Enter Pale Death

by Barbara Cleverly

  She stifled her sobs and sniffled into the handkerchief. She managed a smile and stared at Lily as though seeing her for the first time. With the strangest of expressions she asked, “Who are you? Did Joe send you?”

  Lily didn’t need to simulate her surprise. “Joe? Joe?… No indeed. No one’s sent me here. I’m having dinner with my publisher. I’m a romantic novelist and I have to confess we were beginning to weave quite a story in which you and that handsome rogue upstairs were featuring. Never guessed it would end in tears. I shall have to rewrite my ending now,” she finished with a teasing rebuke. She took a chance and added, “Who’s Joe?”

  “My guardian angel. I’m sorry. I thought when you took off your specs to do the sewing that was a very strange thing to do. I can’t help noticing inconsistent pieces of behaviour. It’s what I’m trained to do,” she said apologetically. “And women don’t usually offer to do up my hems … they’d rather tread on them,” she added unguardedly. “I say, are you in disguise? Has someone sent you here to keep an eye on me? To keep me out of trouble? It’s just the sort of kind-hearted but sneaky thing Joe would arrange. He’s a powerful man and he has a lot of people to do his bidding in London.”

  “Well I’m not one of them. I’m from Yorkshire,” Lily lied cheerfully. “We don’t hold with Machiavellian manipulation north of the Trent. Look, Miss, your friend Joe sounds more gangster than angel to me. You want to watch him!” She put her spectacles back on and pulled a face. “There! Do you see the change? Lady novelists make a better impression on their publishers if they look intellectual.”

  This raised another smile. “I do see! Perhaps I should try a pair.”

  “They certainly keep the gentlemen at arm’s length, I’ve always found.” She gave a stagy sigh.

  The answering smile became a chuckle.

  “If you’re sure there’s nothing I can do …? Summon up your ‘angel,’ perhaps?”

  “Lord no! I’ve spent the week dodging his attentions by one device or another. He’d tear my ears off if he knew where I was. But, look, if you really wouldn’t mind, could you come with me to the lobby? Wait with me for a taxi? They don’t much like picking up single women at this hour. You’re very kind!” She put her arm through Lily’s and they moved towards the door. “Now—this is bad of me—but could I impose on you further? I need some time. Could you bear to have a quick word with my companion?”

  “Mr. Fitzwilliam?”

  “Yes. Will you tell him I’m upset and I’ve gone back to spend the night with Kate? All perfectly true.”

  “Very sensible move, my dear. I understand.”

  “No, no! It’s not like that … not what you’re thinking …”

  Lily seemed to have triggered an emotional reaction and waited to hear more, an expression of kind concern on her face.

  “My companion is … a … lovely man. An honourable man. He wishes me no harm.”

  “Leave it to me. I’ll speak to him. I’m sure I can find the right words. That’s what I’m trained to do.” They smiled at each other with mutual regard. “I’m Vanessa Richmond. How do you do?”

  “Dorcas Joliffe. Thank you so much, Miss Richmond, for sticking me back together. Consider yourself my stand-in angel.”

  “ALL WELL, LIL? What have you done with her?” Phyl asked when she returned.

  “Nothing’s well, I’d say. She’s done a bunk and left me to present her excuses. When I get hold of you-know-who, I’m going to fillet him!”

  “You got involved with the target!” Phyl pursed her lips. “Isn’t that against all the rules of undercover work? You’ll catch it, gel, when the boss finds out.”

  “You know, Phyl, there are no rules in the kind of work I do. He employs me to think for myself. We have the same wriggly ways of getting through. I wouldn’t be a bit surprised if I’d done exactly what my lord and spymaster intended—put a ruddy great spoke in the wheels of a budding romance!”

  Phyl nodded. “Not sure about ‘budding.’ Look at him!”

  Lily flicked a glance at the troubled Fitzwilliam, whose eyes were still watching the door, and prepared herself for the coming encounter. “The things I do for England! Funny, Phyl—I lost no sleep over breaking the arm of a chap who was asking for it, but I really jib at the thought of breaking a heart.”

  CHAPTER 16

  Joe was slowly sipping a green and summery cocktail made up of gin, Rose’s lime cordial and large quantities of ice when the butler stalked to his side in the Great Hall.

  In his over-stimulated state Joe had decided to inject a bit of life into this dull company when he came down, bathed and fresh and evening-suited. Playing heavily on his Indian experiences, he’d taken the footman aside, relieved him of his silver shaker and, with the exaggerated gestures of a Savoy cocktail waiter, given him an energetic demonstration of how to make a “gimlet,” that favourite summer tipple of the Raj. Cries of excited acclaim and an outpouring of memories from the old India hands had greeted his unorthodox behaviour and two bottles of gin had glugged their way through the silver shaker as the crowd whiled away the time waiting for the appearance of young Alex. “Well done!” Cecily had whispered. “That’s not such a bad idea. The drunker the guests are, the less conspicuous my son will appear. Shall we have another round of these delicious things?”

  “I beg your pardon, sir, but there’s a person on the telephone requiring to speak with you as a matter of urgency. A female person. She did not give her name,” Styles said quietly.

  “Dorcas?” Joe said eagerly as he picked up the receiver.

  “Sorry, Joe. It’s me, Lily.”

  “Thank God! We’re just about to go in to dinner. Any news?”

  “Dinner’s over here. In sophisticated London, they’ve all dined and gone on somewhere else. Aunty Phyl came and helped me watch.”

  “And?”

  “Straight to the QED bit, Joe?”

  “Please.”

  “Fitzwilliam was entertaining a female guest. She was happily entertained—in fact, Aunty Phyl, who hadn’t a clue who the pair were, rather thought they were in love. But it all turned sour when he gave her an unexpected present. It consisted of two items I couldn’t make out. Small. Gold. They had significance for her, though. She burst into tears and fled the table.” She hurried to add, “They’re not spending the night together.”

  “Identification, Lil?”

  “Pursued by me to the ladies washroom, she told me her name was Dorcas Joliffe.”

  Lily absorbed the heavy silence and then took up again, slowly: “Upshot was, Miss Joliffe took off in a taxi, leaving me to make her excuses to Fitzwillie. She said she was going to stay with a friend … Kate. I heard her direct the cabby to Highgate.”

  Joe’s voice was a growl of distress. “You said it, Lil. Romantic place, silver words—I’m sure there were plenty of those—and a meaningful gift. Yes, I know what that would have been. The Swine actually tricked me into acquiring it on his behalf the day before. He set me up to bid for it at Christie’s. It cost him fifty quid; it’s cost me …”

  “What on earth was it, Joe?”

  “A pair of gold-mounted miniatures. Very good ones. Great-great-grandmama and -grandpapa. A matched pair of betrothal portraits.”

  Hissing of a human kind filled the earpiece. Lily was quick to understand. “The shit! That was a seduction scene he’d set up all right, but more than that … A proposal of marriage. Don’t you think? Am I reading too much into the gesture, Joe?”

  “I’m sure you are.” Joe’s response was devoid of emotion. “He’s a free man and will marry again if he is to achieve his ambitions. Future Prime Ministers are expected to acquire wives who will do them credit: they should be of high social standing, unassertive and, for choice, British. Dorcas is illegitimate and—worse—she has a French mother. The half that’s not French—her father’s side—is half German. Her paternal aunt, you’ll recall, was conveniently murdered before she could be exposed as a German spy working at the
heart of the British Navy.” Sensing that he was responding a little abruptly, he added, “And, of course, she regularly marches with the Suffragettes, let’s not forget.”

  “Then I’ve misinterpreted things … Definitely a non-starter in the marriage stakes! You’ve convinced me. Funny though, he seemed to me to be offering her his family on a plate. He must have been very confident that she would be impressed.”

  “They were impressive—all velvet and pearls and haughty stares. Now, the sight of my hand-hewn ancestors—bristly chins, rough tweeds and blackcock’s feathers at a jaunty angle—the gentlemen were even more fearsome—would have a girl running for the exit.”

  “Well, that’s sort of what did happen, Joe,” Lily said gently. She always guessed his self-deprecating flippancy concealed distress. “She saw something there she didn’t like the look of. Fitzwillie must have realised he’d misjudged things because she left the gift behind on the table when she skedaddled.”

  “Did he go after her?”

  “No. He’s still here in the hotel morosely sipping his brandy. Hoping she’ll think again and come back, I expect. Do you want me to ruin his romantic prospects for a week? Albert’s taught me the neatest trick and I’m sure I can borrow an umbrella …”

  “Leave it, Lil. Just go home with my thanks. Yes, I said—thanks! Boils are better lanced, and this is one that’s been swelling for some time. Give Phyl a stiff drink and my undying gratitude, summon up old Albert and get him to drive you away from that den of iniquity … How did you get this number?”

  “I rang your sister. Lydia told me you were down in the country chasing villains. Anyone I know?”

  Joe swallowed. “As a matter of fact, you do. I’m at Melsett being the life and soul of a very dull party, at the beck and call of Cecily, Lady Truelove. Yes … standing in for James. Again! Does the word ‘stooge’ come to mind? He’s expected here tomorrow morning with a mixed party. IDs unknown to me. No doubt I shall be surprised but not half as startled as he will be to see my ugly mug in the welcome line.”

  “Lord! What a scene! Shall I come?”

  “I’m saying no for the moment. Could you stand by? Look, here’s another number you can ring if you can’t get me here.” He gave her Adelaide’s number. “That’s the local vet. You can leave a message with him or his daughter. Phones out here are rarer than hen’s teeth. Lily, I must go. Stomachs are rumbling. Any last comment?”

  Lily hesitated and then plunged in: “Yes. There’s something you shouldn’t leave out of your calculations. He loves her, Joe.”

  A splutter of outrage then, puzzlingly, “Another poor clown caught flapping his wings and heading for the cliff edge! Hah! Serves the bugger right for tormenting the animal kingdom!”

  ALEXANDER TRUELOVE, SERIAL persecutor of nannies, Oxford reject, failed banker, and consumer of dubious stimulating substances over many years, was putting on a show.

  Joe could not but admire the effort the young man was making to join the party now that he had actually staggered as far as the Great Hall. Cecily had greeted him with a maternal coo of concern and, at a look from her, the footman in charge of the drinks table had stepped forward and placed a glass of something fizzy—Perrier?—with a slice of lemon into his hand. To everyone’s relief, he had managed to remember the names of most of the guests he’d met before and exchanged appropriate comments and reminiscences. A genuine, clear-headed feat of memory, or had Cecily spent some time rehearsing him? Whatever the cause, they seemed flattered by the effect.

  As one would be, Joe thought, by the attentions of this peacock. Cecily had misled him. In this and in how many other matters? he wondered bitterly. He’d imagined something on the lines of a Dorian Grey portrait: dissolute, lined, prematurely old, a face better hidden away. But here was a handsome youth, fair and slender, looking less than his twenty-five years when seen against the middle-aged and elderly guests surrounding him. If Dorcas had been of the company, Cecily would have sent them both off to play marbles. When he brushed aside the hair that flopped over his forehead in a blond quiff reminiscent of Rupert Brooke and turned his melting blue eyes on the ladies, they were as charmed by him as they were by the resident King Charles spaniel that skulked, quivering, about the place, begging for caresses and violet creams.

  Joe had seen that unruly hair and those eyes before. Adam Hunnyton was a hand or two taller, a stone or two heavier and a decade or two older, but the two men had recognisably the same father.

  The blue eyes had lost some of their openness when Cecily introduced him to Joe. “A friend of James?” he’d questioned, with a curl of the lip. “What are you saying, mother? My brother doesn’t have friends. He has victims, dupes, prey. Which one are you, Commissioner?”

  “I’m sure James would like to think—all three of those.” Joe’s tone was relaxed, his lips gently smiling, but the sudden narrowing of the icy grey eyes gave quite a different message.

  Alex laughed. “Lesson one: how to duck a direct question. They warned me you’d had training with my godfather Jardine. The power behind the throne in India. Terrifying old bird! He talked me out of joining the diplomatic service, I remember.”

  “Very persuasive gentleman, Sir George.”

  “Indeed! Compelling. But you survived his ministrations to pound the beat another day? Clearly made of sterner stuff than the rest of us. Though why you’d choose bobbying over an apprenticeship in the dark arts from the master and a leg up the greasy diplomatic pole, I can’t imagine. Can’t say I’ve ever met a Scotland Yarder before … Socially that is.”

  “Can’t say I’ve ever exchanged views over a drink with a banker before. Though I have slipped the cuffs on one or two,” Joe said genially.

  “Well you still haven’t,” Alex admitted. “The City has severed all contact with me.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that. Are there better prospects on the horizon?”

  “No. I’ve auditioned several careers in what Mama calls my short life, even selected one or two for a starring role, but in the end, they’ve all turned me down. Unlike you, I’ve never been chosen, Sandilands. If Mama does not exaggerate …” The innocent eyes teased him for a moment. “Sir George rather saw you as his young alter ego—someone to be trained on. Perhaps we’d better all watch out!”

  “Sir George taught me many things. One of the most useful—always check that your guests have a full glass. I note that Sir Basil is running on empty. Would you like to …?”

  If Joe was hoping to free himself from Alex’s spiky company he was disappointed. The young man hadn’t finished his interrogation. Alex paused to signal to a footman, then, tweaking Joe by the sleeve, he led him to the periphery of the knot of guests who’d gathered in the centre of the room, chattering and laughing.

  “Only nine of us to dinner this evening—a small gathering—but it feels more like the Delhi Durbar!” He looked upwards to the high, vaulted ceiling. “I’ve always thought this place fills up fast because half the guests are already here, waiting and watching before the first cocktail’s poured.” He waited for Joe to raise an eyebrow. “The ancestors!” he confided, waving a languid hand towards the portraits that lined the walls. “Look at them! What would you give to hear their exchanges when the descendants leave for the dining hall!”

  Joe smiled at the playful thought and cast a glance at the array of pictures of varied age and size on display. Lace and pearls and white shoulders shone out from layers of dark oils, striking a contrast with lush velvets and even the dull glow of armour. Some of the subjects stared with dreamy pride away from the painter, inviting the viewer to join them in admiring the rolling acres they possessed; some stared challengingly ahead. For an uneasy moment Joe felt himself skewered by many pairs of eyes. Most were haughty and he guessed that the next reaction of the sitters, on catching sight of him, might well have been: “Who is this policeman chappie? Ask what he’s doing here and throw him out!”

  One or two of the ladies looked more approachable.

&n
bsp; “I haven’t yet had the pleasure,” Joe said. “Though I can identify one who is by no means yet an ancestor. Isn’t that your mother? A Philip de Laszlo, if I’m not mistaken.”

  “It is. Painted when the subject and the artist were in their prime.”

  Joe never found this particular painter of society portraits much to his taste. Too blatantly flattering. Too sumptuous. Too much bosom and throat displayed by ladies of a certain age who should have known better. The style had fallen out of favour in a less flamboyant post-war era. He searched for an inoffensive remark. “De Laszlo must have been delighted to be offered a subject worthy of his brush. No need for the flattery of a carefully chosen angle or kindly lighting for your mother. She was then—and still is—a stunningly attractive woman.”

  “You see where James gets his good looks. Now see where I get mine. The late Sir Sidney Truelove.” He led Joe over to admire more closely an imposing full-length portrait of his father in full Victorian splendour.

  Joe was thinking anyone would have been proud to inherit the looks of this man. The best England had to offer, very likely. He stood tall and Saxon blond, ferociously moustached, hand on hip, eyes scouring the horizon to his left. He was wearing the military dress uniform of a cavalry regiment. Joe hoped it was kept for parades and suchlike formal occasions since one could hardly have done any effective fighting in that three-inch-high gold embroidered collar and the heavy epaulettes. The dark blue jacket with a white plastron were an invitation to enemy target practice, the blue trousers with an elegant white stripe emphasising the length of the leg would have been impressive circling the ballroom. The gold emblazoned czapka bearing at its crest a flourish of white egret feathers was, sensibly, carried in his hand. Worn on the head, the hat would have turned the wearer into a seven-foot-tall musical comedy hero.