Chapter 55

CHAPTER 55

MARPLE HAD EXPECTED to end up at the iconic New Scotland Yard headquarters in Westminster. Instead, the car pulled up in front of a much smaller building a few blocks south along the Thames. The entrance was guarded by a single officer and a pair of stone gargoyles that looked like they might have survived from the reign of Henry VIII.

“Keeping your doula in a dungeon, are you?” asked Marple.

“It’s an annex,” said Dodgett as they exited the car. He patted the roof to signal the driver. The armored sedan pulled away, leaving Marple and the constable on the rain-soaked sidewalk. “We’ve been running the hospital case out of here,” said Dodgett. “More privacy. Less press. Our own little black site.”

“How have you managed to keep a lid on this?” asked Marple as they headed up the entry walk.

“The hospital is King’s Grove in Kensington—small and exclusive. The four newborn babies who were taken were the only ones on the floor that night. We’ve closed the ward under the guise of equipment upgrades. So far, the staff have held. They don’t want this kind of publicity any more than we do.”

Marple remembered that one mother of the missing babies had an uncle in Parliament. “I suppose having an MP involved doesn’t hurt when it comes to pulling strings.”

“Doesn’t help when it comes to pressure,” said Dodgett. “Lord Essom is a backbencher with a big mouth, and he wants his little grandniece found. So far, we’ve convinced him that discretion is key to the investigation. But if he gets impatient, he could break.”

Dodgett held the door for Marple as they entered. Inside, the classic stone building had been renovated in a generic office style. The austere lobby was lit with institutional fluorescents. A dour-looking female officer sat at a sturdy metal desk in front of an open staircase and a single elevator. She looked up as Dodgett approached.

“Did they bring her into L3?” he asked.

“Yes, sir,” said the desk officer. “Soon as you rang.”

“Working today?” He nodded toward the elevator.

“Questionable,” said the officer. “I’d take the stairs.”

Dodgett turned to Marple. “Right, then. Let’s not get trapped in the lift.” He led the way past the desk down the curved marble staircase. The treads were dished in the center from centuries of footfalls. Marple ran her palm down the curved walnut railing, worn and cracked by time. The lower they went, the older the place felt.

Two stories down, the air was dank and the marble gave way to rough stone. Clerks and uniformed officers moved quietly along corridors hardly wide enough for two people to pass without bumping elbows. Marple followed Dodgett single file. They stopped in front of an officer in a black vest. He had his back to a solid steel door.

“Anything from her yet?” Dodgett asked.

The officer shook his head. “Stroppy as hell.”

“What’s her name?” asked Marple.

“Jane Robinson,” said Dodgett. “A real Scouser—born and raised in Liverpool.”

He lifted the thick metal bar that held the door shut. As soon as the seal was broken, a loud shriek emerged from the room. Marple was startled. She’d been picturing a matronly British caregiver.

The voice from inside sounded more like a raving banshee.