by Anna Reader
As predicted, Peter didn’t give Purdie much time to dwell on this familial theme, and before many minutes had passed the jangling of the front door bell rang out through the house. Purdie sighed, relinquished her bracer, and made for the hall.
“Good afternoon, Inspector,” she said formally, signalling to Raddigan to stand down as she opened the door. “We’ve been expecting you.”
“Emmeline,” Peter replied, scanning her face – the expression on his own frustratingly inscrutable. “What a day you’ve had, by the sounds of it.”
“Yes, it has been rather harrowing. Won’t you come in? Father’s gone to the doctor’s I’m afraid, as his wound really needed to be tended to as a matter of urgency. He asked that we start without him.”
Peter followed Purdie into the drawing room, watching her closely as she settled on the sofa and lit a cigarette. “I do hope he wasn’t badly hurt,” he said, accepting Purdie’s invitation to sit down.
“It may need stitches,” she said truthfully, “but he’s alright. He’s been through far worse.”
“And how about you?” Peter asked.
“Oh, I’m fine,” Purdie said, batting away his apparent concern with a twinge of guilt. “The thief didn’t touch me.”
Peter was silent, apparently entirely focussed on writing in his notebook, and he left a pause just long enough to begin to make Purdie feel rather uneasy.
“Nobody in the Gallery seems to have heard you scream,” he said at last, looking up from his notes and fixing Purdie with those extraordinary green eyes.
“I beg your pardon?” Purdie asked, trying valiantly not to get distracted by that outrageous jawline and wishing she had something to do with her hands.
“I said nobody heard you scream. One might suggest it would have been the natural reaction, if a young woman saw a man leap through a first floor window and attack her father.”
“Indeed,” Purdie replied, rapidly thinking on her feet. “I imagine it would have been entirely natural. The fact is I fainted.”
“Ah,” Peter said simply, before returning to his notes.
“I’m not generally a wilter, you know,” Purdie added quickly, suddenly finding herself compelled to justify this uncharacteristic display of fictional hysteria, “but it was such a shock. And I hadn’t eaten any breakfast.” (Another complete bouncer, of course. She’d had a very healthy helping of kippers, as you may recall.)
Peter continued to write in silence.
“In fact, it’s only happened once before.” Purdie persevered, only too aware that she was beginning to babble. “When I broke my wrist during a particularly vicious game of lacrosse. It was the crunching sound which got to me – horribly visceral. But then, that’s Cheltenham Ladies College for you – practically feral.”
“I don’t think I’ll include that in my report,” Peter said dryly.
“Query,” Purdie thought to herself in consternation, “Why am I waffling on about lacrosse? And why can I feel sweat on my top lip? Simmer down, Emmeline.”
Peter, meanwhile, continued to write relentlessly, before he at last set his pen down and looking up at his interviewee. “Can I ask what you did see, before you fainted?”
Purdie drew on her cigarette slowly before answering, trying to stem the flow of her own inane chatter. “The window opened,” she said at last, “and a large man suddenly burst in to the room with a crow-bar in his hand. He was about six foot five, I’d say, and at least fourteen stone. Vast is the word I’d use. Be sure to write that down: vast. He had red hair, and his face was covered by some sort of mask. That’s really all I can remember, I’m afraid. By the time I’d come to, father had been struck, the painting had been taken from the wall, and the thief had left.”
Peter levelled his gaze at her, paused, and began to write in his book quite deliberately once again. “What did you think of the painting?” he asked, suddenly conversational, pulling a cigarette case from his top pocket.
“The painting?” Purdie repeated, rather taken aback. “Well, it’s…a rather splendid portrait of a handsome young man. It had a sort of Vermeer quality, in fact. I’d say Aunt Augusta did a very fine job. Why do you ask?”
Peter leant back, the hand holding the now-lit cigarette resting comfortably on the arm of the chair. “I’m interested in your thoughts on the piece, that’s all. I must say, I find it odd that of all the valuable works of art in the Royal Portrait Gallery, a thief should select a lesser-known work on the second floor. I believe there’s a cluster of Monets in the atrium, for example.”
Purdie raised an eyebrow. “I can’t possibly be expected to comment on the modus operandi of London’s Most Wanted.”
“I’m not asking you to – I’m simply wondering why you think someone might want to steal your great-aunt’s painting.”
“Well,” she mused, unable to hold herself entirely in check, “I doubt it had anything to do with latently feminist thieves wanting to redress the balance, as it were, and acknowledge the numerous female artists who have been overlooked by the Establishment for centuries. No. I expect, Inspector Dashwood, that it was nothing more than opportunism.”
Peter couldn’t quite stop a smile. “Suffrage is not the most promising line of inquiry, I agree. Although you don’t need my extensive training,” he added wryly, “to recognise that leaping through a first floor window hardly smacks of opportunism. Indeed, I’d be very interested to hear your theories regarding how the thief made it through the window in the first place.”
“Can I get you a drink?” Purdie asked a shade too quickly, almost leaping out of her seat. She was very keen to escape the searching beam of Peter’s green eyes for a moment: reminiscent of the sea after a storm… she thought to herself, before wresting her attention back to the matter at hand.
“Why not,” Peter replied, putting the notebook back in his pocket and watching Purdie move across the room. “A whisky mac, if I may.”
“I thought you didn’t drink when you were on duty,” Purdie countered as she prepared his drink, pleased to have identified a chink in his armour.
“I don’t,” Peter said. “I’m not on duty this afternoon.”
“What? Then why the dickens are you here interviewing me?” Purdie demanded, spinning around with two drinks in her hands. “You might have said something.”
“I’m simply taking a personal interest in the case,” he offered in his measured way. “And thought you might prefer it was me, rather than one of my colleagues.”
That is an excellent point, Purdie conceded silently, though she wasn’t prepared to acknowledge the soundness of the argument just yet.
“I was about to telephone you from the Yard, actually, when the report came in about the Gallery. And I wanted to make sure you were both alright,” he added disarmingly.
Purdie took a healthy sip of her drink, again trying to wrestle her guilt into submission, and offered Peter his tumbler before returning to her chair. “That’s really very kind of you, but we’re both absolutely fine, so you really shouldn’t have….Wait,” she added, the penny dropping, “why were you about to telephone?”
“I was going to ask if you might have dinner with me this evening, actually.”
Dash it, he was smooth, Purdie thought to herself, conscious that her heart was fluttering in the most disconcerting way.
“Oh,” she replied aloud, rather weakly. “Wouldn’t your young lady mind?” she asked, unable to resist probing this troubling revelation from the Blue Tulip.
“My…?” Peter replied, momentarily wrong-footed. “Ah,” he continued, realisation dawning. “No, I shouldn’t think so. She’s my sister.”
Before either of them could say anything else, however, Algernon burst into the room like a whirling dervish.
“I say, Emmie, what the devil have you been….oh!” he said, pulling himself short when he saw that she wasn’t alone. “Didn’t know you had company.”
“Hallo, Algie,” Purdie replied, giving her brother a glare heavy
with meaning. “This is Inspector Dashwood. Peter, my brother, Algernon.”
“How d’ye do?” Algernon asked, moving forwards without hesitation and with his ready smile. “Quite the to-do at the Gallery, eh?”
“So I hear,” Peter replied, shaking Algernon firmly by the hand. “I was actually hoping for news of your father.”
“Ah,” Algernon said, his bonhomie temporarily subdued. It was obvious to Purdie that he’d been let in on Lord Alverstock’s secret during the drive to the stable, and she wished she could give him a comforting squeeze – though she suspected her brother wouldn’t appreciate a sisterly hug in front of a complete stranger, and a rozzer to boot. “Yes, well – he’s fine, thanks. Replete with stitches and a nasty headache. Pa was asking for Em, if you’ve finished her,” he added, loyally attempting to extract his twin from her interrogation.
“Of course,” Peter replied, rising to his feet. “Dinner another time, perhaps,” he said, looking down at Purdie. “And I’d make sure it’s well hidden, if I were you.” And with that enigmatic piece of advice, Inspector Dashwood left the room.
Algernon’s eyes were fairly boggling by this point. “Em!” He cried, once the door was closed. “Does he know what you’re up to?”
“It’s a bluff,” Purdie replied, with a blitheness she did not quite feel. “He hasn’t got a shred of proof. Anyway, where’s Pa?”
“Mother’s sewing up his forehead.” Algernon paused. “He told me, Emmie.”
Purdie sighed, and moved forwards to give her brother a hug. “It’s so frightful,” she said into his shoulder. “I don’t really know what to do with myself.”
“Apart from going on a crime spree,” her brother retorted. “Honestly, I leave you both alone for a few days and look what you bally well get up to! And without me!”
“It’s quite mad,” Purdie agreed, “but I could hardly let father embark on a caper like this without a wing-man. And you were still in Cambridge. Anyway, what’ve you both done with the painting?”
“We’ve hung it up in Silly-Mid-Off’s stables,” Algie replied, with some filial pride. “Pa’s taking the line that the rozzers are hardly likely to interrogate our live-stock.”
Purdie chuckled. “Even Peter wouldn’t think to look there.”
“Now who is this Peter fellow?” Algie demanded, assuming his fraternal responsibilities. “The pair of you looked mighty cosy, I must say.”
“He’s an inspector from Scotland Yard,” Purdie replied, in as off-hand a tone as she could muster. “And I would hardly describe us as being “cosy,” you rotter.”
Algernon grinned, and made a note to grill his sister further in due course. He may not have been one of life’s Casanovas – Algie really was a catch yet to be caught – but even he had definitely detected a certain frisson in the air, and wasn’t for a moment buying Purdie’s apparent indifference. Indeed, he’d once seen her push an over-eager suitor from a moving punt, so had no doubt that she could have removed Inspector Dashwood from the scene very efficiently a long time ago. If that was really what she wanted.
“Let’s go and see how Father’s getting on,” Algernon suggested. “And if we’re really off to Cornwall in the morning, I need to get packing. I jolly well hope you haven’t damaged the tripod, by the way,” he added, perfectly seriously. “I rather thought I might take it along and see if I can’t pop across to Tintagel to have a squizz for Camelot, if there’s any time.”
Algernon had recently read Chrétien de Troyes for the first time, dear reader, and was newly obsessed by the Arthurian legends. He had even acquired a Lancelot costume for the upcoming Peterhouse May Ball, and was determined to make his entrance on a white stallion. He’d not yet found the moment to break this to his plus one for the evening – but then Cookie Cavendish was a game old thing, and he was optimistically confident she wouldn’t mind.
“That is extremely rude,” Purdie retorted. “I’m not that heavy, Algie and I’m sure it’s still in excellent nick. Besides, I hardly think we’ll have time for treasure hunts.”
“Treasure hunts,” Algernon muttered darkly under his breath. “There’s no respect for History in this house. No man is an island – unless he happens to be Algernon Fortesque Purdew.”
ELEVEN
“I’m just so thrilled to have you all together,” Lady Alverstock declared with the broadest of smiles, as the family motored through the sunny country-lanes in the Blériot-Whippet the following morning. “Algie, you’re a darling for coming down from Cambridge for the weekend.”
“I am a darling,” Algernon concurred, flashing a cat-that’s-got-the-cream smile at his sister. “Too true, Mater. Shall I open a bottle?”
“Excellent notion,” Lord Alverstock cried from his position behind the wheel. “As I always say, the sun must be over the yardarm somewhere, sprogs.”
It was, in fact, barely eleven in the morning, so the sun and the yardarm were still very distant cousins in the South of England. That had never stopped the Purdew family before, however, and Algernon was more than ready to oblige in firing off a cork.
“Woods went down on the early train, so lunch should be ready for us by the time we arrive,” Lady Alverstock said, in reference to their incomparable cook. “Thank you, Algie.”
Algernon handed a beaker of bubbly to each member of his family, withdrawn from the well-stocked hamper sitting between his feet – two to his mother, so Lord Alverstock could have a taste – and solemnly raised his glass. “I propose a toast,” he declared. “To Father. The finest man I know.”
Lady Alverstock and Purdie lifted their beakers in agreement, and the trio drank. “Algie, dear boy,” Lord Alverstock replied, much touched by this tribute. “You’re far too kind to your aging father.”
“Creep,” Purdie said to Algie, rolling her eyes in mock irritation. Her brother responded with another Cheshire cat grin.
The Blériot-Whippet bore the family further and further from the London smog, moving through the quiet country lanes like a luxurious yacht, and as they passed emerald fields filled with magnificent bovines and the hedgerows grew in stature, they all knew that they had arrived in Cornwall. Mason’s Cottage soon appeared, a foreigner’s fantasy of an English country house with its thatched roof, rose-covered doorway, and lush garden rolling down to the sea below. It had been in the family for more than fifty years, now, and the twins naturally considered it to be their true home.
“I’m absolutely longing for a bathe,” Purdie said, as the family emerged from the car and stretched their legs. “Do you think it’ll be warm enough?”
“I should think it will be absolutely arctic,” Lady Alverstock replied with a shudder. “You’d be rigid with the cold, darling.”
“Nonsense,” Lord Alverstock cried, lighting his pipe and leaning raffishly against the door of his car as he surveyed the twinkling ocean. “I’m sure it’ll be bracing, but nothing a nip of brandy and lunch on the beach wouldn’t solve. You pair go swimming, and we’ll ask Woods to put a picnic together.”
“What a delicious thought,” Purdie said, kissing her father lightly on the cheek. “I’m going to get changed. Coming, Algie?”
“I should think so,” her brother replied, seizing his case and rushing for the front door. “Last one in buys the first round at the Plough tonight.”
“Rotter!” Purdie cried, tearing after him.
“They revert to infancy as soon as we leave the city,” Lady Alverstock observed affectionately, tucking her hand into the crook of her husband’s arm and leading him towards the house. “Heavens only knows how either of them functions at university.”
“Rascals, the pair of ‘em. Do you remember when a six-year-old Algernon hid a frog in Aunt Maud’s slippers? And Purdie declared that she would take his punishment on her own tiny shoulders, because she’d dared him to do it?”
Lady Alverstock sighed, bittersweet nostalgia washing over her as she crossed the threshold of the cottage. “They always were terribly loyal,” she s
aid, brushing a single tear from the tip of her eyelash. “Where did the years go, darling? It seems like only yesterday that we were cradling them in our arms.”
“Come on, Tenderheart,” Lord Alverstock said with an affectionate chuckle, using the pet-name he’d bestowed upon his wife during their first holiday in Yorkshire, when she’d burst into tears at the sight of a solitary lamb wandering the moor, apparently having lost its mother. “Let’s see about lunch.”
Two hours later the family convened around a small fire on the beach. Purdie and Algernon’s cheeks were pleasantly flushed after their spell gambolling through the cold waves, and they both sat swaddled in blankets as their father passed around a plate of sardine sandwiches and a hip-flask.
“There’s something seriously fishy going on around here,” Algie announced through a mouthful of buttery bread. “And I’m not talking about the sardines. We popped our heads into the grotto….”
“And it looked very much as though someone has been camping there,” Purdie interjected, ruthlessly stealing her brother’s thunder. “There were a couple of empty bottles of ale, an up-turned crate, and a half-completed cryptic crossword from The Times. Whoever it was had done some excellent anagram work.”