“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.…”
“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.”