Cecily had finally admitted that she had attempted to reconstruct the deadly dinner party so that he might have as many witnesses as possible to speak to. The three married couples who had all accepted the invitation had been present that evening, as had her son Alex.
No secret was made of his police rank; Cecily even hinted with a knowing twinkle that curled Joe’s toes in embarrassment that the guests were fortunate to be meeting possibly the successor to Lord Trenchard in the service. His position was remarked on with the usual heavy hilarity and Joe had replied in kind: “No, no! Don’t be concerned. I’m on holiday. The Crown Jewels tucked up in your second best waistcoat in your valise will remain undisturbed by me, Sir Basil!”
This was a waste of his time, he had decided. Just a gathering of old friends who would not have featured on any suspect list of his. This lot, though killingly boring, would never have so much as stolen a sugar lump from the tea-tray. What was Cecily up to? He had to admit he was rather enjoying watching her taking so much pleasure in resuming her old duties and performing them so well. He found he was slipping easily into the role she had assigned to him, astutely anticipating her needs. All the same, he would be relieved when James returned tomorrow morning and he could stop being quite so interesting.
But then the third couple had turned up. The man Joe least wanted to see from the original guest list: Mungo McIver and his attractive young wife, Alice.
Good friends of Cecily’s and supporters of James. Mungo McIver was known slightly to Joe as the owner of one or two newspapers ranging from the middle ground to the right of the political spectrum. He was reputed to be a hands-on owner, actively involved in the news-making process, particularly when his own protégés were involved. His editors were not admirers of Scotland Yard and snatched at every opportunity to expose their shortcomings.
All things considered, this was a man to be given a wide berth. Joe had learned generally to mistrust, occasionally to admire, and always to avoid the Gentlemen of the Press.
Doubly difficult when one of them was striding from his Rolls, hand outstretched, broad smile on face, heartily claiming an acquaintance. “Alice, my dear, allow me to introduce the Yard’s keenest hound and Head of Special Branch. We shall all sleep sounder in our beds knowing that he is here among us!”
Why was McIver here? Nothing Cecily did, Joe reckoned, was uncalculated. Did he have evidence to divulge? It was entirely possible. But it occurred to Joe that James—or was it Cecily?—was counting on a dramatic clearing up of the murder with a top press man in the front row. A scoop? Wasn’t that what they called it? This would be an excellent way of restoring James’s reputation. Joe rehearsed a few possible headlines in his mind and was horrified by all of them. It might be wise to check whether Mungo McIver had hidden a cameraman away in his entourage. What had he brought with him? In a separate motorcar there’d been a bowler-hatted valet—doubling as chauffeur—and a lady’s maid.
In a quiet moment after tea, Cecily tracked him down to the croquet lawn where he was trying to explain to Mrs. Somerton that a mallet could not be used like a hockey stick. She took him aside for a briefing. “That’s the Ripleys, the Somertons and the McIvers all safely gathered in. Six. Then there’s Alexander. So we’ll sit down a modest but relaxing nine to dinner this evening. Expect the summons for cocktails at seven, dinner at eight, will you, Joe? Oh, and could you offer your arm to Florence? We still do that in the old-fashioned way. She’s rather taken with you. I think your charms are probably wasted on Maggie, however. James will be arriving just before lunch tomorrow—hoping to catch the parade of horses on the front lawn—and he’s bringing with him three others, two female, one male. He divulged no names,” she added, her brow furrowing in concern. “It’s a bad omen when James turns secretive. It means I shall not approve of his choice of guests.”
“Bad omen, indeed. That brings the number up to thirteen for dinner tomorrow,” Joe commented.
Cecily smiled indulgently at his perception and for a moment he feared she might pat his head. “You see my problem. No one sits down thirteen to dinner. No! Don’t think of offering to withdraw yourself, young man. Alex, as always, is the oddity.” She wrung her hands to indicate maternal concern. “We must have that lady doctor to chaperone him. A day’s notice is unmannerly in the extreme but … I wonder … why don’t I entrust the invitation to someone she’ll be hardly likely to refuse? To you, Joe? I’ve had a cold response on the few occasions we’ve met and I know she’s bound to spurn an invitation from me. There’s a telephone in the little study to the left of the front door. Why not go and see if you can tempt her to come? Styles will give you the number … Ah! Wilfred! Here you are! What did you think of the orchids? Now—do we have a mallet for Wilfred, Joe?”
The use of the telephone was temptation enough for Joe. He agreed to the unwanted task without demur, excused himself and headed for the study.
First a long-distance call.
“Lydia?”
“Joe! Where the devil are you?”
“Got a pencil? Write down this number quickly before the pips go.” He read out the numbers from the base of the phone. “I’m in Suffolk. Working on a murder case. Possibly two murders …” He gave a short account of his predicament, mentioning that he’d diced with death three times so far that day and was now in hideous thrall to a dragon dowager who was holding him prisoner within her curtilage and using him as a sort of police-gigolo. Lydia’s little brother was to be pitied rather than ticked off, he implied. It usually worked but not today.
“Well, your weekend seems to be going better than mine. We were going to have a quiet time with lots of champagne to celebrate the end of term for Dorcas and neither of you can get here … No … she’s been trying to contact you. Haven’t we all? But no luck. You can’t ring her because she’s gone off in a huff, heaven knows where. Has something gone wrong between you, Joe? Well, get here when you can. The champagne will keep. I can’t promise the same for the terrine de fruits de mer. Or the cherry ice cream.”
She meant it to sting.
Joe signed off with all the dignity he could muster, replaced the receiver, then picked it up again and asked the operator to connect him with the veterinarian, Mr. Hartest.
Adelaide answered. She recognised his voice and seemed pleased to be hearing from him. She listened while he relayed Cecily’s invitation for the following evening. Two seconds was all it took for her to make up her mind.
“Certainly not!” she snapped. “For about ten reasons. I don’t want to. I don’t like her. I wouldn’t like her guests. I would almost certainly drown Alex in his soup. I shall be preparing Pa’s supper at exactly that time. I shall be in church at the Evensong service. Choose whichever you like.”
Joe put out a finger and broke contact abruptly, then he replaced the receiver. Pausing to count out a sixpence and a two-shilling piece to put into the box placed by the phone, he darted into the hall and flushed out Styles.
“Bicycle? Do you have such a thing on the premises?” he asked with some urgency.
“Certainly. May I enquire as to the nature and duration of the jaunt you are contemplating, sir?” The measured enquiry was laden with respectful censure. Like a good herd dog, Styles was not happy when a guest appeared to be making a run for it.
“A short errand for her ladyship.” Not quite a lie.
This proved acceptable, apparently. “You’ll find a selection in the garage. Everything from racers to sit-up-and-begs that don’t scare the ladies.” He measured Joe for a moment from head to toe with a tailor’s eye and called, “Timmy!” A young trainee footman presented himself. “Timmy, show the gentleman to the garage and point out the Schwinn, will you?”
BOWLING DOWN THE lime avenue on a daringly drop-handled, balloon-tyred speedster (the Swine, according to a reverent Timmy, who would clearly have given his shining buttons for a ride on it), Joe chortled with amusement. Butlers! He wondered how many decrepit old guests had been flattered into flingin
g a gouty leg over this seductive killer. He felt a surge of exhilaration, not only from the speed and smoothness of the ride but from relief at his escape and the energy powered him all the way to the vet’s neat house. He arrived, braking silently in front of the copper beech hedge and noting that his ride had taken only five minutes. What right did he have to impose himself on Adelaide? None at all and he prepared to have his ears boxed and be sent off straight back to the Hall. He adjusted his tie and fiddled with his plaster.
She was dead-heading the roses and turned with a smile as she heard the iron gate creak open. Clearly expecting her father, Joe supposed. He wished that the welcome had been for him but the smile faded and she squinted in puzzlement when she recognised her visitor. His only recourse was to boldness. He clanged the gate shut and pushed his bike up the path.
“Joe? What on earth?”
Well, at least she’d remembered his name. It was a start.
“Wretched telephone! We were cut off. I’ve come to hear the remaining four.”
“Four what?”
“Reasons. You promised me ten and had delivered six, none of which I liked. You were saying …?”
She put the secateurs away in her pocket and came to stand in front of him. “Seven: there’s a play on the wireless I’d planned to listen to with Pa. Eight: I have nothing suitable to wear for such an occasion. Nine: I’m damned if I’m going to rattle up to the Hall in Dad’s old vet’s estate car. Ten: I don’t want to risk being put to sit next to you all evening.”
Joe grinned. “Now there’s the truth! I’d be persuaded by any one of those. But listen, we can work our way around seven and ten so we’re left with—”
“No—you’re left with. This has very little to do with me. I think you’re very rude to come here and put me on the spot. You should arrest yourself for harassment.”
Joe ignored this as he couldn’t contradict. “The car—they’ve got plenty at the Hall. I’ll have them send a chauffeur to fetch you and I’ll bring you back myself. The dress? Hmm … Are you sure? It needn’t be a designer number. Whatever you wear, you’ll put the other women in the shade. Crocodiles in pearls!” he said in a voice bright with encouragement and challenge. “Go and look in your cupboards.”
“First, I’d like to take a look at whatever you’re hiding under that dressing,” she said, peering up at his cheek. “Something bitten you?”
Joe exclaimed, as without further warning, she ripped the plaster off. “Good Lord! That’s nasty!” She put up a hand and ran it over the bumps and creases. “There are splinters in there. Wood? Have you been hugging a tree with indecent fervour?”
“Some idiot chucked a log at me. A man with a green face and a green shirt. Yet another person in the county who thinks Joe Sandilands is a bit of bad news.”
“Urgh! You fell foul of Robin Goodfellow? Rustic comedian and resident parasite? You should have run him in. Look, you’d better come into the parlour, sit yourself on a chair, and I’ll get my bag. Tweezers and a spot of iodine should work wonders. You can’t afford to pick up another scar—that would be extravagantly romantic. They’d have to put you in a musical comedy.”
He closed his eyes politely as her swift cool fingers worked on his face, gritting his teeth against the stabs of pain from the probings and the antiseptic, and opened them again when a new dressing was in place.
“You can always tell the crocodiles you got that in a duel. Left cheek scars are all the go in Prussia, they tell me. You can say you’ve just been initiated into Herr Hitler’s élite bodyguard of strutting thugs. They might just believe it. Some of the guests might even approve,” she added darkly. “There’s some speculation as to where exactly Truelove’s sympathies lie. His brother-in-law, married to the older of his two sisters, if I’ve got that right, is a psychologist, a eugenicist or something of that nature, and he’s recently defected to Germany to ply his disgusting trade, did you know?”
Joe grinned. “I’m delighted to say it was my boot up his rear that decided him to leave England in a hurry. I’m collecting enemies in high places, I’m afraid.”
“Well, watch your step up there in that company then. I’m good at grazes and bruises but I have no experience with bullet wounds. Though Pa might be able to help. He served in the war and found he had to extend his skills to human patients as well as equine.”
She snapped her bag closed and was clearly about to send him on his way when he began to blurt. Blurting was the only word for the reckless effusion of nonsense that seemed to be coming from his lips. “Do come, Adelaide! For me, not them! I can’t tell you what a difference it would make. To see a friendly face across the table, to hear a voice that doesn’t crack the glassware. To have someone whose eye I can catch in understanding. Will you change your mind?”
The urgency of his appeal silenced and concerned her. Quick and decisive as he was beginning to judge her, she said, after a questioning stare, “I’m not inviting you up to my room. The contents of it will have to come down to you. Wait a minute.”
After five minutes of rummaging overhead, she clumped back downstairs and dumped the contents of her wardrobe at his feet.
“Three flowery cotton washing frocks,” she announced. “No use at all.” These were thrown aside to form the base of the rejected pile. A cream linen day dress followed. “Women’s Institute Committee meeting … Now this one—long, black, formal. Bias cut. Silk. I wore this for a degree-giving dinner six years ago.”
“That’s certainly a possibility,” Joe said. “Something at the neck, perhaps?… A rose from the garden tucked into a splendid bosom is always a winner.”
“How lucky I am that splendid bosoms are back in fashion again,” she commented drily.
Embarrassed, he struggled to excuse himself. “I couldn’t help noticing the fine choice of roses in your beds when I had them in close-up.” And, helpfully: “I’d suggest white rather than red. The Flamenco style wouldn’t suit you.”
At last she seemed caught by the idea. “I see what you mean. There’s a Snow Queen. Pure white but it’s a bit floppy and yellow in the middle and drops pollen. I’d have half the table sneezing into its raspberry sorbet. Ah! Got it! There’s Swan Lake. Cream, cup-shaped, with the faintest flush of pink in the central bud.” She demonstrated with one hand curving at her neckline.
Joe’s jaw sagged and he swallowed the words he’d been about to release.
They stared at each other for a moment, and then, in a voice tight with restrained humour, she answered his thought. “No, I expect you’re right. One can have too splendid a bosom. We shouldn’t forget the advanced age and state of decrepitude of the guests. The sight of three nipples in a row might just bring on palpitations and I never take my stethoscope out to dinner.”
“It’ll have to be granny’s pearls then,” Joe croaked. “What a pity.”
“It will do but it’s a bit dull and it looks dated. Like its owner,” she said, throwing down the black dinner dress. “The rest are trousers. This here’s a silk lounging outfit I wore on holiday in Cannes last year.” She held up a pair of flared red and purple trousers.
“Sorry, no. I’m sure they turned all heads on the Croisette but they should never have been allowed out of France without a license.”
“Last item, the most expensive thing I own—and the least suitable—a pair of evening trousers. They’re not by Chanel but they are the next best thing. Paul Vercors of Paris. Look—high-waisted, wide cut. If I stand with my legs together it just looks like a skirt. The drama comes when I start walking. Scandalous really. I’ve never dared wear them. Never had occasion to. I just longed to have them.”
Joe had a sudden vision of Adelaide Hartest’s slim hips and long legs stalking through the Trueloves’ elegant rooms and sighed. “I like it but—what would you do about the top half?”
“My thoughts never got that far. White blouse of some sort? No. I agree, it looks like being the boring graduation black. So, that’s the pumpkin and the ball gown set
tled,” she said, “Anything else my fairy god father can help with? I think you’ve cast yourself in the wrong pantomime, mister. I see you as a beast of uncertain temper, lurking amongst the potted palms.”
“Uncertain temper? Never. Why do you say that?”
She came to settle next to him on the sofa and for a moment he thought she might take his hand to check his pulse. Instead, she stared into his eyes, checking for whatever it was doctors looked for in eyes. Dilated pupils? Grit? He blinked nervously. “Joe, there’s something troubling you, isn’t there? I mean apart from murder, attacks by green shirts and threats from brown shirts. Something more important than that. Why are you really here? You could have sent an inspector from the Met. A man of your rank doesn’t involve himself with country farces like this, all name-calling, tantrums and whackings with a pig’s bladder, unless he has a very strong personal reason for doing so.”
“Don’t dismiss murder so lightly, Adelaide. But you’re right. I do have a personal interest in this … not farce but drama—which could all too easily turn into melodrama. A girl I’m fond of … the girl I love,” he corrected, deciding he could confide, “is tangled up with James Truelove. Hunnyton, bless the man—for I’d probably not have leapt into action without his encouragement—lured me over here to get to the bottom of it.”
“Tangled with a Truelove? How uncomfortable! Will you tell me how she comes to be in such a spot?”
Adelaide was a receptive listener and the whole story poured from Joe under her gentle questioning. He told how he’d met Dorcas when she was just a young thing, how their strange relationship had developed and how suddenly after a seven years’ absence she’d flown back into his life, a beautiful young woman, a stranger yet not quite a stranger, and claimed the love he had always had for her. “Hunnyton says I ought to treat her as though I’d only just met her and discount the past,” he finished, dragging the superintendent into the conversation once more.
“Sound advice,” she said with an enthusiastic nod. “You could do worse than to listen to Adam Hunnybun. He has a fund of common sense and a good heart. And he likes you.”
Enter Pale Death Page 18