The Seven Stars by Anthea Fraser Page A

stroke. Her face suffused with colour and she seemed to have difficulty breathing. ‘Young man,’ she spluttered at last, ‘do you know who I am?’
    ‘ No, madam, though I appreciate there are some very eminent ladies present, and I greatly regret —’
    ‘ My name,’ she stated, drawing herself up and glaring at him, ‘is Lady Soames.’ She paused. ‘Did you hear that, young man? Soames. My husband is the Chief Constable.’
    Baker closed his eyes briefly. ‘I’m sure, madam, that he would be proud of the example you’re setting.’
    ‘ Humph!’
    So much for his chances of promotion , Baker thought bleakly. But to his surprise Lady Soames up-ended her handbag on the table without further urging, and produced a lace handkerchief from a pocket in her skirt. He nodded in answer to Vane’s anxious glance, and the WPC conducted her behind the screen for the frisking.
    ‘ Well, I hope you’re satisfied,’ Lady Soames commented as she emerged, and, retrieving her handbag, she sailed majestically from the room.
    ‘ After that,’ Sue Crossley said with feeling, ‘the Duchess will be a doddle!’
    *
    The staff were the last to be seen, by which time it was after eleven. There were a dozen of them, including the weird old bird who’d made the phone-call, who gave her name as Hermione Tulip. Well into her seventies, her heavy makeup was of theatrical proportions but her hair, silver-grey, was smartly if severely cut and she stood tall and straight in an impeccable black suit. She was, Baker gathered, the linchpin of the establishment and appeared if anything more upset by the evening’s occurrences than Mrs Latimer herself.
    The models who ’d taken part in the parade had, Baker gathered, left immediately afterwards and were therefore of no interest. Of the rest, the cloakroom attendant, one Daisy Phillips, was inclined to be tearful, convinced that suspicion lay heavily on her despite repeated assurances to the contrary. She knew the regular customers, and named several who had been in the cloakroom around the crucial time, which Sue Crossley checked against the relevant statements.
    There were three waitresses , normally employed in the tearoom but brought in to take round the wine, and four sales assistants who had helped dress the models and stayed on to book fittings if required. And last came the three members of the catering firm, Home Cooking, who had provided the food for the evening.
    In view of the eminence of the clientele , Baker was inclined to regard the staff as the most likely culprits. However, Monica assured him that apart from Mrs Phillips, who was on duty, they used the staff facilities and would not have gone near the first-floor cloakroom.
    And when even they had been allowed to leave , there were the entire premises to be searched, for which Baker had requested back-up. When the culprit had heard the police were coming, her first instinct would have been to dispose of the ring, probably in the hope of reclaiming it later. The long showroom offered dozens of hiding-places, each of which must be searched out and examined.
    It might also , he reflected, be worth SOCO’s having a look at the cloakroom, though unless they proposed to fingerprint the entire gathering — which heaven forfend, Baker thought tiredly — he couldn’t see that much good would come of it.
    While the search took place above and around him , he sat in the tearoom, accepted his umpteenth cup of coffee, and read through the list of statements which Vicky Penton had laboriously written down. The cream of Broadshire society, no less, but apart from Lady Soames no one had objected to their questioning. Nor, not unnaturally, had anyone admitted the crime. So where was the blasted ring, for heaven’s sake? It seemed that one of those rich, highly bred ladies had after all had the last laugh.
     

 
    7
     
    Webb learned of the evening ’s events on his arrival at Carrington Street the next morning, where it was the main