“Yes — you can still see where the corn’s been battered down if you know just where to look.” She pointed, he strained but couldn’t see anything. “Anyway,” she said, turning away, “I never said they’d made circles, Chief Inspector. Dowding made that up.”
“I’m sure you didn’t. He was only teasing.”
“He goes too far at times does that one.”
Bliss looked around for something to change the subject and seized on the piano. “What a beautiful instrument. Do you play?”
“Very badly — I had loads of lessons as a child but lacked dedication. What about you?”
“A little. But I’ve never played one like this.” He brushed his hand over the surface, “Just look at that veneer;” reverently lifted the lid and took in a sharp breath of awe, “And the keys — real ivory;” gently touched a few notes, “Perfect!”
“Quite a beauty, isn’t it? Coincidentally, it came from the Dauntsey house. I bought it at an auction twenty odd years ago, and it still had the original receipt tucked inside. The old Colonel had bought it in 1903.” She paused with a vague expression.“Or was it 1905? Lift up the lid, Chief Inspector, I think it’s still in there.”
The receipt was there as predicted. “1903,” Bliss said, reading it off the faded handwritten paper. “You were right the first time.” Then he sat down and started playing.
“Mozart?” she queried, recognising the theme.
“Uh-hum,” he nodded.
She closed her eyes in rapture. “Oh that’s so beautiful. You could make love to this.” Her eyes popped open. “Oh now I’ve shocked you.”
“No — not at all.”
“There was a time, Chief Inspector …” she cut herself off and listened for a while, her mind awash with romantic memories that softened her face and brought a touch of dampness to her eyes. “You do know that God only invented Mozart to make the rest of us feel incompetent, don’t you?” she said.
“That’s very clever, Daphne,” he laughed.
“Yes, it is — I only wish I’d been the first to say it.” Then she slipped into the kitchen, mouthing, “Keep playing.”
“So, where is Mrs. Bliss?” she called as he finished the piece.
“There’s no Mrs. Bliss — not at the moment anyway.”
“There’s hope for me yet then,” she said popping her head round the door and giving him a lascivious wink that threw him off guard. “Oh don’t look so nervous, Chief Inspector,” she laughed, “I’ve no illusions about my eligibility in that direction.”
“Is this you?” he asked, hastily snatching a silver-framed portrait of an attractive young woman off the sideboard.
“Uh-huh,” she nodded. “I haven’t always been a Mrs. Mop. I used to clean up quite nicely, didn’t I?” Then she ducked modestly back into the kitchen.
She still has the same entrancing eyes he realised and, feeling her distance offered some protection, called, “Actually you haven’t changed all that much.”
She stuck her head back round the door, “You wouldn’t say that if you saw me in my birthday suit … the ravages of gravity, ” she added, before disappearing again.
Bliss looked closer at the fifty-year-old image. “Very attractive,” he breathed, then noticed the inscription. “It say’s Ophelia on here,” he began, in a questioning tone.
“Oh really,” she replied, staying in the kitchen.
He wandered into the kitchen, picture in hand. “Ophelia Lovelace,” it says here. “Paris — September 1947.”
Daphne closely studied the saucepan of gravy atop the stove and stirred it firmly.
“Ophelia?” he inquired, noticing the pink glow to her cheeks, wondering if it were the heat from the Aga cooker.
She didn’t look up from the pot. “The truth is my name is Ophelia — Ophelia Daphne Lovelace. I’m afraid we all lie a little at times, Chief Inspector.”
“That’s not a lie. You can call yourself whatever you want.”
She wasn’t listening, her eyes and mind seemed focused on the pan. “I loathed Ophelia,” she began with surprising vehemence. “Who’d want to be named after a week-willed nincompoop of a girl who drowned herself just because some bloke dumped her?”
“Suicide,” mused Bliss. “Was she a relative?”
Daphne laughed, “No — Hamlet — Shakespeare. Ophelia was the wilting lily who jumped in the river when she thought Hamlet didn’t love her anymore.” Then, sticking her hands assertively on her hips, she spun on him, demanding, “Do I look like an Ophelia to you, Chief Inspector?”
“No,” he laughed. “You look like a Daphne, but I wish you’d call me Dave — off duty anyway.”
“I don’t think I could — you’re cast in the mould of a chief inspector. It suits you. There’s a lot in a name you know. I actually think that some people become famous because of their names. Can you imagine what might have happened if Winston Leonard Spencer Churchill had been called Randy Longbottom — see, you’re laughing already — I mean, who’s going to sacrifice themselves for somebody called Randy or Matt?”
“ … or Dave,” he suggested.
“Oh no. There’s something very noble about David: King David, David and Goliath, David Lloyd George — Yes,” she added with an admiring glance, “David is very noble.”
“I don’t know about that,” he replied, feeling a blush of warmth from the stove.
Daphne gave him an inquisitive look. “I couldn’t help noticing, in the churchyard, you looked distracted, as though you had something on your mind.”
The shooting of Mandy Richards, he remembered instantly, then worked desperately hard to keep the memory from clouding his face again. “Just the death of the Old Major,” he lied, “There’s something very puzzling about the case. I feel as though I’ve sneaked into a play halfway through the first act and can’t pick up the plot because I’ve missed some crucial bit of the action.”
Daphne wasn’t convinced, “And the ghost that’s bothering you?”
“Just an old memory, graveyards have a way of bringing back old memories for me.”
“They do for everyone — that’s the whole idea of graveyards surely. If we just wanted to dispose of our dead we’d take them to the dump … Come on,” she said, brightening her tone and gathering the dishes together. “Stuffed pork chops with young broad beans, the tiniest new potatoes and a nice tender savoy. All out of my own garden — apart from the chops.”
“Wherever did you learn to cook like this?”
“My mother, of course, and in France. I lived there for a while.”
“Hence the portrait.”
“Yes,” she nodded, with a longing glance at the picture in his hand. “Hence the portrait.”
“Wine?” offered Daphne as Bliss seated himself at the head of the table. “This is rather a splendid Puligny Montrachet — I’m assuming you like a red with a bit of heart.”
“Oh, yes. Very much. But can you afford …”
“Don’t worry, Chief Inspector. Like I said, I haven’t always been a cleaning lady; I’m not short of a few bob … Bon appetit.”
“You were going to tell me about the Major,” he said, digging in.
“Was I? Oh yes, well I’m not sure if I have anything terribly useful to offer.”
“When did you last see him?”
“Difficult to say,” she started vaguely. “Time distorts time.” She looked at him across the table, “Is everything alright?”
“Absolutely delicious — this stuffing … mmm.” He let a rapturous mask slide over his face then picked up where she’d left off. “Time — the Major — When?”
She gave it some thought but seemed at a loss, shaking her head. “In thirty years time you’ll probably be wondering who died first, Kennedy or Diana. I won’t be around then, so that’s something I won’t have to worry about.”
“But Major Dauntsey. Can you narrow it down? Was it this year or last?”
“Good God, Chief Inspector, my memory’s not that bad. No, I’m trying to remember whether it was before the Suez Crisis or after.”
“But that was in the 1950s — before I was born … I think.”
“Oh — so it would have been. Yes, I suppose that does seem a long time to you.”
Bliss had frozen, a piece of pork chop hung expectantly in the air in front of his face. “Are you saying you haven’t seen him for forty-odd years?”