“I know it. A bit flowery-bowery for my taste. If lusting after painted ladies is all the go, I’ll admit to being more in tune with Peter Lely. All those Stuart beauties in slippery amber-gold boudoir gowns, pearl drops and just the odd rosebud carefully placed. There’s one of the Countess of Oxford … or is she the Countess of Halifax …?”
Joe knew when he was being sent up. “Ah, yes. Who needs ‘Tit-Bits’ when we have the ‘Tate’ for titillation? But—speaking of aristocratic ladies, I’d guess you are now taking me to the Hall to present me to the Dowager, Sir James’s widowed mother. Is that what you have in mind?”
Hunnyton nodded. “She’s on my list. I thought first we’d call in at my modest abode and spruce up a bit. You’re covered in ginger hairs of one sort or another.”
“Sounds like a good plan. Perhaps while we’re at the Hall I can ask to use the telephone. I didn’t think we could impose on Adelaide Hartest, though I assume the vet has one.”
Joe had unconsciously stumbled into an odd pocket of resentment, judging by the abrupt increase in speed and the exclamation that followed.
“You’ll need some change in your pocket. Bloody English aristocrats! They’ll freely lend you their second best castle for a month, their Rolls-Royce for a week, their mistress for a night but if you want to use their telephone for five minutes that’ll be sixpence please. Just leave it in the dish next to the telephone. Even if you’re reporting that the vicar’s fallen downstairs and broken his neck. If you want a stamp to post a letter it’ll cost you twopence—”
“It’s all right, Hunnyton. Calm down! I know the drill!” Joe understood the anxiety behind this huffing and puffing. “And I’m familiar with the quirks and customs of Society. I won’t let you down. I shall tug my forelock and curtsey to her Dowagership and you won’t need to blush for my manners. I usually find the families are reasonably straightforward. It’s the butlers that terrify me.”
Hunnyton grinned and eased his pressure on the accelerator.
He stopped in front of a house rather larger than the run of cottages strung out along the road and Joe stepped out to admire. Unlike the other reed-thatched dwellings, this one had a steeply pitched roof with an undulating coverlet of plain tiles of all colours from a red so dark it was almost black, fading to buff and cream. Its long front was plastered and colour-washed in the Suffolk way in the brownish-pink of ox blood, dark under the eaves where protected from the rain, bleached to almost white at the level of the brick plinth which ran around the house.
The central front door was a stout affair of weathered oak in wide planks, flattered by a lavishly carved eighteenth-century doorcase of a quality Grinling Gibbons would not have blushed for, brought in from elsewhere, Joe guessed, and scaled down to fit its more modest circumstances. Seeing his eyes on it, Hunnyton accounted for it: “I rescued the casing from Owles Hall when they demolished it ten years ago. They were about to chuck it on the bonfire. I had to take a saw to it to make it fit, but …” He shrugged.
“Better a fragment than a pile of ashes,” Joe supplied. “And you kept the best bits.” His hand went out automatically to pat the cheek of a carved cherub, who seemed to smile down an acknowledgement.
The windows on either side were of different sizes and inserted at different levels; tiny panes of ancient glass in leaded frames sat alongside more generously sized panes of Georgian glass. Precisely marking the centre of the cottage, an imposing chimney stack thrust upwards, its bulk unsuccessfully disguised by a barley-sugar twist of decorative brick-work.
Joe stood, absorbed, trying to grasp the essence of this layering of styles and materials. He realised that Hunnyton was standing tensely by his side, watching for his reaction. When caught off guard, Joe’s lively features were hardly ever able to conceal his emotions. He turned to Hunnyton a face warm with delight and surprise. “Wonderful! It’s a lucky man who holds the key to this house in his pocket!” he said simply.
Hunnyton seemed pleased. “Go straight in,” he said. “No need for keys. The door’s never locked. That’s the Suffolk way.”
As he put out a hand to open the door, the clip-clop of hooves down the High Street caught his attention and he groaned. “We’ve got company. Sandilands—you’ll be needing the old bat’s Christian name. It’s Cecily.”
CECILY, LADY TRUELOVE, hailed them in her hunting-field voice from a distance of a hundred yards. She advanced on them riding a sleek black hunter at a dignified trot, a groom following a discreet distance behind her.
The two men, caught unprepared, straightened their ties, checked each other’s smile and stood ready to greet her.
“Morning, Hunnyton,” she said crisply. “I see you’ve brought us Sandilands of the Yard.”
Hunnyton presented Joe to her ladyship and they nodded politely at each other, the lady looking down critically from her perch. For a woman of her age—early sixties—Truelove’s mother was wearing well, Joe reckoned. Stiff-backed in her riding gear, she presented a more youthful figure than he had expected. Her hair, collected into a glossy chignon below the brim of her shiny riding hat, was dark, elegantly streaked with grey, and her eyes, dark also, were bright and inquisitive. In her youth she must have been a stunner, Joe thought.
“Where’ve you got to in your day, Commissioner?” she wanted to know without preamble.
“We’ve just visited the veterinarian and, with your permission, your ladyship, will next undertake a tour of the stables and speak to the grooms.” Joe was equally brief but his smile was engaging.
She nodded. “By the time you’ve finished you should have some useful insights into the animal kingdom. You may share them with me over lunch. One o’clock suit you?” She glanced with approval at Joe’s luggage on the back seat. “I see you’ve come prepared. I trust your man has stowed away your evening clothes in there. You are expected for dinner of course. We’ve put a guest room at your disposal for as long as necessary. Styles will show you to your room when you arrive at the Hall.”
“I do beg your pardon, madam, but I had no idea you were counting on me to stay. I’ve arranged to have dinner with the superintendent, who’s kindly offered his hospitality and, after that, I have to return to London.”
The reply was a short and sharp: “Nonsense!” A gloved hand twitched in irritation. “See to it, Hunnyton.” She began to gather up her reins before Joe could launch a further objection. “Don’t imagine I’m going to let you slide away, young man.” To Joe’s concern, her tone had taken on a flirtatious note. She leaned forward, implying that her comments were about to become confidential. “We’re always short of lively company at this time of year—after the races and before Henley—and a good-looking chap like you, whose reputation for dash and diversion I have on first hand authority, is not going to wriggle out of my social net so easily. I have heard good things of you from Sir George Jardine, who is an old friend, and, indeed, godfather to my sons. I have a party coming down for a long weekend and I don’t suppose many of them will have met a policeman before. They will be fascinated. You’ll be able to sing for your supper … perhaps establish some useful connections. My son James—you know him, I believe?”
“We have met on one or two occasions, madam.”
“He’s travelling down from town tomorrow morning, bringing some people with him and very much looking forward to seeing you. We don’t disappoint James.”
Joe was aware of Hunnyton’s arm under his. Supporting him? Or restraining? The countryman’s calm voice plastered over Joe’s chill silence and took over for the formalities of leave-taking. He bade her ladyship goodbye and assured her everything would be arranged to her satisfaction. The Assistant Commissioner would be duly delivered to the house following on from his inspection of the stables.
The two men watched the horses trot off down the road in silence.
“One or two surprises there. Come on inside, man,” Hunnyton invited. “You could do with a pint of ale. And a plate of my sister’s stew to fortify you.
No, no! I’ve not gone barmy—if you’re having lunch at the Hall it would be a sensible precaution. The lady lives on nettle soup and dog biscuits and expects her guests to do the same.”
“Hunnyton, I’m having dinner with you and motoring back to Cambridge tonight. Those are my plans and I shan’t be changing them at the whim of an autocratic old lady.”
“Ah, but it’s not a whim,” Hunnyton said mysteriously. “That lady doesn’t go in for whims, it’s plots she favours. Plots and traps and spider’s webs. Come on inside. Watch the step down.”
INSIDE WAS MORE delight. Joe ducked and stepped through the front door of the yeoman’s dwelling into a neat and sparkling room running the length of the cottage, divided into two by an enormous central chimney which offered a double fireplace with a bread oven to the side. On the left was the living space where food was cooked and served at a substantial oak table. To the right was a carpeted room, lined with bookshelves and furnished with a sofa and two armchairs covered in a William Morris print. The walls were coloured with white-wash applied over so many generations the paint had accumulated and rounded out the corners between wall and ceiling, giving the impression of the interior surface of a silky cocoon, instilling a feeling of security and comfort. The oak beams overhead had been lime-washed to soften their massive presence and create an illusion of greater height. Vital to a man of Hunnyton’s size, Joe thought, surveying them.
“I had the floor lowered a foot,” Hunnyton explained. “So you can walk about without bashing your head on a beam.”
The stout floorboards underfoot had been polished to a high shine and one or two red turkey rugs were scattered over. In the open fireplace, still-glowing embers were evidence that Hunnyton’s sister had been in “to see to things.” She had left the fire guarded and a cooking pot was indeed sitting, as promised, in the old-fashioned black-leaded oven.
Hunnyton folded up a dishcloth and took it out, placing it on the trivet left ready on the table. He took off the lid and a delicious smell of lamb stew flooded the room. A scatter of chopped herbs from an earthenware dish made it irresistible.
“You’ll want to wash your hands and tidy up a bit. Those horses gave you a right going over. There’s a bathroom through the back door there, in the outshot, beyond the kitchen. I have no electricity but I’ve made sure the plumbing’s as good as it can be. There’s two bedrooms on the floor above. I had thought you could have the one on the left. Up those stairs.” He indicated a narrow spiral staircase that was more of a ladder. “It’s not the Ritz but it’s a long way from the trenches.”
When Joe reappeared, Hunnyton handed him a glass of ale and disappeared to tidy himself up. While he was out of the room, Joe did what he always did in strangers’ houses—sniffed about with curiosity. The photographs on the mantelpiece were of the family: wide-eyed, flaxen-haired Hunnybuns all in a row. At its most plentiful the batch consisted of five children of whom Adam, the oldest, stood out head and shoulders above his brothers and sisters. It must have been a squeeze rearing all those children in such tight accommodation, but Hunnyton seemed to love the cottage and count himself lucky to have it.
Joe always reckoned that five minutes with a man’s bookshelves revealed the man and saved him hours of exploratory conversation or interrogation. Hunnyton’s books were plentiful and acquired over many years. Carefully arranged on shelves by category and author, they were mostly familiar to Joe. His own shelves offered very much the same choice. Classics; philosophy; history, social and martial; a good number of novels, even one or two French ones in garish yellow covers, crowded into the space and overflowed onto the floor. A pile of John Bull magazines was tied up with string, ready to move on down the line to other thinking members of the proletariat. A copy of the Daily Herald lay shredded for fire-lighting in a basket on the hearth. Joe smiled. No Burke’s Peerage, no Tatler in sight. Here at home, at any rate, the superintendent was comfortably and openly a man of the people.
When called to table, Joe kept silent about his encounter with Lady Cecily in deference to the hospitality on offer from Hunnyton. He’d no intention of spoiling a good stew. He helped himself when asked to a sizeable ladleful and, making himself useful, took hold of a large knife by the breadboard and proceeded to cut off chunks the size of cobbles, the size of lump they’d all used in the trenches to mop up what passed for gravy in their billy cans.
Hunnyton sensed what he was about and took a piece. “Glad to see you’re not a delicate eater. Though my sister would mark you down for manners, I’d call it a tribute to her cooking.”
They ate their way through, swapping war memories and comments on local customs and farming life, avoiding for the moment what was in the forefront of their minds. In view of the ordeal by nettle soup which was to come, Joe refused the cheese and the custard tart and sat back to smoke a cigarette while Hunnyton busied himself with his pipe.
Finally, Hunnyton decided: “You’ve got to go, you know. The old bird’s up to something and you won’t find out what it is in London. This party she’s planning … sounds a bit odd to me.” His eyes narrowed against the wreathing blue smoke from the St. Bruno old twist. “And you’d think me some kind of an idiot if I hadn’t noticed that she seemed just now to be expecting you. Almost as though she’d sent an invitation and was loitering about waiting for you to arrive.”
He waited for Joe’s explanation.
Joe took a letter from his pocket. “In a manner of speaking, you could say that is what happened. Look at this. The anonymous letter I mentioned, delivered to me at the Yard last week.” Hunnyton read the sheet and grunted. “Woman’s writing. Not girls’ public school—have you noticed they always do their e’s the Greek way? Secondary educated, though … it’s nicely formed with even the odd curlicue and it’s joined up properly.” He puffed again on his pipe. “The phrasing’s top-drawer. Short, peremptory. ‘Get yourself down here and sort this out. Call yourself a copper?’ Mmm … so you thought the Dowager was responsible?”
“I think so. Dictated, I shouldn’t wonder, to her maid. I’d say that old lady enjoys a bit of intrigue.”
“It’s her middle name.”
“This proven, I’d say, by her behaviour just now in the lane. All that: ‘There you are! Dinner gong goes at seven,’ stuff. Well, it worked, for here I am! I’m sure you’re right and I ought to accept her invitation … or command, rather. I can’t say I’m looking forward to it. A party thrown together at the last minute? It can hardly be a jolly occasion considering they’re all supposed to be in mourning still. Look, Hunnyton—could it be that with Lavinia out of the way she’s enjoying being the mistress of the house again? Showing everyone what it used to be like in the glamorous old days when they entertained royalty?” Joe suggested.
Hunnyton raised his eyebrows in speculation, then nodded.
“I begin almost to feel a pang of sympathy for James Truelove—with a mother and a wife like that pair on the premises, his life must have been hell,” Joe ventured.
“It was no stroll through the cowslips. They hated each other. They used him as a pawn, of course. But save your sympathy. James was never a victim. He had his ways of escaping their attentions. Uncomfortable for everyone, though, including the servants. It’s never easy serving two mistresses, and both of them batty.”
“Bad luck on poor James, though?” Joe persisted.
Hunnyton shrugged. “His choice of wife. His father’s choice of wife, come to that. They made their own beds. They got what they wanted. Needed, I should say. That sort of man looks elsewhere for his emotional and sensual fulfilment.” He paused to allow his veiled message time to be absorbed, then, wiping the distaste from his face, went on: “The men of that family have been marrying money since the Norman Conquest. Money is no guarantee of character in a wife, but it does keep the place afloat. These are hard times. Many estates have gone under, the houses bulldozed, grand old names buried with them. Where are the offspring of those old English families now? Manufacturing paperc
lips in Letchworth Garden City perhaps. Selling paint door-to-door? But the Trueloves are where they’ve always been and their roof is in tip-top condition, their moat clear as glass, their fields tilled to the last inch, their cattle and hogs as fat as any in England.”
“Where did it come from, this financial parachute? Are you allowed to say?”
“It’s no secret, it’s just that if you want to keep your head on your shoulders you never refer to it. Midlands manufacturing money in both cases. The old girl’s family made their fortune in Manchester. Cloth industry. Lavinia’s lot came from Birmingham. Metal. They prospered during the war. Any war you care to name. She was brought up in a family seat her grandfather bought for himself on the proceeds of carnage, well away from the soot and smoke and the sight of the labouring poor, in the hunting shires of the Midlands. Her father had aspirations of grandeur and the wherewithal to achieve them. He bought himself a baronetcy and his three daughters all married into the minor aristocracy.”
“But Lavinia and James produced no heirs to carry on the Truelove tradition of fortune hunting, I understand?”
“None. They were married for over ten years but no luck. She refurbished the old nursery and it stood equipped and ready to go, but over time it degenerated into a spare guest room. The strain of waiting and hoping sent her a bit doo-lally, I think. She certainly got worse with each year that passed. She was a woman who’d always got what she wanted the moment the want entered her head. She could never quite accept that Nature might be thwarting her. Her mother-in-law never mentioned it, of course, but it was clear to anyone who knew them that she thought Lavinia was a hen-headed waste of time. As did her son.”
“James was less than attentive, I’m guessing?”
“He was spending longer and longer periods of time away from Suffolk.”
“Busy man. A rising star on the political stage—you’d expect that.”
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