“Straight to the QED bit, Joe?”
“Please.”
“Fitzwilliam was entertaining a female guest. She was happily entertained—in fact, Aunty Phyl, who hadn’t a clue who the pair were, rather thought they were in love. But it all turned sour when he gave her an unexpected present. It consisted of two items I couldn’t make out. Small. Gold. They had significance for her, though. She burst into tears and fled the table.” She hurried to add, “They’re not spending the night together.”
“Identification, Lil?”
“Pursued by me to the ladies washroom, she told me her name was Dorcas Joliffe.”
Lily absorbed the heavy silence and then took up again, slowly: “Upshot was, Miss Joliffe took off in a taxi, leaving me to make her excuses to Fitzwillie. She said she was going to stay with a friend … Kate. I heard her direct the cabby to Highgate.”
Joe’s voice was a growl of distress. “You said it, Lil. Romantic place, silver words—I’m sure there were plenty of those—and a meaningful gift. Yes, I know what that would have been. The Swine actually tricked me into acquiring it on his behalf the day before. He set me up to bid for it at Christie’s. It cost him fifty quid; it’s cost me …”
“What on earth was it, Joe?”
“A pair of gold-mounted miniatures. Very good ones. Great-great-grandmama and -grandpapa. A matched pair of betrothal portraits.”
Hissing of a human kind filled the earpiece. Lily was quick to understand. “The shit! That was a seduction scene he’d set up all right, but more than that … A proposal of marriage. Don’t you think? Am I reading too much into the gesture, Joe?”
“I’m sure you are.” Joe’s response was devoid of emotion. “He’s a free man and will marry again if he is to achieve his ambitions. Future Prime Ministers are expected to acquire wives who will do them credit: they should be of high social standing, unassertive and, for choice, British. Dorcas is illegitimate and—worse—she has a French mother. The half that’s not French—her father’s side—is half German. Her paternal aunt, you’ll recall, was conveniently murdered before she could be exposed as a German spy working at the heart of the British Navy.” Sensing that he was responding a little abruptly, he added, “And, of course, she regularly marches with the Suffragettes, let’s not forget.”
“Then I’ve misinterpreted things … Definitely a non-starter in the marriage stakes! You’ve convinced me. Funny though, he seemed to me to be offering her his family on a plate. He must have been very confident that she would be impressed.”
“They were impressive—all velvet and pearls and haughty stares. Now, the sight of my hand-hewn ancestors—bristly chins, rough tweeds and blackcock’s feathers at a jaunty angle—the gentlemen were even more fearsome—would have a girl running for the exit.”
“Well, that’s sort of what did happen, Joe,” Lily said gently. She always guessed his self-deprecating flippancy concealed distress. “She saw something there she didn’t like the look of. Fitzwillie must have realised he’d misjudged things because she left the gift behind on the table when she skedaddled.”
“Did he go after her?”
“No. He’s still here in the hotel morosely sipping his brandy. Hoping she’ll think again and come back, I expect. Do you want me to ruin his romantic prospects for a week? Albert’s taught me the neatest trick and I’m sure I can borrow an umbrella …”
“Leave it, Lil. Just go home with my thanks. Yes, I said—thanks! Boils are better lanced, and this is one that’s been swelling for some time. Give Phyl a stiff drink and my undying gratitude, summon up old Albert and get him to drive you away from that den of iniquity … How did you get this number?”
“I rang your sister. Lydia told me you were down in the country chasing villains. Anyone I know?”
Joe swallowed. “As a matter of fact, you do. I’m at Melsett being the life and soul of a very dull party, at the beck and call of Cecily, Lady Truelove. Yes … standing in for James. Again! Does the word ‘stooge’ come to mind? He’s expected here tomorrow morning with a mixed party. IDs unknown to me. No doubt I shall be surprised but not half as startled as he will be to see my ugly mug in the welcome line.”
“Lord! What a scene! Shall I come?”
“I’m saying no for the moment. Could you stand by? Look, here’s another number you can ring if you can’t get me here.” He gave her Adelaide’s number. “That’s the local vet. You can leave a message with him or his daughter. Phones out here are rarer than hen’s teeth. Lily, I must go. Stomachs are rumbling. Any last comment?”
Lily hesitated and then plunged in: “Yes. There’s something you shouldn’t leave out of your calculations. He loves her, Joe.”
A splutter of outrage then, puzzlingly, “Another poor clown caught flapping his wings and heading for the cliff edge! Hah! Serves the bugger right for tormenting the animal kingdom!”
ALEXANDER TRUELOVE, SERIAL persecutor of nannies, Oxford reject, failed banker, and consumer of dubious stimulating substances over many years, was putting on a show.
Joe could not but admire the effort the young man was making to join the party now that he had actually staggered as far as the Great Hall. Cecily had greeted him with a maternal coo of concern and, at a look from her, the footman in charge of the drinks table had stepped forward and placed a glass of something fizzy—Perrier?—with a slice of lemon into his hand. To everyone’s relief, he had managed to remember the names of most of the guests he’d met before and exchanged appropriate comments and reminiscences. A genuine, clear-headed feat of memory, or had Cecily spent some time rehearsing him? Whatever the cause, they seemed flattered by the effect.
As one would be, Joe thought, by the attentions of this peacock. Cecily had misled him. In this and in how many other matters? he wondered bitterly. He’d imagined something on the lines of a Dorian Grey portrait: dissolute, lined, prematurely old, a face better hidden away. But here was a handsome youth, fair and slender, looking less than his twenty-five years when seen against the middle-aged and elderly guests surrounding him. If Dorcas had been of the company, Cecily would have sent them both off to play marbles. When he brushed aside the hair that flopped over his forehead in a blond quiff reminiscent of Rupert Brooke and turned his melting blue eyes on the ladies, they were as charmed by him as they were by the resident King Charles spaniel that skulked, quivering, about the place, begging for caresses and violet creams.
Joe had seen that unruly hair and those eyes before. Adam Hunnyton was a hand or two taller, a stone or two heavier and a decade or two older, but the two men had recognisably the same father.
The blue eyes had lost some of their openness when Cecily introduced him to Joe. “A friend of James?” he’d questioned, with a curl of the lip. “What are you saying, mother? My brother doesn’t have friends. He has victims, dupes, prey. Which one are you, Commissioner?”
“I’m sure James would like to think—all three of those.” Joe’s tone was relaxed, his lips gently smiling, but the sudden narrowing of the icy grey eyes gave quite a different message.
Alex laughed. “Lesson one: how to duck a direct question. They warned me you’d had training with my godfather Jardine. The power behind the throne in India. Terrifying old bird! He talked me out of joining the diplomatic service, I remember.”
“Very persuasive gentleman, Sir George.”
“Indeed! Compelling. But you survived his ministrations to pound the beat another day? Clearly made of sterner stuff than the rest of us. Though why you’d choose bobbying over an apprenticeship in the dark arts from the master and a leg up the greasy diplomatic pole, I can’t imagine. Can’t say I’ve ever met a Scotland Yarder before … Socially that is.”
“Can’t say I’ve ever exchanged views over a drink with a banker before. Though I have slipped the cuffs on one or two,” Joe said genially.