This was going to be trickier than he’d expected. He found himself in a household of well-chosen and irreproachable servants who understood and abided by the concept of loyalty. Polite and deferential though they were to the stranger policeman from London, their allegiance would go always and automatically to the family. But Joe thought he’d identified in at least two of their number a bolshy streak which gave rise to an intriguing tendency to support what they perceived as an underdog. Solidarity with the down-trodden. A third had, in the subtlest possible way, pointed to the trail of breadcrumbs that would lead him back to a murderer.
London. St. James’s. 6 A.M.
LILY BLINKED, SMOTHERED a yawn and broke off a piece of her toast. She caught the waiter’s eye and was about to ask him for a second pot of coffee when she abruptly dismissed him and put down her knife.
There he was. On the move again. Truelove was quietly leaving the hotel having, she assumed, taken an early breakfast up in his room. She was glad she’d disobeyed Joe and stayed on watch. Glad too that she’d thought of booking a taxi and hiring the driver to stay on call for her for the whole morning. Easing forward, she saw him look at his wristwatch and smile with satisfaction as his Bentley was brought up for him from the garage. He slid into the driver’s seat, tipped the valet and set off. Luggage already in the boot, she assumed.
The streets would be empty of traffic at this hour and he could drive as fast as his great car would go. Quickly, she grabbed the case she’d packed and left under the table and nipped out to the street. She bashed the snoozing taxi driver on the head with her clutch purse and told him to follow the Bentley.
To Lily’s surprise they turned west towards Kensington. Ten minutes later they had pulled up in front of an impressive white-painted birthday cake of a house. A well-dressed gentleman of middle age swept his homburg off his bald head and greeted Truelove, who’d turned off the engine and stepped out. Sir James then proceeded to take the hand of the young girl who was standing by the side of—her father?—and kissed it. They’d met before, then. Two-timing, Truelove? A jolly conversation ensued. Arms were waved. Heads were nodded. Finally, Truelove strolled over to the Rolls-Royce parked in front of the house. At the wheel sat a uniformed chauffeur and in the passenger seat a lady’s maid. The car appeared to be loaded to the gunwales with suitcases and hat-boxes. Truelove spoke for a few moments with the chauffeur, pointing. Giving directions, Lily guessed.
He handed the young lady into the back seat of his Bentley, her father into the passenger seat, checked they were comfortable, and set off with the second motorcar following on.
Moving unobtrusively after them, the taxi followed on the northerly and easterly heading it had taken.
The man—if not the girl—had been familiar, Lily thought. A moment’s ransacking of her mental files and she had it. Poor old Truelove! Rather him than her, she decided, trapped in a shoulder-to-shoulder situation of intimacy for the next two and a half hours with that rogue. Not the kind of shark he usually swam with. She rather thought she knew where they were going. To her surprise, they made a further stop. A third guest was ready and waiting, again on the doorstep, this time of a more modest house on the Great North Road, and was ushered into the rear of the Bentley. This identification was easier and more surprising.
The convoy moved off again and Lily decided to follow the cars to a point beyond which she could be sure they were going where she calculated they were going. Then she would find a telephone box and get hold of Joe.
STYLES WAS ALREADY up and about and ready for his day when Joe tracked him down to the kitchen. The butler’s scholarly features and patrician bearing seemed out of place and out of time in what Joe saw to be a thoroughly modern working space. No sign here of Jacobean open hearths, rotating spits and water pumps; the light, high-ceilinged room was equipped with the latest in kitchen equipment laid out against sleek uncluttered surfaces. Joe spotted an American refrigerator, a Scandinavian cooking range and a French coffee grinder of café proportions, a symphony of cream, black and gold. The only concession to Suffolk heritage was the large central table of scrubbed and limed oak.
Styles was evidently disappointed to have to tell Joe that the feast of sausages, bacon and kidneys he could expect for breakfast were not served until seven thirty as this was not a hunting morning. There could, however, be coffee and tea and toast available in minutes in the east parlour if he wished. The footman was not on duty, nor yet Mrs. Bolton, but he, Styles, could oblige. He explained as he bustled about putting toast on the Aga cooker and deftly selecting cutlery that the housekeeper who was on late duty on Saturdays normally lay abed until eight on a Sunday, rising in time to go to church service at ten. This was her weekly—and her sole—indulgence, Styles confided with a lightening of the expression that in anyone else might have been called an affectionate twinkle.
“Then I’ll probably see Mrs. Bolton later in church,” Joe said. “Tell me, Styles, is or has Mrs. Bolton ever been—a married lady?”
“Sadly, there is no Mr. Bolton, sir. The title is the usual complimentary form of address for a lady in her position. Matrimony’s loss has been our gain.”
Joe located the coffee grinder, a model he understood, and set himself, without asking, to measure out beans into the funnel and turn the handle. “Aga toast and coffee! Wonderful! Join me in the parlour, won’t you, Styles? I shan’t expect anything more substantial until I return from my hike around the estate,” he announced, trying to look hale and hearty and ready for anything. “Hard to sleep through these wonderful early mornings. The birds around here wouldn’t allow it anyway,” he commented. “Sure I heard a nightingale last evening.”
“You are not mistaken, sir. We are favoured by their presence in the nettle patches beyond the moat to the north in the direction of the Dower House. Lady Cecily so enjoys their music she refuses to allow a clearance of their favoured habitat. If you have sharp eyes, you may well note a yellow-hammer or two in the woods, perhaps even a woodpecker. And the dance of the dragonflies over the moat is matchless.”
“Excellent. I shall be on the front row of the stalls! Now I have you for a moment by yourself, Styles—a question or two. Just an eliciting of facts, you understand, carried out in privacy. But we’ll wait until we’re settled in the parlour.” He nodded politely to two large ladies who glowered at him suspiciously as they helped each other to tie on aprons over their grey morning frocks. “I wouldn’t want to put the kitchen staff off their stroke. After that, we can both get on with our day.”
Styles smiled, put his head receptively on one side and picked up his tray. “The pot of honey on the dresser, sir? Would you be so kind? It’s off the estate. ‘Melsett,’ you understand … I suspect this part of Suffolk has been known for its honey since time immemorial …”
A good butler could sail through any adverse conditions, making polite conversation the while. Even an annoyingly early-rising guest who bossily insisted on breakfasting with him was taken in his unhurried stride.
“I’LL TELL YOU straight, Styles—I’m about to pay an early morning call on Mr. Goodfellow, your resident jester. Or Virbio, King of the Grove, as he calls himself. Tell me where I shall find him.”
“If that’s your fancy, sir, I recommend you step carefully. He will, as is his custom, be sleeping off the effects of an evening at the Sorrel Horse or some similar hostelry. You would be wise to establish that he is alone. It is not unknown for him—against the master’s wishes I needn’t say—to take a companion back with him for the night. A female companion. Occasionally loose ladies make the trip out from Ipswich on the omnibus.” Styles sniffed his disapproval. “He’s made his home in the so-called Temple to Diana. Our guests may expect to catch a glimpse of him flashing through the trees in costume should their rambles take them in the direction of the ancient woodland later in the day.”
“Is that the sort of thing that goes down well with Sir James’s guests?” Joe asked, not quite managing to iron the distaste f
rom his question. He should have realised that no criticism of the house and its guests would be tolerated by the butler.
“In a state of unbuttoned ease, some visitors, especially those of a metropolitan background, are inspired to respond to the spirit of bucolic joviality and collude in fostering what they understand very well to be a medieval—possibly older—tradition. Those with a deeper education and a love of literature are pleased to combine it—as did our national bard—with an appreciation of the classical embellishments on display.”
Joe was beginning to wish he hadn’t asked.
“I’m familiar with the shrine to Jove’s daughter, chaste and fair, Goddess of the Triple Ways,” he said, feeling a riposte in style was necessary to uphold the reputation of the Yard in the butler’s eyes.
“Then you will be aware of the alleged divine powers which attract a following among the female guests?”
“The goddess has an ancient reputation for intervening in certain female conditions. She has the power to aid fertility and ease the pains of childbirth.”
“Always a fruitful topic for conjecture and risqué remarks among the gentlemen! Supplications from some of our more credulous lady guests are frequently made. Votive offerings are left at the foot of her statue and pleas for divine intervention in their medical conditions are made.”
“Good Lord!” Joe said, guiltily aware that he had himself fallen into the temptation of popping a token and a wish into the Maiden’s hand. “It’s not a parlour game! Have they any idea who might be reading their secrets? What might be made of them by an unscrupulous … um … high priest?”
Styles smiled and tilted his head to one side, indicating polite disagreement. “There have been no complaints. Indeed, sir, several lady guests have reported themselves highly satisfied with the outcome of their approaches to the goddess.” The twinkle was unmistakable as he confided, “Sir James has stood godfather to one or two infants bearing the middle name of Melsett or Diana in light-hearted acknowledgement of the intercession.”
“Crikey! No Virbios in the line-up I hope?” Joe spluttered into his coffee and watched as the humour faded in the butler’s eyes. Struck by the same unvoiceable thought, they both looked aside and Joe returned to the safer question of the temple architecture. “The temple building is not of white marble as one might expect but something more modern and comfortable I think. It looked to me more like an Alpine chalet than a Greek temple. Steep roof and curlicues.”
“Mr. Goodfellow is known to enjoy his creature comforts, sir, and his quarters have been much admired. I believe the design and the fittings originated in a Scandinavian country. Norway perhaps. That is certainly where the pinewood came from. It sits well and discreetly in its surroundings. That was the opinion of Sir Edwin when he last visited.”
“Can you tell me when his employment began on the estate?”
“Indeed. Sir Sidney, it was, who took him on. Goodfellow had served in some menial capacity in the British Army in South Africa in a regiment where Sir Sidney was an officer.”
“The Seventeenth Lancers?”
“That’s correct. Prince George, Duke of Cambridge’s Own. A very smart company they were. There has been a soldier in most of the generations of the Truelove family. The old master played a bold part in the South African war against the Boers but bought himself out immediately afterwards, not wishing to go on with them to India which was to be the regiment’s next posting. He had a young wife and a family here in Suffolk by then and there was much to be done on the estate. Some five years later—1905, would that have been?—Mr. Goodfellow turned up at the Hall, seeking work. A man down on his luck would be sure of a favourable reception from Sir Sidney and a man who had fought alongside was welcomed with generosity. He was given a part time post out in the woods, where he claimed he was happiest. He declares that the noise and fury of war—along with the bullet wound he claims to have picked up—rendered him unfit for a normal occupation among his fellow men or their close society.”
“Though he makes an exception to that on Saturday nights at the pub?”
“You have it, sir.”
“The present master, Sir James, appears to tolerate his presence in his woods?”
Styles’s face froze for a moment, his lips pursed. “He does,” was all he ventured in reply. He glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece, got up from the table and began to open the window, murmuring about fresh air and the remiss parlour maid who had failed to air the room.
As the window went up Joe was startled to hear a shot ring out in the distance. Styles anticipated his question with a soothing and dismissive smile. “Bang on time! Not poachers! The rook-scarer, sir. It’s one of the master’s latest innovations. It’s automatic. Fires itself off in the orchards every half hour from before dawn for two hours. Saves sending the children out at an unearthly hour to keep the birds off the soft fruit with rattles. You have just heard the final flourish for today. A disconcerting noise if you’re not used to it but, after a while, it’s like the church bells—you don’t hear it any more.”
Joe was further startled by the sound of feet scurrying down the corridor and young Timmy’s face appeared round the door.
“Sir … Mr. Styles … Begging your pardons … There’s a lady on the telephone ringing from London. She wants to speak to the policeman. Says it’s urgent.”
Joe swiftly put down his coffee cup.
“LILY! STILL ON watch?”
He listened to Lily’s account, making no comment on the prospective arrival of Sir James with a mixed bag of three guests, not wishing to spoil her moment. Her identification of the three was, however, news to him—and might be a surprise to Cecily also, he suspected. “Thank you, Lily!” He spoke with warmth. “You’ve just passed me a winning hand! For the first time in this wretched affair, I don’t feel I’m on the back foot. It may not make much sense to you down there in London but it certainly shines a light on things here. Things are coming to the boil. But knowing who’re on their way, I can begin to guess where the heat’s coming from. Even better—they have no idea they’ll see my grinning face on the front steps.”
He looked at his watch. He reckoned he had time enough to prepare for the arrival. And plenty of time to put the frighteners on the Wild Man of the Woods.
JOE APPROACHED THE ancient woodland with care, eyes scanning the bushes, ears alert for human sounds amongst the trees. The explosion he’d heard had not come from any rook-scarer. He’d not heard of a machine that boasted a dull echo a few seconds after discharge. It had been a sound he could not mistake—someone had fired off a shotgun moments before the rook-scarer had delivered its seven o’clock warning. As the blast had come from the direction of the Temple of Diana, Joe told himself that the Wild Man must have wakened and decided to pot a rabbit for his Sunday lunch. He was determined the second barrel was not going to be emptied into him.
The rubber-soled tennis shoes he’d chosen to put on made his approach soundless. He hoped no one was watching him but he rather thought someone was there, standing silently in the woodland, interpreting the unnatural care with which he eased himself through the trees as a state of fear or, at best, comical eccentricity. There was fear in his furtive movements, certainly. Fear had kept him alive; he did not disdain the natural emotion. He used it as a sixth sense but a sense moderated by reason and controlled by training.
Fear was warning him now that all was not as it should be in these woods. He stopped and with his back to a tree trunk, took stock of his surroundings. An early morning walk in June should have been a joyous experience, all senses charmed by a fresh green welcoming Nature. He analysed what was missing. No birds were calling out a warning to each other, signalling ahead the presence of a stranger. The normally vociferous ring doves had nothing to say. No animals were moving thorough the underbrush. Even the breeze had surrendered and the treetops were motionless. A lugubrious cloud of silence hung over the wood. The shot he’d heard twenty minutes ago? Were even the woodland c
reatures holding their breath waiting for the second barrel?
The gleam of a white marble limb through the trees as he turned his head gave Joe his bearings. Diana was pointing his way. Peering through the gloom beyond the statue he located the outline of the wooden cabin where Goodfellow had established himself as the King of the Grove. A very unappealing place to pass your time, surely? Sir Edwin Lutyens might have expressed polite approval but Joe was not an admirer. The man must be more than a little mad to be content to lead an existence out here in this spooky spot. Possibly fearful too. Joe would not have wanted to spend a single night camping out here, alone.
Fear went with the job, Joe reckoned. He wondered if Virbio himself knew the story. The Guardian of Diana’s Grove was destined to reign in a state of constant terror. Not only of the goddess’s vengeful temper but also in apprehension of his own violent death at the hands of his successor. By tradition, he could be challenged by some younger, more aggressive aspirant waiting for his moment. Symbolically, the challenger would tear down a branch from an oak tree and then would begin the fight to the death. At the memory of the oak branch he’d reached up and tentatively tugged at, Joe shuddered and recalled Virbio’s strange question to him: “Are you here to kill me?”
Virbio had taken him for a challenger. A stalker intent on deposing him.
Poor chap! What a hideous delusion under which to live one’s life! Why in hell did he stay on? How could any man allow an ancient, irrelevant and decidedly unpleasant myth to take over his life? What reality was he fleeing from? Could it possibly be worse than the fantasy? Joe decided that if he was intending to take the inebriated Man of the Woods by surprise it might be a kindness to come at him in a tactful manner. He didn’t want to bring on a heart attack. Or provoke a fight to the death.
THE DOOR TO the cottage was standing slightly open. Careful to stay out of aim of anyone in the interior, Joe crept close and put his ear to the jamb. He listened for a drunken snoring. No sound. Joe pushed the door open a further inch or two and almost fell backwards in surprise as a sound shattered the silence. An unnatural, inhuman sound. The squeal of a blocked organ pipe? The smothered screech of a strangled cat? Joe discarded both of his original impressions. This was some pitiful animal caught in a trap, he decided, calculating that the brief sound was magnified by the small dimensions of the wooden hut.
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