On cue, Joe came forward to take Adelaide’s hand. The fingers were trembling despite the smile on her face. He leaned towards her and spoke quietly in her ear. “Not the Palace. I’d have said rather an ambassadorial reception on the Right Bank in Paris. Every man in the room has his eyes on you, thinking lecherous thoughts, and every woman has her eyes on her man, thinking murderous thoughts.”
The black silk trousers which had appeared outlandishly daring when waved in front of him in her sitting room, now—filled with her willowy frame and topped off with a short jacket of military cut—were stunning. A white blouse, frilled at neck and cuff, softened and made fun of the masculine assertiveness. As did her chestnut hair, which billowed out exuberantly about her head in loose, barely-in-control curls. Adelaide Hartest was showing all the tongue-in-cheek sexual allure of a thigh-slapping pantomime prince. She murmured back, “What do you think of my buttonhole, Joe? Swan Lake came up with just the right bud today.”
Joe dared to bend and nuzzle the rose. The smiles they exchanged seemed to puzzle and annoy Alexander, who took Adelaide firmly by the arm and led her into the centre of the room to perform the remaining introductions. “Come and meet Dorcas Joliffe—she knows a great deal about animals and doctoring, too. You’ll have much in common.”
CHAPTER 23
Cecily, in the end, must have been pleased with her arrangements.
The guests were, for the most part, animated and witty, the conversation sparked by an undercurrent of tension and mystery. The candlelight flattered the company and the food on their gold-rimmed plates. The dishes chosen were superb, the accompanying wines impeccable. Course followed course with Edwardian opulence, served by deft, handsome footmen wearing a parade uniform of fairy-tale splendour.
Excessive, Joe judged, accepting a helping of bavarois à la framboise. He saw a trap being baited with honey. The last scraping of the jar? Surely Dorothy wasn’t taken in? From her chatter and laughter, he could only assume this display was no more than she was used to and expected. Seated between a saucy Alice McIver and a saucy Adelaide, Joe found himself talking rather too freely and more entertained than he would have thought possible with the depressing load of a forthcoming denunciation on his mind.
He glanced around the table as the evening closed in between dessert and savoury, checking the faces. Almost all were flushed and relaxed. Only Dorcas had remained aloof from the gaiety. She was wearing an elegant dark silk dress which flattered her slim figure and doing her best to bat into the ground the overtures of her immediate neighbours. Mungo McIver had quickly given up on her and talked to the lady on his other side, as, eventually, did kindly Basil Ripley. She cast the occasional dark glance at Joe, followed by an equally dark shaft of recrimination in Truelove’s direction, and cut up her food without actually eating much of it. She drank three glasses of wine, Joe noted. Of all the people at the table, innocent and guilty alike, it was Dorcas’s behaviour he needed to be able to forecast as things reached their climax. If she reacted badly and abandoned the script, his plans would come to nothing. The thirteen diners he was dealing with had to be handled with the caution and cunning you’d need to control a herd of half-tamed horses. It would take one ill-chosen word, one hasty action to spook them.
He looked anxiously at his wristwatch.
With the meal drawing to its close, Cecily began to glance around the table, catching the eye of the lady guests and preparing to announce that they would withdraw, leaving the gentlemen to enjoy their port. After that would come tedious rounds of snooker or cards and the evening would run into the sand though, for the moment, the company seemed still sprightly, the buzz of conversation animated. Joe judged his moment had come. With a swift gesture of the hand to Cecily, he held her in her seat and himself rose to his feet.
One of the male guests, more tipsy than the rest, interpreted this as a familiar movement. Joe was about to make a speech. Wilfred knew what to do; he tinkled merrily on the side of his claret glass with a spoon. “Pray silence for the commissioner!” he announced. “Speech! Make it funny, Sandilands!”
“Not a speech, you’ll all be relieved to hear—the Plod are not known for their light-footed levity. Indeed, there was once a policeman so achingly dull, all the others thought he was Noël Coward. But I have to announce—for your further entertainment—and with the gracious collusion and dramatic flair of Lady Cecily …” Cecily chased the expression of astonishment from her features and replaced it with one of knowing amusement as all eyes turned on her.
“… an after-dinner game. No—don’t run for the door, Ripley! I have in mind something a little more sophisticated than Sardines. I’m calling it ‘Deceive the Detective.’ All the rage in London Town. At least half of the people gathered around this table are old hands, in the know, so to speak, and have been playing the current round of the game for some time. The others will be surprised—but I hope not alarmed—by the sudden appearance out of the shrubbery of policemen in uniform, clanking handcuffs, possibly a judge and hangman.”
Glances were exchanged, eyebrows raised. Well, at least this promised to be livelier than a round of piquet, more entertaining than the Music Hall Medley they knew Maggie Somerton had in store for them. They listened on.
“The aim of the game is to solve a murder puzzle before the detective does. You must come up with the answer to two questions: Who has been murdered? Who is the murderer? Evidence will be presented, witnesses called on. You may make notes and confer but there must be a decision arrived at by the stroke of midnight. We’ll need to withdraw from this table, of course, and take a breather. I’ve arranged for coffee and brandy to be served to you in the Great Hall in—shall we say—half an hour?”
Joe caught Ben’s eye and he smiled and nodded.
Murmuring and giggles broke out around the table. Florence Ripley reached into her bag and drew out pencil and notebook and looked up with the alertness of a prize pupil, ready to start. Dorcas stared at him with foreboding. Dorothy and her father exchanged looks of indulgent incredulity. The English and their parlour games! Mungo McIver showed some agitation. He seemed to have heard a whistle blow in the enemy trench and patted his pockets. Seeking what? Gun? Camera? He caught Truelove’s eye and his query was returned by an amused shrug of the shoulders. Adelaide put out a hand below table level and patted Joe’s thigh.
They rose with varying degrees of enthusiasm to his smiling invitation and went off to powder noses, find a flowerbed to pee into, take a breath of fresh air and hiss whispered speculation to each other. Under cover of the disruption, Adelaide leaned close to Joe and whispered, “You’re nuts! You’ll get a unanimous decision: it was the horse that did it, in the stable, with his teeth.”
Joe went straight to the Great Hall to check his arrangements. The ancestors, he thought fancifully, were not pleased to see him. A chorus of harrumphs would have run around the walls if they’d known the real purpose of his unscheduled invasion of their family territory.
Nervously, the thirteen entered on time and gathered together in the centre of the room, too strung up to commit themselves to taking a seat at the table he’d had laid with a carafe of water, glasses, notepaper and pencils. Coffee on trays followed them instantly, supervised, surprisingly, by Mrs. Bolton. A cross Mrs. Bolton who whispered words of protest in Cecily’s ear. “Short handed—sorry, ma’am.”
“Glad you could join us. Do stay, Mrs. Bolton. We’re sorry to inconvenience you,” Joe said. Cecily set about playing hostess alongside Enid Bolton, dispensing coffee as she remembered her guests liked it. Truelove and McIver had instantly stationed themselves, an alert and menacing presence, on either side of the doorway. For their easy retreat or to block Joe’s exit? Cecily was having none of it.