She looked back at him stonily, unable to respond to his emotion.
Joe controlled his desperation and said more soberly, “We’ve no worthy part to play here, Dorcas, you and I.”
At last a smile but the comment that accompanied it was barbed. “Part? I thought you were playing Major Domo perfectly, Joe. How ever would we manage without you?”
Disgust with himself and anger with Dorcas provoked a brusque response. “Time, perhaps, to let you find out!” He began to walk to the door.
A stifled gasp made him look back. The familiar face was wearing an unfamiliar expression—saddened and disbelieving. But it was the expression of a girl who’s just been given the news that her favourite dog has to be put down, Joe judged, distressing enough, but hardly the emotion of a girl whose lover is leaving.
They stared at each other in silence for an uncomfortable moment as seven years of intimacy crumbled between them. Joe resisted the urge to stride back and seize her in a comforting hug. This girl, suddenly a stranger, might well have screamed for help. He began to speak to her urgently, confidingly, appealing to a quality he knew she still possessed: her enquiring intelligence.
“Listen Dorcas! You’ve always been my equal in ‘sleuthing’ as you call it. Join me in one last combined effort will you? Working together, we can flush out the person really responsible for Lavinia’s death. You do want to know, don’t you? You have to know!” He waited for her reluctant nod before he continued. “It will involve trickery, lies, floods of tears and possibly fisticuffs. How about it? What do you say?”
“Not sure about the tears, but all the rest I can manage,” she said dubiously. “And I’ll do anything I can to clear James’s name. I told you—that’s why I’ve come back here to this terrible place. I would much rather have worked it out for myself without benefit of your conjuring tricks but … Oh, go on, Joe.”
Joe went on, eager but uncertain, his plan evolving as he talked. It sounded ridiculous to his ears but Dorcas began suddenly to smile and the smile widened. “Same old Joe!” she said. “Still the Fusilier! If in doubt stage a controlled explosion!”
Finally: “It’ll never work. And, if it does, you’ll be thrown out of whatever clubs you’re still a member of. You’ll lose your job and they’ll cut off your buttons with a ceremonial sabre.”
“Lucky if it’s just my buttons,” he said, managing a rueful grin.
CHAPTER 22
All he could do was get on with his job. Finish, point an accusing finger, pose for the camera and leave. He’d had enough. In fact he rather thought he’d talked himself into a solitary dash down into France, where he’d always found a balm for his emotional abrasions. Just one more piece of evidence and he could be reasonably sure he knew who had tricked Lavinia Truelove into walking into her death in the stable.
All was quiet in the telephone room. Sunday lunch time in the outside world. He was surprised there was even an operator on duty.
“A trunk call please, Miss, to a London number … Julia! Oh, I’m so sorry to bother you on a—”
“Joe! At last! Ralph was just wondering where you’d got to. Here he comes. Don’t keep him talking—he was just about to carve the leg of lamb and we’ve got my mother-in-law for lunch.”
There was a clunk as Superintendent Cottingham seized the telephone. “I managed! Not easy—you know what these highfalutin lawyers are like. Upshot is—no surprises. Lavinia Truelove’s last will and testament turns out to have been her first and only will and testament. Drawn up at the time of her marriage, on lines agreed by her father, it has remained gathering dust on a shelf, unaltered since the day she signed it. No attempt was ever made to look at it again. She retained control of what I’ll call her ‘resources’—sounds more modern than ‘marriage settlement.’ ”
“These resources, Ralph? Any indication …?”
“I tried to find out how much we were contemplating. I gave their discreet Mr. Brewer a choice of ‘plentiful/comfortable/adequate.’ He picked ‘plentiful.’ Throughout her married life she spent freely, to the advantage of the Truelove estate, apparently. Nothing we didn’t know in all this. No dramatic changes in her will of the kind we favour, like—all to my lover, Vicenzo, the second footman, or to Pets’ Paradise, or the Communist Party. Nothing of the sort. ‘Everything of which I die possessed’ etcetera goes to husband, James. Full stop.”
“So James finds himself in undisputed sole possession of the plentiful resources. Hmm … Ah, well. Rather dashes one of my theories to the ground. I’ve been going through the account books. All the same—that’s something we needed to know. Another piece of the jigsaw. One more piece of blue sky but the picture builds.”
Joe must have sounded despondent. Ralph hurried on, in a voice trying to suppress a triumphant chortle: “But there is something more. Perhaps even the four corner pieces? Something old Brewer let slip right at the end when he shouldn’t have. Something in response to a remark I made with a dash of low cunning as I thanked him and signed off. That’s when pompous prats let their defences down, I find. Right when they think they’re getting shot of you and you’ve sportingly admitted defeat. That’s the moment! What I do is think of my best judgement on the situation and then I completely reverse it, however ludicrous it may seem. I make a throw-away remark on these lines, assuming the bloke I’m conning is in the know, as am I.”
“I think I follow. Not trying some mind trick out on me are you, Ralph?”
“Never! Usually I get a stunned silence while they work it out and the length of that can be revealing. Other times I get an outraged denial and correction. Even better. But just occasionally, I get a wondering agreement and a spluttering: ‘Now how the devil did you know that? Our Police are getting to be a force to be reckoned with!’ This was one of those occasions. It’s word for word the response I got from Mr. Brewer when I flew a very chancy kite in his face!… Just finishing, darling!… Now—listen to this, Joe!”
JOE REPLACED THE receiver and instantly reconnected with the operator. He looked anxiously at his watch. Cyril Tate was probably well into his second dry sherry at the Cock in Fleet Street. But no. He was still at headquarters and Joe’s call had him on the line in seconds.
“Of course I’m here! It’s still Ascot weekend down here in the Metropolis. Another hour’s copy to write up before I dash off to the next event—tea with a duchess. Make it quick, Joe.”
Matching Joe’s own urgency, Cyril answered his questions with the curt, pared-down sentences of the airman he had once been and ditched the society commentator’s persiflage. “In the last year? I’m fishing my diary from my pocket as we speak. It takes me back as far as last January.”
Joe heard pages rustle and he pictured Cyril thumbing through his large-sized, heavily scrawled over and full-to-bursting record of social engagements. “February … here we are … You’ll have to depend on my memory for this one. The birthday ball out in Wiltshire of Amanda Seacombe … As well as the many royal cousins clustering round, there was present your person of interest: Dorothy Despond. Attending with her father. Don’t ask me why. I didn’t write down the whole guest list but I’m pretty sure the Trueloves were there. James and Lavinia.”
“Evidence of this? I can’t afford to get it wrong, Cyril. Lives at stake.”
“Make that ‘certain’ then. I can send you the shots if you like. Otherwise a back copy of Tatler will confirm. Hang on! Come to think of it … skipping on a bit … Here she is again in March. Literary and Arty jamboree in Hertfordshire.” Cyril flinched at the memory. “One of those god-awful shows where they expect you to roll your sleeves up and paint a watercolour, write an ode and stuff an owl. All in the space of one wet weekend.”
“What was Miss Despond doing there?”
“Leading a snappy little art appreciation group, if you can believe it. Subject: ‘Dada and all the other -isms … How to hold your own conversational end up when all about are losing their marbles’ sort of stuff. James Truelove was not onl
y a fellow guest—he was in the front row, lapping it up! Without the missus, this time. Ho, ho! I see where you’re going with this! You clever old sod! Those two knew each other before the wife died. Good enough, Joe?”
“It’ll do, Cyril. Many thanks!”
“Have I just hammered a nail in some poor sod’s coffin?”
“No, no! But you may just have saved a girl from a fate worse than death—a life with James Truelove. I owe you a pint in the Cock when I get back to civilisation, old mate!”
THE PHONE RANG as he left the room. Joe looked about for Styles, then, thinking it might be his superintendent ringing him back with an afterthought, Joe closed the door and picked up the receiver himself.
“Hello. This is Melsett Hall here,” he said carefully.
A young woman answered. “That’s not Mr. Styles,” she said in a voice slow with suspicion.
“No indeed, Miss. Will you wait until I find him or will you leave a message? I think he’s officiating at the teapot in the east parlour at the moment. Sudden influx of thirsty guests.”
“Who are you?”
Joe explained who he was.
After a long pause, she began to talk. “I’ve only got threepence and I’m ringing from Mrs. Crispin, the grocer’s next door so I’ll have to talk fast. It’s Grace. Grace Aldred.”
“Oh, hullo, Gracie! I was just talking about you with Ben. How are you getting on? Or, more to the point, I ought to ask—how’s your mother doing?”
“Mother? Oh, she’s fine, thank you for asking, sir. She’s back on her Iron Jelloids and her Pink Pills. Look, can you tell Mr. Styles or Mrs. Bolton I’ve decided to come back? There was no need to stay here a whole week. Monday’s my busy day and I ought to be back at Melsett. And now my sister’s here with her two little ’uns … well, it’s a bit crowded and I’ve never got on with my ma. Not like Sarah, they’re thick as thieves those two …”
Joe listened to at least sixpenn’orth of family intrigue and drew his conclusions. He cut her short: “So, you’re packed and ready. What time is the next bus?… Two o’clock … In half an hour … Get on that bus, Grace. What time do you expect it’ll arrive in Melsett?… Right. I’ll come and collect you myself at the bottom of the drive. Don’t worry. I’ll tell those who need to know.”
FOUR O’CLOCK FOUND Joe lurking in the shade of a chestnut tree at the end of the drive. The bus braked, pulled over and parked. Joe leapt forward to greet the sole descending passenger with a smile and an extended arm. He introduced himself briefly. “From the Hall, Miss Aldred. I’m a friend of Adam Hunnyton. My name’s Joe Sandilands. We spoke on the telephone earlier. Let me take your bag.”
Grace was self-possessed enough to smile back and pause to wave a showy goodbye to the gaggle of young faces peering at her from the bus with astonishment and speculation. She claimed his arm, enjoying the intrigue of being seen in the company of such a smart gentleman and, without further ado, set off with him up the drive.
“You got away with no trouble, then?” he asked politely.
“Yes. They were quite glad to get shut of me. I’d rather be here with the other girls. We get time for a good gossip on Sunday afternoons. I’d miss that, Mr. Sandilands.”
As soon as the bus had rattled out of sight, Joe pulled her to the side of the drive into the shade and put down the bag. He turned to face her. Neat, brown-haired Grace had the plain but bright features of a robin, he thought, and she carried her head slightly cocked to one side, which increased the illusion.
“Listen carefully to me, Grace. I must give you my full title and explain why I’m here at the Hall at the invitation of Cecily, Lady Truelove.”
Grace nodded without surprise to hear his explanation.
“Now tell me—who exactly gave you permission to be away from the Hall?”
“It was Mrs. Bolton, sir. Last Tuesday … She asked me how my mother was getting along and I told her she’d been having these pains in her chest … Yes, it was Mrs. B. She’s strict but she’s a kind-hearted lady. She told me to take the whole week off if I wanted to. I said no need for that—I’d got behind with my gophering and would never catch up. I expect she’d cleared it with Lady Cecily. Nothing happens without her ladyship knowing.”
“I’ve visited your room, Grace. Thank you for so discreetly preserving the evidence. Were you expecting someone like me to come along and rake it over?”
“No. Can’t say as I was, sir. No one so grand as you. I had hoped Adam Hunnybun might come and set everything straight. I wasn’t sure quite how he’d manage it—he doesn’t often visit these days. I was waiting for him to come back.”
“How did you come by the rain cape your mistress was wearing that night?”
Grace looked affronted at the question. “I was her personal maid, sir. Who else would have the sorting out and cleaning of her things? It came back from the hospital with the rest of her clothes. They went on the bonfire.”
“Cleaning? You had preserved the cape in its uncleaned condition. Why?”
“I wasn’t happy about that rubbish she was meddling with. Witchcraft, she called it. Monkey-business, I thought. I had bad feelings about the whole silly scheme. I didn’t want to get the blame. They always go for one of us when someone high and mighty takes a tumble and I was the one who’d been to Mr. Harrison’s and bought the stuff she had me smear on that gingerbread. I thought someone ought to know the truth of the matter. How I tried to put it right. Tried to stop her getting hurt.”
Grace frowned and paused, wondering whether to go on.
“Tell me what happened that night, Grace. I should like to know what you did to protect Lavinia from herself.”
“She swore me to silence, sir. Told me what she was planning—to tempt that great savage horse out of its stall where it had been holed up for a week and attract it to her with those oriental spices. Horses love them, she said. They call them ‘drawing herbs.’ Sounded a bit dangerous to me so I …” She sighed and was uncomfortable in telling the rest of her story. “So I disobeyed the mistress. First time I’d ever gone behind her back. I told someone. Someone I could trust and who knew all about horses. ‘Can that be safe?’ I said—luring a beast towards you like that? She’ll get herself killed. And I don’t want to be blamed for it.”
“What advice were you handed, Grace?” Joe proceeded with caution. Gentling. Leading her on. She knew where she wanted to go; all he had to do was reassure her that she was on the right path.
“Good advice!” she said defiantly. “It made sense to me. Lady Lavinia must have gone and done something wrong … The horse wasn’t supposed to even come out of its stall …‘He must not be drawn,’ I was told. ‘You’re right, Grace, that’s madness. That animal has a bad record. What you need is something to keep it well away from the mistress. A smell that will repel it, not encourage it to venture out. Leave it to me. I know just the thing that’ll have it backing off. You must find a way to smear the substance I’ll give you onto the cake instead of the spices from the chemist. Can you do that?’ Well, of course I could. Nothing easier. It was handed to me sealed up in an old jam jar. I did all that nonsense about making a paste of the spices from the chemist and smearing the gingerbread I got from the pantry like the mistress told me to. She wasn’t paying much attention because she doesn’t like strong smells and—mixing and cooking—all that’s servants’ work and she wasn’t interested. I chucked the spicy slice away in the pig pail and put the muck from the jam jar on another slice. That’s the one I stowed away in her pocket ready for the morning. It smelled disgusting, even to me. ‘That’ll keep anything at a safe distance, man or beast,’ I thought. Was I to blame, sir?”
“Not at all, Grace. Don’t concern yourself. You did your best. What any dutiful maid would have done. But, sensibly, you kept the cape as evidence that you’d tried to avoid a disaster in case someone like me came calling? Your little insurance policy?”
“That’s right, sir.”
Joe’s voice was authorit
ative but kindly as he asked for his last piece of information. “Grace, I need to know whom you consulted in your hour of need. Who was it who supplied you with the good advice and the bating mixture?”
Her eyes skittered from side to side and he thought for a moment she was about to refuse this last fence. At last, she told him.
Joe’s response on hearing the name was instant and decisive. He grabbed Grace by the shoulders and pulled her further into the shadows. “Grace, I’m taking you straight to Adam Hunnyton’s cottage, where my car is parked. I’m going to ask Adam to drive you back to Bury right away to your mother’s house and there you are to stay until he comes to fetch you back again. I’ll tell them at the Hall that there’s been a telephone message from you: your ma’s taken a turn for the worse and you’ve got to stay on. That will be perfectly acceptable.”
He didn’t add: “Indeed, something of a relief for one person up there.” Arranging another murder so soon after the last might be a bit tricky with a house full of guests. What would they come up with? A garrotting in the drying ground? A sudden surge of lethal current from one of those new-fangled ironing machines? He didn’t want to terrify the girl.
But Grace was thinking things through. “Not the sharpest knife in the drawer” had been cocky young Ben’s assessment, but she was by no means the dullest, Joe guessed.
“Am I in trouble?”
“Possibly. Though you haven’t deserved to be and I shall say so.”
“Will I get the sack?”
He must have hesitated a fraction too long.
“Worse than the sack? Is that what you’re trying not to say, sir?”
“I think it’s not impossible that steps might be taken …” he started to say with annoying imprecision. “Look, Grace, there is much at stake. Things you have no inkling of. Not very certain I do myself. Come with me. We’ve no time to lose. Adam will know what to do for the best—I’m no more than a stranger here.”
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