to him without police permission.' 

Meadows folded his arms on his desk and looked from her to Leon and back. 'And why do you want to talk to that dangerous conspirator?' he asked. 

'I think he may know something about a few Russian cases I still want to clear up,' confessed Leon, 'and I want to know how he tracked down Maria. There's an anarchist information network operating across Europe and I want to smash it.' 

Meadows's expression changed from politely to intensely interested. 'I'll write you an authorisation immediately,' he said. 'And you can send your telegrams from the office.' He gestured in the direction of the relevant department. 

'How generous of the police to offer their telegraphic services to the cause of international peace! But perhaps I would prefer to keep my correspondence private,' observed Leon. 

Meadows looked him up and down. Leon was stretched across a chair, apparently casually; but his hands, which were never still even when he was relaxed, opened and shut nervously - a sure sign that Leon was perturbed. 'Perhaps I would like to keep that correspondence on record,' he responded. 'If this should all blow up in our faces, I want a complete dossier.' 

Leon's eyes narrowed, and Mirabelle again saw his sharp-featured face grow cold. 'He's not spying on us,' she interjected quickly. 'He's worried about assassins. And so am I, darling,' she added quickly, before Leon could brush the suggestion aside. 

Leon's expression softened. 'No one has ever succeeded in assassinating me yet,' he said, smiling. 

'They got Merrill,' Mirabelle reminded him. 

'That was the Bordeaux police.' 

'And this is the Spanish secret service. Please, darling.' 

'Very well!' Leon shrugged extravagantly. 'I surrender to the fears of my friends. But I reserve the right to send my telegrams in Spanish.' 

'You can use Ruritanian if you like,' Meadows retorted, 'but that correspondence goes through this office.' 

The telegraph officer at Scotland Yard was familiar with the Just Men, because he had often sent out requests for information on their operations; but it was a new experience for him to send messages on their behalf. He was disconcerted when Leon gave him the addresses of the telegraph offices - none of them a police office - and even more confused when Leon passed him the messages - one in Catalan, two in Spanish and one in Galician. After three attempts to dispatch the first message, he threw up his hands and declared that it was impossible. He was used to sending queries overseas, but usually in English and short - this was an essay! Leon remarked that if it would make things easier, he was happy to send the messages himself, whereupon the irritated clerk asked him to 'go for a walk round the block and come back when I've finished.' Laughing to himself, Leon remarked that he had warned Inspector Meadows that there might be problems, and suggested to Mirabelle that they 'go and look at the Thames for half an hour.' 

'Are you expecting answers that quickly?' retorted the telegraph officer. 

'Certainly,' replied Leon, 'but perhaps we'll make it three quarters of an hour.' Then he took Mirabelle's arm and walked out. 

'So, whom are you telegraphing?' asked Mirabelle. 'Old friends and family?' 

Her husband gave a smug smile. 'You were working it out for yourself earlier,' he reminded her. 

They strolled down the Thames embankment, arm in arm, coats buttoned against the wind and rain, hats pushed down firmly on their heads. The river was grey and its billows uninviting, but several boats were hurrying up and down and a seagull swept over their heads, mewing. Mirabelle laughed: 'I wish I were flying somewhere,' she said. 'Is Italy sunny at this time of year?' 

'Sometimes,' Leon agreed. 'And it might be warmer.' 

'I'd love to go to Italy,' said Mirabelle, 'but the political situation there is very difficult, isn't it?' 

'Yes; democracy is in danger.' 

'What's this job they wanted you to do there? Is it for the government?' 

'No, for a banking family. But it can wait - it isn't urgent.' 

'Is Maria urgent?' 

'She may be, and our Catalan friend is especially.' 

'He seemed to know you,' mused Mirabelle. 'Have you met him before?' A sudden thought struck her. 'Is he family?' 

The light in her husband's eyes told her she had struck gold. 'He is! Leon! You have family - real family? I thought you only had a coat-of-arms that looks like a patchwork quilt!' 

'He claims to be family,' Leon corrected her. 'I've telegraphed my aunt to ask her.' 

'Leon! You have an aunt!' 

'I have several, but I try not to contact them - it could make things difficult for them. Like Italy, Spain also has a difficult political situation.' 

'Oh, Leon!' Mirabelle squeezed his hand tightly. 'She'll be so pleased to hear from you! And you expect her to telegraph straight back?' 

'Yes, but I don't expect her to be particularly pleased.' 

'So whom else have you telegraphed? Friends in the secret service - and in the government? Are you still in contact with the king?' 

'No,' said Leon. 'He has troubles enough, without my causing him to be associated with revolutionaries and anarchists! But you're right, darling - I knew you would work it all out for yourself.' 

'You could have saved me time and told me!' his wife scolded him. 

'It's more fun this way,' her husband assured her, and ducked to avoid her mock punch. 

As Big Ben tolled the hour, they walked back to Scotland Yard and went down to the telegraph office to see whether Leon's questions had received any replies. The telegraph officer gave him an indignant look, said, 'You win,' and handed over four pieces of paper. Leon thanked him, and was about to lead Mirabelle out when the officer said, 'You could read them out now I've got them for you! Or at least let me know what it's all about.' 

Leon smiled at him. 'I enquired into the family and position of a Catalan anarchist who was arrested yesterday,' he said. 'These confirm my suspicions. I'll take them back to Inspector Meadows.' And, thanking the officer, he took his leave. 

'I'm glad you're taking them to Meadows,' said Mirabelle as they hurried down the corridor towards the Inspector's office. 

'We need to discuss them for a moment first,' said Leon. 'Come outside.' 

It had now stopped raining, so they leaned over the Embankment wall to watch the Thames as Leon read the messages to Mirabelle. 

The first one was from his aunt, Maria del Carmel Caterina Isabella, who wrote: 'I would prefer to disown Joan Josep, as he is not the finest scion of the family; but strict truthfulness forces me to admit that he is a son of a cousin of your grandmother's cousin. He is not married, although I understand that there have been liaisons with women of low birth, but he has not yet embarrassed the family indelibly. I hear that you are married - send me details of your wife's family so that I can update the family records.' 

'Oh dear,' said Mirabelle. 

'I usually ignore her demands for information,' Leon reassured her. 

'Yes, but she did answer your question!' 

'Probably only because she wants to know about you. I assure you that I didn't tell her!' 

'What's the next message?' asked Mirabelle. 

'I asked a contact in the secret police about the warrant for Maria's arrest. He replies: "The warrant of 1907 has never been rescinded. The government minister has given orders for her to be apprehended. Our ambassador in London was instructed to implement, but no news on progress yet received".' 

'Pearce picked up a Spanish gunman at Thorney Manor on Saturday,' Mirabelle recalled. 

'Yes. I can report he is under arrest here for threatening British citizens with a gun. The next message is from that correspondent's superior. I asked him about the visitor we had at Curzon Street on Saturday morning, before we went out to rescue Maria from Thorney Manor.' 

'The man I shot,' Mirabelle remembered. 

'He replies that our visitor was indeed an accredited member of the Spanish secret service and had instructions to find and arrest Maria. I told him that our visitor met with an unfortunate accident, and he asks me to find out who is responsible and ensure they are dealt with by the law; but as you shot him in self-defence, darling, I'll simply tell him that an accident befell him when he drew his gun. And then he says that as our visitor failed to secure Maria, as a citizen of Spain and a loyal servant of the government I should ensure that she is arrested and returned to justice.' 

'You've already arrested her and she's on bail,' Mirabelle remarked. 

'Exactly. The final message is in Galician - it's from one of our agents in Spain. I asked for information about Joan Josep's relations with Maria. This says that they are very good friends, but that Joan Josep had to leave Barcelona because his fellow-anarchists suspect him of anti-revolutionary activities. Which means they think he's a traitor and is in league with the Spanish government.' He looked at Mirabelle. 'So which of these do I show to Meadows?' 

'All of them,' said Mirabelle promptly. 'It's very complicated, but it's possible that Joan Josep was trying to kidnap Maria to take her back to Spain, and that he's a government agent. And if what they say is true, there will probably be others from Spain trying to capture her.' 

'Unless I write and tell them that I will take care of it,' said Leon. 'That will keep them quiet for a few days, at least until after the General Election.' 

'If you do that,' Mirabelle said, 'won't Maria get to hear about it, and assume you're a traitor?' 

Leon shrugged. 'I'll tell George what I'm doing,' he said. 'Let's go and talk to Meadows.'

An hour later, they found their way back to the Middlesex with Meadows's authorisation to interview Menshikoff, and persuaded first Matron and then the police guard on the door of his private ward to give them access. Menshikoff was awake, staring at the ceiling, his face pale and drawn. He looked up the moment that they entered, and attempted to sit up in bed, but the wound in his shoulder where Leon had shot him four days earlier was still too painful to allow this and he fell back on to his pillow, cursing. 

'Let us help,' exclaimed Mirabelle, and she and Leon put their arms around the Czar's former spy and helped him to sit up. 

'What the hell do you want?' the other growled. 

'Some information,' answered Leon. 

'In return for what?' 

'I can't promise anything.' 

'So why should I tell you anything?' 

'I can't promise that I can prevent your being deported to the Soviet Union, but I can promise that I will do all I can to enable you to be tried in this country.' 

Menshikoff nodded, but made no reply. 

'Your evidence will also be required for Maria's trial,' added Leon, and Menshikoff's grim face brightened. 'I don't believe it,' he retorted, 'that woman always escapes the law.' 

'She may escape its effects, but she will stand trial in England,' Leon assured him. 'The outcome of that trial will depend on an English jury.' 

'All right,' growled the Czarist spy, 'tell me what you want to know.' 

'May we sit down?' asked Leon, and directed Mirabelle to sit on the only chair. He himself sat on the bedside table, next to the bed head. 'I want to know about the Countess Viramova,' he said, 'what she has been doing, where she is, and whether she still has any friends in Russia.' 

Menshikoff's mouth opened wide in surprise; then he shut it with a snap and said: 'I see. You worked out how I got into this country.' 

Mirabelle pulled a notebook and pencil out of her bag and made notes as she listened to their conversation. She was grateful that they were speaking in English, as she knew that Leon could very well have conducted his enquiries in Russian, in which case she would not have understood a word. There was a lot of background information lacking; she had read her aunt's newspaper cuttings about Menshikoff, but they were brief and told her only that he had been an agent for the late Czar. It was clear that Menshikoff still had a network of friends and allies across Europe, and that he and his pro-Czarist friends still dreamt of restoring a Czar to what was now the Soviet Union. For such a group, the British government's recent friendly overtures to the Soviets were anathema, and no doubt they were hoping that the Labour party would lose the General Election on Wednesday. 

Leon asked Menshikoff about old cases, people who were long dead, businesses that had died in the Russian Revolution, countries that that ceased to exist. He asked about the Ottoman empire, about faraway places she had hardly heard of, and peoples who had long disappeared from the face of the Earth. He asked about old movements and parties, old revolutionaries, long-dead associates of Maria. It was another world, a world that had existed once but had been swept away by the Great War; listening to the talk of countesses, princes and principalities, she was not sure that it was a world she wanted to return. She could understand why Maria had been fighting and why she had felt she had to destroy societies, in order to achieve freedom; in the world into which Maria had been born, there had seemed to be no alternative. 

But it's not like that now, she thought. The princes and the old guard have gone. Even girls from little farms in Gloucestershire can own goldmines and talk to the people in power; we have freedom now. 

Yet, as Leon and Menshikoff talked, she became less certain. Freedom, it seemed, is a very precarious thing. The destruction of one tyranny in Russia and Germany was leading only to another. The governments that were developing there were every bit as bad than the old ones, or even worse because there was no tradition to hold them back. At least the old emperors had believed that it was their duty to protect their people; these new governments seemed to think it was their right to destroy. Mirabelle shuddered as she listened to Menshikoff speak of massacres, plots, corruption and skulduggery, of honest men and women slaughtered, of criminals seizing power. She scribbled in her notebook and prayed that nothing like this could ever happen in Britain. 

'This election,' Menshikoff was saying. 'If the Labour Party wins outright the Soviets will overrun Britain.' 

'I don't think they will,' Leon answered, 'but I don't think that they will win outright.' 

'Maria of Gratz came to Britain to promote the interests of the Communist International,' Menshikoff said. 'I have seen letters from Soviet officials to her in Germany and in Barcelona instructing her on the actions she should take.' 

'Maria's instructions are not the same as Maria's actions,' Leon retorted. 'To my knowledge, Maria has never taken orders from anyone. She is a true anarchist.' 

'My source of information assured me that she was acting for the ComIntern.' 

'Your source is entitled to their own opinion - but permit me to doubt it. Was it the Countess Viramova?' 

Menshikoff shrugged. 'Perhaps.' 

'So, tell me where the Countess Viramova is now. She left Britain for America a year ago, amidst a fanfare of trumpets and a blaze of publicity, but an old lady in Liverpool informed me that she never boarded the ship, and a boarding house keeper in Rhyl told me of a foreign lady who took a top-floor flat.' 

Menshikoff scowled. 'I've told you enough. Why don't you go and look for yourself?' 

Mirabelle butted in. 'A winter holiday on the North Welsh coast? That would be lovely.' 

Leon nodded. 'An excellent plan.' He looked thoughtful. 'How do you communicate with her?' he asked Menshikoff. 

'I'm telling you nothing more,' the other retorted. 'I've told you plenty enough already.' 

Leon sighed, drew a cigarette case out of his jacket pocket, selected a cigarette and put away the case, produced a box of matches and lit one, then lit the cigarette, shook out the match and dropped it on the floor. Mirabelle watched him with lowered eyelids, knowing that he was building up to something and wondering what he was going to try on the unfortunate Menshikoff. Menshikoff was obviously wondering the same thing; he said sharply: 'You can't do that in this country, Gonsalez.' 

'What?' asked the other, putting the cigarette to his lips and exhaling smoke across Menshikoff's face. The other coughed violently. 

'Would you prefer me not to smoke?' Leon asked. 

'I - I have a breathing difficulty -' 

'Ah - how unfortunate.' Leon exhaled again. 

Mirabelle opened her mouth to protest; Leon shot her a sharp glance, and she subsided. Menshikoff spluttered, 'Are you trying to suffocate me?' 

'I think a week by the sea would be ideal for your health,' said Leon gently. 'But how am I to contact your landlady?' 

The Russian was obviously in great discomfort. 'Birds - we correspond on birds - every fifth word - she loves doves.'  

'And is she still at that house in Rhyl?' 

Menshikoff nodded - he could hardly breathe. 

'Does she receive guests there? To talk about the election, for example?' 

'Yes' (a croak) 'Damn you!' Menshikoff collapsed in a paroxysm of coughing.  

Mirabelle leapt to his side; Leon stubbed out his cigarette and went to her assistance. Mirabelle flung a window open and after a few minutes the patient was breathing normally. 

'You devil, Gonsalez! You know I was gassed during the Great War!' 

Leon shrugged. 'And you know that many lives depend on the events of the next few days,' he observed, 'and I need to contact the Countess and her information network.' 

'The devil you do!' 

'And why not? You have been talking to her - why should she not talk to me as well? She sends out so much information to so many people - for her own safety, I want to persuade her to be less generous in future.' 

'I'll kill you, Gonsalez! I'll see you in hell!' 

'You'll stay here and recover from that gunshot wound,' Leon retorted. 'It was very careless of you to be wounded at such a crucial time - be more careful whom you abduct in future.' Then he took Mirabelle's hand and said, 'Let's go, darling. We have a train to catch.' 

Menshikoff spluttered and shouted something in Russian, but Leon swept out, pausing only to say to the policeman outside the door, 'Don't let anyone else in without Inspector Meadows's authorisation and don't allow him to send any messages out. Not even to his grey-haired grandmother.' 

'No, sir,' the police officer agreed. 

'Darling,' Mirabelle said as they hurried away down the corridor, 'was that really necessary?' 

'Yes,' answered her husband, 'and now we're going to run for a train. I think the next train to Holyhead leaves Euston in half an hour.' 

They caught a taxi to the station, bought their tickets to Rhyl, and then Leon telephoned Meadows from one of the station telephone boxes to explain where they were going and to ask Meadows to request police support when they arrived. Meadows only said, 'Good luck,' and didn't ask Leon how he had managed to persuade Menshikoff to talk when the Czarist spy had refused to say anything to his own interrogators. 

It was only at this point that Mirabelle realised that she had not eaten any breakfast that morning, and suggested a diversion into the station buffet to buy a hot drink and something to eat. Leon and she drank hot tea and ate muffins for five of the ten minutes remaining before their train, and then hurried down the platform and jumped on the train. 

They found an empty compartment and settled down in facing seats. 'Darling,' said Mirabelle, 'tell me about Menshikoff. I read Alma's newspaper cuttings, but they never said a great deal about him. I only know he was a spy for the Czar, and he spied on Maria.' 

Then Leon began to talk, and talk, of long-ago intrigues and conspiracies, and how Menshikoff had directed Russian foreign policy in western Europe, influenced Russia's allies and enemies, and spied on Russian citizens abroad. He had been responsible for the downfall of several leading Russian political figures, because he had overheard what they had said in unguarded moments and had reported it to the Czar. He had kept an eye on the Red Hundred and on Maria in particular. His favourite disguise had been as a waiter; with his linguistic skills and good looks he easily obtained employment in hotels throughout western Europe, where he could keep an eye on the great who came to stay, and meet his agents. He had had a vast network of agents in his pay. A very long time ago, he had even tried to recruit the Four Just Men, 'but he gave that idea up quickly,' said Leon. 

'And what is he doing now?' asked Mirabelle. 

Leon frowned. 'It has been very difficult to keep track of him,' he admitted. 'One of my reasons for keeping an eye on Maria was to keep an eye on the various secret services which are still watching her. I didn't know he was in England, until his attempt to abduct Maria. He's an expert. But when he came out into the open I realised that other things now made sense.' 

'The Countess Viramova? You haven't mentioned her before.' 

'I'm sure I mentioned Mrs Evans - she runs the boarding house where the Countess is in hiding.' 

'Oh, yes! You said you'd received a letter from her.' 

'Yes, she told me the Countess had arrived, and I sent her some money to keep me informed. But from what Menshikoff told us just now, she hasn't been passing on vital information.' 

'So what is this Countess doing?' 

Leon ran his hands through his mop of grey hair. 'I think she's working with the British Fascists to try to crush all left wing politics in this country. She's trying to influence Wednesday's elections by supporting the right-wing candidates with money. She's in touch with Russian refugees in Britain and overseas and wants to overthrow the Soviet government. But she's also at the centre of an underground European information network, which told Menshikoff that Maria was coming to London before even I or Raymond knew. My guess is that Joan Josep told her, and that he's in league with the fascists.' 

'So his fellow-anarchists are right?' 

'I think so. We'll find out when we get to Rhyl.' 

'When will we get there?' asked Mirabelle. 

'It's a four hour journey,' Leon admitted. He patted the seat next to him. 'Come and sit by me, carina.' 

'I'm not sure I should sit next to a torturer,' Mirabelle retorted. 

'A little cigarette smoke! Hardly torture.' 

'But you deliberately -' began Mirabelle - then her objections were cut off, as her husband kissed her. 

It was a quiet day at 233 Curzon Street. WPC Pearce dropped in mid-morning with a message from Inspector Meadows for George and Raymond, to let them know that 'Mr and Mrs Gonsalez have gone to Rhyl to interview a suspect.' She also asked after Maria, put her head around Maria's bedroom door to say, 'Good morning,' and paused to say 'Hello' to Bob the kitchen boy, and to ask him how his catapult practice was progressing. Then she left, leaving George and Raymond wondering what Leon and Mirabelle were up to. 

Raymond went up to the laboratory and worked diligently on his onion experiments; George sat with Maria for a while, reading Jane's Aircraft to her, and then went to work in his office while Maria slept. After a time, Raymond went out on his motorcycle, and George made some phone calls. Otherwise, the day proceeded quietly. 

Leon and Mirabelle arrived in Rhyl early in the afternoon. It was as cold and wet at the seaside resort as it had been in London, so they were disappointed to discover that there were no taxis available at the station. After Leon had consulted a map on the station platform, they walked along back roads of almost identical-looking urban villas until they found Mrs Evans's house, named: 'Lily Grove'. 

'Lily is Mrs Evans's first name,' Leon explained, and rang the doorbell. 

Mrs Evans opened the door herself, and was very surprised to find the two strangers on her doorstep, damp and bedraggled from the rain. She was even more surprised when Leon introduced himself and his wife and said that they had come to see her top floor lodger. She protested that the lady on the top floor had done nothing out of the ordinary, nothing on which she should have reported. Leon asked gently whether she kept pigeons. 

'Yes, she does; but what is strange about that?' 

'Does she fly them in competitions?' 

'Yes, and at other times.' The boarding-house keeper was indignant. 'What's odd about that? Lots of folk keep pigeons.' 

'Yes, but well-dressed foreign ladies normally do not,' Leon told her. 'Is she in?' 

'Yes, she's waiting for some gentlemen guests this afternoon - perhaps they are people you know?' 

'Perhaps,' Leon agreed. 'Please show us up.' 

'I should let her know you are coming,' Mrs Evans began, but Mirabelle cut in: 'No, no, Mrs Evans, just tell us where to go and we'll show ourselves up.' 

The boarding-house keeper pointed up the stairs, and the two began to climb. 

At the top of the house, they found a door painted blue, with a brass knocker; Leon knocked. 

They heard a female voice call from the inner room; someone moving about; footsteps, the voice again, and then the sound of bolts being shot back and a key turning; and the door opened. Mirabelle found herself looking into the pale face of a white-haired elderly lady, dressed quietly but very neatly. She wore a pearl necklace and gold rings on her fingers. She looked into their faces without recognition, then addressed them in good English: 'Yes? Who are you?' 

'May we come in?' Leon stepped forward, drawing Mirabelle with him. The woman would have barred their way, but had to step back to avoid Leon, and the next moment the pair were in the flat and the door was closed behind them. 'My name is Leon Gonsalez, and this is my wife Mirabelle, and - yes, we are both armed, so don't bother going for your desk drawer, Countess.' 

The Countess looked at the gun that Leon had suddenly whipped out of his jacket pocket and stepped back. Her face was pale, but her eyes blazed fury as her voice hissed: 'Why have you come? What are you doing here?' 

'We've come to talk to you. Shall we sit down?' Leon gestured behind her. The little entrance hall of the Countess's flat led into a sitting room with settee and armchairs, upholstered in a pleasant flowered fabric. A lunch tray still sat on a table on one side of the room; writing materials were laid out on the low table in the middle of the room. The Countess sat down on the settee, leaving Leon and Mirabelle to take the chairs; Mirabelle took a chair and Leon sat on its arm. 

'This morning we've been talking to Menshikoff,' said Leon, smiling pleasantly as if this was just a social call. 

'I don't know who he is,' the Countess retorted. 

'I know you do, because he told us about you. I think you know a cousin of mine as well.' 

'Perhaps I do.' 

'He's been giving you information.' 

'Perhaps he has, perhaps he has not.' 

'You told Menshikoff that Maria of Gratz was coming to England and told him to dispose of her.' 

'What if I did? The woman is a criminal and a mass-murderer. She is wanted for revolutionary activity in every country in western Europe.' 

'That is a matter for the police, not for you,' Leon reminded her. 'Why didn't you tell the police?' 

'The police! They do nothing. They are in the pay of the socialists.' 

Mirabelle uttered a cry of objection. Leon shook his head. 'They certainly are not,' he said. 'But by withholding such information from them, you have weakened their hand. Fortunately I told them, and Maria has been arrested.' 

'Oh.' The Countess seemed taken aback. 'She is still at large.' 

'She's on police bail and in a secure location under guard. You've also been engaging in subversive political activities.' 

'This is a free country. I may do what I wish, provided I do not utter threats against the government.' 

'But you have uttered threats against the government. You are working to influence the General Election the day after tomorrow. You are trying to ensure the election of candidates with fascist sympathies.' 

'That's not a crime.' 

'Undue influence during an election is a crime,' Leon corrected her. 'But I doubt you'll have any effect, as the British hate fascists as much as they hate communism.' 

'So why have you come?' 

'I've come to warn you to leave the country immediately. You must withdraw your support for fascist election candidates. And I want the names and addresses of your contacts.' 

'Go to the devil,' the other spat. 

A bell rang in the next room. The Countess Viramova went to rise, but Leon's gun gestured her to stay where she was. 'Go and see what that is, darling,' he said to Mirabelle, who answered, 'Of course, darling,' and went. 

The next room was a bedroom, but built into the corner was a large bird cage, with an opening in the wall behind it which enabled birds to enter from outside. A pigeon stood in the cage, preening its feathers. Mirabelle realised that these must be one of the racing pigeons Leon had referred to. He had not explained why he had thought that the Countess kept pigeons, but Menshikoff had referred to doves - he perhaps did not know the difference - and of course pigeons are an ideal method of sending and receiving messages secretly. She looked at the bird, and saw a red ring about one leg; it had brought a message. 

She looked about the room for some food with which to tempt the pigeon, saw a tub of bird seed on a table by the bed, took a little in her hand, opened the cage door slightly and offered the bird her open palm. The pigeon was happy to take a few grains - clearly it was used to taking food from strangers. Mirabelle spoke softly to the bird, uttering soothing words, and then gently put her hands about it and lifted it from the cage, holding it firmly as she used to hold her chickens when she was trying to check their health. She carried the pigeon back into the sitting room, where Leon was still verbally fencing with the Countess. 

'How do you contact your agents when you want to speak to them?' 

'I'm telling you nothing.' 

'Do you put an advertisement in the newspaper?' 

'Nothing!' 

'Pigeon post,' said Mirabelle, and held out the bird. 

'Thank you, darling. Do open the message,' answered Leon, not taking his eyes off the Countess. Mirabelle sat down on the other chair with the pigeon on her lap, and carefully slipped the message out from the ring on its leg. 

'You like birds,' said the Countess suddenly. 

Mirabelle looked up at her - the woman was looking at her with an almost friendly expression on her face. 'Yes,' she said. 'I have a farm in Gloucestershire. We keep chickens.' 

'I am glad,' said the other, 'to see that Gonsalez has married a real woman, who can feel and love, not some cold calculating machine with a stone for a heart, which is what he is himself!' She shot a glance of pure hatred at Leon, who smiled smugly but made no response. 

Mirabelle smiled politely in reply to the Countess, and carefully unrolled the message, looked at it, and sighed in exasperation. 'I can't read this,' she said, 'it's in Russian. Leon: for you.' She picked up the pigeon, rose from her chair, and brought the slip of paper to her husband, holding it in front of his face so that he could read it while watching the Countess. 

'Pigeon post,' said Leon, nodding. 'So, this tells me that your friend the Spanish ambassador in London has been told by one of his spies that Mirabelle and I visited Joan Josep and Menshikoff this morning and then caught a train to Rhyl, and he has put two and two together. Regrettably, the train is quicker than his pigeon. Thank you, darling,' - this last to Mirabelle, who said: 'I'll put the pigeon back in its cage,' and took the bird out. She replaced it in the cage, checked its food and water, and then returned to the sitting room, taking care to put the pigeon's message in a safe place in her bag. 

'If I were to shoot you now,' Leon was musing, 'and left your body in your bed for your landlady to find at some future date, I could go through your bank records and tell your bank manager to stop all payments to the fascists, I could check your address book and your blotting paper to discover your contacts, and leave an agent here to collect your pigeons as they arrive. Or you could just tell me and save me the cost of a bullet; because that is all your life is now worth, Countess.' 

'You can prove nothing, and I will tell you nothing,' she retorted. 

Mirabelle opened her mouth, to suggest that rather than shooting the Countess, Leon should hold her at gunpoint while she herself searched the flat; but at that moment the doorbell rang. 

'I'll get it,' said Mirabelle, and went to the door, pulling her Browning from her bag and holding it at the ready. 

'Good afternoon, miss,' said the man standing outside the door, nodding to her in a friendly way, 'is your mistress in? Tell her it's Michael and I've got the cheque from the Fascisti.' Seeing Mirabelle's startled face, he went on, 'She told me to come this afternoon? Said she wanted to discuss the Birkenhead seats?' 

'Yes, of course,' said Mirabelle, now smiling sweetly, 'do come in.' She stepped back from the door and gestured him into the hall. 'Shall I take your coat and hat?' He handed them over - she judged from the weight of the coat that his gun was in the pocket, but she hung both on a peg without comment, then went ahead of him into the sitting room. 'Madam Countess, Michael is here,' she said. Michael entered immediately behind her, saying: 'I've got the cheque from the Fascisti' - and then uttered a cry of alarm when he saw Leon; swinging round to flee, he found himself looking down the barrel of Mirabelle's Browning. 

'Sit down, sir,' she said quickly, 'and tell us what you came to tell the Countess.' 

'Holy Mother of God, what is this?' he demanded. 

'It's the Four Just Men,' said the Countess sharply. 'Sit down, Michael. I do not want them to shoot you.' 

'This girl too?' Michael stared at Mirabelle in amazement. Mirabelle stared back and gestured to him to sit down. 

'She's Gonsalez's wife. Sit down,' the Countess repeated, and Michael sat in the empty chair. 

'Do pass me the cheque,' said Mirabelle. 'Who are these Fascisti?' 

Michael looked at the Countess, received a withering stare in return, shrugged and passed over the cheque. It was made payable to the Countess Viramova and was drawn by the North- East Welsh Fascisti. 'Who are these people?' she asked again. 

The Countess stared straight past her, her eyes on the opposite wall. 'They are certain noble and wealthy people of this region who believe in strong government, hard work and patriotic duty,' she said. 'The donation is in support of the Czarist opposition to the Bolshevik regicides and usurpers.' 

So of course she hates Maria, thought Mirabelle. 'Do you have a large fund? Are you going to raise an army?' she asked. 

The Countess made an impatient noise, which sounded like 'Pah!' 'How can we fight the Bolsheviks? They are as numerous as ants. No, we use such donations to buy influence in the governments of Europe and to pay our loyal agents who risk their lives to discover and carry information which advances our cause.' 

'The restoration of the Czar?' asked Mirabelle. 

'Yes.' 

Mirabelle wondered who would be Czar if they succeeded, as the Czar and his family were dead. However, this was not the moment to ask to see a family tree. 'So you pay a large network of spies,' she said. 

'Yes, I and others who still fight for the noble cause.' 

'How will it help Britain to have the Czar back? We have peace with the Bolsheviks now.' 

The Countess took a deep breath, let it out slowly, and did not reply. Michael fidgeted, and Mirabelle turned to him. 'What did you want to say about the Birkenhead election?' 

'I'm confident that the conservative candidates in both Birkenhead East and West will win,' Michael said. 'I've been all round the constituencies ...' 

'I think that they were going to win without your intervention,' commented Leon. 

Michael swung round on him. 'Excuse me! I've worked long and hard -' 

'Yes, but they were going to win in any case. The Liberal Party is weak and the Labour Party has no hope of winning these seats.' 

Michael glared at him and Leon continued pleasantly: 'Does the Countess have many agents working for her during this election?' 

'Yes,' growled Michael. 'Some of them are coming here this afternoon.' 

'How delightful,' mused Leon. 'I look forward to meeting them. Mirabelle, while we're waiting, will you take this gentleman's statement?' 

'Of course,' said Mirabelle. 'Come over to the table, sir, and you can write down your statement for the police, to explain why they shouldn't arrest you for attempting to rig the election. And then you can write down the names of as many of the Countess's friends as you can remember.' 

'Please sir, do you know when Mrs Lightning is due back?' 

George looked up from his office desk, where he had been working all afternoon. Megs stood in the doorway, expectant enquiry in her eyes. 

'I'm afraid I don't, Margaret,' he replied. 'Is it urgent? Is it something I could help with?' 

'Mrs Dorran wants to talk to her about the menu for this week,' Megs explained. 'And she's due to go home in half an hour, sir, and Mrs Lightning's not been in all day.' 

'I'm sure that whatever Mrs Dorran decides will be satisfactory,' answered George. 

'Very good sir.' Megs went to leave, then hesitated. 'Is Mrs Lightning all right, sir?' 

'Yes, Margaret. She and Mr Lightning have had to go out somewhere.' 

'Oh.' Megs thought for a moment. 'Is this the crime fighting, sir, where the Inspector says silence is safety, sir?' 

George nodded. 'Yes, Margaret, it is.' 

'Coo!' Megs bobbed a curtsey and left, pulling the door to behind her with unnecessary vigour. George listened to her hurried footsteps going downstairs. On an impulse, he lifted the telephone on his desk and listened: this was what Leon had told him the servants did to find out what was happening upstairs. Would the receiver be off the hook in the kitchen? 

It was. He heard Megs clatter into the kitchen and cry: 'She's not here, Mrs Dorran, she's off crime fighting, her and Mr Lightning! They're off chasing anarchists and communists!' 

'Now, there's a thing,' came Mrs Dorran's voice, and Bob's shrill tones cut in: 'They're working for military intelligence, that's what it is.' 

'Now, Bob, don't you go jumping to conclusions!' 

'I ain't jumping to nothing! It's the General Election on Wednesday and there's revolutionaries and communists everywhere! It said so in the Megaphone!' 

'Yes, it did.' Mrs Dorran clearly saw the virtue of Bob's comment. 'Well, as I'm the only one in this kitchen who'll be voting on Wednesday, I say good luck to them.' 

George put the receiver back and smiled to himself. 

'Do come in, sir.' Mirabelle stepped back from the door and dropped a little curtsey. The tall, dark stranger, swathed in a rich, fur-lined coat and hat, swept into the little hall. 'May I take your coat, sir? And your hat? Thank you, sir ... now, if sir would like to follow me? ... Madam Countess, another guest for you - do come in, sir, and don't be afraid: I won't shoot unless you do anything silly. Do sit down here and tell us all about yourself.' 

The third of the Countess's guests that afternoon sat down slowly on the spare chair. On the settee, the Countess sat grim-faced and silent, staring down the barrel of Leon's Browning. Michael sat on the floor in a corner, thoroughly tied up by Mirabelle, who was making effective use of the rope-knotting skills she had learned as a farmer. The second guest of that afternoon, a Mr Tanner, was neatly tied up in another corner. Mirabelle was careful to keep her prisoners separate. 

'I'm sorry we can't offer you tea, but as you can see we are all rather tied up here - now, do tell us about your business.' Mirabelle smiled charmingly at the new arrival. 

'Who are you?' snarled the other. 

'I'm Mirabelle Leicester, and this is my husband Leon Gonsalez. We are two of the Four Just Men' - Mirabelle's voice was interrupted by the other's scream. 

'God! Sophia, I warned you about these people! I told you that they would catch up with us! We should have gone to America when we planned.' 

'Sergei, I have told you, I do not believe in running away.' 

The newcomer faced Mirabelle. 'You are too pretty to be a devil. What are you doing with these evil-hearted men? They kill without pity, they judge without remorse. What are you doing here?' 

'I want to know who your contacts are in Britain and in Europe,' said Mirabelle, holding her Browning steadily pointing at Sergei, 'and I want to stop you stirring up trouble in Britain. You should leave Britain now and never come back.' 

'We are fighting for justice. You should be helping us, not trying to harm us!' 

'No!' Mirabelle realised that she was letting emotion take over, and swallowed hard. 'No,' she said, more quietly. 'What happened to the Czar was unjust, but it has happened now. Two injustices does not make justice. It is unjust to drag Britain into your own conflicts. Britain has peace with Russia now and we don't want to be in any more wars, thank you very much. If you were prepared just to live here peacefully, that would be no problem, but you are plotting and trying to harm other people in this country. You've been trying to kill George Manfred's wife, Maria of Gratz.' 

'She's a murderer,' breathed Sergei. 'She is implicated in the murder of our Czar.' 

'Then bring a legal case against her - but you have no right to kill her.' 

'You say that? The Four Just Men have killed so many men without trial!' 

'Only where the law has failed. You haven't even tried the law yet!' 

Sergei shot a look at Leon, who was saving his breath, letting Mirabelle do the talking, and keeping his eyes on the Countess's face. Realising that Leon was not about to interrogate him, he looked back at Mirabelle. 'Very well. I will do that. I will bring a case against her in an English court, and accuse her judicially of murder. Then we will see justice done.' 

'Yes,' answered Mirabelle. 'In the meantime, I want a list of your contacts - come over to this table and write it out for me.' She gestured with her gun. Sergei rose slowly, walked to the table, sat down and picked up the pen which lay there. 'My contacts?' he repeated. 

'All the people you have regular contact with, particularly your contacts in the Czarist movement, and those outside Britain.' Mirabelle kept her gun trained on him. Sergei hesitated, then shrugged and started to write. 

He took a long time over it, but at length he laid down the pen. 'That is all,' he said, looking up at Mirabelle. 

'Good. Now go and sit next to the Countess on the settee.' Mirabelle gestured again with her gun. When Sergei was seated and Leon was covering both with his weapon, she gathered up her notepad with the lists that the visitors had written and put it in her bag. 

'That's done,' she said. 'Shall we leave now, Leon?' 

'We're waiting for the local police,' her husband replied. 

'I'll go and ask Mrs Evans,' Mirabelle said, walking towards the door; then the doorbell rang, and she hurried to open it. 

'Good evening, officer! Do come in.' 

The Police Inspector entered, followed by five of his men. 'Good evening, miss! Scotland Yard tells me that you have a Czarist-fascist cell to hand over to me.' 

'That's correct, officer. The Countess Viramova and her gang have been conspiring to pervert the course of a General Election and to overthrow a friendly foreign government, and to transport out of the country a person who is on bail.' Mirabelle was reeling off as many charges as she could think of. 

'I see.' The Inspector looked around: at the Countess and Sergei sitting on the settee, and the two men tied up in opposite corners; and then at Leon and Mirabelle, with their guns in their hands. 'Do you have evidence of this?' 

'Lots of evidence,' answered Mirabelle, waving the lists of contacts which the three visitors of that afternoon had given her. 

'And information received,' Leon added. 'Before you arrest the Countess Viramova here, I suggest you check in the drawer of the desk in her hall.' One of the police constables promptly looked, and found a loaded revolver and additional ammunition. 

'Search the flat,' ordered the Inspector, 'and then I must ask you all to accompany me to the police station.' 

It was not until 6 o'clock that evening that Leon and Mirabelle were allowed to leave. They had given statements, answered questions, and handed over their notes. Mirabelle did not explain to the Inspector that she still had carbon copies in her notebook; its pages were interleaved with carbon paper, so that everything written in it made a second copy. Leon had memorised the note brought by the pigeon. 

Mrs Evans had been given instructions to feed the pigeons and to notify the police if any further pigeons arrived. The fact that the Countess had been arrested would not be made public, as the police hoped to trace further contacts through any further pigeon post. Leon also phoned Scotland Yard to report progress, to ensure that Meadows was brought up-to-date with the latest news. Then he and Mirabelle made their way through the lamp-lit streets to the railway station. As they walked arm-in-arm, Mirabelle stumbled and nearly fell; Leon caught her, and realised she was very cold and shivering. 'Darling,' he said, 'are you feeling all right?' 

'I'm feeling very dizzy,' Mirabelle admitted. 'Could we stop for something to eat?' 

Leon cursed himself: 'We haven't eaten since we left London,' he said. 'Perhaps the station buffet will be open.' 

Fortunately for Mirabelle, it was - and Leon bought them a pot of tea and a plate of yesterday's cakes. Mirabelle ate and drank and felt better, but said she would be glad to get home: 'I know I didn't sleep last night, but I will sleep tonight!' 

'You can sleep on the train,' her husband assured her. 

It was past eleven o'clock when they got back to Curzon Street. Despite having slept on the train as promised, Mirabelle was feeling shaky and sick when they finally got into the house. Leon sat her down in the kitchen and put together the sort of supper he loved - hot buttered crumpets and hot, sweet tea. Mirabelle ate and drank slowly, smiled sweetly at her husband and said, 'Now let's go to bed - I could sleep for another twelve hours!' 

As they crossed the first floor landing, however, a soft voice called: 'Mirabelle!' in tones of command, and Mirabelle and Leon - after exchanging exasperated glances - went into Maria's room to answer her summons. Nurse O'Leary was dozing in an armchair, but they tip-toed in and stood by the invalid's bed. 'Where have you been?' she asked, without pausing to exchange conventional greetings. 

'We've been to see some old friends of yours,' answered Mirabelle. 'Do you remember the Countess Viramova?' 

'Yes, I remember her.' Maria's lovely brow furrowed. 'What of her?' 

'She's been arrested. Leon tracked her down. She's been collecting information about you and handing it on to your enemies, but now she's in police custody.' 

Maria's face cleared. 'What a relief! Thank you. Now I can sleep safely in my bed. How good of you to do that for me.' She smiled beatifically at them. 

'How are you feeling this evening?' asked Mirabelle. 

'I am not terrible - I am feeling a little less pain - I am still very weak, but I am able to talk for longer. George has been reading to me, which is very nice, but of course he has to work too.' Maria sighed. 'It is very boring being an invalid! I hope I will soon be able to sit up and read for myself.' 

'I hope so. You must take things easy. Sleep well.' Mirabelle was about to leave, but Maria gestured to her to kiss her 'good night', so she bent and kissed the cold cheek. 'Good night,' she said. 

'Good night, my sister. Good night, proud Gonsalez. Thank you for removing my enemies.' She smiled challengingly at Leon, as if to say: 'Why did you do it, as you hate me so?' But Leon merely bowed, and said: 'It is always my pleasure to serve justice, madam. Good night.' Then he took Mirabelle's hand, and led her out. 

'You shouldn't tease her, when she's so ill,' Mirabelle chided him as they climbed the stairs. 

'It's her own fault,' retorted Leon, 'and someone needs to remind her that she isn't queen of this household!'