“Things don’t stand at all, Martin. She’s a colleague, and I’ve known her for years. It’s the surroundings that are disreputable, not us. Can I help you?”
“Yes. Just knocking off. Gosling said I’d find you here. Got your note. But I wondered … you said you might be able to make headway with the knife grinder I’ve still got locked up. I’ve had him in jug for two days now, and he’s due for release unless I come up with something. Do you still want to have a look at him before I cut him loose?”
“Yes. I hadn’t forgotten. In fact, I’m arranging it now. I’ll meet you-where? Town jail? Tomorrow morning. Seven o’clock too soon for you?” He had given an over-brisk reaction, he realised, in his concern to quell any suspicion that the London copper might be sleeping in with a hangover or worse.
Joe returned to the table. “Now I’ll tell you how you can earn your champagne supper. Do you still speak Romany, Dorcas?”
He weathered the outburst of denials: “Years since I spoke it … only ever used it as a child with other children … never very proficient anyway.…” until he received a grudging: “Oh, very well then. Anything to find out who stuck the knife in Rapson.”
They were the first couple to leave the dining room, followed by the glances of the other diners.
“Early start in the morning. I’d better show you to your room, Dorcas,” had been Joe’s awkward announcement as they both refused coffee and brandy.
He followed her up two flights of stairs and down a long corridor until she stood, key in hand, in front of a white-painted door bearing a decorated plaque announcing ‘48 Diane de Poitiers.’ Joe unlocked the door for her and stepped inside, looking about him.
“Frightful hidey-hole they’ve given you, Dorcas. Diane de Poitiers indeed! A French king’s mistress and owner of the loveliest château in France-I don’t think she’d reckon much to this dog kennel. Simply ghastly. Narrow little bed. It won’t do. You should have told me. I’ll speak to the manager.”
“Don’t fuss! The maid says they’re full tonight. It’s really of no concern. I’m used to sleeping on flea-infested blankets under the stars and washing in mountain streams. At least there’s a bathroom across the corridor with hot water and good soap.”
“Look, they’ve most unfairly-I can’t imagine what they were thinking-given me a huge room with not one but two double beds in it, a surprising number of mirrors and an adjoining bathroom with gold taps. Here, take my key. It’s number 31. Er, the ‘Sir Lancelot suite,’ I’m afraid. I can only suppose the architect they employed had a sense of the ridiculous. Use that room, and I’ll camp out in here. You’ll enjoy the adjustable shower spray. No, really! You’re not the only one accustomed to discomfort. I can trump your nights of ‘fleas that tease in the High Pyrenees’ with four years of rat-infested trenches. But, entertaining though it would be to stand here comparing bites-”
Laughing, Dorcas launched herself at him and folded him in a tight hug. She looked up and kissed his cheek. “Joe, only you would say you couldn’t imagine! They weren’t expecting Diane to be welcoming a guest this evening, you twerp! This room is just a face-saving token. A retreat in case the lady gets cold feet. Or the gentleman snores. But it would be mean-spirited to refuse such a chivalrous offer. Thank you!” She kissed his other cheek. “I’ll beetle off now and spend the night in the arms of-Sir Lancelot, was it? Goodnight, Joe. I’ll see you in jail tomorrow.”
After an awkward exchange of luggage, padding to and fro along carpeted corridors, Joe took off his shoes and slumped, head spinning, onto his narrow bed. He glared, confused and resentful, at a painting some clown had fixed on the wall opposite the foot of the bed. It was a gilt-framed portrait of the sixteenth century royal courtesan herself, by someone trying for the style of François Clouet. A well-known tribute to the lady, making play with the name she shared with the goddess of the hunt. The eternally virginal and vengeful Diana. Naked save for a pearl necklace round her throat and the oddly erotically placed leather thong of an archer’s quiver across one white shoulder, the lovely woman, caught like the goddess Diana at her toilet, stared down at him with hauteur. Tempting, knowing and unattainable, the divine huntress made no attempt to join him. Not even in his dreams.
CHAPTER 20
The station house was tidy, well-ordered and welcoming when Joe arrived with Dorcas at the appointed time. The small number of holding cells-three, and of those, only one occupied-said much for the general peaceableness of the town, Joe calculated.
Before they took a look at the prisoner, Dorcas asked if she could see his belongings. The constable on duty, after a swift exchange of looks with Inspector Martin, pulled down a cardboard storage box from a shelf.
“He’s known hereabouts as ‘Old Rory.’ No one knows his surname. Not much to take the fancy in here, I’m afraid, miss. We removed everything removable including his belt and shoelaces. Well, you never know-wouldn’t be the first time.”
Dorcas looked quietly at the meagre collection. “No money?”
“Two shillings and threepence, miss. That’s kept locked in the duty sergeant’s drawer.”
“Nothing written. No photos. Nothing personal. Just an old hanky.”
“Been tested for blood. It’s clean. Well, of blood anyway.”
“A half-whittled wooden bird … and a blackened old cherry briar pipe. Ah, our bloke’s a pipe smoker. He must be missing it.”
“He hadn’t any baccy left, miss. There’s a leather pouch in there … shouldn’t touch it … we’ve inspected it, and it’s empty.”
Dorcas held out a hand. “Inspector, hand me the packet of St. Bruno I see bulging your right pocket.”
Narrowing his eyes, Martin did as she asked and was rewarded by a dazzling smile of complicity. “This’ll do it.” She picked up the pipe and the empty pouch and headed towards the cells.
The accompanying constable returned with the keys, shrugging. “She told me to push off. Seems to know what she’s doing, sir.”
A rattle of language no one understood followed. An exchange of greetings very likely. Then, surprisingly, exclamations, laughter and chatter.
Joe looked back apologetically at the two Sussex men. “She has the same effect on dogs. Seen it myself,” he said, and the three men listened and waited.
“Perhaps I should warn you, Inspector,” Joe murmured, “in case you’re planning future encounters with Miss Joliffe, that a largely unsupervised upbringing by a bohemian father has equipped the girl with an eccentric view of the world. Not only that, she swears like a trooper. In several languages.”
“Sounds like a stimulating companion, sir,” Martin replied diplomatically.
“Well, there we are.” Dorcas rejoined them, pulling on her gloves. “Charming man! Irish. Gaelic speaker. Lucky I knew a bit. And he had a bit of Romany, so we managed. He’d like bacon and eggs for breakfast and fish and chips for lunch, and he’ll be off at noon which he calculates is the longest time he can manage to stay out of the weather as a guest of the Suffolk Constabulary.”
“He spoke willingly, miss?” Martin started to enquire.
“Oh, yes. A man who’s gone without his baccy for two days will tell you whatever you want to know. He was using you, Inspector. Nice warm, quiet billet, cooked food served up at regular intervals, and nothing at all on his conscience to worry him. Well a bit of poaching perhaps. I said you wouldn’t hold it against him.”
“Did you get him to make a statement?”
“Nothing so formal. If I’d taken a pencil from behind my ear, licked it, and proceeded to make notes he’d have clammed up. But he told me exactly what his movements were on the days you’re interested in.”
Dorcas listed from memory the clients Old Rory had serviced with the donkey cart mounted grinding stone he lumbered with from village to village. “At the school, he sharpened the six scythes and the grass cutting machine blades and the pruning knives for the gardeners, oiled them, and left them ready for spring, then he did his usual consignment of kitchen knives. He never touched the rest of the cutlery. Two dozen knives ranging from small three-inch vegetable peelers to twelve-inch bread knives. There were four six-inch knives in the bundle. He returned every one to the kitchens.