The other two men simply stared at him.
‘What?’ he said. ‘I live alone. I read.’
‘Well, that explains the club’s nickname, then,’ said Sunderland. ‘But anyway. There’s a rumour of an inkling of a suspicion of a possibility that someone might have reported overhearing something that led us to surmise that it might just be imaginable that one of the men on our list, one Arthur Grant, is living it up in London.’
‘Good solid lead, then,’ said Dunn.
‘It’s the sort of flimsy gossip and hearsay I work with all the time, I’m afraid,’ said Sunderland. ‘The thing is, the name “Aristippus” has come up a couple of times, both as part of a missing deserter case and something altogether more baffling, and I can’t ignore it. But neither do I have the manpower to investigate it properly. My little group redefines the notion of being “spread a bit thin”. So I need a couple of likely lads on the inside who can do a bit of snooping on the QT and report back. And when I mentioned the case to Lady Hardcastle she suggested you two at once. Said you’d be perfect for the job.’
‘Did she now?’ said Skins. ‘I can’t say I’m not a bit disappointed she didn’t come to us direct. You’d have thought Flo would have told Ellie, at least.’
‘I’m so sorry, I assumed she had. Your wife’s name came up in conversation, actually. It seems she already knows about the case.’
‘Ellie knows about the case? The deserter?’
‘Well, part of the case, anyway,’ said Sunderland. ‘It was in the papers when she was in France during the war. She told Flo about it. But I’m getting ahead of myself.’
‘So it’s more than just rounding up a deserter,’ said Dunn. ‘What, exactly, is it you want us to do?’
‘As I said, just a bit of snooping. Eyes and ears open around the club, and let me know if anyone strikes you as a bit dodgy. Nothing dangerous.’
‘What’s this bloke Grant supposed to have done,’ asked Skins, ‘if he’s not just your common or garden deserter?’
Sunderland took a moment to compose his thoughts. ‘In 1917, around the time he disappeared, so did about twenty-five thousand pounds’ worth of rough diamonds that had been smuggled out of Antwerp and across the German lines. They were on their way to Calais but they never made it.’
Skins whistled. ‘Oh, so that’s it. I do remember Ellie talking about that one. The whole area was buzzing with it, she said. She thought it was probably just a rumour, though. But it was real? And you reckon Grant pinched them?’
‘It was and we do.’
‘Whose were they?’ said Dunn.
‘Not his, that’s for certain,’ said Sunderland. ‘To be honest, I’ve never managed to find out the full details. Obviously some well-to-do Belgian trying to get his wealth out of the country in case the Germans were there to stay after all – probably had it in mind to follow the gems to safety at a later date – but it’s all been very hush-hush.’
‘What happens when you catch him?’
‘Grant? He goes on trial for desertion and theft.’
‘How will we know him if we see him?’ asked Skins. ‘Presumably he’s not calling himself Grant any more or you’d have him already.’
‘His army record says he’s five foot seven, brown hair, brown eyes, and wears a size eight boot,’ said Sunderland. ‘He was born in ’95, so he’s thirty years old.’
‘So if we see someone who looks exactly like every other bloke who served in the war, he’s our man.’
‘In a nutshell, yes. But I’m hoping you’ll spot someone who doesn’t fit in. This man was a private, conscripted in 1916. Norfolk Regiment. He was a near-penniless farm labourer when he was called up, but now he’s palling about with the toffs at “Tipsy Harry’s”. Or so the rumour goes. He must be pretty good to have gone unnoticed so far, but I doubt anyone’s been looking too hard as long as he wears the right jacket to dinner and settles his bar bill.’
‘It’s quite a big club, Tipsy Harry’s,’ said Dunn. ‘Lots of members. Lots and lots.’
‘The official register says there are two hundred and thirty-six. We had a word with the secretary – very helpful chap. But there are fewer than four dozen of what he called “active members” – the sort who are there more than a few times a year – and just a handful of real regulars. And of them, just one small group of about the right age, all of whom joined within the past twelve months. Now we’ve linked Grant to the club, we’re assuming he’s one of this core of new regulars. It makes sense to me, at least, for reasons I’ll come to in a minute.’
‘Why now?’ said Skins. ‘If you know where he is – or where you think he is – why not just keep an eye on the place and take a closer look yourselves when you’ve got the manpower? Why do you need us at all?’
‘I knew you were the men for the job,’ said Sunderland. ‘Straight to the heart of it. There’s another side to all this, and time is very much not on my side. Our source first came to us – well, came to my colleagues in the Flying Squad, in fact – because he’d got word of a possible theft from the club. The Flying Squad passed it on to C Division CID, saying it was nothing to do with them. Not a robbery, you see? The Sweeney are only interested in armed blags, not burglaries. C Division smiled politely and filed it away, but a pal of mine there passed me the file when I sent round a memo asking if anyone had any intelligence on Arthur Grant and the Aristippus Club.’
‘How is time against you, then?’ asked Dunn.
‘There’s a dance contest coming up on the twelfth of June – a little over three weeks from now.’
‘Which must be why they want us for their lessons,’ said Skins. ‘Getting ready for the big day.’
‘That’s my assumption,’ said Sunderland. ‘But that’s not the interesting part. Not from a criminal point of view, at least.’
‘You’ve not seen them dancing,’ said Skins. ‘We’ve played their Friday Night Bash – some of them ought to be locked up for crimes against the goddess Terpsichore.’
‘She was a Muse,’ said Dunn.
‘What?’
‘Terpsichore wasn’t just any old goddess, she was one of the nine Muses.’
‘I live and learn,’ said Skins. ‘But what’s interesting about it, then?’
Sunderland chuckled. ‘This is a Lady Hardcastle kind of interesting. There’s a rumour . . . Actually, to be fair, this one is more of a legend. Or perhaps a myth. What do you know of the Treasure of the Mayfair Murderer?’
‘Not a thing,’ said Skins. ‘Barty? Sounds like the sort of thing you’d have read about in your lonely Wood Green garret.’
‘Doesn’t ring a bell,’ said Dunn.
‘Shame,’ said Sunderland. ‘I hoped it might fire your imaginations. In 1805, the president of the Aristippus Club – one of its founder members – was hanged for the murder of a Hatton Garden diamond merchant. He had tunnelled into the merchant’s premises from the cellar of the house next door and was helping himself to the contents of the safe when the merchant interrupted him. A scuffle ensued and the merchant was stabbed through the heart with an ornamental dagger—’