Joe paused for a moment in thought. “You know what the medical profession is like when it comes to solidarity, Dorcas?”
“They don’t shop each other when something’s gone wrong.”
“I need to check on this pediatrics place. Chadwick had only good things to say about it, but there was just something about his delivery, an oddness. It was presented as an afterthought. But I thought it was rather too casually handed to me.”
“I could comment more intelligently if you told me where this hospital is. I probably know of it. The department has contacts with many hospitals. My friends were scattered all around the Home Counties. We compared notes. Let me help you.”
Joe handed the card Chadwick had given him to Dorcas and watched her brows lift in surprise.
“You do know it?”
“Yes, I do. But it’s miles from here. Not on the Seaford-London road at all. To get there, you’d have to travel a further twenty miles north and then branch off to the east and pick up the Tunbridge Wells road. It’s a couple of miles south of Edenhurst village.”
Joe looked at her steadily. “How do you know this? Have you visited?”
“Yes. Joe, this is the hospital where I did my research last term.”
“Ah. The post Truelove wangled for you?”
“I was glad and lucky to have it. It was the plum posting. You must have heard of it? It’s always in the papers.”
Joe nodded. “The sort of showcase establishment eminent foreign visitors are shown around, I understand. Starry German clinicians especially welcome. Pathé News on hand to record the admiration. Dorcas, how long has it been open, this place?”
“Oh, it’s shining new. White brick, plate glass, chrome fittings, the occasional restrained decorative touch. Ah, of course. I see where you’re going with this. Five years? At the most. So, of little interest to your enquiry.”
Joe smiled with relief. “Nevertheless, I don’t neglect a pointer when it’s pushed at me by a bloke as clever as I judge Chadwick to be. Just give me an outline if you can, without being too starry eyed.”
“It’s a research hospital, both surgical and psychiatric. They employ the very best medical staff, and their patients are well-heeled and well-connected. If members of the royal family need a little discreet medical attention, it’s where they come. It’s out of the public eye, and they receive the most modern treatment. James Truelove is a friend of the director. No, it’s a closer relationship than that. Brother-in-law, would he be? I believe he married James’s sister. Byam Alexander Bentink. Professor Bentink. He’s a consultant, a world authority on epilepsy and other brain malfunctions. A brilliant man.”
“So, it’s possible that a chauffeur in distress with a suffering child on his hands might have rung his boss from a telephone box or a post office or a road-house with a request for instructions. Perhaps he’d got further on his journey than we had calculated. A knowledgeable parent would have looked at a map and noted that the best option was to drive him to this centre of clinical excellence. Perhaps the boy was already on their books?”
“Entirely possible.” Dorcas turned a beaming smile at last on Joe. “We’ll find out in the morning. If that’s where Harald Spielman’s been taken he couldn’t be in more professional hands, I know that. Ouf!” She gave an exaggerated gesture of relief. “That’s the first gleam of sunshine we’ve had in this murky case. Do you think I might change my mind and have a glass of champagne now?”
“Of course. But there’ll be a price to pay. I mean over and above the five quid the landlord’s charging.” He summoned a waiter and placed his order. “I want some information. Everywhere I turn I bump into Sir James. He’s here there and everywhere. I’ve only met the bloke once, and he’s taken to haunting me. I’m not happy about it. I’ve made the usual background checks, of course, and I know what he is but I don’t know who he is. I need to understand him. I want to know as much as you can tell me about him.”
Dorcas frowned a frown he had last seen seven years before, and Joe feared she was going to sink into the impenetrable silence that usually followed. Then she came to a decision and spoke dismissively. “You don’t want to hear what I have to tell about him, about his integrity, his intelligence, his oratory, his philanthropy, do you?”
Joe shook his head. “No, I’d rather hear he can’t fasten his shoelaces yet, slurps his soup and beats his granny. You must have noticed something.”
The frown became a scowl. “Very well. I’ll confide that he drinks the best French brandy and the worst English ale. That he uses Eucryl toothpowder, gets his shoes at Lobbs, his haircuts at Trumpers, and always gives his lady friends white roses. You really must stop reading the Daily Mirror, Joe. I think of Sir James as the best ancient Athens had to offer in its golden age. Democratic, thoughtful, but with the bounding energy that gets a state rebuilt.”
“Good Lord! A sort of modern day Pericles, are you claiming?”
“That’s not a bad insight! The citizenry would have gathered round on the Pnyx to listen to James’s speeches, all right!”
“Huh! If our old friend Plutarch isn’t wrong, Pericles’ best speech-the humdinger he delivered from the steps of the Parthenon at the opening ceremony-was written for him by a woman!”
“Only a man would be surprised to hear that.”
Joe hesitated. Should he risk breaking the news? Surely she knew? He would phrase his next sentence carefully and have his handkerchief at the ready … prepare for tears and sobs.
“I was just thinking-if Sir James depends on Lady Truelove to pen his bons mots for him, Parliament’s in for a jolly boring time! His wife, Lavinia, is one of the silliest women in London, I hear.”
“Ah, but Pericles’ muse was not Mrs. Pericles.” She spoke with no surprise. He would have said rather with quiet triumph. “The speech-writer you’re thinking of was his well-educated and utterly lovely Aspasia. A courtesan. The only class of woman worth knowing in ancient Greece, I would have thought.”
“A hetaira? A good-time girl?”
“But well educated and witty, an ideal companion for a politician. I sometimes think we should revive the institution. It would so cheer up the lives of those dull duffers in Parliament.”
“To say nothing of their speeches! But no need to encourage the notion, Dorcas. They’ve been at it on the quiet for years in Westminster.”
Her answering smile was the one he most disliked-the enigmatic one. Hinting at possible revelations.
“Here’s the champagne, Joe. Oh! Goodness! Veuve Cliquot ’26! Have I deserved this?”
He smiled blandly. “No. But it’s what I always give my lady friends.”
I really must rise above this, Joe thought to himself.
Strangely his comment seemed to please her. Or the gesture. Could it be that she suddenly realised the grapes whose essence had become this vintage had been ripening in the vineyards the last time they’d dined together in France?
A delicate compliment. Joe’s own silent toast to the past.
She did remember and reached out to squeeze his hand, murmuring a sentimental reminiscence, when a discreet cough and a whiff of tobacco-infused tweeds at his side distracted Joe’s attention. Inspector Martin was standing, looking thoughtful, a solid and lugubrious presence.
“I do beg your pardon for interrupting, but may I have a quiet word, sir?”
Joe made his excuses and followed him to the bar.
“Sorry about that, sir. I hadn’t realised how things stood between you and the young lady.…”